Oh, the poor girl from another world. Magicless, helpless, constantly dragged into battles against Overblots that should have erased you on sight.
No one warned them that her feminine energy is… quite literally otherworldly. Turns out, every monster is punchable if you try hard enough.
Riddle
Dark clouds, the ground split open in several parts of the rose garden; the Unbirthday Party that Riddle so proudly proclaims with all its rigid, structural rules is an absolute disaster.
Trey is trying to reason with a completely deranged Riddle, who is swinging spears left and right; Ace and Deuce are only creating more chaos to distract him, too. Cater, on the other hand...
“Okay, okay, stay under the table and don’t move, alright, cutie?”
He leaves you under a table that has somehow magically remained intact, with its spotless white tablecloth still draped over it… as if you’re a tiny puppy. A wet, lost, terrified little puppy.
Oh hell nah
There is no poor, helpless, defenseless human girl without magic here. Well… without magic, yes. But defenseless? Never.
You scan the wreckage with your blood boiling.
Feral survival mode: activated
Aside from the table they so badly want you to hide under, everything is destroyed; the teacups are shattered; the elegant chairs are broken into multiple pieces, and several of them have splinters sharp enough to look useful.
One splintered piece of a backrest has a very suspiciously bat-like shape.
Perfect!
And while Riddle keeps going with his monologue, “OFF WITH YOUR HEAD!” here, and “I AM THE RULES!” there, you slip away like a sneaky little rat until you end up right behind him.
Crack
Solid wood connects with his skull… and he collapses like a puppet with its strings cut, completely graceless, all thanks to your immaculate strike with that improvised bat.
The Overblot ink dissolves, the monster disappears, and Riddle is left unconscious on the ground.
“…I didn’t kill him, right?”
Well… let’s hope not, sweetheart.
He’ll probably wake up with a lump the size of an egg and no memory whatsoever… though you absolutely are going to remind him of everything he made you suffer through these past few days. And if he tries it again...
That’s a paddling
Leona
Savanaclaw has become a death trap, sand flying everywhere, making it impossible to see and even harder to breathe.
It has turned even drier, even more suffocating, and with the monster at Leona’s back striking and roaring, everything trembles and breaks every millisecond.
Round two, sweetheart
Stopping your breathing seems like the most sensible option for now, considering you’re walking toward an Overblot with a lion-like monster behind him, whose ink creates hyenas and whose magic could turn you into golden dust.
The female survival instinct does not actually contain much survival, honestly.
Plenty of adrenaline, yes. Plenty of anger, too… but you’re not going for his back. You’re approaching from the side, in plain sight.
If plain sight can even count while Leona is unleashing a full sandstorm.
Well… oxygen is temporary.
“Pathetic. A tiny magicless herbivore, standing in my way…”
If there’s one thing you’ve learned from watching so many shows and movies, it’s that you never let the villain finish their monologue nor their transformation.
In this case, his monologue.
Between laughter and degrading comments… direct hit to the nose.
Maybe you break his cartilage, maybe you make him bleed, maybe you leave a bruise...maybe his nose ends up slightly crooked.
And maybe a couple of your knuckles break from the impact, too.
“I want ice, NOW!” you snap, shaking your hand like a maraca while completely ignoring the way Leona falls backward.
The ice arrives, the student clearly thinking it’s for his housewarden, but you snatch the frozen bag away and press it to your knuckles, abandoning the great lion on the floor.
The mighty king of the savanna… sprawled out on the sand.
Ruggie is on the ground beside him, lifting his head so the blood doesn’t make him choke, but he can’t stop laughing. He is not going to let him live this down from now on.
Leona probably won’t apologize when he wakes up… but he does put you on the same level of respect as the lionesses of Sunset Savanna.
Better to be safe and keep his distance than risk getting his nose broken again.
Azul
You should have seen it coming...
An octopus mage losing his composure, hysterical, with eight slippery tentacles moving everywhere…The perfect hentai scenario, and you don't want to be the tragic heroine of that genre.
But there you are, grabbed around the waist by one of those tentacles and lifted who knows how much off the ground.
In Azul’s twisted mind, you are not a threat. Just a simple, helpless land-dwelling human. A perfect little thing for his collection.
Well… he can tell that to your teeth.
The slimy, salty, suction-cupped appendage gets caught between your two rows of teeth, your canines sinking deeper than the rest of your pearly whites.
It’s like he’s being bitten by a mangy dog.
It is a wild, vicious bite, your head jerking as you try to tear even more of that awful rubbery texture apart.
Don’t even get me started on the coating of slime and squid ink. Gross, gross, disgusting. Blegh
And with a high-pitched shriek, Azul releases the tentacle, flailing it through the air. It writhes and curls into itself, trying to seek comfort in its owner’s hands.
The fall to the floor is not glorious, but at least you don’t break anything. What you do need to do is spit out whatever you managed to tear from that tentacle… and brush your teeth a thousand times to get that taste out of your mouth.
Rotten sushi
Floyd is smacking the floor with his hand, completely falling apart with laughter. Jade is already plotting the coming days and exactly how he is not going to let a single second pass without bothering his boss about this.
Meanwhile… Azul is still holding the tentacle in his hands, staring at it with tears in his eyes, soothing the wound with his palm.
You can hear sobs when he turns his back, choosing to cry with the last scrap of dignity he has left where no one can see his face.
For a loooong while, they stop serving takoyaki or anything with octopus at Mostro. The mere idea of seeing you eat seafood makes his skin crawl.
He still has teeth marks… a perfect souvenir
Jamil
Jamil’s Overblot, that serpentine figure like a naga, dark and dripping with ink and years of suppressed resentment. His snakes writhe from side to side, like Medusa, and his eyes are filled with cold, calculated fury.
He could easily pass as a mythological creature from Ancient Greece.
If not for the massive ego and more specifically targeted resentment… but hey, villains never really go after the people they should.
That is what makes you angriest.
Not the fact that Kalim is crying while dodging attack after attack, or the fact that Grim is clawing at one of Jamil’s snakes with his little paws.
No, it’s the fact that this boy is being a complete dumbass, blinded by his pent-up rage, incapable of recognizing his own weak points.
A couple of snakes spot you as an easy target, because obviously the only woman in the whole dorm has to be the party’s weakness.
Intention: unknown. You don’t want to find out, either.
With some effort, you grab them with your bare hands, each head in each fist, and pull, as if you’re yanking on a rope with treasure at the other end.
In this case, you are dragging Jamil directly toward you.
He stumbles, thrown off-balance, completely shocked by your brute strength and by the fact that you somehow managed to capture two of his snakes.
That surprise is what costs him when your knee slams into the area beneath his sternum.
Direct hit to the stomach and part of the lungs… let’s hope you don’t leave bruises on his organs.
The air bursts out of his mouth, and he folds in half, curling pathetically in on himself and wheezing with thin strands of saliva clinging to his lips.
You are not in the mood to watch him vomit all over Scarabia’s beautiful marble… but you do hear his tiny groans and sobs.
A kick to the balls probably would have hurt less.
“Ironic that you’re more scared of insects than snakes”
He’s already on the floor, don’t humiliate him further
The best apology Jamil can think of is leaving you cups of coffee. Good coffee, coffee from Silk City, not the burnt sludge from the cafeteria or Ramshackle. A cup always waits for you before class and after a veeeeeery long day.
And every time, he leaves it near you, but that doesn't mean he stays close. He steps back a few paces, covering his stomach…just in case.
Vil
The stage is in ruins, the screens shattered… the perfect setting for the most beautiful man in the world, Vil Schoenheit, to look this ruined.
Ruined… but beautiful and terrifying in equal measure. Golden radiance and black rot, perfection and poison; the combination of gold, violet, and black suits him like it was made for him.
Rook is trying to reason with him, leaving the poetry for another moment… which means everything is truly going to hell.
Epel and the others are trying not to breathe in too much of the poison slowly contaminating the air.
And there you are… a tiny little thing, defenseless, probably the most ordinary and ugly thing on the stage by Vil’s current standards.
“I WILL BE THE MOST BEAUTIFUL!”
The most logical thing to do is make him uglier.
And there you go, climbing him like a monkey scaling a tree, pulling yourself up from the hems of his refined dress or robe or whatever the hell his Overblot version has put him in, while he tries to smack you away like an insect.
More than once, he scratches you with his long nails, but nothing stops your path toward his golden hair.
“GET OFF ME… YOU IRRITATING INSECT!”
Your hands grab a fistful of his strands… and pull.
Those classic hair-pulling yanks from women fighting, grabbing each other by the scalp and painfully ripping at the roots
And his scream is so high-pitched that it echoes through the entire coliseum, piercing and completely undignified. How dare someone like you, with those filthy hands, touch his immaculate hair?
His monster shrieks with him, mimicking his twists and his frantic attempts to throw you off his shoulders.
If your life weren’t currently at risk, Epel would probably take out his phone and start recording the whole thing. It’s too ironic
The great Vil, defeated because someone pulled his hair.
On the stage floor, ink, makeup, and sweat decorate the ground… and a few golden-violet strands are floating through the air.
His hair can recover with enough treatment; his ego, on the other hand, is going to take a little longer.
Idia
STYX is about to collapse if this keeps going.
The screens are falling to the floor, panels are breaking apart, and Idia’s Overblot ink is consuming everything in its path. And poor Ortho is there like a puppet of his brother’s despair.
Ortho, the gentlest humanoid you have ever known, is now a lifeless shell, mechanical and precise enough to kill.
Run, run, and hide. Run, hide, and survive; that is what your subconscious is screaming at you. Let the others deal with fighting that robotic figure Idia has become.
You focus on his little brother while you keep running.
“Please do not resist. My big brother says you are not to be hurt”
How thoughtful
“But I must immobilize you for your own safety,” he says, cannons ready.
Well, I take that back
“I’m sorry, Ortho”
“Why?” he asks, tilting his head, unable to understand why a simple, helpless human is apologizing to an android.
With one elbow strike, you hit his sensory matrix, destabilizing him, and then you slam into the left side of his chassis, right where there is a small weakness you saw Idia repair a few days ago.
Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry
Hurting little Ortho causes you more psychological damage than anything else, but it is absolutely necessary that he be neutralized first.
Because the moment Idia realizes his little brother is out of the game, his attention goes straight to you… and to the broken piece of chassis that fell off Ortho.
“WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY BROTHER?! YOU, AN INSIGNIFICANT PERSON, WITHOUT ANYTH—”
Ready. Aim. Throw!
You launch the metal chassis piece like a frisbee. It spins and spins and spins, and it hits the target: his technologically creepy mask.
Clang.
The mask cracks in two, and Idia is thrown backward, falling hard to the floor.
“Your brother is fine… though he does need better repairs”
Ortho is going to be mad at him when they both wake up, and you are probably going to become his favorite.
Respect levels: maxed out
Malleus
Pray for your life if you want to come out of a battle against a dragon unharmed.
So many romantic medieval stories talk about majestic dragons, enormous dragons, fire-breathing dragons, and yet none of them prepared you for having one right in front of you.
Especially because his green fire is infused with magic that the fantasy stories from your world never even bothered to imagine.
Try not to shit yourself while dodging flame after flame, and the occasional piece of debris when you pass under his claws.
Even in his normal form, Malleus is huge… but as a dragon, he is completely imposing.
And once again, you find yourself praying to every god you know from your old world and this new one when you stand in front of that obsidian-colored creature.
“ARE YOU INSANE?!”
“GET BACK HERE!”
Shouts, so many shouts, and with very good reason. What sane person stands in front of a dragon that is a thousand times their size?
You, apparently
But there is that tiny little worm of hope, believing with absurd faith that Malleus would never hurt you, not even in this form.
His great head lowers until it is only a hand’s distance away from you, those enormous green eyes staring directly at you, his hot breath surrounding you completely… your heart on the verge of bursting while you pray he does not open his mouth and swallow you whole.
“Hi, Tsunotaro”
His snout opens and closes, smelling you, recognizing you as his friend from late-night walks.
He recognizes you
“Please… don’t take this personally”
You punch him right on the tip of the snout.
That impact… pure and incomprehensible audacity.
HOW DOES IT EVEN OCCUR TO YOU TO PUNCH A DRAGON? DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH STRENGTH YOU WOULD NEED FOR THAT TO ACTUALLY HURT HIM?!
Well… it doesn’t hurt him, exactly, but it absolutely makes him stumble from the shock.
The finishing blow is delivered by the others, and the battle ends, making Malleus return to his original form while you stand there with a hand completely reddened from the punch.
Malleus, heir to Briar Valley, will remember this day. He will remember the tiny magicless human with enough nerve to strike him in his dragon form.
Warnings: PA reader, workplace romance, boss/employee relationship, power imbalance, canon-typical violence, blood/injury, she falls first but he falls harder, secret identity, idiots in love, mutual pining, oral sex, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, unprotected sex
Summary:
Fresh out of college and desperate for a life that belongs only to you, you move from Boston to Gotham and somehow become Timothy Drake-Wayne’s personal assistant.
The job comes with a terrifyingly high salary, a boss who forgets to sleep, and a city with rules you have to learn before Gotham teaches them the hard way.
Author’s Note:
as evidenced by this fic and my Dick fic, i love writing both characters as professional yearners lmao
The first thing you learned about Gotham was that nobody reacted to sirens.
In Boston, sirens still changed the shape of a street. People looked over their shoulders, irritated, curious, or concerned, and cars performed the usual awkward choreography of trying to get out of the way. Gotham did not bother. Gotham heard sirens the way other cities heard rain. It registered them, adjusted for them, and kept moving.
You stood on the sidewalk outside your new apartment building with one suitcase by your knee, a duffel cutting into your shoulder, and your phone clutched in one hand while three police cars screamed past the intersection without slowing.
Nobody around you looked up.
The broker had called the neighborhood “up-and-coming.” Your mother had called it “a cry for help.” Your aunt had sent you four articles about Gotham crime statistics and then followed up with a voice memo that began, “I know you think we’re overreacting, but—”
You had deleted the voice memo at South Station.
That was not fair, maybe. Your family loved you. They loved you so much it had become advice, warnings, opinions, emergency plans, blind dates, shared locations, and a constant chorus of questions about whether you had really thought this through. By the end of college, home had become less a place than a committee meeting about your future.
Gotham had been a decision made from exhaustion, stubbornness, and the frightening clarity of being twenty-two years old with a degree, a checking account that made you anxious, and no desire to move back into your childhood bedroom.
The Wayne Enterprises listing had appeared between two administrative assistant jobs and a communications coordinator position at a nonprofit that required 3 years of experience for entry-level pay. You had laughed when you opened it.
Personal Assistant to the Chief Executive Officer.
Wayne Enterprises.
Competitive salary.
Discretion required.
Ability to manage complex scheduling needs, executive communications, high-pressure situations, confidential materials, and rapidly shifting priorities.
You had assumed the listing was either fake or meant for someone whose résumé included phrases like “family office” and “international liaison.” Still, you had applied because it was one in the morning and your standards had been damaged by panic. You had written a cover letter that was honest enough to embarrass you in daylight, attached your résumé, and hit submit before you could talk yourself out of it.
Two weeks later, you were in Gotham.
Three interviews after that, you were standing in the lobby of Wayne Tower in your best blazer, trying not to look as if the polished black floors and vaulted ceiling had personally insulted your tax bracket.
The receptionist smiled at you with the serene calm of someone who had seen billionaires bleed on marble and still knew where the spare visitor badges were kept. “You can go up now. Mr. Drake-Wayne is expecting you.”
Your stomach performed an athletic maneuver.
“Great,” you said, in the tone of someone for whom nothing had ever been great.
A woman in a cream blouse met you near the elevators. “You must be here for the PA interview.”
“Yes,” you said. “That’s me.”
“I’m Tam Fox.” She shook your hand firmly. “I work in executive operations. Tim is running two minutes late, which is actually early for him.”
You smiled because she smiled, and because “Tim” seemed too casual for the name Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne, who had spent the last week existing in your mind as a LinkedIn profile with cheekbones, a terrifying job title, and a net worth you tried very hard not to think about.
“Fair warning,” Tam said as you approached a corner office. “He reads fast, talks faster when he’s tired, and forgets that most people cannot follow three conversations at once.”
“That’s weirdly comforting.”
“That was the goal.”
Inside, Timothy Drake-Wayne stood behind his desk with one hand braced on a stack of folders and the other wrapped around a coffee cup. He was younger than he looked in official photographs, or maybe he looked exactly twenty-three, and the rest of the world had decided CEOs were not supposed to. His tie was slightly loose, his sleeves were rolled to his forearms, and he looked tired enough that the alertness in his eyes felt almost unfair.
“Hi,” he said, setting the coffee down as if remembering he needed a free hand. “Sorry. That was a terrible start. Tim Drake-Wayne.”
You shook his hand. “I know.”
His mouth twitched. “That would be the building with my family’s name on it.”
“One of your names,” you said before you could stop yourself.
For half a second, you were certain you had ruined your life.
Then he laughed.
After that, the interview became less terrifying and more impossible to read. Tim asked about scheduling, confidentiality, difficult personalities, crisis logistics, and the conference you had once helped salvage after it lost its venue forty-eight hours before opening. When he asked who had handled the vendors, transportation, catering, and revised schedule, you admitted, “Mostly me.”
Tim leaned back in his chair. “Why wasn’t your supervisor doing any of this?”
Because she had cried in the bathroom and told you she trusted you, which was the sort of thing people said when they wanted you to accept responsibility without being given authority.
You chose the diplomatic version. “She delegated.”
Tim looked at you for a moment. Then he wrote something in the margin of your résumé.
Three hours later, Tam called to offer you the position.
The salary was high enough that you asked her to repeat it, then accepted before anyone at Wayne Enterprises could realize they had made a clerical error. By the next week, you were officially Tim Drake-Wayne’s personal assistant, and your new life in Gotham had become less theoretical and much more terrifying.
You had no idea that, ever since your interview, Tim Drake-Wayne had not quite managed to stop thinking about you.
The first two weeks were a trial by calendar.
“You have a nine with Lucius Fox, a nine-thirty with legal, a ten with Applied Sciences, a ten-fifteen with the mayor’s office, and a ten-thirty with the children’s hospital board,” you said on your fourth day, standing in his office with a tablet in one hand and a file tucked under your arm.
Tim looked up from his laptop. “That can’t be right.”
“It is.”
“Why would I do that?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
He rubbed both hands over his face. “The ten-fifteen was supposed to be next week.”
“The mayor’s office says you confirmed yesterday.”
“I was, for all practical purposes, concussed yesterday.”
You stared at him.
Tim went still.
The office went quiet around the sentence.
Then he said, very carefully, “That was a figure of speech.”
You lowered the tablet. “Do you often confirm meetings while metaphorically concussed?”
“Only when I’m operating on two hours of sleep and a questionable amount of caffeine.”
“That is not better.”
His mouth twitched. “Can you move the mayor’s office?”
“I already did.”
“You did?”
“They’re now Friday at two. Legal is sending someone to sit in on Applied Sciences, and the hospital board is getting a written statement from you by end of day. You still need to call Lucius, because apparently he can tell when you’re avoiding him.”
“Everyone can tell when I’m avoiding Lucius.”
“Then maybe stop making it obvious.”
Tim looked at you for a long moment, and you wondered if you had gone too far.
Finally, he said, “You’re very good at this.”
Your heart did something stupid.
That was when you should have known you were in trouble.
Your feelings for Tim did not appear suddenly or dramatically. They accumulated.
It was in the way Tim listened to you even when his mind had clearly moved three steps ahead. It was in the way he never made you feel stupid for asking questions, only concerned when you did not ask them soon enough.
After that, wanting him became harder to pretend away. You told yourself it was normal to admire someone you worked closely with. Tim was brilliant, and brilliance was attractive when it came with kindness instead of cruelty. He was also your boss, which made the whole thing inconvenient, inappropriate, and something you intended to manage quietly until it died of starvation.
It did not die.
It adapted.
Learning Gotham itself became another part of your job. What you did not learn, at least not quickly enough for Tim’s blood pressure, was how to live in Gotham like someone who understood that survival was not supposed to be optional.
It came to his attention on a Tuesday evening in your third week, when you left Wayne Tower late and decided to walk home in the rain.
You made it four blocks before your phone rang.
Tim’s name appeared on the screen.
You frowned, shifted your tote higher on your shoulder, and answered. “Is something wrong?”
“Where are you?”
“Walking home.”
There was a beat of silence. “You’re what?”
“Walking home.”
“From the office?”
“Yes.”
“In the rain?”
“It’s water, Tim.”
“What route are you taking?”
You glanced at the street signs. “I don’t know, the normal one?”
“The normal one,” he repeated.
“The one my phone suggested.”
Another silence. This one was worse.
“Are you wearing headphones?”
You touched one earbud. “Only one.”
“Take it out.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re walking home alone after dark in Gotham and outsourcing situational awareness to Google Maps.”
You stopped under the awning of a closed tailor shop. Rain dripped from the edge in a steady line. “That feels a little dramatic.”
“Tell me what street you’re on.”
You did, and Tim made a sound that could only be described as a restrained scream.
“Okay,” he said, in the tone of someone trying very hard not to scare a civilian. “Turn around.”
“What?”
“Turn around, walk back to the intersection, and go into the diner on the corner. It should still be open.”
“Tim, I’m six blocks from my apartment.”
“You are two blocks from a corridor that empties after six-thirty because the streetlights have been out for a month and GCPD response time there is abysmal.”
You looked toward the next block. It was quieter than you had realized. Not empty, but thin in a way that made the street’s damp shine suddenly look less cinematic and more like a warning.
A car rolled slowly past. You watched it until it turned the corner.
“I’m going to the diner,” you said.
“Good. Stay on the phone.”
“You’re being a little intense.”
“I’m aware.”
“And bossy.”
“I’m also aware of that.”
The diner was exactly where he said it would be. You sat in a booth near the window, ordered fries because you felt bad taking up space, and tried not to feel like a child who had been caught doing something reckless.
“Are you at the diner?” Tim asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. I’m sending a car.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
“Tim.”
“You can be angry at me from the car.”
“I’m not angry.”
“You sound angry.”
“I’m embarrassed.”
His voice softened. “That wasn’t what I wanted.”
You watched rain bead on the window and realized how much you had not noticed before.
“I didn’t know,” you said.
“I know.”
“I’m not helpless.”
“I know that too.”
The simple certainty of it made your throat tighten, which was deeply inconvenient because you were in a diner with fries on the way and your boss in your ear.
Tim exhaled over the line. “Gotham has rules. They’re not fair, and they don’t always make sense until something happens. People who grew up here learn them early. You didn’t, so I’m going to have to teach you.”
“You personally?”
“I’m very qualified.”
“You’re the CEO of a Fortune whatever company.”
“Which means I’ve survived a lot of board meetings in Gotham.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No,” he agreed. “The board meetings are worse.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
When he spoke again, his voice had shifted, quieter around the edges. “The car’s two minutes out. The driver’s name is Marcus. He’ll have your name.”
“Okay.”
“And tomorrow we’re talking about your commute.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is.”
The car arrived exactly when he said it would.
When you reached your building, Tim said, “Text me when you’re inside your apartment.”
“You’re still being bossy.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll text you,” you said.
“Thank you.”
Upstairs, after locking both locks, you texted him.
Inside.
His response came almost immediately. Good. Sleep well. And don’t use the alley door. Ever.
You looked toward the kitchen window, which faced the narrow black cut between buildings.
How did you know about the alley entrance?
Tim answered, It’s Gotham.
That was not an answer.
It was, however, the first time you wondered whether there was more to Tim Drake-Wayne than bad sleep habits and executive stress.
After that, Gotham lessons became part of your routine. Tim taught you not to stand too close to the curb, not to trust empty streets, not to ignore changes in sound, and not to ask questions if a shopkeeper started lowering the gate in the middle of business hours.
“I’ll make you a list,” Tim said.
He did.
It was three pages long, with the heading Basic Urban Safety Considerations.
You wrote under the heading: Gotham for People From Cities That Have Normal Problems.
Tim laughed so hard he had to set his coffee down before he spilled it across three quarterly reports.
You liked his laugh. That became a problem. Then you liked making him laugh, which became a much worse problem.
The phone appeared on a Thursday.
Your own phone was perfectly fine. It was a previous-generation smartphone you had bought refurbished during senior year, with a battery that had developed opinions of its own.
Tim noticed it, because of course he did.
When it buzzed against his desk one morning and immediately dimmed, Tim looked at it.
“What?” you asked.
“Your phone battery is at twelve percent.”
“It has character.”
“It’s eleven in the morning.”
“I charged it last night.”
“That’s worse.”
“It works.”
“It works badly.”
“It works economically.”
“It dies before lunch, and you live in Gotham.”
That was unfair because it was reasonable.
“It’s fine,” you said.
He smiled, but it faded faster than usual. “I’m serious.”
“I know you are.” You softened because he did look serious, and because his concern had a way of getting under your defenses before you could lock them properly. “But I can’t just buy a new phone because my boss has Gotham anxiety.”
“I’m not asking you to buy one.”
“Tim.”
He opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a matte black box with no branding.
“What is that?”
“A phone.”
“I gathered.”
“WayneTech prototype. Technically.” His expression was careful in a way that made you immediately suspicious. “Better battery life, satellite fallback, emergency routing, panic button. Three presses sends your location and live audio to a secure response line.”
“What secure response line?”
“A private one.”
“Private like Wayne Enterprises security?”
“Private like people who can get to you faster than standard emergency services in certain parts of Gotham.”
You stared at him.
Tim’s face did something very small and very guilty.
“Timoth Drake-Wayne, I know that you did not just offer me a phone with secret features that connects to a private line used by, what, Bruce Wayne? Robin? Red Robin? Batman? Some terrifying combination of all of the above?”
“It can also call standard emergency services,” he said quickly.
“Tim.”
“And you can disable anything you don’t want. Location only sends if you trigger the alert. Same with live audio. I’m not trying to track you.”
“You understand why this is weird.”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m just hoping it’s redundant and you never have to use it.”
“You’re my boss.”
“Yes.”
“You can’t give me secret billionaire technology because my battery sucks.”
“I can if it’s issued as an employee safety device.”
“Is it?”
“It can be.”
You stared at him.
He winced. “It isn’t yet.”
“I’m not saying no forever,” you said. “I’m saying do it properly.”
Tim took the box, his fingers brushing the edge where yours had been a moment before. “Okay.”
The box went back into his drawer, but the weight of it stayed between you.
The employee device policy appeared three business days later.
It was, annoyingly, excellent. Wayne Enterprises issued upgraded phones to several employee groups, with privacy protections, emergency-only location sharing, access logs, and an option to decline without penalty.
Tam stopped by your desk and set a matte-black box down. “Before you ask, yes, I made Legal explain the access logs twice.”
Tam studied you for a moment. Then she tapped the box with one finger. “Set it up before you leave tonight.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
You set it up at your desk after most of the floor had emptied. The process walked you through privacy terms, emergency contacts, medical information, and the secure response option.
There was a field labeled Preferred Wayne Security Contact.
Below it, already listed, was Timothy Drake-Wayne.
You stared at the screen.
Then you deleted his name and selected the general Wayne Security line instead.
Five seconds later, your desk phone rang.
You looked toward Tim’s office. His door was open. He was standing behind his desk, phone to his ear, looking through the glass wall at you with the blank expression of someone who had been personally wounded.
You answered. “Yes?”
“You removed me.”
“I selected the appropriate professional contact.”
“I am an appropriate professional contact.”
“You are the CEO.”
“I’m also the person most likely to answer when you need help.”
“That is not as comforting as you think it is.”
“It should be.”
“You are the least available person I’ve ever met.”
“I would answer for you.”
The words arrived quietly.
Your hand tightened around the phone.
He looked as if he regretted saying it aloud, or as if he had not meant to say it with that much truth in it. Through the glass, across the dim office floor, he seemed younger and more tired than the city believed him to be. He also seemed impossibly far away.
“That’s the problem,” you said.
Tim was silent.
“I need this job,” you continued, keeping your voice even because the alternative was worse. “I like this job. I like working for you. I also need you to know where the lines are.”
His face changed. Not dramatically. Tim was too controlled for that. But something in him went still and careful, as if he had finally heard the thing underneath everything you had not been saying.
“You’re right,” he said.
You let out a breath.
“I’m sorry,” he added.
“You don’t have to be sorry for caring.”
“I do if I make it complicated for you.”
You looked at him through the glass and said, “Thank you.”
He nodded once.
The call ended.
You kept Wayne Security as your preferred contact.
Tim did not bring it up again.
That was the first time you thought he might feel something too.
After that, Tim became almost painfully careful. He still looked after you, but through policy, security protocols, and practical adjustments that applied to more people than you. He stopped calling after hours unless it was work-related.
You hated how much you missed it.
Then came the gala.
The Wayne Foundation’s annual winter benefit took over a museum three weeks later, turning it into a glittering maze of flowers, security checkpoints, and donors whose clothing probably cost more than your first car.
You were working, which made it easier: tablet in hand, earpiece in place, comfortable shoes hidden under a formal black dress.
Tim, unfortunately, looked like a problem.
He wore a black tuxedo with the resigned elegance of someone who had been put in formalwear since childhood and had never forgiven anyone for it. His hair was neater than usual, his smile was more practiced, and every time he slipped into charming-rich-boy mode, you felt a private grief for all the tired, sharp, funny parts of him the room did not get to see.
He looked composed. He also looked exhausted.
At nine-thirty, you intercepted him near the staff corridor with a glass of water and two minutes of unscheduled silence.
“Drink,” you said.
His eyes flicked down to the glass. “Is that an order?”
“A professional recommendation.”
“Those are scarier.”
He took the glass and drank half of it. The polished mask slipped a little as soon as he was out of the donors’ sight.
You smiled, and his gaze caught on it in a way that made the noise of the gala seem to recede.
“You look nice,” he said.
Your brain emptied itself like a drawer dumped onto the floor.
Tim seemed to realize the same thing one second too late.
“I mean,” he said, “you look very—” He stopped, as if every available adjective had become a legal hazard. “Appropriate for the event.”
“Appropriate for the event,” you repeated.
He closed his eyes briefly. “That was worse.”
“It was.”
“I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“You can tell an employee she looks nice at a formal event without HR rappelling through the ceiling.”
His eyes opened. “HR doesn’t rappel.”
“This is Gotham. Don’t be too surprised.”
That got him. His laugh was quiet, but it loosened something in his shoulders.
Then he looked at you again, and the humor softened into something that was harder to pretend away.
“You do,” he said. “Look nice.”
Your pulse moved to your throat.
“Thank you,” you said, because that was safe, and because you wanted too many unsafe things.
A crash sounded from the main hall.
You and Tim both turned at once.
It was not a small crash. It stopped music, conversation, and every heartbeat in the room.
Tim’s expression changed so fast it frightened you.
The exhausted CEO vanished. Something colder and sharper took his place.
“Stay here,” he said.
“Tim—”
“Staff corridor. Door locks from the inside. Stay away from the main hall.”
He was already moving.
You grabbed his sleeve before you could think better of it. “Where are you going?”
His gaze dropped to your hand, then lifted to your face.
For one impossible second, he looked torn.
Then the lights went out.
Emergency lighting washed the corridor red. The museum alarm began to shriek. Tim caught your wrist, not hard, but with immediate certainty, and pulled you through the staff door as people began running in the main hall.
“Move,” he said.
You moved.
The staff corridor was narrow, red-lit, and loud with the muffled chaos of the main hall. Tim guided you into a service alcove near the freight elevator, already typing one-handed on the black phone you had only seen once.
Then laughter crackled over the museum’s PA system.
Not the Joker. You knew that much, and it was horrifying that you knew enough about Gotham to be relieved by the wrong kind of laughter.
“Wonderful,” Tim muttered. “Pantomime.”
“Who?”
“Low-tier thief with high-tier commitment to theme.”
“Should I be comforted?”
“No.”
He pulled something from inside his jacket and pressed it into your hand.
A phone.
Not the one Tam had given you earlier. That one was in your pocket.
This one was matte black, unbranded, and horribly familiar.
“Tim,” you said slowly.
“I designed it for you.”
The words landed too carefully to be casual.
You looked down at the smooth black screen, then back up at him. “This is the one you offered me the first time.”
His hand stayed near yours for half a second before he drew it back. “Yes.”
“Tam already gave me one.”
“I know. This one is different.”
“Different how?”
“Extra emergency routing. Nothing invasive,” he said quickly. “Your privacy terms are built in.”
“You designed a custom phone for me and just carry it around in your jacket?”
His expression barely changed, which meant he was probably embarrassed. “I was waiting for a reasonable time.”
“And this is the reasonable time?”
“No,” he said. “But it is the available one.”
“Tim—”
“Listen to me.” His voice was low and urgent, and every word landed with terrifying precision. “Stay here. Keep low. This hallway leads to the east loading dock if you need to run. Wayne security will eventually come to this corridor. If anyone comes through that door who is not security or me, you go straight down the hall to the last door on the left. Do not wait. Do not let anyone redirect you.”
“And you?”
“You don’t need to worry about me.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No,” Tim said. “It’s an instruction.”
Your fingers closed around his phone. “You’re scaring me.”
His expression flickered.
“I know,” he said, and the apology inside it hurt worse than the fear.
Another sound came from the hall. Metal striking marble. Someone sobbed. Security shouted. The PA system squealed with feedback.
Tim touched your shoulder, brief and steady. “I need you safe.”
Then he was gone.
You crouched in the red-lit service alcove with the phone in your hand and the horrible certainty that Tim had just run toward a crime scene with the focus of someone who knew exactly what to do.
Minutes changed shape during a crisis.
You learned that quickly.
You stayed where he had put you for what felt like an hour but was probably less than five minutes. Voices moved through the corridor twice. Once, two catering staff hurried past, whispering frantically. Once, a security guard ran by with his radio pressed to his mouth. You tried to follow the instructions in your head. Stay down. Watch the door. East loading dock if you need to run.
Then someone slammed into the staff door at the end of the corridor.
You flinched so hard your shoulder hit the wall.
The door rattled. A voice cursed on the other side. Another voice said something you could not make out. The lock held.
The phone Tim had pressed into your hand buzzed.
You looked down.
A notification had appeared on the previously black screen.
EMERGENCY MODE ACTIVE.SAFE ROUTE: EAST LOADING DOCK.
A simple map blinked to life, leading you toward the east loading dock.
In the corner was the name of the active safety profile.
DRAKE PROTOCOL.
You stared at it for half a second too long.
Your thumb hovered over the words longer than it should have.
The door rattled again. This time, the lock cracked.
You did not think. You moved.
Tim had told you to go to the east loading dock, so you went east. You kept low, one hand against the wall, Tam’s phone heavy in your pocket and Tim’s clutched so tightly in your other hand that your fingers hurt. Behind you, the door gave way. People entered the corridor laughing and arguing about whether the “rich idiots” had gone through there. You slipped through the next door before they saw you and found yourself in a storage room full of folded tables and museum display equipment.
There was another door on the far side. You crossed to it, eased it open, and nearly collided with Red Robin.
You stopped so abruptly that your shoulder clipped the frame.
You knew him from news footage, blurry photos, and distant rooftop sightings. Gotham’s vigilantes occupied a strange space in public consciousness, half emergency service and half urban myth. You knew Batman, obviously. Everyone knew Batman. You knew Nightwing because the internet had feelings about Nightwing. You knew Red Robin as the one with the staff, the cape, and the reputation for being frighteningly smart.
He stood in the doorway in red and black armor, domino mask cutting sharp lines across his face, cape settling around him like a shadow. He was taller up close than he looked in news footage, all dark armor and sharp angles in the dim service hallway.
For half a second, you were relieved.
Then he said your name.
Not “ma’am.” Not “miss.” Your name.
Your grip tightened around the phone.
Red Robin went still.
The silence was tiny. Maybe less than a second. Maybe nothing to anyone else.
To you, it was everything.
“Oh,” you said.
Red Robin’s mouth pressed into a line.
You knew that mouth.
You knew that stillness.
You knew the way his shoulders carried responsibility like it had been fitted there by hand.
The storage room door behind you opened.
Red Robin moved before you had time to turn. His staff snapped out with a metallic hiss, striking the first intruder in the chest and sending him backward into the second. He caught your arm, pulled you behind him, and the fight became motion. Efficient, brutal, almost silent compared to the chaos outside. Two men went down before either could shout. A third reached for something at his belt, and Red Robin’s cape cut across your view as he disarmed him with a precision that made your stomach drop.
It was over in seconds.
Red Robin stood over three unconscious men and did not look at you.
You stared at him.
The museum alarm kept screaming.
Finally, he said, “Are you hurt?”
Tim’s voice, altered slightly by the mask or the suit or his own effort, but not enough.
You swallowed. “Are you kidding me?”
He turned then. Even with the mask, you saw the wince.
“Now is not the best time.”
“You’re Red Robin.”
“Now is really not the best time.”
“You’re Red Robin.”
“I heard you.”
“You gave me a panic-button phone.”
His mouth tightened. “Yes.”
“That goes to you.”
“Yes.”
“Not Wayne Security. Not some private corporate response line. You.”
A fractional pause.
“As Red Robin,” you said.
His silence was answer enough.
“And if you don’t answer?”
“It routes to me first,” he said. “If I don’t respond, it escalates.”
“To who?”
Another pause. His mouth tightened.
You stared at him. “Oh my god.”
The comm at his ear crackled. He tilted his head slightly. “I have her. East storage, three down. Moving to loading dock.”
A pause.
“Yes, I know.”
Another pause.
His jaw tightened. “Nightwing can stop laughing anytime.”
You made a sound that was not quite hysteria but had ambitions.
Red Robin held out a gloved hand. “We need to move.”
You looked at his hand, then at the unconscious men, then at the door behind him.
There would be time later. There had to be, because if you let yourself process this now—really process it—you were going to stop moving, and Tim had been very clear that stopping was not an option.
You took his hand.
He led you out.
At the loading dock, Red Robin guided you straight into Tam’s waiting arms.
Tam hugged you once, hard. “Are you okay?”
“I don’t know,” you said honestly.
Red Robin said, “Stay with her.”
Tam nodded once. “Go.”
He looked at you one more time, then vanished into the rain.
You stood there with the phone in your hand and your entire understanding of your employment contract rearranging itself into something insane.
By midnight, the official story was that Tim Drake-Wayne had been evacuated with several major donors and spent the rest of the incident coordinating with security from a safe location.
You heard it while sitting in a Wayne Tower conference room, wrapped in a shock blanket you did not remember accepting.
Tim appeared forty minutes after Red Robin disappeared.
He came in through the main conference room doors wearing his tuxedo again, tie missing, hair damp, a shallow cut at his jaw, and the expression of someone who knew he was walking into consequences.
You looked at him.
He looked at you.
Tam and Bruce left with suspiciously convenient excuses.
Tim stayed near the door.
You sat at the conference table with the shock blanket around your shoulders and the phone on the polished wood in front of you.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Then you said, “You’re Red Robin.”
Tim closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
There it was.
No denial. No corporate language. No careful sidestep into things you were not cleared to know. Just yes.
Your eyes stung suddenly, which made you angry because fear had passed, danger had passed, and apparently now your body had decided to be dramatic in a conference room.
“You said my name,” you said.
“I know.”
“You could have pretended.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Tim’s face softened with something that looked painfully like regret. “Because you were scared, and I needed you to listen.”
That was the worst answer because it was good.
You looked down at the phone. “How many people know?”
“Family. A few allies. Lucius. Alfred.”
“Of course the butler knows.”
Tim winced. “Technically.”
You pressed a hand over your eyes. “I’m angry.”
“I know.”
“I’m also relieved you’re alive.”
His expression shifted.
“And confused. But mostly angry.”
Tim came closer slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal or a bomb. Maybe both. He stopped on the other side of the conference table, leaving distance between you that you hated and appreciated in equal measure.
“You can resign,” he said. “With full severance, references, whatever you need. If you want another job somewhere else, I’ll help arrange it without interfering. If you want to stay at Wayne Enterprises but not work for me, that can happen. You don’t have to decide tonight.”
Something twisted in your chest.
“You already thought through my exit options.”
“Yes.”
“Because you’re prepared.”
“Because I care what happens to you.”
The room went very quiet.
Tim looked down, jaw tight. “That was inappropriate.”
“Was it untrue?”
“No.”
“I don’t want to resign,” you said after a long pause.
Tim looked up.
“I don’t know what I want long-term,” you continued. “But I don’t want to leave because something complicated happened.”
“Complicated,” he repeated.
“You’re Red Robin, my boss, and possibly the most sleep-deprived man in America. That’s complicated.”
“Fair.”
“I do think I shouldn’t be your PA forever.”
Pain flickered across his face before he controlled it.
You hated that too.
“I don’t mean because of tonight,” you said. “I mean because I’m good at this, and I don’t want to become someone whose whole career is being useful to one man, even if that man is—”
You stopped.
Tim’s attention sharpened.
“Even if that man is what?” he asked softly.
Dangerous ground. Worse than alleys, scaffolding, and laundromats that were not laundromats. This was the kind of danger you had walked toward willingly for weeks.
You chose honesty, because apparently near-death experiences made you stupid.
“You.”
Tim went still.
The conference room felt too bright, too corporate, too full of glass walls and secrets.
Finally, he said, “I can talk to Tam about a promotion track. Executive operations, maybe special projects. You’d report to her, not me. It would be real, not a favor.”
“You don’t have to solve it tonight.”
“I know.”
“You’re doing it anyway.”
“I’m trying not to do anything else.”
The words landed between you with devastating precision.
Oh.
You stared at him, and Tim held your gaze like he had already decided to accept whatever damage the truth caused.
“You feel it too,” you said.
His breath changed. Barely, but you heard it.
“Yes,” he said.
The answer was quiet. It still wrecked you.
You pulled the shock blanket tighter around yourself because otherwise you might reach for him, and that seemed like a bad idea while you were still shaking and he was still bleeding from his jaw.
“We can’t do anything about that right now,” you said.
“I know.”
“And you need stitches.”
“I don’t.”
“You absolutely do.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“You are still lying about injuries to the person who knows your calendar, your caffeine intake, and your fake workout blocks.”
His mouth twitched.
You picked up the phone from the table.
“I’ll keep this,” you said.
Tim’s gaze flicked to the phone, then back to your face. “Okay.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m done being angry.”
“I know.”
“Or confused.”
“I know that too.”
You slipped the phone carefully into your bag, as if the wrong movement might shatter something already fragile and cracked.
“Medical first,” you said.
“Okay.”
“Then we discuss my job.”
“Okay.”
“And then, eventually, when there is no active crime scene, no head wound, and no direct-reporting relationship, we can discuss the other thing.”
Tim’s eyes lifted to yours.
There was something in them now that you had never seen so openly in his office. Want, yes, but also restraint. Hope under discipline. A man with too many masks allowing one of them to slip because you had asked him for honesty and he had given it.
“The other thing,” he said.
“Don’t make me say it in a conference room.”
“I wouldn’t dare.”
“You absolutely would.”
His smile came back, small and real.
Your heart, traitorous and exhausted, leaned toward it.
Two weeks later, you were promoted.
It was not because you knew Tim’s secret. You made absolutely sure of that.
Tam brought you into her office with an offer letter, a revised title, and a salary increase that made you stare at the page for a full ten seconds without breathing.
Executive Operations Coordinator, Special Projects.
You would report to Tam, not Tim. It was a real job with real responsibilities, and Tam made sure you understood that before you could ask.
“You earned it,” she said. “And before you start thinking Tim pushed this through because he is emotionally compromised, he recommended you for advancement two weeks before the gala.”
She turned a printed memo toward you. You caught only a few phrases before looking away.
Exceptional crisis judgment.
Operational instincts exceed current role.
Should be placed where she can build institutional authority.
You looked away before your face could do something embarrassing.
“Tim has many flaws,” Tam said. “Undervaluing competence is not usually one of them.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes if you want the job.”
You looked at the offer again. You thought of Boston, your packed boxes, your family’s concern pressing against every decision you made until Gotham had seemed less like a city than an escape hatch. You thought of your first day in Wayne Tower, your panic in the elevator, Tim laughing when you said one of his names was on the building.
Then you thought of the storage room, Red Robin saying your name, and Tim across a conference table telling you he cared about what happened to you.
You signed the offer.
You found Tim on the roof of Wayne Tower at sunset, which was not where CEOs were supposed to be but was exactly where vigilantes apparently spent their emotional processing time. He was in shirtsleeves, jacket abandoned on the low wall beside him, tie loose, wind tugging at his hair. The grotesques along the roofline loomed dark against the bruised evening sky.
“Do all Waynes brood on rooftops,” you asked, “or is this a you thing?”
Tim turned. His expression changed when he saw the envelope in your hand.
“You signed.”
“I did.”
The tension in his shoulders eased so visibly that it hurt your chest.
“Congratulations,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“You earned it.”
“That seems to be the company line.”
“It’s the truth.”
You walked to the wall beside him, leaving enough space between you for sense and not enough for comfort.
You looked at him. “I think I’m staying.”
Tim’s gaze held yours. “In Gotham?”
“At Wayne Enterprises. In Gotham. In the life I apparently live now, where my former boss is Red Robin and my new phone has emergency settings designed by a vigilante with a corporate email address.”
He huffed a laugh. “Former boss.”
“That’s the part you heard?”
“It’s an important part.”
“It is.”
The wind moved between you, cold enough that you folded your arms.
Tim noticed. Of course he noticed. “Do you want my jacket?”
“No.”
“You’re cold.”
“I am establishing independence.”
“You can be independent and warm.”
“That sounds fake.”
“It’s not.”
He held out the jacket.
You stared at it, then at him.
“Tim.”
“It’s a jacket, not a marriage proposal.”
You laughed despite yourself and took it. It was warm from his body and too expensive to just drop on the roof, and putting it on felt like accepting something you had been refusing in pieces for weeks.
Tim watched you, careful and quiet.
“I report to Tam now, but you’re still the CEO.”
“Yes.”
“And Red Robin.”
“Also yes.”
“So this is still complicated.”
“I know.”
His patience should have made this easier. It did not. It made you want to step closer.
So you did.
Tim’s attention dropped briefly to the movement, then returned to your face.
“I don’t remember what it’s like to not love you,” you said.
He went completely still.
You could not believe you had said it. Once the words were out, though, you refused to take them back. You had spent too long managing feelings privately, folding them into professional smiles and calendar updates, pretending every kindness did not land somewhere tender.
“I tried not to,” you continued. “You were my boss. You’re rich in a way that makes me want to audit reality. You have a family name that opens doors by existing. And I’m…not. I’m new to Gotham, new to this job, and trying very hard not to confuse the first person who made me feel steady with someone I was allowed to want.”
Tim’s voice was low. “Did you?”
“No.”
His expression softened.
“That was the problem,” you said. “I knew exactly what it was.”
For a moment, the city seemed to fall away beneath the sound of the wind.
Then Tim said, “I don’t know when it became love. I only know that it did.”
Your breath caught.
He looked almost embarrassed by the confession, which made it worse and better and impossible.
“I didn’t understand what was happening at first,” he said. “I thought I was relieved to have someone competent. Then I thought I was worried because you were new to Gotham. Then I thought about you walking home in the rain so much that Nightwing threatened to block my number after I texted him at three in the morning for the third night in a row.”
A laugh slipped out of you, unsteady.
Tim stepped closer. “I tried to keep it professional.”
“You did.”
“Not because I didn’t want you.”
The words hit with enough force to make you forget the cold.
He seemed to hear it after he said it. His mouth parted slightly like he might apologize, but you shook your head.
“Don’t you dare take it back.”
“I won’t.”
The space between you had become very small.
Your hand moved first. Not far. Just enough to touch the front of his shirt, your fingers resting over the place where his tie had been loosened. Tim looked down at your hand as if it were more dangerous than anything he faced in a mask.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked.
You had imagined Tim asking like that. Careful, direct, almost formal with the effort of giving you a choice.
You had not imagined how much it would undo you.
“Yes,” you said.
He kissed you as if caution were the last thing standing between him and disaster.
For one breath, it was almost unbearably gentle. His mouth touched yours, then paused there, asking without words. The city moved around you in sirens and wind and distant traffic, but Tim stayed still, giving you room to choose.
So you chose.
You rose onto your toes and kissed him back.
Something in him changed then—not snapped, not broke, but gave way. His hand found the lapel of the jacket he had put around your shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric as if it were the only safe place to hold on. You felt his breath catch before he kissed you again, deeper this time, less like a question and more like an answer he had been trying not to write down for months.
By the time you pulled apart, his forehead was almost touching yours, and neither of you seemed willing to be the first to remember the rest of the world.
His gaze dropped to the jacket around your shoulders, then back to your face.
“I should not be thinking about how good that looks on you right now,” he said.
Your breath caught.
“That’s your takeaway?”
“I’m trying to be normal.”
“You are failing.”
“I know.”
You smiled, and he kissed you again just because he could, because some impossible permission had been granted and neither of you knew how to be sensible with it yet.
Eventually, you made it back inside. Sensibility returned somewhere between the rooftop door and the executive elevator, mostly because the building had cameras and you both remembered at the same time.
Tim walked you to your office because it was late, because he was still Tim, and because you let him. The new space was smaller than his but bigger than your old desk, with a door, a window, and your name already printed on a temporary placard.
He stopped outside.
You stood in the doorway, still wearing his jacket.
“This is where I say goodnight,” he said.
“Is it?”
“It should be.”
You looked at him for a long moment. The professional part of you admired the restraint. The rest of you resented it.
“What do you want?” you asked.
Tim’s eyes darkened.
The hallway was empty. The office floor beyond it was dim, most of the staff gone for the night. Somewhere far away, the cleaning crew moved down another corridor.
“That’s a dangerous question,” he said.
“I know.”
“I want to kiss you again.”
“That seems manageable.”
“I want to do more than kiss you.”
Your pulse jumped.
Tim did not move closer. That was the thing about him. Desire was there, clear and intense, but so was the discipline. He would stand in a hallway and let honesty burn through him before he would use it to corner you.
You loved that.
The realization arrived without ceremony and with terrible timing.
You did not say it. Not yet. There were some truths too large for office hallways.
Instead, you stepped into your office, turned on the light, and looked back at him.
“Come in, then.”
Tim’s composure cracked.
Only slightly. Only enough.
He entered and closed the door behind him.
For a few seconds, neither of you moved.
Tim’s gaze stayed on you.
“You’re very careful,” you said.
“With you? Yes.”
Heat curled low in your stomach.
You crossed the office and stopped in front of him. “You can touch me.”
Tim’s hand came to your waist first, over your dress, warm and steady. Then the other settled at your back. He drew you in slowly, and when you lifted your face, he kissed you with all the care he had promised and all the hunger he had not.
The office disappeared by degrees.
There was his mouth, his hands, the press of your back against the door when he guided you into position with a soft sound and swallowed your gasp. There was the slide of your fingers into his hair, the way he shuddered and made a noise deep in his throat when you tugged, the sudden knowledge that Timothy Drake-Wayne, brilliant and controlled and impossible, could come undone if you touched him just right.
He kissed along your jaw, then stopped.
“Still okay?”
“Yes,” you said, breathless. “Tim, please.”
His eyes closed for a second, as if the word did something to him. Then his mouth found your throat, careful at first, then less so when your hand tightened on his shoulder.
Your hands found the buttons of his shirt. He went still beneath your fingers.
“Is this okay?” you asked.
A laugh broke out of him, low and strained. “Yes.”
“You’re allowed to answer faster.”
“I’m trying not to embarrass myself.”
“That might be my favorite thing you’ve ever said.”
He kissed you again, and the buttons became less cooperative under pressure. When his shirt opened beneath your hands, you found warm skin, hard muscle, and the faint raised evidence of a life you were only beginning to understand. You touched one scar lightly before you could stop yourself.
Tim’s breath caught.
You looked up. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
There was a story under your fingertips. Many stories, probably. Too many for one night. You kissed the place instead, gentle enough that his hand flexed against the door beside your head.
He said your name like a warning.
You smiled against his skin. “What?”
“If you do that again, my plan to be responsible is going to suffer.”
“Your plan sounds boring.”
“My plan is respectful.”
“I respect it.”
“You are actively undermining it.”
“Yes.”
Tim looked down at you, and the heat in his face made your knees feel unreliable.
Then he picked you up and turned, placing you onto the edge of your desk.
The movement startled a laugh out of you, but it dissolved when he stepped between your knees. His hands slid along your thighs, still over fabric, still giving you time. You pulled him closer by his open shirt and kissed him until the careful rhythm broke into something messier.
His phone buzzed.
Both of you froze.
Tim dropped his forehead to your shoulder. “I’m going to kill him.”
You were breathing hard. “Who?”
“Statistically, Dick.”
The phone buzzed again.
You started laughing and could not stop.
Tim groaned, but there was laughter in it too, helpless and frustrated and young in a way you rarely got to see. He pulled back enough to check the screen, then made a face.
“Emergency?” you asked.
“No. He sent a bat emoji.”
You laughed harder.
Tim typed something one-handed.
“What did you say?”
“That I’m resigning from the family.”
“He’ll believe that?”
“No.”
The interruption should have killed the moment. It did not. It softened it, turned the sharp edge of want into something warmer, more sustainable, less likely to burn through every careful choice you had made.
Tim put the phone facedown on your desk and looked at you. “Can I take you to dinner?”
“Now?”
“Not now. Now I should walk you home and behave like someone who remembers that tonight was a lot for you.”
Your expression softened despite yourself. “Do you always have to be reasonable?”
“No,” he said. “I’m making a deliberate effort.”
You touched his open collar. “Dinner sounds good.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I have plans tomorrow.”
His eyebrows rose. “Do you?”
“I do have a life outside this building.”
“I know. I’m proud and devastated.”
“Saturday.”
“Saturday,” he agreed.
You slid off the desk, and he steadied you with both hands. For a second, you stayed close, neither of you willing to end the contact completely.
You buttoned his shirt because someone had to, and because the intimacy of doing it made him quiet in a way kissing had not. When you reached the last button, his hand covered yours.
“I’m glad you came here,” he said.
You had no clever response, so you kissed him once more, soft and lingering, then stepped back before one of you forgot where you were.
Tim walked you home.
At your building, the flickering light above the door had been fixed. The bulb burned steady and warm over the entrance, catching on the old brick and the damp railing.
You stopped on the first step and looked up at it.
“Tim.”
“Yes?”
“Did you fix my building light?”
“I did not personally.”
You turned to look at him. “That is not a denial.”
“No,” he admitted.
“You know, most people flirt with flowers.”
“I can do flowers.”
“You fixed exterior lighting.”
“You said the hallway was dark.”
“I said that once.”
“I listen.”
That one got under your skin.
For a moment, you only looked at him. He stood one step below you, which made you almost level. His tie was loose, his hair still slightly mussed from your hands, and his jacket was back on by then, though he had only put it on after making sure you were not cold on the walk over. He looked nothing like the polished CEO from the gala two weeks ago. He looked tired, careful, and very real.
You reached for the door.
Tim did not move to follow.
Of course he didn’t.
He stood on the sidewalk with his hands still at his sides, waiting. The restraint should have annoyed you by now. Instead, it made the desire sharper, because every step closer to him had to be yours if you wanted it to be. He would not take a single inch you did not hand him.
“Tim.”
His eyes lifted to yours.
“Come upstairs.”
The words landed quietly between you, but they felt heavier than anything you had said in your office. There was no company logo behind you now. No executive floor. No desk with your new title waiting outside the door. Just your building, your key, your choice.
Tim’s gaze searched your face. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“You can change your mind at any point.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you do.” You opened the door and held it. “Come upstairs.”
This time, he did.
The stairwell smelled faintly of old paint, rain-damp coats, and someone’s dinner from two floors down. It was not glamorous. The third-floor landing had a cracked tile near the railing. The radiator pipes clanked behind the walls. Your neighbor’s dog barked once as you passed, then apparently decided you were not worth the effort.
The key shook once in your hand before you got it into the lock. You hoped he did not notice. He almost definitely noticed. He was kind enough not to say anything.
Inside, your apartment was warm in the uneven way old buildings were warm. Tim entered behind you, closed and locked the door, then looked around with the same attentive curiosity he brought to everything.
“It feels like you,” he said.
Your throat tightened unexpectedly. “Messy?”
His laugh was quiet and warm.
“Alive.”
You reached up and loosened his tie the rest of the way.
“I’m still sure,” you said.
The last of his restraint shifted.
He stepped closer, slowly enough that you could have moved away, and lifted one hand to your face. His thumb brushed your cheek, light and reverent. “I’m going to kiss you now.”
“I want you to.”
He kissed you.
The first touch of his mouth was soft, almost controlled, but the gentleness did not last. You knew now what it felt like when Tim gave himself permission. You felt it in the way his hand slid to the back of your neck, in the way he drew you closer, in the quiet sound he made when you opened for him.
You gripped the front of his shirt and pulled him closer until there was no polite distance left between you, only the warmth coming from his body.
His free hand found your waist, firm enough to make your breath hitch when he drew you in. Tim caught the sound against your mouth and went still for half a second, as if he had to survive it.
Then he did it again.
Your head tipped back, his hand warm at the nape of your neck. “Tim.”
“I know,” he said, though his voice had gone rough.
“You don’t, actually.”
His mouth moved to your jaw. “Then tell me.”
You threaded your fingers into his hair, and his breath caught. “Touch me.”
His hand slid down your side, over the curve of your waist, then lower to your hip. He paused there, fingers flexing once through the fabric of your skirt.
You kissed him again because you wanted to, because you could, because this was your apartment and your choice and you were tired of wanting carefully.
Tim’s hand slipped beneath the hem of your skirt.
The first touch of his fingers against your bare thigh made your whole body respond. He felt it. You knew he did because his mouth faltered against yours, and for one breath, all the careful intelligence in him seemed to short out.
“You’re very distracting,” he murmured.
“You’re one to talk.”
His smile brushed your cheek, then disappeared against your throat. He kissed his way down slowly, learning your responses with every press of his mouth. When his teeth grazed the sensitive place beneath your ear, you gasped and tugged at his hair hard enough to make him groan.
The sound undid the thing that told you to be careful.
You pushed his jacket off his shoulders. It hit the floor somewhere near your shoes. His shirt followed badly, buttons undone between kisses, your hands impatient and his no better. When you finally got the fabric open, you slid your palms over his chest and felt the hard shiver that moved through him.
He was beautiful like this. Warm, scarred, and breathing unevenly under your hands.
Your fingers found one of the pale marks near his ribs. You touched it softly, and Tim’s hand closed around your wrist.
For one second, you thought you had hurt him.
Then he brought your hand to his mouth and kissed your palm.
The tenderness of it almost ruined you.
“Bedroom?” he asked.
Your pulse jumped.
You nodded.
You grabbed his hand, and this time, when you got to your bedroom, you were the one who walked him backward until the backs of his knees hit the edge of your bed. He sat, looking up at you with his shirt open, hair mussed, mouth flushed from kissing, and you had the sudden, dizzying realization that Timothy Drake-Wayne was in your room because you had invited him there.
Desire moved through you with startling clarity.
You reached for the buttons of your blouse.
Tim’s gaze dropped to your hands, then lifted back to your face immediately, as if he were trying very hard to be respectful and suffering for it.
“You can look,” you said.
His laugh came out strained. “Thank you.”
You undid the buttons slowly, then let the blouse slip from your shoulders. Tim stopped breathing for a second.
Tim stopped breathing for a second.
That was worth everything.
You stood in front of him in your bra and skirt and watched the last of his practiced composure fall away.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
You touched his hair. “You’re overdressed.”
That got you a smile, quick and devastating.
“Fix it, then.”
So you did.
You pushed his shirt down his arms, and he let it fall somewhere beside the bed. His undershirt followed. You took your time because you wanted to, because he was letting you look, because every scar and line of muscle told a story you would not ask for tonight but wanted to learn someday. When your hands reached his belt, he caught your fingers gently.
“Still sure?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Because we can slow down.”
“I don’t want to slow down.”
His eyes darkened.
“I want you,” you said.
That did it.
Tim pulled you into his lap.
You gasped, arms going around his shoulders as his mouth found yours again. Sitting perched on his thighs made everything feel closer, hotter, harder to control. His hands moved over your back, then down to your hips, guiding you against him until the hard line of him pressed between your legs through too many layers of fabric. The friction was blunt and maddening, enough to make your hips move again before you could think better of it.
The pressure made you moan into his mouth.
He broke away with a sharp breath. “I need you to keep making that sound.”
You smiled, breathless. “Bossy.”
“Former boss.”
“Still bossy.”
He kissed you again, and his hand slid between your bodies.
When his fingers touched you through your underwear, your hips jerked. Tim watched your face as he did it again, slower, firmer, learning you with that devastating focus you had seen in boardrooms and crisis calls and rooftop confessions. Your head fell forward against his shoulder.
“That’s it,” he said softly.
The praise made your body tighten.
His fingers moved with patient precision, stroking you through the thin fabric until you were clinging to him, breath coming unevenly against his neck. It would have been embarrassing how quickly he figured you out if he hadn’t looked so undone by it, too.
“You’re so responsive,” he murmured. “God, you’re—”
He stopped himself.
You lifted your head enough to look at him. “So what?”
His fingers pressed more firmly, and the question dissolved into a gasp.
“So much better than anything I let myself think about,” he said.
You kissed him because if he kept talking, you were going to come before he had even taken your underwear off.
Tim seemed to like that. His free hand slid up your back, unclasping your bra with a competence that would have annoyed you if you had not been so distracted by his mouth. He drew the straps down your arms, slow enough to make your skin prickle, and when he looked at you, the hunger in his face was edged with something almost tender.
“Can I?” he asked, his hand hovering.
You nodded.
“Say it.”
Your breath caught. “Yes.”
His mouth closed over your breast, and the first wet heat of it made you arch against him. Tim’s hand tightened on your hip, holding you steady as his tongue moved over your nipple, then his teeth grazed carefully enough to make you gasp without hurting. You could feel him smile against your skin before he did it again.
“You’re smug,” you said, though it came out weaker than you intended.
He lifted his head. “I’m observant.”
“You are very pleased with yourself.”
“I’m pleased with you.”
That was unfair enough that you kissed him to shut him up.
The next few minutes became a blur of hands and heat, his mouth moving over every place he could reach while your underwear stayed frustratingly in the way. Tim laid you back carefully, as if your bed were something sacred and not a mattress you had ordered online with free shipping. He kissed down your body with devastating patience, over your throat, between your breasts, along your stomach, until your fingers twisted in the sheets and your breath turned uneven.
When he hooked his fingers into your skirt and underwear, he looked up at you.
You nodded before he could ask.
He still asked. “Can I take these off?”
“Yes.”
He drew them down your legs slowly, kissing your thigh once as he did. By the time he settled between your knees, his eyes had darkened, and you were trembling with anticipation and the unbearable tenderness of being desired by someone who kept asking because your answer mattered.
Tim kissed the inside of your thigh.
Then higher.
The first touch of his mouth against your clit made your whole body jolt.
He paused immediately, one hand spreading over your hip. “Okay?”
“Yes,” you said, almost laughing because your nerves had nowhere else to go. “Very okay.”
His smile turned wicked for one brief, breathtaking second. “Good.”
Then he stopped being careful in all the ways that mattered least.
He lowered his mouth again. Pleasure built slowly at first, then faster as he found the rhythm that made your thighs tense around his shoulders. One of his hands slid up to lace with yours against the sheets. His other arm hooked across your hips, firm enough to hold you in place when you started to move against his mouth. You said his name once, then again, and the second time, he groaned like hearing it hurt him.
That was what pushed you over.
You came with your fingers locked around his, your free hand buried in his hair, your body tightening as he worked you through it with slow, careful strokes of his tongue. When it was too much, you tugged weakly at his hair, and he lifted his head at once, kissing your inner thigh with a gentleness that made the aftershocks worse.
For a while, you only breathed.
“You are dangerously good at that,” you said eventually.
His laugh was low and a little wrecked. “I’m taking that as positive feedback.”
He climbed back up your body, kissing you on the way, and when his mouth met yours again, you could taste yourself on him. The intimacy of it made you shiver. Tim felt it and kissed you deeper, his body settling over yours with careful weight.
You reached for his belt.
This time, he let you.
His breathing changed as you opened it, then his briefs, your fingers brushing over his cock through the fabric. He was hard enough that the first touch made his hips shift despite the control he was clearly trying to maintain.
His mouth found your neck as you pushed his slacks and briefs down far enough to wrap your hand around him. He groaned into your skin, low and rough, and the sound made heat gather in your core again even though you were still sensitive from his mouth.
You stroked him slowly, learning the weight and heat of him, the way his breath caught when your thumb passed over the head, the way his hand fisted in the sheet beside your shoulder. Tim was beautiful like this too, undone in pieces, control unraveling under your touch.
“If you keep doing that,” he said, voice rough, “this is going to end very quickly.”
You smiled. “Is that a threat?”
“It is a warning.”
“Very civic-minded of you.”
His laugh broke into a groan when your hand moved again.
Then he kissed you, and the humor burned away.
“Condom?” he asked against your mouth.
“In the nightstand,” you said, then hesitated.
Tim went still immediately. “What?”
You looked up at him, suddenly aware of how close he was, how warm, how careful. “I’m on birth control. I was tested after my last relationship. There hasn’t been anyone since.”
His breath changed, but he did not move. “I’m clean too.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” he repeated, voice rougher.
You touched his cheek. “I don’t want anything between us.”
For one second, the restraint on his face looked almost painful.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He kissed you then, deep and unsteady, and when he settled between your thighs again, your legs opened for him almost instinctively.
Then he guided himself to you. The first press of him made you both go still.
You had expected him to be careful. He was. But careful did not mean unaffected. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath shaking as he eased inside you, slow enough to make you feel every inch. Your hands gripped his shoulders, your body stretching around him, pleasure and pressure tangling until your eyes closed.
“Okay?” he asked, voice strained.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “Just give me a second.”
He did. Of course he did. He held still with impossible control, kissing your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. It was almost worse than movement, the tenderness of it, the way he seemed determined to make room for every part of you. Desire. Nerves. Trust. The frightening softness underneath it all.
When you shifted your hips experimentally, Tim groaned.
“You can move,” you whispered.
His eyes opened, and the look on his face stole the rest of your teasing.
He moved.
Slowly at first, giving you time to adjust, each thrust deep and careful enough to make your breath catch. Your fingers slid into his hair. His mouth found yours, and the kiss turned messy as the rhythm built between you.
You hooked one leg higher around his hip, and the angle changed.
Pleasure struck with such sharp intensity that you gasped.
Tim froze for half a breath. “There?”
“Again.”
He obeyed, and your back arched off the bed.
The careful rhythm fractured after that. His control held, but barely, worn thin by the way you clung to him and the sounds you could no longer fully hide. One of his hands slid beneath your thigh, holding you open for him, and his mouth dropped to your shoulder as he thrust deeper.
“You feel so good,” he said, his voice rough enough to scrape. “I thought about this too much. About you too much.”
Your nails dug into his back. “Tim.”
“I know.” His mouth brushed your jaw. “I know, sweetheart.”
The endearment should not have hit as hard as it did. It did anyway. You clenched around him, and Tim’s rhythm faltered for the first time, a harsh breath breaking from him as he fought not to lose himself too soon.
“Say that again,” you whispered.
His eyes found yours. “Sweetheart?”
You nodded, breathless.
Something in his face went devastatingly soft.
He kissed you, then slid a hand between your bodies, fingers finding the place his mouth had left sensitive and aching. “Come for me again, sweetheart.”
You did not stand a chance.
The pleasure built faster this time, driven by his fingers, his voice, the deep, steady movement of him inside you. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, then clawed at his back, then the sheets as the tension wound tighter and tighter. Tim watched you as long as he could, his own composure breaking apart with every sound you made.
When you came, your orgasm hit you hard.
Your body tightened around him, your cry muffled against his shoulder as pleasure rolled through you. Tim groaned, losing rhythm for one breath, then another, his hips stuttering as he followed you over. He buried his face against your neck, one hand braced beside your head, the other holding you close as he came with a broken sound that made your chest ache.
Afterward, the room went quiet except for your breathing and the clank of the radiator.
Tim stayed over you for a moment, careful not to crush you, his face tucked against your throat. You could feel his heartbeat where his chest pressed to yours, too fast and very human.
Eventually, he lifted his head.
His hair was a disaster. His mouth was swollen. His expression was so open that you wanted to look away and could not.
“Okay?” he asked softly.
You laughed, exhausted and warm. “You can’t ask me that like you didn’t just rearrange my insides.”
A smile broke across his face, tired and real and a little dazed. “Positive feedback?”
“Glowing review.”
He kissed you once, smiling against your mouth, then carefully withdrew. You missed him immediately, which was embarrassing, but Tim did not go far.
He came back with a warm washcloth and cleaned you up with the same quiet focus he brought to everything else, gentle enough that your throat tightened. Then he disappeared once more, returned with a glass of water, and waited until you had drunk half of it before he seemed satisfied.
Only then did he look toward the window. A sliver of Gotham showed through the gap in the curtains, dark and wet and flickering with distant light.
“I should probably go,” he said, sounding like he hated every word.
You looked up at him. “Do you want to?”
“No.”
“Then don’t.”
His hand stilled where it rested on the edge of the mattress.
“My heating is terrible,” you said. “And my bed is small. But you can stay if you want.”
Tim looked back at you with that same carefulness, though it was softer now. “Are you sure?”
You touched his cheek. “Yes.”
He turned his face and kissed your palm. “Then I want to stay.”
“Good.”
He climbed back into bed, drew the blanket over both of you, and tucked you carefully against him like he had every right to be there and still could not quite believe he was allowed.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
Outside, Gotham kept moving. Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance, low and familiar now, threading through the night with the hum of traffic and the occasional groan of old pipes. You had once thought the sound meant you had made a mistake. That you had come too far, too fast, chasing independence into a city that did not know how to be gentle with anyone.
Now Tim’s arm was around you, your door was locked, the phone he had given you was charging on the nightstand, and the city beyond your window felt dangerous and strange and yours.
For the first time since moving to Gotham, the sirens outside did not make you wonder whether you should have gone home.
They sounded like the city continuing around you.
They sounded, strangely, like home.
credit to @uzmacchiato for the cherry divider and @toxisyddy for the Robin divider ❤️💛
Pairing: FatuiHarbinger!Scaramouche x Fem!Reader; fluff/sfw/nsfw hc's
Authors note . ݁⋆ this is old old and has been sitting in my notes app for AGES. this request gave me motivation to finally edit and polish it up for Tumblr
Anon . ݁⋆ Found you through your vamp Scara fic and I’m soooo ready to clear out my weekend to binge read your dottore daughter x scara fic. BUT I wanna know what headcannons you personally have for scara outside of au’s. :) sexual or fluff. Hehe (link to request here)
word count: 4.4k
LINKS₊˚⊹♡ ˚✎𓂃 home | ao3 | kofi | taglist | discord server
SFW!!
(Solo Scaramouche)
𓏵 He still has his puppet joints, but only on his wrist, hence why he constantly wears those arm sleeves to cover them.
𓏵 The others faded, formed into human skin, human joints, but the wrists stayed like some fucked up joke towards him.
𓏵 He's insecure about them, really insecure. He hates anything about him that makes him seem less human, hates anything that gives people the right to call him uncanny, creepy.
𓏵 His skin is cold, corpse-like most of the time, but it does run warmer if he's been near you for a while, like your own body heat transferring to him.
𓏵 His skin is unervingly smooth. Not a single pore in sight, zero texture, no imperfections. It looks like real human skin from a distance, but if anyone dares to even get close enough, it's too perfect. Like it was glazed by porcelain.
𓏵 Ei can't cook for shit, and he's made it his life mission to do everything that she can't do.
┊ He's an amazing cook, although he doesn't need to cook because he has no one to cook for (before he met you). He cooks for himself. Inazuman dishes, of course, ones that bring him closer to his home, where he was created.
┊ He doesn't need to eat, but he does it anyway because the act of cooking grounds him and gives his hands something to do that isn't violent.
╰┈┈┈➤ He'll cook elaborate meals and eat the entire thing, satisfied not by the food but by the proof that he can create something instead of just destroying.
𓏵 As much as he hates Inazuma, he gets homesick, rarely though, only when he witnesses people in Sneznhaya doing things that would never pass in Inazuma…
┊ Eating while walking, littering, spitting on the ground, coughing or sneezing, especially in his place of work, especially in his office, right in his face.
╰┈┈┈➤ Needless to say, he does get back at them in ways that shut them up permanently (since murder seems to be justified in Teyvat).
𓏵 Flips off the door to Dottore's lab constantly when he passes by it.
╰┈┈┈➤ Both hands, if his hands aren't busy with something, muttering things like "rot", or "die" in Japanese.
𓏵 He's a clean freak who'd even be considered a germaphobe. Just obsessively, aggressively clean.
╰┈┈┈➤ His quarters are immaculate, every surface wiped, every object aligned and in place, every piece of clothing folded perfectly.
𓏵 He reads a lot in his free time. Poetry, mostly, but he'd never admit to it.
𓏵 He doesn't play instruments, but he hums sometimes when he thinks no one's listening. The melodies are always Inazuman, always… old, always songs he heard before he understood what sadness was.
When you're dating the Harbinger
(HC'S - SFW)
𓏵 He isn't that affectionate... at first.
𓏵 He knows how relationships are; he wasn't born yesterday. He's witnessed PDA more times than he could count in his area of work; it's disgusting.
┊ disgusting.
╰┈┈┈➤ until he met you.
𓏵 He learns from how humans interact, the way they blink, when they blink, the way they breathe at certain moments, tense moments, happy moments. But those are all from him observing others from afar.
╰┈┈┈➤ Now he has you.
𓏵 You're the one who initiated the first kiss, and he let you.
┊ He stood perfectly still while your lips found his, his arms at his sides, his eyes open because he didn't know you're supposed to close them (he learned that later, from you, and now closes them so aggressively it looks like he's bracing for impact).
┊ He didn't decide to like it until you pulled back with a look in your eyes that told him you loved it.
┊ That look, the soft, dazed, slightly breathless expression, that's what converted him. Not the physical sensation. Your reaction to the physical sensation.
╰┈┈┈➤ Only then did he start kissing you just to see that look again, and again, and again.
𓏵 The first time he held your hand was when you initiated it. He was awkward about it at first, his hand stilling in yours, and he acted as if he were a statue. But, as much as he felt like he should, as much as he wants to rip your hand out of his and scold you and tell you to never touch him again… he just took it.
┊ He let you drag him around, and he grew to love the fact that he could feel you without looking to make sure you're still at his side.
┊ It took him 3 weeks to let you hold his hand without thinking about it…
╰┈┈┈➤ … It took him 3 months to be the one to reach for your hand first.
𓏵 Japanese is his main language; it's what he speaks when no one is around, obviously to himself.
𓏵 Even though it'll take a lot of time to learn and master, he teaches you Japanese when he isn't at work. He wants it to be a secret language you both share, and he just wants someone to understand him and listen when he speaks his native language.
┊ He's a good teacher, but not a fun one, the type that makes you speak in a different language when you ask to go to the bathroom.
┊ He's mean until you get it you get it right, he does get intrusive thoughts of shocking you, just a tiny bit with electro, but that thought always does conviently get shut up when you get something right.
╰┈┈┈➤ He rewards you with kisses (primarily because he knows you like them) and with breaks.
𓏵 The kisses started as brief, closed-mouth presses to your forehead. But then they migrated… forehead to your temple… then down to your cheek… then cheek to the corner of your mouth. And then one day, you conjugated a particularly difficult verb perfectly on the first try, and he kissed you full on the mouth.
┊ He looked more surprised than you did, like his body had made a decision he didn't approve of yet.
╰┈┈┈➤ And that's when the kisses started being rewarded solely on the mouth and nowhere else. He's aware of it when he does it, and he forces himself to keep the kisses short, 2 seconds, before he pulls back and says, "Next word."
𓏵 But sometimes, when you get something particularly difficult right on the first try, the kiss lasts longer than 2 seconds.
┊ Sometimes you feel his hand come up to the back of your neck… sometimes you swear you can feel him smile against your mouth.
╰┈┈┈➤ He never acknowledges the longer kisses, but if you even make the mistake of mentioning them, that's when they stop.
𓏵 Will, and I mean will, trick you into saying you love him over and over in Japanese. He won't tell you why he's grinning; he'll just repeat it back and kiss you. You won't realize what you've been saying until you hear him whisper it against your mouth in the same language, and the context finally clicks.
𓏵 He doesn't say "I love you" in Russian, even though that is the common tongue here. He says it only in Japanese. Outside of that one occurrence during the lessons, he doesn't say it a lot. He says it when you're sleeping… or when you're falling asleep. He says it when your back is turned, or when there's noise around to block it out.
𓏵 He's a light sleeper, even though he doesn't technically need to sleep.
┊ He sleeps because you sleep, and he doesn't want to give you the real experience of waking up next to your lover.
┊ He sleeps because the act of lying next to someone with his eyes closed requires a vulnerability he's still learning to embrace.
╰┈┈┈➤ He sleeps because, sometimes, when you shift in the night and press your face into his chest, and mumble something incoherent, the sensation of being needed by an unconscious person who chose him even in sleep is the closest he's come to understanding what warmth feels like from the inside.
𓏵 The more affectionate you become, the more he learns from that, and gets 10x more affectionate than you.
┊ His affection isn't like other people's affection.
╰┈┈┈➤ He doesn't do grand gestures.
𓏵 Absolutely would never buy flowers. (Because he'd prefer to buy things that last longer, things that won't die. Because he hates impermanence.)
╰┈┈┈➤ His affection is structural, like it has a routine of its own.
𓏵 He adjusts your outfit when something's crooked, completely without prompting.
┊ You have bangs? Expect him to randomly adjust them.
╰┈┈┈➤ Headband tilting? He'll adjust that also.
𓏵 He'd fix anything, based on whatever preference you have, because he can't stand seeing something wrong with you; he could make it right.
𓏵 He learns from anything you like, and this could be anything. Even if you subtly, in a conversation, mention that you like a particular trinket, a particular flower, a specific food from a stall you passed once three weeks ago, expect him to bring back the exact thing after a long day of work.
╰┈┈┈➤ He won't make a big deal out of it either. He won't present it or expect any gratitude. He'll just set it on the table, or on your nightstand, and walk past like he didn't just spend an hour after work retracing your steps to a market stall you mentioned once in passing.
𓏵 He memorizes your cycle, how you sleep, your eating habits, and what stresses you.
┊ He isn't controlling (lie), he just likes understanding you.
┊ He notices when you haven't eaten.
╰┈┈┈➤ He notices the difference in your laugh if something's actually funny or if you're pretending that it is.
𓏵 He doesn't get jealous of people flirting with you because he cannot fathom you wanting anyone else (the arrogance is insane… but also true). (if you forget about lohen.)
𓏵 He's jealous of your time. Of the things you do that take your attention from him.
╰┈┈┈➤ You caught him once glaring at a book you were reading because you'd been looking at it for 2 hours instead of at him. (He'll never admit this.)
𓏵 He memorizes which side of the bed you prefer and never takes it. Not once. Not even when you're not there.
𓏵 He doesn't dream… or if he does, he doesn't remember them at all.
╰┈┈┈➤ He's jealous of your dreams in a way he'll never express, because dreaming implies a subconscious that processes and imagines and wanders, and he's not sure he has one. He's not sure there's anything beneath his surface programming. The fear that he's all surface, all code, all function, and no soul, is the thing that keeps him up on the nights he chooses not to sleep.
𓏵 He falls asleep faster when you play with his hair. It's something you discovered one day when you experimented with it, and he surprisingly let you.
╰┈┈┈➤ If you ever told anyone, he would deny it with the fervor of someone on trial for their life.
NSFW!!
(Solo Scaramouche)
𓏵 I HC, as many people do, he has detachable parts (big, thick, not so thick ones, smaller, whatever he’s feeling that day).
𓏵 But, what I mainly like/use in my fics is that he has a real dick of his own. Ei wanted to make him as human as possible, right? So she gave him one. But it wouldn't look normal. It would look too perfect, too symmetrical, too... doll-like.
┊ No curve to it at all, perfectly straight, long, and almost slender like his fingers. (not skinny though, it has girth, enough to stretch).
╰┈┈┈➤ Pink tip that's flushed darker when he's hard. Perfectly manicured veins mapping the shaft, and a little over 7 inches to make up for his height.
𓏵 Even though he's had a dick for 500 years, he's never gotten urges, nothing. No arousal, no curiosity, no reaction to the stimuli that drive humans to do insane, desperate, embarrassing things.
𓏵 He's watched humanity lose its mind over sex for centuries and felt nothing but contempt.
𓏵 But of course, as a stressed-out Harbinger with 5 centuries of tension stored in a body, he wanted to see what the hype was about.
𓏵 He killed the prostitute afterward. It didn't feel as good as humans made it seem, and because the woman tried to sleep in his bed afterward. IN HIS BED.
┊ Like the transaction entitled her to his sheets, his pillow… his space.
╰┈┈┈➤ The disgust he felt wasn't at the act itself but at the presumption of intimacy where none existed.
𓏵 Sex without actual connection was just... maintenance. A biological function performed on a body that wasn't even biological.
𓏵 He cleaned his room for 6 hours after, replaced the sheets and the pillows, scrubbed the floor, and burned incense.
𓏵 He never, ever, wanted to try or even have sex again after that.
𓏵 Ei forgot to install in him whatever makes him want to be touched, apparently…
When you're intimate with the Harbinger
(HC'S - NSFW)
𓏵 He's not into sex or even subtly mentioning it in conversations; you could be dating for 5 years, never going beyond just kissing, unless you initiate the act.
𓏵 He doesn't think about it, doesn't crave it.
𓏵 The kissing is enough, more than enough, because kissing you is the most intimate thing he's ever experienced, and he genuinely doesn't understand why humans need more than that.
┊ And when you do initiate?
┊ When your hands wander past the boundaries he's set without realizing he set them. When your kisses get more intense, and your breathing gets heavier, and you pull back with a look in your eyes that so clearly says, "I want more of you."
╰┈┈┈➤ He doesn't understand why he hated it in the first place.
𓏵 He gets to see you in a way no one else could. He gets to see you, underneath him, looking up at him with trust so absolute it terrifies him.
╰┈┈┈➤ The vulnerability you're offering to him… the gift of your body when his body has never felt like a gift to anyone.
𓏵 That rewires something in his programming that he didn't know could be rewritten.
┊ He gets to touch you, be skin to… puppet skin to him.
┊ Every time you don't flinch at the cold of his hands…
┊ Every time you press closer instead of pulling away…
┊ Every time your body responds to his touch as if it were designed for it…
╰┈┈┈➤ A piece on the wall he built around his part of himself dissolves.
𓏵 He always felt like when he'd kiss you or cuddle with you, it was never enough, and he never understood why. Like there was something he couldn't reach, access, or understand that existed beyond the physical proximity he'd already achieved.
╰┈┈┈➤ He understands the minute he's inside you.
Oh.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
This is what they were all losing their minds about.
𓏵 He does whatever makes you feel good. He memorizes which angels make your eyes roll back, which pace makes your breath catch, which depth makes you grab at his arms hard enough that he can feel the pressure through the joints he hates.
𓏵 He keeps it sensual and sweet. Keeps it at a pace that lets him catalog every reaction, every sound, every shift in your expression. Because even during sex, he wants to learn you thoroughly.
┊ But if you beg him to go faster, harder, then that switch flips.
╰┈┈┈➤ He's a puppet with inhuman precision, and "harder" from him means something different than "harder" from a human.
𓏵 It was a mistake to ask that on the first time, because he definitely did deliver, and the morning after… let's just say you couldn't walk for 2 days straight!
𓏵 He ejaculates. Actually cums inside you in a way he never thought was possible in his puppet body.
┊ But it isn't because of the sensations, not entirely.
┊ It's because of how much he saw you enjoy it.
┊ Because you wanted to be closer to him, because you kept trying to pull him in, wrap your legs around him, pressed his forehead against his not at all breaking eye contact as you moaned out his name.
┊ He's needy for that.
┊ Needy for your enjoyment and your approval, and the evidence that he's making you feel good, and that is what triggers the release.
╰┈┈┈➤ His body solely responds to your response. His pleasure is a mirror of yours.
𓏵 He doesn't just fuck...
┊ Because once he discovers pussy eating, fingering, all the ways to pleasure a girl without penetration… he does it too much.
┊ To the point where you have to physically pull him up from between your legs because he'll stay there for hours if you let him.
╰┈┈┈➤ Not because he's insatiable, but because he's a perfectionist, and he's not done until he's gotten you to that specific pitch of a moan that he's made his favorite.
𓏵 He does it to help you sleep because he genuinely does care about your sleep hygiene, and he has read that orgasms release hormones that promote rest.
┊ He does it when you look stressed…
┊ He does it especially when you get too needy, when you're too clingy and handsy, and won't stop pressing against him.
╰┈┈┈➤ He's learned the fastest way to settle you is to take you apart and put you back together.
𓏵 It's creepy how much he takes note of the little things
┊ Left side of your clit- counterclockwise circles at a medium pressure
┊ Two fingers inside your pussy- crook upward at a thirty-degree angle
╰┈┈┈➤ The specific rhythm that builds you fastest versus the one that builds you the slowest… (he uses the slow one when he wants to drag it out, which is sadly most of the time, because watching you grow desperate is a form of entertainment he never gets tired of).
𓏵 He doesn't care about his own pleasure or release.
┊ Eating you out, making you cum, watching your face when you fall apart, that's enough for him.
╰┈┈┈➤ The look on your face when he does something right is more rewarding than any orgasm his body could produce.
𓏵 But when you suggest how much you want to please him too, pay him back for all the times he makes you feel good?
┊ He doesn't exactly protest…
╰┈┈┈➤ … Because you're already between his legs when you ask, and he can't keep himself together at the image of you looking up at him from that angle with that expression.
𓏵 When you go down on him, his hand lands on the back of your head and stays there, holding. His fingers are threading through your hair, and the sounds he makes are quiet. He suppresses any that dare to come out.
╰┈┈┈➤ But he isn't good enough at suppressing them. They escape from time to time. A sigh, or a grunt, he bit down on, or just your name, once whispered, and he finds out that saying it makes the sensation so much better for him.
𓏵 These acts strengthen the bond between you both, especially the trust. He's showing you parts of himself that he's never shown to anyone.
𓏵 The vulnerability of pleasure, of wanting, of needing. For a puppet who spent centuries believing he was incapable of these things, every orgasm is an act of faith.
𓏵 He isn't kinky unless you teach him to be.
╰┈┈┈➤ It's like you're training him, which, ironically, is a kink in itself that neither of you will acknowledge.
𓏵 He'll be anything you want as long as you seem to love it.
𓏵 Degradation Kink? That's his fucking specialty.
┊ He doesn't have to learn how to call you pathetic, desperate, needy, a mess. He's been doing that since before you started dating. The only difference now is context and the fact that you're moaning when he says it instead of throwing any object you can find at his head.
╰┈┈┈➤ "Look at you… You can't even form a coherent sentence. Five minutes ago, you were telling me to hurry up… And now? Now you can't even remember your own name." His thumb presses against your clit while he talks, circling, and he sounds like he's perfectly in control, while you're falling apart. "Pathetic, truly."
𓏵 Praise kink? Ehh… He's a little awkward at first.
┊ He'll learn if you're actually serious about that. He'll try as hard as he can to fight back on his mean tongue.
╰┈┈┈➤He tries because you asked, because it's what you want, and making you feel good is his primary directive, and if that means telling you you're beautiful while he's inside you… He'll choke the words out even if they taste foreign in his mouth.
𓏵 It goes without saying he's shitty about it.
╰┈┈┈➤ "You're... adequate." "That was... not terrible." "Your body is... functional."
𓏵 You stared at him, and he stared back, and neither of you spoke for 10 seconds.
┊ And then you burst out laughing, telling him, "Scara… that's not praise at all."
╰┈┈┈➤ "I said you were adequate! In what language is that not praise?"
𓏵 He gets better, slowly…
┊ "You feel good…" "You feel perfect…"
┊ "Not terrible." "You're so beautiful it makes me angry."
╰┈┈┈➤ "Adequate." "I didn't know something could feel like this, and I need you to know that you're the reason why I know now."
𓏵 He says these things against your skin, into your neck, against your mouth, never looking at you in the eye, because the vulnerability of genuine praise still makes him feel like he's handing someone a loaded weapon.
𓏵 Ever since having sex became a part of his existence rather than a thing he tried once and regretted, he took a break from reading basic poetry and focused on books about female pleasure.
┊ And then he started to have a mind of his own.
╰┈┈┈➤ Got meaner.
𓏵 A new kind of mean that isn't the same as he always is. The kind that knows exactly what you like and weaponizes it, withholds it, makes you beg for things he was planning to give you anyway, just because watching you grow desperate is intoxicating in a way nothing else has ever been.
𓏵 He'd blindfold you a lot once he found out how it might heightens senses.
┊ Removing your sight makes you feel ten times as much pleasure as you'd feel if you could see what he was doing.
┊ He loves the way you gasp louder when you can't predict where his mouth will land next. Loves the way your hands grab at sheets, at pillows, at him, searching for something to anchor you when the darkness makes everything float.
╰┈┈┈➤ He uses his arm sleeves for the blindfold. The ones that cover the joints he's insecure about. There's something poetic about it that he'd never acknowledge out loud, using the thing he hates most about himself to give you pleasure, repurposing his shame into something that makes you moan.
𓏵 He'd tie you up if you squirmed too much. He could hold you down himself, but there's something about restraints that satisfies the control freak in him.
┊ You, laid out, unable to move, completely at his mercy, trusting him so entirely that you let yourself be helpless with the one person in Teyvat who could destroy you without effort.
┊ He checks the bindings constantly.
┊ Between every act, between every change in position, his fingers find the knots and test them, making sure they're secure but not cutting off circulation, not leaving marks that'll last longer than a day.
╰┈┈┈➤ If you asked him why he checks so often, he'd say something mean about not wanting to deal with a medical situation. The truth is that he'd rather stop entirely than cause you discomfort you didn't ask for.
𓏵 He discovered orgasm denial entirely on his own.
┊ No books, no research.
┊ He figured out that if he brought you to the edge and stopped, your body would react in ways that he found fascinating.
╰┈┈┈➤ He'd edge you for so long that you're crying, begging, saying things you'd be mortified about if you could think clearly, and he'll watch the entire time with a calm expression, loving the way you break apart, fully.
𓏵 He'd always let you finish… eventually.
╰┈┈┈➤ He's sadistic, not cruel.
𓏵 He always holds you after.
╰┈┈┈➤ Always makes sure the tears were the good kind, that the begging was the fun kind, that the desperation was the kind that makes you come back wanting more instead of the kind that leaves scars.
𓏵 He figured out overstimulation next.
┊ Instead of denying you, 'punishing' you by giving you too much.
╰┈┈┈➤ Making you cum, and cum, and cum and never stopping.
𓏵 Keeping his mouth on you, his fingers inside you, keeping the stimulation so high it almost grows painful.
╰┈┈┈➤ He does this when you've been particularly bratty, when you've pushed his buttons outside the bedroom, and he's been storing the irritation all day, saving it, converting it into something 'productive'.
𓏵 Toys.
𓏵 He has… opinions about toys.
┊ Specifically, he thinks most of them are poorly designed, cheaply made, and inefficient.
╰┈┈┈➤ He's bought you exactly three toys that meet his standards, and all three were tested (by you, while he observed and took mental notes) before being approved for… regular use.
𓏵 He uses them on you when he's busy.
┊ When he has paperwork to finish, and you're needy and won't stop pressing against him. He'll set you up with a toy, position you where he can see you from his desk, and work while you work yourself into a state.
╰┈┈┈➤ He watches you while he reads and fixes documents. Pretends he's not watching… but his handwriting does get messier the closer you get.
𓏵 He never talks about sex outside the bedroom.
╰┈┈┈➤ He never references it in public, never makes innuendos, never acknowledges that the person standing next to him at Fatui meetings is the same person who was screaming his name into a pillow six hours ago.
𓏵 The compartmentalization is absolute.
╰┈┈┈➤ In public, you're his partner… in private, you're everything.
𓏵 The only exception is when someone flirts with you.
┊ Because that's what makes the avoidance of it break.
╰┈┈┈➤ It breaks just enough that his hand finds the small of your back and his thumb presses against the exact spot where he left a bite mark last night. The pressure makes you inhale deeply, and he smirks, and the person flirting with you suddenly feels very, very small.
𓏵 Aftercare is non-negotiable.
┊ He does it. Every time. Without fail.
┊ Warm cloth… water… whatever food you want brought to bed.
╰┈┈┈➤ He cuddles with you after, his fingers in your hair, combing through the tangles he caused, undoing the mess he made.
𓏵 He checks the writs if he tied you.
┊ He checks your neck if he bit you.
╰┈┈┈➤ Asks questions like: "Can you feel your hands? Do your legs work? You're not going to faint on me, are you? I'm not carrying you to the bathroom; you have functioning limbs."
𓏵 He carries you to the bathroom every single time.
Simon Riley is the kind of man who will be staring at his tray in the middle of the mess, poking at whatever slop they’ve been handed, and say something like “my wife used to make this. Hers was better” in this low, hollowed out voice that makes every man at the table go quiet and exchange a look.
Nobody says anything.
Oh, they’re all thinking. She’s gone, then.
He keeps a folded photo in his front breast pocket, worn soft at the creases from how many times he’s handled it. He doesn’t show anyone. He just takes it out sometimes and looks at it with this expression like he’s being slowly gutted and then puts it away again.
Half drunk at the pub between deployments, leaning heavy on the bar, he’ll say “I just miss her, s’all. Wish she was still here with me” and someone will quietly offer to get him another pint because what else do you say to a grieving man.
Whole time you’re at home perfectly fine, he just really fucking misses you.
jason todd wearing glasses, jason todd with scars, jason todd wearing a suit with a few too many buttons unbuttoned, jason todd slowly pulling your heels off slowly as he kneels in front of you, jason todd manspreading, jason todd—
Bcz of this platform's limit, I can't & won't upload full pack here TT. ╰┈➤Full pack in my 【Discord】 server, join if u're interested ₍^. .^₎⟆ ꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦
𝒞ospℓαყer!𝐵oყfriend (𝒮cαrαmouche & 𝐿ohen) x AFAB!𝑅eader
꒰ 𝑀ODERN 𝒜U ꒱
🕸️️๋࣭ ⭑ Summary: Your boyfriend looks exactly like Scαrαmouche in real life, and he's built a massive TikTok following from cosplaying him. One day, while he's filming, you see Lohen's burst animation leak and lose every functioning brain cell you have. He notices. So he does what any normal, well-adjusted person would do… fucks you in the Scαrαmouche cosplay until you forget Lohen's name. And when that doesn't fully work? He shows up in a Lohen cosplay you didn't know he ordered, in your bedroom, just to prove he can still be the one you fall apart for.
Warnings (cw) .ᐟ cracking in cosplay ꒰ roleplaying ꒱, blindfolding, degradation, rough sex, near-blackout from choking, creampie ꒰ a lot... ꒱ , oral ꒰ f and m receiving ꒱, mild cnc undertones ꒰ consensual roleplay framing ꒱, established relationship, manhandling, suspended 69 position, aftercare, lohen nation vs scaranation...
Word count .ᐟ 16k+
𖦹.`` ꉂ🕸️ Author's note: This is a concept I had for a fat while (like years, not just months) bcuz of those TikToks of ppl dating a cosplayer and they'd flex about it, and I finally, finally put a cosplayer x reader into writing. Thank you to my wonderful, smart, gorgeous bestest friend @vvalentiqq, who helped me with this, especially with the crazy ass sex positions, so props to her!! And this, as always, is cross-posted onto AO3.
"Ugh, quit blinking, you keep making me mess up, Kuni!" You snap, yanking your boyfriend by the jaw closer to you.
He opens his right eye, the one you already applied eyeliner on, and glares, his eye rolling before closing back again. "I'm not blinking, and I'm staying perfectly still. It's your fault if you mess up, not mine. Don't get mad at me that you're shitty at this."
You take a deep breath, repressing the urge to slap him hard in the face, because you know it's useless. Your boyfriend lives to ragebait the shit out of you. You don't say anything in response; you scoot closer to his standing frame, your feet dangling off the bathroom counter as you continue working on his left eye.
"Do you want the wing straight up or straight out?" You ask, pausing with one hand on his jaw, and the other on his cheek, with the eyeliner hovering right above his lashline.
Kuni opens both of his eyes this time, stares straight at you, and rolls his eyes at your question like it should be obvious, "Neither? Obviously." He narrows his eyes, crossing his arms as he adds, "When have you ever seen me with that? You're my girlfriend, you're supposed to know that it goes out slanted. Not up, not straight. Slanted."
You narrow your eyes back at him, tightening your grip on his jaw in retaliation, "How am I supposed to know when you're ultra specific about everything and change your answer every time I ask? Two days ago, you told me to make it straight."
He flicks his eyes to the side like he's side-eyeing some invisible camera, and his eyes look annoyingly perfect when he does it. With the base shadow on his lids and the dark smudge along his lower lash line, and the contacts he doesn't need to wear.
His natural eyes are blue, but he insists on wearing indigo colored contacts because it's "more accurate", and you've learned not to argue with him about Scaramouche lore because you will lose. Every single time.
He glances back at you, his tone dry, "I told you that because last time was Xiao, not Scaramouche like today. Obviously. How many times do I need to say it for you to understand?"
You glance at him, copying his dry tone, "Just one more time, and I'll poke this pen through your eyelid. You wouldn't need someone to do your eyeliner by then."
He gives you a challenging smirk in response, "Do it, then. You wouldn't get that far to do any actual damage. I'll sue you and use the settlement money to hire someone who can actually do eyeliner."
You don't dignify that with a response. You tilt his head back with your grip on his jaw, angling it so you can drag the liner across his lash line in one smooth stroke.
You smile involuntarily when it comes out clean and matches the other side perfectly. It always comes out good when he stops being a little bitch about it… which is never, but today sufficed that never.
"The other side matches," you say, leaning back to check your work, watching as his eyes open slowly like he's unsure if you're done or not. "Perfect, like always, because I did it. Not you."
He scoffs, stepping back and moving toward the bathroom mirror, examining just what you're calling 'perfection'. You watch as he tilts his face to the left, then right, and as he leans in, he narrows his eyes.
The eyeliner is actually the last step of a much longer process. This part, the eyeliner, takes ten minutes tops. The puppet joints took an hour.
Every time he cosplays Scaramouche, Kuni sits in front of his vanity mirror with a palette of dark shadow and a thin, angled brush that he uses to paint puppet joints onto his own skin.
Knuckles first, every finger, dark, then his wrists, then his belows. He does his shoulders himself too, twisting in the mirror to get the angle right on the backs of them, and the concentration on his face while he does it is almost scary.
He's already head-to-toe in cosplay, minus the hat. As cringeworthy as it is to say, your boyfriend does look like Scaramouche reborn, and it's not just because of how accurate the clothes look on him, or how invested he is in cosplaying him. He looks exactly like Scaramouche would if he were real and not 3D.
The height… the weight… even his fingers match Scara perfectly. Skinny and long, the puppet joints make him look more biblically accurate.
He hates wigs, absolutely despises them, and as any person who finds their 'celebrity lookalike', or any 'lookalike' in general, he dyed and cut his real hair to match Scaramouches.
His hair is naturally black, and after an abnormally long hair appointment, the hairdresser was able to cut and style Kuni's hair to match Scaramouches without looking like some botched bowlcut.
"It's not a bowlcut," Kunikuzushi told the hairdresser, probably 4 times, just to get his point clear, "It's a mullet, mixed with a hime-cut in the front, and don't you dare forget the lighter colored streak in the back."
You remember being told that day to stick around, not in the waiting room, but in a chair beside the table your boyfriend was getting his hair done at. You had to get up at least 9 times to reassure Kuni that the hairdresser was getting the back right.
And after that day, after every time he put on his cosplay for this character that he's so obsessed with… he didn't look like your boyfriend anymore.
But you don't really complain.
"It's… acceptable," Kuni says to his reflection, the tiniest praise for the war you just went through, while doing his eyeliner.
You hop off the counter, tossing your hair back, while holding eye contact with his gaze in the mirror, "It's perfect, actually. You're welcome." You poke his arm from behind, giggling at the way he makes a disgusted face in response. "I love you too, you ungrateful man."
He doesn't respond to that; he just walks out of the bathroom and into his room.
He's already in the corner when you step in, adjusting his tripod and ring light, and you know the drill by now. Stay out of frame, stay quiet during takes, and entertain yourself until he's done being internet famous.
You grab your phone off his nightstand and settle onto his bed on your stomach, feet up, pulling up Genshin Impact. It feels like a chore to open this game up now, but you have to, for that stupid free constellation event where you have to complete your commissions and spend 120 resin.
You spawn in Nod-Krai, already moving your joystick to run towards the crafting bench, planning to craft your resin into condensed resin, but to your dismay, you already have 5 crafted resin from the previous days you tried this trick.
Domains it is.
You can hear your boyfriend in the background recording the same TikTok, over and over, trying to get the perfect take while you're teleporting to a random domain. It's annoying, and all you can focus on while you wait for people to join your world.
Once people join your world, and you start the domain, you move on autopilot. You don't really pay attention, probably fighting air every now and then, until a notification pops up from the top of your screen.
Even though you're in a co-up domain, your thumb his the notification before you can even finish reading.
The video loads, and it's what seems to be some sort of POV shot. It's like you're some enemy Lohen just knocked flat, because the view is from below, on the ground. His hand reaches down and grabs you, or the camera's face, dragging you to his height, and you spot his other hand raising a weapon, but you aren't even focused on the weapon… you're focused on the face he makes.
A grin with manic eyes, the expression of someone who doesn't just enjoy violence… someone who's aroused by it.
It happens so quickly that you watch it again, on loop. You watch the jaw grab again, the way he yanks whoever it is upward, the way his grin widens before the hit. You screenshot the maniac grin on the 4th loop… then watch it play through again.
Your thighs press together.
You scroll to the comments after the 7th rewatch, needing to see if everyone's losing their minds as hard as you are.
@scaramouchewho okay so we're all in agreement that lohen is what scaramouche COULD have been if hoyo let him be unhinged, right?
@kuniscaraworshiper everyone in the lohen tag better remember who paved the way. Scaramouche is the ORIGINAL unhinged short king… y'all are so disrespectful
@touchinggrassfearsme i just want lohen and scara to kiss… then me at the same time next… then they can kiss each other again after THEN THE SAME THING AGAIN
@mpreglover6769angie GET PREGNANT GET PREGNANT
You laugh seeing this comment, and when you tap on it, you're left with…
(This comment has been deleted.)
@lohennation BREED ME LOHEN. BREED ME. TEASE ME. USE ME. DEGRADE ME. oh and scara can watch ig… (yes i changed my user because of this video)
@wanderermybeIoved, you people don't know one thing about Scaramouche, and I don't want people talking about him when you clearly don't care about his character development or lore. He's more than just a "hot angry guy." Lohen fans (who just became fans of him less than an hour ago, mind you) wouldn't survive 5 minutes of scara's actual story because their reading comprehension is lower than a 4th grader's due to their goon-rotted brains.
@fatuiworshipper the way Lohen is just Scaramouche if he wasn't busy being sad all the time. he's happy to be evil… that's so hot
You scroll back up and watch the burst animation again. Your thighs squeeze together, and your bottom lip is caught between your teeth. You've watched this video at least 20 times now, and around the 10th time, your underwear became a wet, sticky mess.
"Hey."
You don't hear him, you don't even flinch.
"… Hello??"
Nothing.
"Did you actually die? Should I call someone or check your pulse first?"
You don't hear your boyfriend because you're still on that Lohen video, grinning at some dumb comment of yet another person leaving scaranation for lohennation.
"You've been ignoring me for like ten minutes," Kuni says from across the room, and you can hear the shift in his tone, the way it goes from casual annoyance to genuine irritation, "what is so interesting about your phone that you can't look up for even a second?"
You look up from your phone before he can accuse you of cheating, which technically, in some tiny way… You kinda were.
He's standing by his setup, ring light off, his phone in his hand with his arms crossed. His expression looks like he's in between choosing to be mean about it, or letting it slide. He looks annoyed enough that he won't let it slide, and 10 minutes is a long time, unless he was just exaggerating.
"…Hi." You say, sweet and innocent, still lying on your stomach, still with the phone in your hand as you glance at it just once, like a random comment, before looking back at him, not fully engaged.
His gaze drops to your phone in your hand, then lifts back up to your face. The corner of his mouth lifts with slow, unbelieving amusement, like your delayed little “hi” is almost too stupid to be real. "Welcome the fuck back. Where did you go?"
"Remember Lohen from that one quest in Mondstadt?" You don't wait for a response, voice breathier than intended because your brain is still stuck on that video, "His burst animation just got leaked…"
You watch as your boyfriend's face changes into reluctant curiosity that fights with the irritation of being ignored. He walks over to his bed and drops down next to you. "Really? Show me."
You sit up, holding your phone out, and he just takes it, angling the screen toward himself. You watch his face as the animation plays, how his jaw tightens, almost imperceptibly, and his gaze cuts back to you once it's over. "It's okay." He says, tone devoid of any emotion you can pick up on.
"Just… okay? Kuni. Did you see the grab, the way… the way that the angle is like a POV, like that's you, he's grabbing… the way he just, his hand goes like-" You mimic the way Lohen's hand, holding the weapon, goes from behind and towards who he's about to stab.
Kuni glances at your hand, then back at your face, your phone still in his hand. "Mhm. I saw the exact same video as you." His tone feigns nonchalance.
You drop your hand, continuing to yap while not reading the room, "And the grin… Kuni, the grin? It looks like he's about to-"
"I said I saw it." He hands your phone back, using his own to open TikTok, scrolling through his feed with such focused intensity that it doesn't do a good job of hiding how little he cares about this. "People are going to lose it over this."
"They already are, have you seen the comments?" You're already scrolling through them on your phone, looking for one that doesn't say anything about Scaramouche, but it's practically impossible. "Everyone's saying-"
"I know what they're saying, I don't need to see the comments to know." His thumb flicks through posts, and you can see his jaw working, yet again. "Same shit that infected my feed when Lohen was in that quest, and people barely had info on him. 'Scara's done.' 'We're switching.' Like their loyalty has a shelf life of milk."
He keeps scrolling through his TikTok feed, and annoyingly enough, every video that comes up is about Lohen. He's talking, ranting about character depth versus surface-level hype, something about Scara's arc having actual emotional complexity while Lohen is, "just a boy with a violence kink." He is making good points, but you aren't fully paying attention.
You're still scrolling through Twitter, lying back against the pillows, reposting mindlessly on fan art that already exists of Lohen, and trying not to laugh at the posts comparing Lohen to Scaramouche.
He turns his head to you, and he stops talking, because he notices your attention is elsewhere. You don't notice the sudden silence because your brain is so far inside your phone that the real world doesn't exist right now.
His lips touch your neck, a soft, tiny kiss with the warm press of his mouth against the spot below your ear, and he shifts closer. His hand lands on your thigh, his thumb drawing a slow line along the inside where the hem of your sleep shorts sits.
You tilt your head up slightly, giving him access without giving him your attention, as your gaze is still on your phone. Your body just responds to him on autopilot because of months of this exact pattern, him kissing your neck while you doomscroll, except this time you're scrolling through posts and posts of his… replacement.
His tongue touches the skin at your neck, a quick and wet drag followed by his teeth grazing that same area. His fingers itch higher under your shorts, pushing the fabric up your thigh.
"Kuni, not right now, I'm looking at something-"
He cuts you off with a "Mmhmm," not stopping at all because just a second after, he's sucking on your neck. His fingertips graze the edge of your underwear, tracing the elastic back and forth, back and forth. It's light enough that it could be an accident, but what he's doing to you is clearly intentional.
You're still scrolling even as your boyfriend, in cosplay, is practically making love to your neck, and his fingers… they slide down from the hem of your underwear, to where your slit is, through the fabric.
You let out a soft, quiet, "Mm…" moan, still not looking up. The only reply he gets is the little sound you make and the wetness between your legs.
His middle finger traces your clothed slit in a lazy back-and-forth, that's designed for teasing and nothing else. His mouth is still at your neck, and he bites softly at it while that Lohen video coincidentally pops up on your feed again. Involuntarily, your hips shift up against his hand while your eyes are still glued to the screen.
His fingers slide up from your slit, back up to your waistband. You let out the tiniest whine, but that whine turns into your breath catching when his fingers dip beneath your underwear and make direct contact through your folds.
"You're so soaked," he says against your neck. His tone makes your thumb pause just as you're about to click on the comment section. His cadence shifted into something that sounds less like your boyfriend and more like the boy he's currently cosplaying as. "And it's not because of me. It's hard to believe a pixel on a screen could make you this turned on… but I guess anything's possible with someone like you."
You feel his middle finger circling your clit, slow and teasing, not giving you anything that you want while you watch that video on loop, again. The pattern of it doesn't stop, but the desperation and need to have him stroke you properly makes your hips twitch, and your focus shifts from your phone to his hand, and only his hand, at an alarming rate.
"It must be embarrassing," he starts, the same condescending drawl Scaramouche's voice has, and it fits in his mouth uncannily well, "getting this worked up over a character animation. Over something that can never," the same index that was teasing at your clit pushes inside you, knuckle deep, and you clench around it, "touch you."
He's quick to add a second finger, his ring finger, because one isn't ever enough for you. He curls them upward, finding that spot he mapped ages ago. Your phone screen goes dark from inactivity.
He doesn't leave any achy part of your cunt unoccupied, especially if his thumb is currently being useless. His thumb finds your clit, and he rubs in circles while his fingers curl inside you. The dual stimulation makes your mouth fall open, and your phone falls out of your hand. Your phone hits the side of your stomach and falls down face-first beside you.
"There it is," he says against your skin, pressing a kiss to the mark he left on your neck. "Phone's finally down. Took you long enough."
He pulls his fingers out, and before you can even whine about it, he shifts on top of you, sliding down between your legs. You look down at him, and the visual of Scaramouche slipping under the covers and pulling at the waistband of your shorts is doing something to you that ten replays of Lohen's burst animation could never replicate. Because this is actually real.
He's sliding your shorts down when you mistakenly whimper out, "Kuni…"
He stops, hands pausing on the fabric at your knees. "Mm… no. That's not my name tonight." He pulls the shorts off completely, tossing them wherever without looking in his room, and his fingers hook into your underwear next.
"It's Scaramouche. That's who you're looking at… That's who's touching you. And, that's the only name I want to hear coming out of your mouth. Not Kuni, and definitely not Lohen. If you even try saying his name, I'm cutting your tongue out." He drags your underwear down your thighs, his eyes never leaving your face. "Scaramouche. Understood?"
You nod, too distracted by what he was saying to even realize you're bare from below, and you realize that the moment his mouth is on you.
His tongue drags flat across your clit, and you let out an involuntary, unfiltered moan at the contact. You'd care about his neighbors hearing if his mouth wasn't making you forget that other people exist.
It feels like he's reformatting your brain as he eats you out. Like every lick is deleting thoughts about Lohen and replacing them all with himself. His tongue works on your clit in patterns that make you let out dumb, uncontrollable moans. Two fingers slip inside you without warning, curling against your spot, and you can't help but grab onto his hair, that perfectly styled, dyed Scaramouche hair, and hold on.
Your hips twitch up, grinding into his face while your head tips back. "H-aah… f-fuck… Sca-"
He pulls back from your clit, fingers still working inside you, but at an even faster rhythm, "Louder than that."
You listen, brainless, doing whatever he says, "Scara… Scaramouche, I'm… hah… s-so close…"
He dives back onto your clit, mouth sealed on it, making you cum embarrassingly fast with his fingers curling inside your spongy walls. Your thighs shake around his head, and your grip on his hair tightens as you grind onto his face, clenching around his fingers. He goes slower once the aftershocks are over, and when you finally let go of his hair, completely out of breath, he pulls his mouth off your clit with a wet pop.
He wipes his chin with the back of his hand, the cosplay sleeve dragging across his face from his cosplay. The sight of that is so absurd and so hot that you almost cum again from that visual alone. The puppet joints look slightly faded on the two fingers he was fucking you with, and somehow that makes it worse.
He grabs one of the detached sleeves and slips it off his outfit. You watch him, brain still sluggish from the orgasm, fold it into a thick band, and you furrow your brows, confused. "What are you…"
"Scaramouche wouldn't let you see him lose composure." He slides up from between your legs, wrapping the fabric around your eyes, tying it behind your head before you can even protest. You can't see anything now, just darkness, and the sound of his breathing close to your face. "So you don't get to either."
You feel him move back and settle between your thighs, sliding them apart. You're still so sensitive from your orgasm that feeling his cock suddenly press against you makes an involuntary whimper slip out. He wastes no time slipping in, but he does it slow, stretching you open inch by inch, and you grab fistfuls of his sheets because the fact that you're missing one of your senses is making everything amplified.
"Oh my god…"
"Say my name," he says, and he feels deep enough inside of you that you can't tell how much more of him there is. You only know the stretch, the pressure, and how full you already feel.
A faint moan slips out of you before you manage, breathless, "Scara…"
"Yeah?" He says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice, he knows you can barely think. "Too full to say it properly?"
Your fingers curl helplessly in the sheets. "Sc… Scaramouche…"
He starts moving, and because of the blindfold, every thrust feels amplified tenfold, so much deeper. His hands are gripping at your hips hard enough to bruise. You feel him closer, by your ear, voice still in character, "You think some new character is going to replace me?" He puncuates the end with a hard thrust, and your mouth hangs open with a gasp.
"Some battle maniac with a grin? Pathetic. I've been your favorite since 1.1," another thrust, and it hits you deep, he grinds into that same spot, "and no amount of leaked animations is going to change that."
"I know… hah… I know-"
He pulls back just enough that you feel the loss of him even though he's still inside. Your hips chase him up, a needy whimper spilling out because you don't feel him moving anymore, and you wonder why. You feel his hand leaving your hip to pull the blindfold off your eyes.
Light hits your pupils, and you squint, disoriented, and the first thing you see isn't him. It's your phone, held inches from your face, bright and open on the password screen. In a flash, your phone's unlocked from just your face, and just as fast as that happens, he turns your phone back to him.
"Wha… what are you doing?" You're still catching up, blinking through your vision that's trying to adjust, even more now that a phone was shoved up in your face. He's swiping through your apps with one hand while the other pins your hip to the mattress. His cock is still inside you, not moving at all, and it almost feels painful with how much you're craving him to.
He pulls up Twitter, looking at your feed first before checking your reposts, because of course, the first thing that comes up is someone reposting that Lohen burst animation for the millionth time, like people haven't seen it already. He scoffs, tapping on your profile picture on the side, and looking through your reposts.
"This one says," he starts, scrolling with his thumb, his tone almost bored as he reads your reposts out loud, while he finally starts grinding into you, but it's slow, painfully slow. "I would let Lohen degrade, breed me, use me, and rearrange my insides until I pass out… You liked that one, reposted it from the same account that has your face on it. How dense can you be?"
You face heats up realizing just how embarrassing that is, only after doing it a while ago, "That's… that was just a joke-"
"Let's go to your replies tab and see if you did anything other than mindlessly repost whatever you saw," you watch as his thumb moves across your phone, he shifts his hips forward in a slow grind that makes your breath hitch, "Oh, so you did comment on something… that's it? Three fire emojis and a fucking… crying emoji? That's your contribution to the discourse? Really? Was your brain rotting that badly that you couldn't even type words?"
You don't even try to come up with a coherent response for that, and he doesn't wait for one. He throws your phone somewhere on his bed and leans down, propping himself up on his forearms on either side of your head, and the closeness of him in full cosplay makes your breath catch in your throat.
"You know what's funny to me?" His eyes never leave your face as he rolls his hips, still a slow grind that drags his cock against your walls in such a way that keeps you in between being able to think and not. "You have a cosplayer. An actual, real person who dresses up as your favorite character and fucks you in it. And instead of appreciating that… you're reposting about a character that doesn't even have a release date yet."
A weak protest slips out before you can stop it. "I do appreciate-"
"Do you?" He thrusts hard this time, and it makes your back arch, your hands flying up to grab his shoulders as he continues at the same deep pace, watching your face change with every thrust. "Because I'm literally inside of you in a Scaramouche cosplay right now, and 20 minutes ago you were eye-fucking a burst animation while I was standing 12 feet away."
Your face burns, "That's not…" You swallow, trying to gather a thought that doesn't sound pathetic, "That's not fair, he's just a character, you're-"
"I'm right here." Another deep thrust, his hand slides up to cup the side of your face, tilting it so you're looking directly at him. At the eyeliner you did for him, the contacts, and the hair you even helped style. "And I'm the closest thing to a fictional character you're ever going to get. So maybe," he grinds into your spot, and your eyes roll, "act like it."
Humiliation and want feel like they're tangling so tightly that you can't separate them anymore. You can't even form a proper response for that, only being able to muster out a, "F-fuck… Scara…." as your fingers curl harder into the sheets.
"Mm." He keeps the angle, keeps rolling into that same spot, watching as it makes you go stupider quicker while his thumb traces your cheekbone. "You know what you should repost? A video of this. Me, in cosplay, between your legs. See how many likes that gets compared to a leaked animation."
Your brain decides this is the moment to let something slip. Completely irrational. "A lohen cosplay would probably get more likes because he's… trending." You don't even mean it as a dig; you say it in the normal, supportive tone you always give when he talks about content, while getting dicked down.
And the second those words leave your mouth, everything goes silent. He stops, completely. Cock buried inside you, and his hand on your face tightens. His thumb presses harder into your cheekbone. His expression doesn't change, but his eyes do. It's this flat, cold look you can see even with the contacts, and the silence stretches long enough that you realize what you just did.
You scramble to backtrack, "I didn't mean-"
"No, don't backtrack now," he cuts in, voice eerily calm, tilting his head like he's studying any new reaction you'd make, "You sounded very sure of yourself a second ago. I want the same answer you gave before you realize I didn't like it."
You sink back into the pillows, head shaking, "Scara, you know that's not what I meant…" but you stop at the end when you see the look in his eyes darken.
He lets go of your face and pulls almost all the way out to slam back in, both of his hands gripping on the backs of your thighs, pushing them apart. He's fucking into you at a new pace that's faster and rougher than anything before this, every thrust feeling like a point he's making without words.
"He's an animation," he says between trusts, his voice strained, but he's still in character. "He doesn't feel like this…" A thrust so deep it pushes you closer to the headboard. "He doesn't sound like this." Another one, harder, and the sound that comes out of you is almost unrecognizable.
"And he doesn't know that if he hits this angle," he shifts his hips and nails your spot dead-on, and your vision whites out at the edges completely, "you make that exact face."
Your legs are shaking around his grip, your hands grasping at anything, his shoulders, his arm, the sheets, the only thought in your mind is him, the body between your legs trying to prove a point with his entire being.
Then, your phone lights up next to your head. It's a Twitter notification, something about Lohen, and the timing is so cosmically cruel. He sees it, and before you can even squint to see what it's about, he scoots back, letting your head fall off the pillow. You look at him, confused, completely innocent to the change of position that's about to happen.
His hands leave your thighs to grab at your hips, and in one inhuman motion, he lifts you off the bed almost entirely. Your back leaves the mattress, the entire room feels like it's tilting as he hauls your legs over his shoulders, your full weight being suspended against his body. His hands grip the front of your thighs, your arms scrambling for anything, and they end up gripping at the backs of his thighs. Your head is still on the mattress, and your arms, but everything else is up in the air.
He's about to fuck you upside down.
You yell out of panic, "Wha… SCARA-"
"You were about to check your phone." He says, voice unbothered like he isn't holding you in the air with his dick buried inside of you. "While I'm inside of you… While Scaramouche is inside of you." He adjusts his grip, his fingers digging into the meat of your thighs, and slides his hips back before slamming into you hard, forcing himself so deep that you see white. "Do I not have your full attention?"
Even as full, and thought empty as you are, you still try to defend yourself, "You do… hah… You do, I wasn't-"
"You were reaching for it," another hard slam, and you cry out, your nails digging into the backs of his thighs. "Your hand almost moved. Almost. You were going to look at a notification while im fucking you."
He fucks into you, over and over, your legs dangling on his shoulders, the angle hitting something so deep inside of you that your body doesn't know how to process it apart from going completely boneless.
You're limp, even being fucked upside down. Your muscles gave up, and now you're just a body he's holding in the air and fucking into.
Your weight being nothing to him, your pleasure being everything.
"Scara… Scara, oh my god, I can't… f-fuck… I can't-"
"Can't what?" His voice is annoyingly steady, controlled, even though he's holding you up and thrusting into you with a force that should effect both of you, but it seems like you're the only effected one. Moaning sounds that aren't even words anymore, just vowels and air. "Can't think? Good. You shouldn't be thinking. The only thing in your head right now should be my name, and the fact that no pixel on a screen," he thrusts up, sharp, and the sound you make is practically a scream, "has ever made you feel like this."
Even with your mind blank, you can process his words enough to know that he's right. Because he's here, and real, and holding you in the air and fucking the coherence out of your skull. "SCARAMOUCHE- fuck, please… please don't stop-"
His pace only grows faster, his grip on your thighs tightening in such a way that you know it will end in bruises when you wake up tomorrow. You cum with the lower half of your body, suspended in the air. Your body locks up, ankles rolling, feet clenching around his shoulders as the orgasm rips through you in waves so intense that you can't even keep your eyes open, can't even suppress or care for how dumb you sound.
You can do anything except convulse around him while he holds you through it like you weigh nothing.
He cums exactly five seconds after, the way your walls clench around his cock not letting him pull himself back any longer. He buries himself deep with one final thrust up that pins you against his hips. You feel every pulse of it, hot and thick, filling you up as his fingers flex on your thighs.
There's so much that your body can't contain it, even in this position, you can feel some of his cum leak around where he's still inside you, dripping down between your ass cheeks.
He holds you there for a moment, catching his breath and you still catching yours, and then he finally sets you down. He moves back, lowering you, and you bounce back on the sheets, still out of breath, gasping, legs shaking, cum pooling more properly between your thighs now that you aren't in the air.
He's already pulling at the cosplay before his breathing even levels out.
"Finally," he mutters, yanking at the chest piece with the urgency of someone escaping a straitjacket, "I can take this stupid fucking thing off."
The outer layer comes off first, and he gets out of bed to toss it onto his desk chair without looking. Then the arm pieces, what's left of them, since one sleeve is still tied in a crumpled blindfold shape somewhere in the sheets. He pulls the one he's wearing off and throws it on top of the outer layers on the chair.
He's left in the sleeveless undershirt, the tight black one that sits flush against his chest and shows the puppet joints he spent way too long on at his shoulders. The shadow has smudged from the sweat, the edges bleeding where the lines used to be clean.
"I was literally cooking alive in that," he says, working at the fabric that sits on his hips next, "do you know how many layers this cosplay has? About four. Four fucking layers in a room with one fan and a broken AC because Ei cares more about being at work all the time than actually caring about a home she's barely at."
You don't respond because you are, at this moment, a puddle of a human being with no functioning brain cells and shaking legs. You're lying exactly where he put you down, staring up at the ceiling, legs still open because closing them feels like an exercise right now.
He glances at you once the majority of the cosplay is off, just the undershirt and shorts, and he gets quieter. He disappears into the bathroom that's connected to his bedroom and comes back with a warm, damp towel.
He sits on the edge of the bed and pushes your thigh to the side, wiping between your legs without saying anything. His movements are careful, clinical, almost, like the same precision he gives his cosplay goes into this too.
He cleans the cum off your inner thighs, the crease where your thigh meets your hip, folds the towel to the clean side, and gets the rest.
You flinch at the contact, still sensitive, and his other hand presses flat against your lower stomach to keep you still. "Stop squirming."
"But… It's sensitive," you say, finally, voice weak.
"I know it's sensitive. I'm the one who made it sensitive. Stay still."
He tosses the towel onto the bathroom floor when he's done, then goes to his dresser, pulling out a sleep set and underwear that are yours. A cropped top and matching shorts that somehow migrated into his drawer because you're here more than your actual house.
He comes back and slides the underwear up first, lifting your hips with one hand to pull them over your ass. Then, the shorts come next, doing the same motion he did for the underwear. He grabs the top next, and this part requires sitting you up, and you're not cooperative.
You're practically dead weight.
He pulls you up by the arms like a ragdoll, gets the shirt over your head, and guides each of your arms through the sleeves. You keep going limp on purpose, and it's irritating him. "You're not helping," he says, which isn't a helpful remark on his part.
You can't do anything but let out a tired, annoyed sigh, voice moving slowly as you say, "I can't feel my legs, Kuni."
He pauses as he's trying to pull the top down, giving you a sideways look, "That's a you-ca n't-help problem, that's a you-won't-help problem. Your arms should work fine."
You give him a fake, straight smile, shrugging at a languid speed, "They don't, actually. You broke those too when you held me upside down, and I had to hold onto your thighs for dear life."
He scoffs, dropping you back against the pillows, and you sink into them, boneless, dressed, clean, happy that you've trained him well enough to do this much after sex, because it pays off every time.
He pulls the covers out from under you, and this time you actually scoot to give him space to tuck them over your body. He grabs both of your phones and plugs them in, then walks to his closet to take the top off and replace it with a plain black t-shirt, and tugs on a pair of grey sweats. When he's done, he always backs toward the bed to get into the covers beside you, but you stop him.
"Kuni, can you please get me water?" You ask, with a tiny pout.
The exhale he lets out is so deep it could qualify as a controlled breathing exercise. He stands there for a full three seconds, covers still bunched in his hand, staring at you with the expression of a man who wants to only pass out in bed and rot.
"You couldn't have said that before I walked toward the bed?"
You look up, pretending to think, mouth curling up when you glance back at him, "I wasn't thirsty before you walked toward the bed."
He rolls his eyes, his hand coming up to rub his fingers at his temple in annoyance at all of this, "That doesn't even make sense."
You clasp your hands together, pouting, again, putting on a sweet expression just to mess with him further, "Please?"
He drops the covers and leaves the room. You hear his footsteps down the hallway, and they're loud enough that you know he's being loud on purpose.
Because Kuni doesn't make noise when he walks unless he wants you to know he's annoyed.
His house is massive; you spend 99 percent of your time in his room, so you actually get jumpscared every time you leave it. The hallways are long, or probably longer than an apartment floor in general, with marble flooring and clear walls with art on them that his mother picked out and he's never looked at once.
The kitchen is insane. Countertops that stretch for what feels like miles, a center island bigger than your own bed, and appliances that look like they belong in a once luxurious restaurant. Every surface is spotless because the housekeeper comes three times a week, and Kuni is already a clean freak on his own, so the combination creates a kitchen that looks perpetually unlived in.
He opens the cabinet, grabs a glass, fills it from the filtered tap, and when he turns around, his mother is sitting at the island.
She's been there the whole time, apparently.
Ei is on a barstool at the center island, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of red wine in her right hand and her phone in her left. Her hair is long and ink-black, pin-straight, falling over one shoulder, and in the dim kitchen light, she looks less like a person and more like a portrait someone painted and forgot to hang.
She looks up from her phone at the sound of the glass filling.
Her eyes move over him, at the messed-up hair, the contacts he forgot to take out, and the faded puppet joints still visible on his knuckles.
And also the fact that he's getting a glass of water at one in the morning in a post-sex haze that he thinks isn't obvious but is extremely obvious.
"You're still awake," she says, her voice carrying that same low, unbothered tone that makes everything she says sound like an observation.
"You're home," he replies, matching her energy beat for beat, turning off the tap without looking at her. "When did your flight land?"
"Three hours ago." She takes a sip of wine. "I didn't want to interrupt."
The silence that follows is loud. He knows what that means, she knows that he knows, and neither of them will say it directly because everyone in this family treats emotional honesty like it's some disease.
"Right." He grabs the glass and turns to leave as fast as possible.
"Kunikuzushi."
He stops, but he doesn't turn around, his grip on the glass tightening.
"Eat something tomorrow. The fridge is stocked." She pauses to take a sip before continuing, "And take your contacts out before you sleep. They'll irritate your eyes."
He stands there for a second, then another, then another, then walks away without responding. And his footsteps down the hallway are quieter this time. Not on purpose.
He gets back to his room and shuts the door behind him with his foot. He walks up towards the bed and reaches over to hand you the glass. You take it, sitting up slightly, drinking half of it in one go while he stands there watching you like you just made him walk a marathon for a cup of water.
"Happy?" He asks, pulling the covers back.
You roll your eyes and hand him back the glass. He sets it on the nightstand and gets into bed, lying flat on his back. You immediately roll onto his chest like a magnet, your cheek pressing against the cotton of his t-shirt, and you can hear his heartbeat, still a little fast, coming down.
His hand finds your hair, starts that absent, repetitive thing he does, threading his fingers through the strands over and over. You press closer to him, tangling your legs with his under the covers, and his arm tightens around your back.
You close your eyes, and his fingers never stop moving through your hair.
He doesn't tell you he loves you; he never does first. But his thumb traces a slow circle against your scalp, and his breathing evens out underneath you, and he doesn't move even when your weight goes fully dead against his chest.
That's how you know.
You're in your room today, not at your boyfriend's house like you usually are. You do like being in his room and hanging out with him constantly, but it's also constantly exhausting. Some days, you'd just prefer to be… alone.
Your room is the complete opposite of Kunikuzushi's aesthetic. Light beige walls so you can hang up cute pink miscellaneous things on your wall without them clashing. A fluffy, soft, pink bed that used to be a canopy until you woke up to a fat spider next to your face, as if it was their bed too. Plushies… lots of them, on your bed, some kept on a large shelf you bought to store the expensive anime figures Kuni always buys you. Long story short, the general vibe of your room makes you seem like someone whose entire personality is soft and sweet.
You're lying on your stomach on the bed, phone in hand, scrolling through the fallout of the Lohen leak from 3 days ago. The internet has still not calmed down… if anything, it's worse.
@scaranation4LIFE scaranation we STAND. Every character had their tiny moment of fame… our show lasted four years. FOUR. We were even on the news… lohen's gonna last one patch and you're all going to be crawling back
@lohenxscarabeliever i don't want lohen OR scara… i want them BOTH to ruin my life SIMULTANEOUSLY. Why is this so hard to understand
@wanderersfavoritebuttplug scara… I’d never replace you for that sadistic twink (maybe) (we’ll see)
The comments are always talking about the same thing, at least every comment section under a Lohen Twitter post, as the diehard simp, the one who wants Lohen and Scara to fuck each other, the one who wants to cuck Scara in front of Lohen, and the very few actual loyal Scara fans.
… You feel like you're a bit of both.
You're deep in the comments, simultaneously looking at edits of Lohen on TikTok, then taking a Twitter break, then TikTok, when at some strange point, your bedroom door opens.
You don't look up, you assume it's Kuni because your parents aren't home, and you gave him the key ages ago. "Hey, Kuni," you say, still scrolling, legs swinging behind you, "if you're here to yell at me about using your newest Flower Knows palette before you did, it's not that big of a deal-"
You stop because when you look up, what you see is something you'd never, ever expect from a surprise visit from your boyfriend.
Kunikuzushi is standing in your doorway in full-on, perfectly accurate, as always, cosplay. But it's not Scaramouche, or some other male in the game… It's Lohen.
Your phone hits the mattress.
The character you've been losing your mind over for 3 days, the one you've seen on your phone screen a genuinely convincing number of times, is here, in real life, standing in your pink bedroom doorway.
"When did you-" your voice comes out strangled, your mouth feeling dry, and your throat feeling so tight that you cut yourself off. Your eyes scan the cosplay, again and again, confused at why he didn't tell you about this. Especially ordering a unique cosplay of a character that hasn't even fully come out. "When… when did you order this??"
He grins, a toothy, sharp-eyed grin that looks nothing like Scara's smirk. It's so strangely accurate to the expression Lohen would make, and you wonder if he's spent the last 3 days practicing for this.
"I've been tracking you all day," he says, and his voice is different than normal, more confident, louder, less… restrained on what's deemed as good. "You've been hard to pin down."
He crosses the room, and your body does something it doesn't do with Kuni. It tenses out of something close to fear, but closer to not knowing what's coming next. His hand grabs the front of your tank top and yanks you off the bed. You yelp in a way that's higher, more startled, more genuinely caught off guard than anything Scara has gotten out of you in months.
"Nervous?" He questions, his grin widening, and his fists twist in your shirt, pulling you closer, until your chest is against his. He can feel your heartbeat… at least you assume he can, because you can hear it going haywire through your ears to the point that you'd believe it's audible even if he wasn't this close.
You deny because you hate admitting things to him when he's acting smug, even though anything you could say would be utterly pointless, as your face and the way you're barely moving prove his point way too well. "I'm not nervous…" You try a distraction, any, "Are you really wearing a wig, Kun-" but it gets cut off quicker than you can even finish the last word.
"Your heart feels like it's about to explode out of your chest." He leans in, his mouth next to your ear, and his voice drops, but he still keeps the edge of it in character, "What's different? You let Scaramouche do whatever he wants to you. But Lohen shows up and suddenly… You can't even talk?"
You knit your eyebrows, staggering to say anything that sounds like you're not any less dumb, "That's… it's different, you're usually-"
"Usually what? Predictable?" He pulls back to look at you, and you glance up and down at his cosplay once more, and it's even more annoyingly perfect up close. You seriously don't know how he does it; he even looks good in a wig, even though he hates them. "You know every move Scaramouche makes before he makes it. You're comfortable with that, and that's boring." He says it like an insult, and his grin drops suddenly, his eyes not leaving you once as he says, "I'm not comfortable. Are you scared of me?"
You answer a simple, "No." But the way you still haven't moved on your own since he appeared at your door proves without words otherwise.
"Liar." He shoves you, and you fall back before you can catch yourself on the bed, bouncing on the pink sheets, your tank top riding up slightly in the process. "Your voice had the tiniest crack in it."
He's on top of you before you can sit up, his knee between your thighs, his hand going to your jaw… and he does it.
The burst animation.
His fingers close around your jaw as he lifts your face toward his, slow, and the grin is right there, a perfect replica of the video you've watched on your screen more than 100 times.
"There's my favorite prey," he says, holding the pose for three seconds, and instead of reaching his arm back and stabbing you, he leans in to kiss you.
It's violent, that's the only word to describe it. Non ceremonial, just teeth, tongue, and a lot of force by him. His hand is still gripping your jaw, controlling the angle, and also making sure you don't pull away so soon. You make a sound into his mouth that's between a moan and a whimper, that's even more vulnerable than anything you've made during sex when he cosplays as Scaramouche.
He pulls back, unbuckling one of the belts on the cosplay, a strap that's a part of Lohen's design, and he wraps it around your wrists, binding them above your head against the bed.
"Every battle maniac needs a sparring partner," he says, tying the knot with one hand while the other shoves your tank top up above your breasts. "And you looked at me like you volunteered."
He strips your shorts, then your underwear, and he doesn't bother about being sweet with it. He yanks them down your legs and throws them somewhere behind him, and then his hands grip the backs of your thighs, and he pushes them up toward your chest.
Mating press, that's what he's doing.
Your knees are at your shoulders, your hips are tilted up, and he's on the bed, kneeling over you. His weight is driving your thighs down, folding you in half. Your wrists are bound above your head; you're just completely open and trapped.
"L.. Lohen…" You whimper out in the voice of both someone in awe, and in the tiniest fear of what's coming next.
"Hmm." He unzips his pants, frees his hard cock from his underwear, which he slides down just enough, and positions himself at your entrance, and he pushes in.
The first thrust is the full length of him burying himself deep inside you in one stroke; the angel of the mating press makes it feel deeper than it should. His cock presses against your cervix, and the sound that leaks out of you is closer to a sob than a moan.
"AH- oh fuck oh fuck oh-"
"Too much?" He asks, and his grin, that fucking grin, is right there, his face inches from yours because the mating press puts him on top of you… over you, covering you entirely.
"N-no, just- hah-" You get cut off with the way he pulls back and slams back in, your eyes rolling to the back of your skull, before just fully closing.
"Not convincing." He pulls back, again, slamming into you harder than the last one, like he's powering up his thrusts, and your back tries to arch off the bed, but his weight is pressing you flat, and you have nowhere to go. You feel his hands at your face. "Your eyes are watering."
You open your eyes back up to look at him, head shaking, even though you do feel something hot and wet sliding softly down your cheeks. "You're lying, they're n-not-" You're studdering from the way he's repeditely fucking into you, especially hitting your deeper spots on purpose when you try speaking, but he cuts you off anyway.
"They are." He leans down and licks a tear off your cheekbone. The act is so different from the way he's currently fucking into you, brutally, and you're turning incoherent faster than ever, moans spilling out uncontrollably as the sound of his hips plaping against your ass fills the room.
"You cry for Scaramouche because it feels good. You're crying for me because you don't know what I'm going to do next." Both of his hands leave your face; one goes back onto your thigh, the other finds your throat. "And that scares you… Doesn't it?"
His fingers close around your neck, and he doesn't choke you the same way Kuni does during normal sex. This version is different, new, something you've never felt before. Lohen's choke. His fingers press into the sides of your throat, squeezing the muscles, not your windpipe, but the tissue around it. The difference, the way this feels new, is because it feels like it's designed to hurt, not to just cut off air. The pain is sharp, and you can still breathe, technically, but every inhale aches, and the compression makes the blood rush to your head in a way that amplifies every sensation that a blindfold never could.
You can't move your hands, even as they itch to grab or instinctively hold at his wrists, you're reminded that they're bound together by his belt. Your moans just get more amplified thrust after thrust after squeeze, "Nghh- Lohen… hah…"
"You can barely even say my name." He squeezes harder, his thumb pressing into the hollow of your throat, and the pressure pushes you right to the edge of too much. "Scaramouche gets full sentences out of you… Full moans… Full 'please'. But me?" He thrusts deep, grinding, holding himself inside you while his hand tightens on your throat. "I get syllables… Half-words… or just plain denial over anything I say. You're so nervous you can't even beg for anything properly."
He fucks you into the mating press until your thighs are shaking against his hands, and your voice is hoarse from the sounds he's pulling out of you. His hand stays on your throat. The pressure of his squeeze fluctuates a lot, from him tightening when he thrusts hard, loosening when he grinds slowly, a cycle of both pain and relief that keeps you permanently on the edge of too much without ever crossing into too much.
Because Kuni knows your body, he knows how much it can take. He pushes you close enough to passing out that your vision darkens at the edges, your mouth falls open, your eyes lose focus, and then he loosens his grip and lets the blood rush back.
And the gasp you take is almost an orgasm on its own. "Please- hah… please, I can't… too much-"
"You can handle it, you just don't know it yet." He squeezes your throat and fucks into you hard enough that a plushie falls off the bed. The grin on his face is still, still beautifully intact, and it's the most terrifyingly perfect thing you've ever seen from this close.
"You know what's funny? You were scared when I walked in. Nervous. Couldn't even talk to me." He leans down until his lips brush yours, his hand still on your throat. "But you're not trying to stop me, are you? Your hands are tied, your legs are pinned, and we have a safeword you could've used at any point, and you won't, because you and I both know this is exactly the type of 'too much' that you crave."
You cum with his hand on your throat and his cock buried so deep you can feel him in your stomach. The orgasm hits different in a mating press, so much more intense. Your walls clench around him in rhythmic pulses that you feel in your entire pelvic floor, and he fucks you through it, his pace not slowing, his hand not loosening.
And by the time the aftershock fades, you're boneless, twitching, and making sounds that are barely human.
He cums inside you, you feel the heat of it, thick, pulsating, his hips pressing flush against yours and staying there while his cock throbs. His hand finally loosens on your throat, and his forehead drops against yours.
His breathing is ragged, and it's the first time you've ever heard him lose the composure of the character, and for one second, between the last pulse and first exhale, it's just Kuni.
Then the Lohen grin slides back. He stays inside you for a moment more, his cock still twitching with the last of it, before pulling out in one motion that makes your body clench around nothing.
You feel the immediate emptiness, the warmth of his cum already starting to leak, but you don't get to process that because his hands are on your hips and he's flipping you.
Your stomach hits the mattress, your face presses into your pillow, and the shift of his cock inside you during the rotation makes a wet, obscene sound that you both pretend not to hear. Your wrists are still bound with the belt, and they're now pinned beneath you. You feel him reach under you, fingers finding the leather, working the buckle loose with one hand, while the other grips your hip to keep you from sliding forward.
The belt falls away from your wrists, you roll them instinctively, flexing your fingers, and before you can even appreciate the freedom, you feel the belt loop around your neck instead.
He pulls it taut from behind. He doesn't choke you with it just yet; he just lets it sit snug against your throat with his fist gripping the trailing end like it's some sort of handle.
"Ass up," he says, and you barely get your knees under you before he gives up on waiting and pulls your hips back toward him.
He slams in at a rough, fast, punishing pace. The sound of his hips against your ass is echoing off your room in a rhythm that makes your plushies at the edge of the bed vibrate, causing a couple of them to fall.
He uses the belt as a way to anchor his thrusts while he rails into you with a force that has your fingers twisting in your sheets, and your neck being forced to arch back.
"Fu- oh my g-god, Loh-" You can't even finish his name, it just dissolves into a broken moan as he hits your spot from this angle. The deepness of the backshots makes your toes curl against the bedsheets.
He keeps going, his pace not slowing down at all, and you're too far gone that you barely register it when his rhythm stutters for a second, especially when you hear him mutter something under his breath that doesn't sound like Lohen.
"This stupid fucking…"
Your brain is somewhere between your legs; the only sound that's audible and coherent to you is the sound of his hips against your ass, and your endless moans.
He thrusts hard, and you let out a whimper, your fingers flexing on the sheets, and your feet coming up, clenching, then dropping again. But between the next few thrusts, you catch pieces of something that doesn't match the character he's trying to play.
His voice sounds like it's shifting, not into Scara like it's some muscle memory he has, but into Kuni, your boyfriend, sounding genuinely irritated about something that has nothing to do with sex.
"I swear to god, it keeps sliding," he mutters, and his grip on the belt loosens for a second as his other hand does something behind you that you can't see. He does another hard thrust, and your face falls against the pillow now that he isn't yanking on your neck. But he doesn't pull you back, choke you, or do whatever you expect him to do.
He complains.
"This is the last time I'll wear a wig. The last fucking time. I told you I hate these things and you always ignore it and tell me to suck it up when it's a character that isn't him-" a thrust that makes your spine arch, "and now I have gross, synthetic hair scratching at my face, and I'm going to lose my mind."
You're barely processing any of this, still, it all sounds like fragments to you that don't make sense because of the thick haze of being fucked into your mattress.
He grunts, clear frustration, and you hear something that sounds like a clip, or whatever mechanism that's keeping his wig attached to his actual hair, and his pace slows down enough that curiosity overtakes the pleasure for one stupid second.
You turn your head.
And it's Kuni behind you, one hand still on the belt at your neck, and the other holding the Lohen wig that he just pulled off his head. His real hair is back, dark indigo, messy, slightly matted from the wig cap he also tore off. He hasn't noticed you looking yet; he's too busy glaring at the wig with genuine contempt.
He's out of character, fully, completely, for once mid-fuck. He never breaks character, and something comes over you… Maybe it's the absurdity of the visual, maybe it's because you're fucked stupid enough that impulse control is just completely gone.
Maybe it's because the opportunity is just too perfect to pass, and you've seen that TikTok audio one too many times.
You gasp, loud, dramatic, your voice coming out in that exaggerated, scandalized tone that you know he's going to hate, "he's BALD. He's bald, and he's torturing people who have HAIR!"
The silence that follows lasts exactly one and a half seconds.
His eyes snap to you, and you're looking at him over your shoulder, half of your face pressed into the pillow, and you're grinning. That kind of stupid, shit-eating grin that you know is about to have severe consequences.
His expression goes through several stages in rapid succession. Disbelief comes first, processing it comes second, then recognition of the reference, and on the last and final stage, something dark and focused appears that makes your grin falter just slightly.
He throws the wig, and it hits your vanity mirror, sliding off somewhere that you don't care to watch, and his now-free hand shoves your head back down into the pillow. It's not gentle. His palm is flat against the back of your skull, pressing your face into the fabric, and your giggle gets muffled by cotton.
"You think that's funny?" His voice drops back into Lohen's, but it's rougher now, meaner, the edge of genuine irritation soaking through the character because you made a dumb joke while he was inside of you. "You think you're clever?"
You're trying to respond, but your face is pressed into a pillow, and his hand is keeping it there. What comes out next is a muffled, "Mm srrhyy-" that dissolves into a yelp when he slams into you so hard your knees slide forward on the sheets.
"Every prey animal thinks it's funny right before the teeth close." He fucks into you at a pace that's brutal, and way faster than anything before. Each thrust is showing you further into the mattress while his hand keeps your head pinned, and the belt around your neck pulls tight from the motion. "You want to make jokes? I'll give you something to scream about instead."
His other hand leaves the belt to grab at your hip, yanking you back onto his cock with every thrust, and the force of being pushed down and pulled back simultaneously has you making sounds into the pillow that are just broken, raw sounds. Your hands claw at the sheets above your head, your back arching down, while your ass stays up, and you can feel his fingers digging bruises into your hip while the belt drags against your throat.
"Mmph- wait, f-fuck, I'm sorryyy, I was k-kidding-" you manage between thrusts, your words slurring against the pillow, saliva starting to collect at the corner of your mouth because your jaw won't close properly. "Loh-hen, please, 'm sorry, I didn't m-mean-"
"You have a funny way of apologizing," he grinds out, and his hand on the back of your head shifts, his fingers curling into your hair and pulling your face just barely off the pillow, enough that your moans aren't muffled anymore. "Usually, people apologize without laughing. You're still smiling about it, I can hear it in your voice."
He's not wrong. You are still smiling, with tears in your eyes, getting absolutely destroyed because the image of your boyfriend ripping off a wig mid-sex with that look on his face will live in your brain rent-free forever. "Liar… 'M not smiling-"
"You are." A thrust so deep your smile actually drops because your eyes roll back and your mouth falls open around a moan that's more of a wail. "There… fixed it."
His other hand releases your hair and goes to his own head. You can feel the shift in his movements, slightly distracted, one-handed thrusts that are still devastating but less focused as he runs his fingers through his real hair, fixing it through the vanity mirror on the far side of your room.
Because even while he's railing at you, Kunikuzushi will not be caught dead with bad hair.
He's multitasking, fucking you into the mattress with one hand on the belt, and styling his hair with the other… the worst part is, he doesn't even slow down.
He pulls the belt back just enough that you're forced to arch your spine, the pressure on your throat lifting your chest slightly off the mattress, and the angle change makes his cock hit differently, shallower but dragging against your front wall with every stroke, and the sound that comes out of you is embarrassingly close to a squeal.
"Ah ah AH, oh m-my god, oh my god, right there, don't- nghhh don't move from that, please plea-hease..." Your words are tumbling out in a slurred mess, your brain is completely out of your control, and your hips are pushing back against his on their own because the angle is too good.
He cums with a groan, pressing into the back of your shoulder, biting down on your skin through a moan he clearly didn't want to let out. You feel his cock pulse inside you, the heat spreading, and his hips grind forward in small, lazy rolls as he empties everything. His hand goes slack on the belt, and his forehead drops against the space between your shoulder blades.
He stays there for a second, breathing, then he pulls back, letting go completely of the belt, and you fall forward because he was the one pulling your practically limp body against him. Your ass is up in the air, and you feel him slide out, and the gush of cum that follows is immediate. It's thick, warm, spilling out of you and down between your thighs.
He sits back and watches it, you know, because you hear the sheets shift, and you can tell by the way he doesn't move or speak, just watches the mess he made ooze out of you.
His thumb presses against your entrance at the rim, and more cum leaks out around the pressure, sliding down in a slow trail toward your clit. "Look at that," he murmurs, his voice back in character for Lohen, in an amused, fascinated tone. "You can't keep any of it in."
His other hand comes up and spreads you open with his thumb and forefinger, holding your folds apart, and you can feel the cool air hit the mess inside you. You feel more of his cum spill out from being exposed. You bury your face deeper into the pillow because the visual you can't even see is somehow still the most embarrassing part of this entire night.
"Lohen, don't just… stare at it-" You mumble into the pillow, voice a bit pitchy as your thighs try to close, but his knee is in between your legs before you can even try to hide.
"Why not?" His thumb traces through the cum leaking down your folds, collecting it, spreading it in a slow circle around your clit, and your hips jerk at the contact because you're so overstimulated. "It's mine, I put it there, and I'll stare at it for as long as I want."
He leans down, and you feel his breath warm against your swollen, sensitive skin. Then you feel his tongue, a single slow lick from your clit up to your folds that collects everything in its path. You let out a sound that's halfway between a moan and a sob, your fingers crushing at the sheets. His mouth seals around your clit and sucks one, hard, before pulling off with a wet pop that's so loud it echoes.
"Ahh- hhah, that's... you c-can't just do that and stop..." You whine, your hips chasing his mouth, but he's already sitting up, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.
"I can do whatever I want." He says, like it's a fact, and his thumb pushes inside you lazily, scooping cum out and watching it drip off his finger before sliding it back in. "And right now I want to watch you try to keep it together while I play with the mess I made."
He does this for longer than is reasonable. Sliding his finger in, pulling it out with cum on it, pressing his thumb against your clit, watching you flinch and twitch and moan into the pillow while your body can't decide if it wants more or if it wants him to stop.
When you finally lift your head enough to look back at him, your vision is blurry, and your cheeks are wet, and your hair… let's not talk about that. But his hair, however…
It's perfect.
His actual hair, styled in Scaramouche's cut, falls over his forehead in a way that makes him look like a character rendered by someone who accidentally released him into the real world. He fixed it while he was fucking you, which means at some point of the most brutal backshots of your life, your boyfriend was simultaneously running his fingers through his hair to make sure it looked good.
And it does, it looks like Scaramouche wearing Lohen's clothes, the dark blue and silver of the cosplay framing his face differently than Scara's outfit does, and the combination of his real hair with Lohen's costume is somehow hotter than either one on its own.
"Your hair…" You start, breathless, head tilting, staring at him.
"I know." He doesn't elaborate, and for a second you did forget just where his fingers still are, but then you get instantly reminded when his thumb circles your clit again. His expression is annoyingly smug for someone who was complaining about a wig 4 minutes ago.
He slides back into you without warning, and you gasp, your head dropping back down, because you're still so unbelievably sensitive. Even though he did slurp some of it out, you still have his cum inside of you, and the re-entry just pushed every bit of the leftovers deeper. He does exactly two, slow thrusts from behind, enough to hear the wet sound of it, and enough to feel you clench around him involuntarily, and then he moves.
His hand wraps the belt tighter around your neck and pulls backward toward him. Your upper body lifts off the mattress as the leather digs into your throat. And at the same time, as if he's some pro multitasker, his other hand hooks under your thigh, and hauls you up.
The room tilts as he rearranges your body like you're a doll getting repositioned on a shelf.
He sits back on his heels, then further, his legs extending toward the foot of the bed, and he pulls you down onto his lap with your back against his chest. His cock is still inside you, and the angle of his cock in your folds shifts as gravity does the work of seating you fully onto him. Your weight pushes him impossibly deep.
"Oh my- f-fuck..." Your head falls back against his shoulder, your mouth open, eyes unfocused on the ceiling. You can feel him everywhere. The depth of this position, your full weight on his lap, is the kind of full that makes your brain actually go blank.
The belt is still around your neck. He grips the loose end in one fist, his other hand settling on your hip, and he snaps his hips up.
It's different from behind, and the mating press, and just any position he's ever tried with you. Every thrust pushes up into you while your own weight pushes down. The collision of both forces means he's hitting your cervix with almost every stroke. The belt pulls at your throat in time with his rhythm, and it's like a constant tug that keeps you slightly alert. He's using it as a leash while he fucks up into you.
"Lohen… Lohen, oh my g-god, that's so… hhh…" Your hands grip his thighs behind you for leverage, your nails pressing crescent moons into his skin through the dark fabric of the cosplay pants. Every thrust forces a sound out of you that you didn't choose. The sound ranges from breathy moans to hiccuped whimpers to full, unfiltered whines that bounce off your bedroom walls.
"Mm, good girl… Keep saying my name just like that." He says against the shell of your ear, his grin pressing into your hair, and his hips don't slow down at all while his free hand leaves your hip to cup your breast, squeezing it through your bunched-up tank top.
Then, suddenly, the pace changes. It slows like someone pressing on the brakes. The frantic upward thrusts melt into something grinding, deliberate, circular. His hips roll instead of slamming. His hand on the belt adjusts, and you can feel the leather pulling higher on your throat, the pressure shifting from the side of your neck to the front, directly on your windpipe, cutting your air down. It makes the room tilt and your head go light.
"Lohen is fun. I'll give him that."
Your walls clench around him so hard that you feel his breath catch, a tiny fracture in his composure that he covers immediately. The shift from Lohen's energy to Scara's is like someone swapped an entire soundtrack mid-song, same instruments but a completely different vibe.
"But fun is temporary." His hips roll in that slow, calculated grind that's purely Scaramouche. The one that doesn't just find your spot but sits on it, presses into it, with the exact amount of pressure needed to make your eyes cross. "Chaos without control is just noise."
He thrusts so deep that your vision goes white at the edges and your mouth opens around a shameless sound you can't hold back. "I'm not noise." He pulls the belt tighter, your air growing thinner as your head feels floaty and warm. "I'm the only voice in your head that stays."
"Scara…" It comes out of your mouth before he can ask for it, before he can demand it, your body just defaulting to the name it knows and has moaned out more times than you can count. Just the same as muscle memory.
"There she is." His voice sounds satisfied in a way that Lohen's never was. It's settled, fully sure, like something just got confirmed that he already knew. His thumb traces the edge of the belt for exactly one second.
Then his pace goes feral, the leash yanks tight, and you can feel the grin return against the curve of your neck, his teeth grazing over your skin. The whiplash of Scara's controlled grind slamming into Lohen's chaos makes your entire body jerk against his chest.
Then he goes back to Scara, slow, precise, the belt adjusting to hit your windpipe just like before, and your vision goes soft and dreamy.
Then Lohen, again, fast and reckless, the belt pulling to the sides, sharp and painful. Your vision snaps back, too clear… too much.
Then Scara.
Then Lohen.
The switches accelerate, and you're caught between two different rhythms that you don't even have time to get used to either one before it switches back and forth, and you're left shaking, trembling, your thighs quivering helplessly on either side of his.
"You feel so fucking good-" you can hear Lohen's signature grin in his tone, his hips snapping up hard enough that you bounce on his lap, "You think you can handle more?"
And then, like a light to a switch, Scara's back, his thrusts slowing into a grind that feels torturous. "Of course you can't… You never could. You just pretend."
"Mm… mmnhh, I c-cant, it's too much," you're babbling, the words coming out in disconnected fragments that don't form a single coherent thought, "both of you at the s-same time… I can't… my brain… can't…"
Your body is trying to process two characters and one cock, and one belt on your throat that keeps changing how tight and how rough it's being pulled, and the gravity pinning you down, and his hands on you everywhere. "Please jus- hha, pick one, p-please, I can't think when you keep switching, I-"
"No." It doesn't sound like either character he's playing as he says that, almost himself. "You don't get to pick, you get both."
You cum on the fault line. On the exact millisecond where Lohen's chaos collides with Scara's control. The two rhythms are crashing together inside your body like a wave hitting a wall. The orgasm rips through you so hard that your vision actually blacks out for a second.
Your walls seize around him in rhythmic, violent clenches, your back arching against his chest, the belt pulling taut as your body contorts, and the sound you make is raw, unformed, the kind of noise a person makes when their brain short-circuits.
He cums with you, his groan is buried in the crook of your neck as his teeth bite down on your shoulder. The belt goes slack in his hand, and his hips stutter up as he fills you again. You feel every pulse of it, hot and thick, and his hands grip your hips hard.
His breathing is ragged against your neck, not in character, just Kuni, just like before, catching a breath he doesn't need to catch because the adrenaline is still making his body do human things.
He lets go of the belt and unloops it from your neck. The leather slides off your skin, leaving a warm, raw line that you'll see in the mirror tomorrow. His hands settle on your hips, gentle, all the urgency gone.
He turns you around, rotating you by your hips without pulling out. Your legs swing around until you're facing him, straddling his hips. When your eyes meet his, it's your boyfriend looking at you, Kuni, with his makeup smudged, his real hair messy and falling into his eyes, wearing another character's clothes with his own face underneath.
He grinds up into you, slow, not thrusting, just rolling his hips with his cock still inside you, his cum still inside, and the wet sound fills the quiet room.
He kisses you, a slow kiss where his hand cups the back of your neck. His tongue slides against yours, and your hands find his face, holding his jaw the same way you hold it when you do his eyeliner. Your fingers on his cheekbones, your thumbs at the corners of his mouth… the grip is so familiar that your chest aches with it.
He pulls out, the gush of everything between you spills onto his thighs, and you whimper at the loss, your hips chasing him involuntarily, still kissing him, before settling.
He leans back, lies flat, and looks up at you. "Sit on my face." He instructs, his hands already going for his bottoms, shoving the waistband down with both hands, lifting his hips, and kicking the pants and underwear off in one motion that sends them somewhere on the bed. He settles back onto the mattress with his cock resting against his stomach and the rest of Lohen's cosplay still on his upper half.
You're still on top of him, and you start to move toward his face, swinging your leg over to straddle his chest, and just as you're about to lower yourself down facing the wall, he stops you.
"Other way." His hands catch your hips, holding you in place before you can settle. "Face my cock, not the headboard."
You turn, shifting on your knees so you're facing his legs instead, and the second your thighs are on either side of his face, his hands pull you down. He doesn't ease you into it, his fingers dig into your hips and yank you flat on him. His mouth meets your cunt like he's been starving for it. His tongue is on you immediately, flat and broad, licking through the mess of his cum and yours that's still leaking, and the groan he lets out against your folds vibrates through your entire lower half.
"Ah- oh my god, Loh-" Your hands brace against his stomach, fingers splaying across his chest, your body jerking at the contact because you're still so overstimulated that even his breath against you would be too much, let alone his entire mouth sealed to your cunt like he's trying to milk you dry.
He doesn't let up; his tongue pushes between your folds, lapping at the cum he left inside you, alternating between long drags up your clit, and pointed flicks that make your thighs clamp around his head. His hands keep your hips pinned to his face, and every time you try to lift yourself even slightly because it's too much, he pulls you back down harder.
You look down past his stomach, past his lips, and his cock is right there. Hard again, flushed at the tip, twitching every time you moan. It looks helpless, which is a stupid word to use for a dick, but that's what it looks like.
Just lying there… hard… neglected, pulsing at nothing while his mouth does all the work on you. The visual of that all, combined with the way his tongue just circles your clit makes your mouth water and your body move on its own.
You lean down, lips pressing against the tip, soft, barely any contact, and you feel his hips twitch upward at even that little touch. You open your mouth wider, about to take him in, settling your weight forward onto your forearms on either side of his hips, and then his hands move.
They leave your hips, and you feel them slide down your back, his arms wrapping around your torso, his palms pressing flat against your shoulder blades from behind, and before you can even register the shift in grip, he lifts you.
Your knees leave the mattress, your thighs slide up his shoulders until they're hooked over them, his arms anchored around your back. You aren't straddling his face anymore; you're suspended above him, upside down, your entire lower body held up by his arms, and your upper body hangs between his legs with his cock directly in front of your face.
"KUNI- what the HELL-" Your hands scramble for something to hold, and the only thing available is his back, his sides, your fingers digging into whatever part of him you can reach. "Stop putting me upside down!! How are you even this strong??"
He ignores you, his mouth is still on your cunt like the position change was nothing, like rearranging your entire body didn't interrupt the rhythm of his tongue.
Your thighs are wrapped around his shoulders, your calves pressed against the sides of his head, and his arms are locked around your lower back and hips, creating a cage of muscle that keeps you from falling. Your stomach is pressed against his chest, your breasts squished between your body and his, and your face is hovering directly over his cock with your hair hanging down.
He doesn't pause to let you adjust; his tongue pushes inside you from below, curling, and the moan that rips out of you vibrates against his inner thigh because your mouth is right there, inches from his cock, and you can't even hold back the sound.
You take him in your mouth because his cock is right there, hard, flushed, leaking from the tip, and this is the only logical response you can think of.
Your lips close around the head, and you can hear, feel, his groan vibrate against your clit from below. The sensation travels through you, making your thighs tighten around his shoulders, and you take him deeper in response, your jaw stretching as you slide down his shaft.
His hips start moving, and he's fucking up into your mouth with thrusts that push his cock past your tongue and into the back of your throat. The angle of being upside down makes your gag reflex hit differently, sharper, your throat constricting around him with every push.
"Mmph-" You gag around him, saliva pooling at the corners of your mouth and running up toward your nose because gravity is working against you, and your eyes water as he pushes in deep enough that your lips press flush against his base.
He pulls your hips down against his face at the same time, grinding your cunt onto his mouth, and the dual sensation of his tongue on your clit and his cock in your throat creates a never-ending loop.
Every sound you make around him vibrates through his cock and makes his groan against you, and every groan he makes against you vibrates through your clit and makes you moan louder, and the cycle just keeps building on itself until neither of you is making sounds that qualify as human.
Your hands grip the backs of his thighs, nails biting into his skin, your only anchor while the rest of you is suspended in the air, getting destroyed from both ends. His arms tighten around your back whenever your body jerks too hard, keeping you steady, and the strength required to hold you like this while simultaneously eating you out and thrusting into your mouth is something you'll think about later, when you have brain cells to think with.
His tongue circles your clit and then seals over it, sucking hard, and your entire body arches in his grip. Your moan around his cock is muffled and obscene, a wet, gargled sound that would be embarrassing if you had any shame left, and the vibration of it makes his hips stutter up so hard you choke.
"Mmngh-" Spit drips down your chin, or up your chin technically because you're upside down, and his cock slides out of your mouth for a second while you cough and gasp, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his shaft.
He doesn't give you a break. His mouth doesn't leave your cunt, his tongue pressing harder, faster, relentless, and your mouth finds his cock again through the haze, taking him back in because even choking on him feels better than the alternative of not having him in your mouth.
His hips roll up in longer strokes now, less frantic but deeper, and you can feel the tension building in his thighs, the muscles tightening under your fingers. His arms squeeze around your back, pulling your hips down harder against his mouth, and his tongue works your clit in tight, focused circles that are designed to break you.
Everything builds at the same time. His cock pulsing heavier against your tongue, your walls clenching against his mouth, the pressure in your core climbing toward something massive, and his breathing getting faster against your cunt, his groans getting louder, less controlled, desperate in a way he only gets when he's close.
You cum first, barely, by maybe a second.
Your walls seize, and your thighs clamp around his shoulders, and the orgasm crashes through you in a wave so intense your jaw locks around his cock. The constriction of your throat, squeezing around him, plus the vibration of your moan, plus the way your entire body shakes in his grip, is what sends him over.
He cums in your mouth with a groan so deep you feel it in your spine. His hips push up one final time, his cock pulsing thick against your tongue, and you swallow around him because there's nothing else to do in this position, the cum sliding down your throat (or up, gravity is still confusing) while his tongue works you through the last aftershocks.
His arms loosen, not all at once, because if he did, you'd drop violently onto the bed. He eases the tension gradually, lowering your hips back toward the mattress, and you let his cock slip from your mouth with a wet sound that you're too brain dead to be embarrassed about.
"Put me down," you mumble against his thigh, your voice wrecked, your arms shaking. "Please, Kuni, put me down before I die in this position, and you have to explain it to my parents."
He lowers you down carefully, his hands guiding your hips and legs until your back is flat on the mattress beside him. Your head is at the foot of the bed, and your feet are near the pillows, but you don't really care because you're horizontal and alive, and that's enough.
He sits up, looks at you sideways on the bed, completely destroyed, and he doesn't say anything. He just moves you, his hands sliding under your back and your knees as he repositions you properly to put your head up against the pillows where it belongs.
He's quiet when he cleans you up this time, zero commentary about you squirming, no dry remarks about sensitivity, just the warm cloth from the bathroom, careful movements between your legs while his other hand stays on your hip to keep you still when you flinch.
He brings new clothes from your dresser, a pair of underwear, which goes on you first, slides up your legs, then shorts, then a top he pulls over your head and feeds through your arms without asking for your cooperation because he's already learned you won't give it.
He doesn't talk the whole time, which is unusual, because Kuni always has something to say, always has a complaint or a remark or a correction. But right now he's just doing it quietly, focused, tucking the hem of your top down with his fingers before standing up and walking toward your closet.
He changes into the pajama pants and black shirt he keeps in your drawer, and he pulls the Lohen cosplay off in pieces as he does it, dropping each part onto the chair by your desk.
"I'm never wearing that thing again," he says, pulling the top layer of Lohen's outfit off his shoulders with a grimace, his tone flat and final. "Whoever designed this character hates the human body. It feels like it's over 6 layers, especially with the long-sleeve, the cape thing… everything." He drops the last piece and kicks it under the chair. "Scara's cosplay isn't even that heavy because Scara was designed by someone with common sense."
You watch him from the bed, half-lidded, sinking into the pillows, your body so heavy that you feel like you're melting into your own mattress.
He walks back and pulls the covers up, sliding in beside you without ceremony. The second he's horizontal, you're already moving toward him, pressing your face into his chest, your hand curling into the front of his shirt, and his arm wraps about your back.
He kisses your forehead, soft, and then the bridge of your nose when you lift your face up enough, then the corner of your mouth. It's small, quiet presses of his lips against your skin that feel nothing like Scaramouche or Lohen. These are Kuni kisses, the ones he gives when no character is being performed.
The ones he probably doesn't even realize he's giving because they come out of him the same way breathing does.
He tips your chin up with his finger, and his eyes are just blue. Not indigo contacts, not the ones he wore for the Lohen cosplay, just his natural, stupid, annoyingly pretty blue that you fell for before you even knew that you cosplayed.
"Who do you want?" He asks, his voice low, and it's the softest you've heard it all night.
You look at him, at the messy hair, at the body who dyes his hair for a fictional character and hates wigs and complains about having to style his hair everyday and who buys you an abmormal amount of primogems, and probably would get you c6 r5 Lohen the minute he drops because he does that for every character, even when he gets jealous when you simp for a character that you don't just ask him to cosplay like any other logical person dating a cosplayer.
"Kuni," you say, and your voice is small and sure. "Just Kuni."
His mouth twitches, and you can see the shape of a smile trying to form before he catches it and pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin and pressing his lips to your hair.
"Good answer," he murmurs into your scalp, so quiet that you almost miss it.
You close your eyes, your face against the fabric of his shirt, and you're asleep before you can respond. He stays awake for a minute more, his hand moving through your hair in slow repetitive movements. He stares at the ceiling fan, and he doesn't say anything.
He doesn't need to.
I have a Discord now! 18+, for readers, writers, and anyone who wants early wips and a place to chat!! (link)
Just had a thought in my head with Jason Todd x reader where they've dated for a while and it's just went on so well like this is too good to be true thing going on but reader hasn't yet known about Jason's vigilante work and also reader is not a vigilante, but the fun part of this is that it's reader who killed the joker (maybe it's when they went on a date and joker that day wanted to torture Todd or just a kidnapping situation, your choice but either way Jason was there when it happened whether as Jason or red hood). Like reader has no idea about her boyfriend's past with the joker, has no ties to the batfamily or other vigilantes, just another civilian and yet she's the one who puts an end to the criminal that's been haunting Gotham for years with maybe just a crowbar to the head (repeatedly out of panic and just to be sure) and he then just drop dead unceremoniously. Love to see just how Jason and batfamily reacts to that cause they have the whole no kill rule floating in the family but since reader is not part of that circle and just ends the joker out of pure defense and all reader knows is if she doesn't act then it's her who's gonna die that day so love to just see how they're thinking of that whole situation. Maybe to add to this for fun maybe reader might not have a run in with the joker directly before but she has just the baddest luck as being one of the casualties after one of joker's crimes like maybe their school got shot down when joker bombed it, joker's goons destroyed her workplace etc just her not having it as bad as joker's other victims but it has impacted her life a lot and she's grown so tired of it being repeated over and over again where joker just haunts her life at every corner so maybe when she talks to Jason one on one about it. Whether he reveals his true identity or maybe some time at the future is up to you but Jason is definitely considering just going down to his knees after what reader has done that meant a lot to him
I've always just find it so interesting of a concept of superheroes having so much baggage from their arch nemesis and that said arch nemesis that's been a thorn on their side is just killed by just a normal everyday person, the aftermath of it if that happens always makes me curious
a/n: this is not as good as I hoped it would be but I hope you still like it
The Unceremonious End
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requests are open
dividers by @cafekitsune
Six months into dating Jason Todd, you kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Not because he was bad—quite the opposite. He was thoughtful, attentive, surprisingly romantic for someone who looked like he could bench press a car. He remembered your coffee order, showed up with your favorite takeout when you had bad days, and kissed you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.
It was perfect.
Too perfect.
"You're doing it again," Jason said, catching you staring at him across the dinner table.
"Doing what?"
"Looking at me like you're waiting for me to reveal I'm secretly a serial killer or something."
You laughed, but it was a little forced. "I'm not—okay, maybe a little. You're just... really great. And I keep thinking there has to be something wrong."
"There's plenty wrong with me, trust me." But he was smiling, that crooked smile that made your stomach flip. "I'm just good at hiding it."
"Everyone has baggage. I have baggage."
"Yeah?" Jason took a sip of his beer. "What's your damage?"
You hesitated. It wasn't exactly first-date conversation, but you'd been together six months. He'd met your friends, you'd met some of his family (his brothers were... a lot). Maybe it was time to share the darker stuff.
"You know how Gotham has that thing where everyone's life has been touched by crime at some point?"
Jason's expression shifted slightly. "Yeah. I know."
"I've had a particularly bad run with the Joker specifically." You picked at your food. "Not directly, thank god. But indirectly enough that it's... it's a thing."
"What kind of thing?"
"When I was fifteen, he bombed my high school. I wasn't there—I'd stayed home sick. But my best friend was. She didn't make it." You swallowed hard. "Then in college, he and his goons shot up the coffee shop where I worked. I was in the back during inventory. Five people died. I heard all of it."
Jason's knuckles were white around his beer bottle.
"And last year, he attacked the bank while I was depositing a check. I hid in a vault. Listened to him torture people for three hours before Batman showed up." You finally met his eyes. "I know other people have it worse. I know his actual victims—the ones he targets directly—have it so much worse. But it's like he's haunted my entire life. Every major trauma I've had, he's been there in the background, just... destroying things."
"That's not 'not as bad.' That's—" Jason's voice was rough. "That's awful. I'm sorry."
"It's Gotham. Everyone has a story." You tried to smile. "I'm just tired of mine always involving the same punchline."
Jason reached across the table, taking your hand. His grip was almost too tight. "If you ever see him again—if you're ever in danger like that—you run. You hear me? You don't try to be brave, you don't try to help. You run."
The intensity in his voice startled you. "Jason—"
"Promise me."
"I—okay. I promise." You squeezed his hand back. "Are you okay?"
He blinked, and the intensity faded slightly. "Yeah. Sorry. Just... the Joker's a sore spot for a lot of people in this city. Including me."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"Not tonight." He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Tonight, I just want to have a nice dinner with my girlfriend and pretend Gotham's not a nightmare city for a few hours."
"I can do that."
But you noticed how tense he stayed for the rest of the meal. How his eyes kept drifting to the windows, like he was watching for threats. How he insisted on walking you all the way to your apartment door instead of just to the building.
"You sure you're okay?" You asked as he checked your locks—all three of them.
"I'm fine. Just—be careful. Okay? Lock everything. Don't open the door for anyone you don't know."
"Jason, I've lived in Gotham my whole life. I know the drill."
He pulled you into a tight hug, burying his face in your hair. "I know. I just—I don't want anything to happen to you."
"Nothing's going to happen to me."
You had no idea how wrong you were.
Two weeks later, Jason took you to dinner at a nice restaurant in Old Gotham.
"This place is fancy," you said, looking around at the white tablecloths and actual wine list. "What's the occasion?"
"Can't I just want to take my girlfriend somewhere nice?"
"You can. It's just usually we do pizza and movies, not... is that a sommelier?"
Jason grinned. "I've been saving up. Figured we deserved a real date."
It was perfect. The food was incredible, the wine was probably worth more than your rent, and Jason was relaxed in a way you didn't often see. He told you stories about his brothers—carefully edited, you suspected, but funny nonetheless. You told him about your new job, your annoying coworker, your plans for the weekend.
Normal couple things.
You were walking back to his car, hand in hand, when you heard it.
Laughter.
Not normal laughter. The kind that made your blood run cold, that triggered every trauma response you'd carefully built up over years of surviving Gotham.
"No," you whispered.
Jason had gone completely rigid beside you. "Get behind me. Now."
"Well, well, well!" The Joker emerged from an alley, and he had a gun. Of course he had a gun. "Isn't this a lovely evening for a stroll! And who do we have here—"
He stopped. Stared at Jason. And his smile got wider.
"Oh. Oh, this is just too perfect. Little Jason Todd, all grown up and on a date!" The Joker's laugh was like nails on a chalkboard. "Does she know? Does your pretty girlfriend know what we are to each other?"
"Run," Jason said to you, his voice deadly calm. "Run right now."
But the Joker had already grabbed you, arm around your throat, gun to your head. "No, no, no. She should stay! We're just getting reacquainted! Tell me, Jason, does she know about Ethiopia? About the crowbar? About—"
Jason's expression was pure murder. "Let her go."
"But we're having such fun! And I've been so bored lately. The Bat won't let me play anymore, always interrupting at the worst moments. But you—" The Joker pressed the gun harder against your temple. "—you're not bound by his rules, are you? So let's play. You, me, and your pretty little girlfriend."
You were trying not to panic. Trying to remember self-defense training. Trying to figure out how to get out of this.
The Joker was dragging you backward into the alley. Jason was following, hands up, clearly calculating.
"I'll do whatever you want," Jason said. "Just let her go."
"Oh, I know you will! That's what makes this fun!" The Joker shoved you toward a pile of garbage. "Stay. Good girl. Now, Jason, let's talk about—"
He turned his back on you.
Big mistake.
There was a crowbar leaning against the dumpster. Old, rusted, probably used by the building's maintenance. You grabbed it without thinking.
The Joker was still talking, still waving his gun around, still focused entirely on Jason—
You swung.
The crowbar connected with the back of the Joker's skull with a sickening crack.
He dropped.
You hit him again. And again. And again.
Because he'd held a gun to your head. Because he'd killed your best friend. Because he'd destroyed your coffee shop, your bank, your high school. Because you were tired of being afraid. Because if you didn't make sure he was dead, he'd get back up and kill you.
You hit him until your arms were shaking. Until the crowbar was slick with blood. Until someone grabbed your wrists.
"Stop. Stop, it's over. He's dead." Jason's voice, rough and shaking. "He's dead. You can stop."
You looked down. The Joker was—there was no question. No chance of survival. His skull was caved in, blood pooling around his body, eyes staring at nothing.
You'd killed him.
You'd killed the Joker.
The crowbar fell from your hands with a clatter.
"Oh god," you whispered. "Oh god, I just—I killed—"
"Self-defense." Jason's hands were on your shoulders now, forcing you to look at him. "He had a gun to your head. You were defending yourself. This was self-defense."
"I killed someone—"
"You killed a mass murderer who was going to kill you. Who was going to kill both of us." Jason pulled you against his chest. "You did what you had to do. You survived. That's all that matters."
You were shaking so hard your teeth were chattering. "Jason, what did he mean? About Ethiopia? About you and him—"
"Not now." Jason was already pulling out his phone. "Right now, we need to—fuck. Okay. Okay, I need to call my brother. Just—stay with me. Can you do that?"
You nodded, unable to look away from the body. From what you'd done.
Jason was talking into his phone in low, urgent tones. "Dick. I need you at my location right now. Bring Bruce. It's—no, I'm fine. We're fine. But there's—just get here. Now."
He hung up and pulled you further from the body, sitting you down on a clean-ish crate. "Look at me. Not at him. At me."
You forced your eyes to his face. "I don't understand what's happening."
"I know. I'm going to explain everything. But first, my family's going to get here, and they're going to handle this. And you need to let them. Okay?"
"Your family? Jason, we need to call the police—"
"My family IS the police. Kind of. It's complicated." He cupped your face. "I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"
You nodded numbly.
Five minutes later, Batman dropped into the alley.
You would have screamed, but you were too in shock.
Batman stopped, staring at the body. Then at you. Then at Jason.
"What happened?" His voice was the Batman voice, deep and gravelly and terrifying.
"Joker tried to grab us. Held her at gunpoint. She defended herself." Jason's arm was around you, protective. "It was self-defense. Completely justified."
Another figure dropped down—Nightwing, you recognized the blue and black suit. He looked at the scene and let out a low whistle. "Is that—is that the Joker?"
"Was," Jason corrected.
"Who—" Nightwing looked at you. "Oh. Oh wow. Civilian?"
"My girlfriend," Jason said tightly.
"Your girlfriend killed the Joker with a crowbar." Nightwing sounded almost impressed. "That's—wow. Okay. Bruce?"
Batman was still staring at the body. At the crowbar. At you.
"Self-defense?" He asked finally.
"He was going to kill us," you said, finding your voice. It came out small, shaky. "He had a gun to my head. I just—I didn't think. I just grabbed the crowbar and—"
"And put an end to Gotham's worst nightmare," Nightwing finished. "Holy shit."
"Language," Batman said automatically. Then, to you: "Are you injured?"
"No. I don't—I don't think so."
"We need to process the scene. Self-defense claim will hold—multiple witnesses can testify to his violent history, and the physical evidence supports your story." Batman was already moving, examining the body with professional detachment. "But there will be questions. Police involvement. Media attention."
"We can handle that," Jason said. "Keep her name out of it. Anonymous civilian defending herself from attack. The Joker's been evading justice for years—no one's going to mourn him."
"The public will want to know who killed him," Batman said.
"Then they can stay curious." Jason's voice was hard. "She's not becoming a target because she did what the justice system should have done years ago."
You were still trying to process the fact that Batman was here. In this alley. Apparently working with Jason's family.
"Jason," you said quietly. "Why is Batman taking orders from you?"
The three men exchanged glances.
"That's a longer conversation," Jason said.
"I have time." You stood up, shaky but determined. "I just killed someone. I think I deserve some explanations about what the hell is going on."
Jason looked at Batman. Batman gave a slight nod.
"Okay," Jason said. "Okay. But not here. Let's get you somewhere safe first, then I'll explain everything."
"Everything?"
"Everything."
"Everything" turned out to be a lot.
You were sitting in the Batcave. The actual Batcave. Being offered tea by Alfred Pennyworth, who apparently knew Batman's secret identity because Batman was Bruce Wayne, and also Bruce Wayne was Jason's adoptive father.
Your boyfriend was Red Hood.
Bruce Wayne was Batman.
Dick Grayson was Nightwing.
There was a whole family of vigilantes, and you'd been dating one of them for six months without knowing.
"So," you said faintly, accepting the tea. "When you said you had baggage..."
"I might have undersold it," Jason admitted. He'd showered and changed—the Red Hood suit was apparently in a case nearby—and now looked like regular Jason. Except you knew he wasn't regular anything.
"The Joker. When he mentioned Ethiopia. And the crowbar." You looked at Jason. "What did he do to you?"
"He killed me," Jason said quietly. "When I was fifteen. He beat me to death with a crowbar, then blew up the building. Bruce found me too late. I was dead for six months before I came back."
The tea cup shook in your hands. "He killed you."
"And I've spent every day since wanting to return the favor. But Bruce has this rule. No killing. Not even the Joker. Not even after everything he's done." Jason's eyes met yours. "I've tried. Multiple times. Something always stops me. Batman intervenes, or the Joker escapes, or circumstances prevent it. And I've been angry about it for years. Angry that the man who murdered me gets to keep living. Keep hurting people. Keep haunting Gotham."
"But you killed him," Dick said to you, and there was something like awe in his voice. "You actually did it. Ended him. Just... grabbed a crowbar and finished it."
"I didn't—I wasn't trying to make a statement. I was just trying to survive." You set down the tea before you dropped it. "He had a gun to my head. I thought he was going to kill me. Kill both of us."
"He was," Bruce said. "Your actions were justified. Self-defense. You saved your own life and Jason's."
"But I killed someone—"
"You killed a mass murderer," Jason corrected. "Someone who's murdered hundreds. Who's tortured thousands. Who's escaped justice over and over because the system is broken." He moved closer, kneeling in front of your chair. "You did what the law couldn't. What Batman wouldn't. What I've been trying to do for years."
"I didn't do it for justice. I did it because I was scared."
"That makes it even more justified." Jason took your hands. "You're not a vigilante. Not a trained fighter. You're someone who was attacked by a monster and fought back. That's not murder. That's survival."
You looked at Bruce. "You're not angry? About your no-killing rule?"
"You're not part of my team. You're not bound by my code." Bruce's expression was hard to read. "And while I don't condone killing... I can't say the world isn't better without him in it."
"Bruce," Dick said, surprised.
"I said what I said." Bruce looked at Jason. "Take care of her. She's been through enough tonight."
He left, cape swirling. Dick gave you a small, supportive smile and followed.
Alfred refilled your tea. "You've had quite the evening, miss. Perhaps some rest would be beneficial?"
"I don't think I can sleep."
"Nevertheless. Master Jason, the guest room is prepared."
"Thanks, Alfred."
Once Alfred was gone, it was just you and Jason in the massive cave, surrounded by computers and equipment and reminders that your boyfriend was a vigilante who died and came back to life.
"I can't believe you didn't tell me," you said finally.
"I wanted to. So many times. But this life—it's dangerous. The less you knew, the safer you were." Jason's laugh was bitter. "Lot of good that did. The Joker still found you."
"Because of you. He recognized you. That's why he grabbed me."
"Yes. And I will never forgive myself for that." Jason's voice was rough. "If something had happened to you because of my past—"
"But it didn't. I'm okay. And he's—" You stopped. "He's dead. I killed him."
"You survived him. There's a difference."
You were quiet for a moment. Then: "How do you live with it? Knowing you've killed people?"
Jason was silent for a long moment. "The people I've killed were threats. Murderers, rapists, human traffickers. People who wouldn't stop hurting others. I don't lose sleep over them." He looked at you. "But you're not me. You're not a vigilante. This wasn't your world until tonight."
"I keep seeing it. When I close my eyes. The sound of the crowbar hitting him. The blood." Your hands were shaking again. "I know he was a monster. I know he deserved it. But I still killed someone."
"I know. And that's going to be hard to process. But you're not alone in this." Jason pulled you into his arms. "I'm here. My family's here. We'll help you through it."
"Your family of vigilantes."
"Yeah. We're a weird bunch. But we take care of our own." He pulled back to look at you. "And you're one of us now. Whether you want to be or not."
"I don't want to be a vigilante—"
"You don't have to be. You can just be Jason Todd's girlfriend who happens to know his secret. That's enough."
You leaned against him, exhausted. "This is insane."
"Yeah. Welcome to my life."
"Our life now, I guess."
Jason pressed a kiss to your forehead. "I'm sorry. For dragging you into this. For the Joker targeting you because of me. For all of it."
"He didn't target me because of you. He targeted me because I was there. Because that's what he does—he hurts people randomly, senselessly. He's been haunting my life for years before I even met you." You pulled back to meet his eyes. "But he can't anymore. Because he's dead. Because I killed him."
"You survived him," Jason corrected gently. "And in doing so, you saved countless future victims. Including me."
"How did I save you?"
"Because I've been carrying the weight of his existence for years. Knowing he's out there, hurting people, and I couldn't stop him. Couldn't kill him without betraying Bruce, without becoming what Bruce feared I'd become." Jason's voice was thick with emotion. "But you—you weren't bound by those rules. You just did what needed to be done. And now he's gone. Really, truly gone. Because of you."
You started crying then. Not from fear or shock, but from sheer overwhelming emotion. Jason held you through it, silent and steady.
"What happens now?" You asked eventually.
"Now? The GCPD will process the scene. The media will go crazy. The city will either call you a hero or a murderer, depending on who's talking." Jason stroked your hair. "But we'll keep your identity protected. No one outside this family will know it was you."
"And us? You and me?"
"That depends. Can you handle dating Red Hood? Knowing what I do, what I've done, what I might have to do in the future?"
You thought about it. About the man who'd been nothing but kind to you for six months. Who remembered your coffee order and brought you soup when you were sick. Who also happened to be a vigilante who'd died and come back.
"Can you handle dating the woman who killed the Joker with a crowbar?"
Jason's smile was fierce and proud. "Baby, I think I might be in love with you for that."
Despite everything, you laughed. "That's the most disturbing thing you've said all night."
"Fair. But I mean it. What you did—" His voice got thick again. "You have no idea what that means to me. What it means to finally be free of him. To know he can't hurt anyone else. Can't hurt you."
"I didn't do it for you. I didn't even know about—about everything."
"I know. That's what makes it even more meaningful." Jason cupped your face. "You weren't trying to avenge me or save Gotham. You were just trying to survive. And in doing so, you accomplished what I've been trying to do for years."
"Jason—"
"I know it's heavy. I know you're processing. I know this is all insane." He rested his forehead against yours. "But I need you to know that what you did tonight—you're incredible. Brave. Strong. And I am so grateful you're alive."
You kissed him then, desperate and needy and alive. When you pulled back, you were both breathing hard.
"I'm going to need time," you said. "To process all of this. The Joker, your secret, everything."
"Take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere."
"And therapy. I'm definitely going to need therapy."
"Alfred knows a guy. Specializes in trauma. Very discreet. Treats a lot of vigilantes and their... associates."
"Of course he does." You leaned against Jason's chest. "This is my life now. Dating a vigilante. Knowing Batman's identity. Having killed the Joker."
"If it helps, the Joker thing will probably make you a legend among certain communities."
"That doesn't help at all."
"Worth a shot."
You sat there in the Batcave, processing the impossible night, when Dick came back down.
"Hey, so the GCPD is handling the scene. Gordon's ruling it self-defense—the gun, the witnesses, the Joker's history. No charges." He looked at you. "You're clear. Legally, at least."
"That's—good. That's good."
"Also, the media's going insane. 'Joker Found Dead,' 'Gotham's Worst Nightmare Ends,' all that. They're calling it the most anticlimactic villain death in history." Dick grinned. "No big showdown with Batman. No dramatic final battle. Just a civilian with a crowbar who'd had enough."
"Dick," Jason warned.
"Sorry. Too soon?"
"Way too soon."
"Right. Well. For what it's worth—" Dick looked at you seriously. "—what you did took guts. And you saved Jason's life. So... thank you. For that."
"I didn't—I was just trying not to die."
"Yeah, but you saved him anyway. So. Thanks." Dick headed back upstairs. "Alfred's making breakfast if you're hungry!"
Once he was gone, you looked at Jason. "Is your whole family this casual about death?"
"You get used to it in this line of work."
"I'm never getting used to this."
"That's probably healthy." Jason stood, pulling you with him. "Come on. Alfred's breakfast will help. Everything's better after Alfred's pancakes."
"I killed the Joker and you're offering me pancakes."
"Welcome to the Wayne family. We process trauma with carbs."
And somehow, impossibly, you laughed.
Epilogue: Six Months Later
The nightmares came and went. Some nights you slept fine. Some nights you woke up gasping, crowbar in hand—metaphorically speaking.
Therapy helped. So did Jason, who understood trauma in ways most people couldn't.
The media storm had eventually died down. The Joker's death was ruled self-defense by an anonymous civilian. Gordon had been very firm about keeping your identity sealed. Batman's reputation had done the rest.
Gotham was... different without the Joker. Crime didn't stop—it never did. But there was a sense of relief, of one less nightmare haunting the city's streets.
You were still adjusting to knowing Jason's secret. To understanding that when he said he was "working late," he meant patrolling. To accepting that his family was the Batfamily.
But you were adjusting.
"Penny for your thoughts?" Jason asked, finding you on the balcony of his apartment.
"Just thinking about how weird my life got."
"Regrets?"
"About dating you? No. About killing the Joker?" You paused. "I don't know. I'm not glad I did it. But I'm not sorry he's dead."
"That's fair."
You turned to face him. "Do you think about it? About me being the one who killed him?"
"Every day." Jason pulled you close. "Sometimes I still can't believe it. That you—this incredible, normal person I was lucky enough to date—ended up being the one to finally finish him."
"I was just trying to survive."
"I know. But you survived him. Ended him. Freed me from him in a way I never could have freed myself." Jason's voice got rough. "You have no idea what that means to me."
"You've mentioned it once or twice."
"I'll probably mention it a few thousand more times over the next several decades."
"Decades, huh? Pretty confident about this relationship."
"You killed my murderer with a crowbar. I feel like that's grounds for a long-term commitment."
Despite the dark humor, you smiled. "That's the weirdest relationship milestone ever."
"We're a weird couple."
"Yeah. We really are."
Jason kissed you, sweet and soft. When he pulled back, his expression was serious.
"I love you. You know that, right?"
"I know. I love you too."
"Even though I'm Red Hood and I dragged you into this insane world?"
"Even though. Maybe partly because." You touched his face. "You're not going to get rid of me that easily."
"Good. Because I'm not letting you go."
You stood there on the balcony, watching Gotham's lights, and thought about how your life had changed. How one terrifying night had ended with you killing the city's worst monster and learning your boyfriend's biggest secret.
It was insane.
It was impossible.
It was your life now.
And somehow, impossibly, you were okay with that.
"Hey," Jason said softly. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For surviving. For being here. For—" His voice caught. "—for ending him. For giving me peace I didn't think I'd ever have."
You pulled him into a tight hug. "You don't have to keep thanking me."
"Yeah, I do. Every day for the rest of our lives."
"That's a long time."
"Good thing I plan on spending it with you."
And there, on a Gotham balcony, in the arms of a man who'd died and come back, you felt something you hadn't felt in years when it came to the Joker:
Peace.
Because he was gone. Really gone. And you were the one who'd made sure of it.
Not because you were a hero. Not because you were seeking justice.
⋆˚꩜｡ you and jason are just two teenagers in love that nothing seemed to be able to changs, no bruce, no robin missions. except something does when he dies, though you never stopped loving him
this is long. happy ending. angst. grieving. characters ages aren't really correct or canon, don't mind it.
⋆˙⟡ request
Gotham at night always smelled like rain and smoke, and Jason swore he could tell exactly which part of the city he was in by the taste of the air alone. You learned that only because you walked beside him enough times to hear him mutter something like, “Crime Alley’s close. Smells like piss and disappointment” and even though you’d nudge him and tell him he was dramatic, you secretly loved the way he saw the city, sharp edges, broken glass, and a heart worth saving buried underneath. That was exactly how he saw himself, too, though he’d rather swallow his own cape than admit it. Tonight he walked beside you in his civilian clothes, hood up, hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket, the sky hanging low with clouds about to break. He should’ve been out on patrol. Bruce had said so, ordered it, actually.
But Jason had blown the order off with that practiced mix of defiance and charm he used too often, and he’d climbed through your bedroom window ten minutes later with a half smirk and a “I missed you. Don’t make it a big deal.” You always made it a big deal, because for you it was one, not the kind that scared him off, but the kind that warmed his face whenever he looked at you long enough to remember he didn’t have to be on guard.
He didn’t have to perform. Not with you.
You reached out, curling your fingers around his, and he pretended not to melt at the contact. “You’re avoiding Bruce” you murmured. Jason snorted, looking anywhere but at you. “He’s avoiding me. I just make it easier by not being around when he’s pissed. It’s a favor, really.” You squeezed his hand, and his jaw tensed, eyes flicking down to where your fingers laced with his. Even with his gloves off, even in the quiet of the empty streetlight glow, you could feel the remnants of tension humming under his skin, the leftover adrenaline of a boy who trained to break bones and catch bullets. But he let you hold him anyway. “He just worries about you” you added softly. “He thinks you’re too reckless.” “I am reckless,” he answered, shrugging one shoulder, “but I’m good at it.”. That was Jason, full honesty delivered like a punchline. You looked at him, really looked, and even in the dim you could pick out the constellation of bruises scattered along his cheekbone, the faint purple at his throat, the line above his eyebrow from last week’s blow that he refused to let Alfred stitch. His hair was messy, wind roughened from the ride over on the bike, a new thing Bruce didn’t know about and would absolutely murder him over. You pushed a bit of his hair back, and Jason swallowed hard, eyes dragging over your face like he was memorizing something he didn’t want to lose. He always looked at you like that when he thought you weren’t noticing, as if each second he got with you was both a miracle and a countdown. He didn’t know how to hold good things without clenching his fists.
The rain began as a soft tapping at first, then steadier, heavier. “Great” he muttered. “Perfect Gotham night.” You laughed because he said it bitterly, but the way he slid his jacket off and draped it over your shoulders was anything but. “You’ll get cold” you began, but he cut you off, “I don’t get cold. I’m built different.”
“You’re built stupid,” you teased. “You love it.” “Yeah,” you said softly. “I do.” Jason blinked, stunned for a fraction of a second, which was cute considering you two had been together for months. You’d said those words before, but every time you did he reacted like you’d knocked the air out of him.
He didn’t say “I love you” lightly, not because he didn’t feel it, but because he felt it so deeply it scared him. He was studying your face now, the rain giving everything a slick sheen, making the world quieter. His voice dropped, lower and rougher than before, the part of him only you ever got to hear. “Hey,” he said, tugging you toward him by the hands still joined. “C’mere.” You stepped into his space, and Jason dipped his head enough for your foreheads to meet. He smelled like leather, smoke from the bike, and that faint clean scent of the Manor’s soap he pretended not to like. “You know I’d pick you every time, right?” he said. “Over the job, over Bruce, over the cape, over all of it.” Your breath hitched. Jason never said things like that outright. Not unless he meant them with a terrifying amount of truth.
“Jason…” “Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, voice cracking with emotion he didn’t know how to carry. “I’m not good at this.” “You’re perfect at this,” you whispered. “You let me in.” “Cause I don’t want you to leave.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Jason rested his mouth against your temple, lips warm despite the cold rain. “Good” he murmured. But the city never let peace last too long. A motorcycle sped past, splashing a wave of dirty water over the sidewalk.
Jason instinctively stepped in front of you, shielding you even though he got hit by every drop. He muttered a curse, flicking water off his hair. “See? Built stupid” you joked. “Built heroic,” he corrected, rolling his eyes. You didn’t miss the way he subtly scanned the rooftops afterward, checking shadows, body tensing in a way that told you he’d heard something, or sensed something, he didn’t like. “Jason.” “It’s nothing,” he said quickly. “Just—look, can we go to your place? I wanna be with you for a bit before I have to deal with Bruce’s latest ‘Jason, you’re grounded from the entire city’ speech.” You smiled, tugging him along by his jacket sleeve.
When you reached your building and slipped inside the stairwell, Jason followed close, one hand on the small of your back, protective without displaying it. He didn’t admit fear, but he had plenty of it. Fear for you. Fear because of you.
Inside your apartment, the world softened. The quiet lit warmly around the edges, rain tapping the window, faint city hum underfoot. Jason always relaxed here, just enough to remind you how young he still was, carrying weight meant for someone far older. He pulled off his soaked shirt, tossing it over a chair, utterly unbothered. You tried not to stare at the bruises, the scars, the toned muscle built from training and survival. Jason caught you anyway. “If you’re checking me out, at least be honest about it.”
“I was checking the bruises.”
“Liar.” He grinned as he said it, stepping forward until the space between you shrank. He didn’t kiss you immediately, he never rushed this part. Instead he let his thumb slide along your jaw, studying you with those storm colored eyes that hid tenderness underneath all the chaos. “You saved me tonight” he whispered. “From what?” you asked. “From being alone in my own head.” And then he kissed you, slow at first, then deeper, fuller, as if he wanted to pour everything he couldn’t say into the press of his mouth against yours. Jason Todd was always intense, always too much, but with you he was soft. With you he didn’t have to be the sharp edged boy Bruce didn’t know how to handle.
He broke the kiss only to lean his forehead against yours again. “If anything ever happens to me” he breathed, voice barely holding “Jason, don’t—” “No, listen,” he insisted gently, lifting your face so you had to meet his eyes. “I need you to know that loving you… it’s the best thing I ever did. The only thing I never regret.” Your chest tightened painfully. “Nothing is going to happen to you.” He gave a crooked smile, the kind of smile that looked like it belonged to someone who knew better. “I like that you believe that” he whispered. “I need you to keep believing it.” You cupped his face. “Stay with me tonight?” “Always.” And he meant it. He always meant it.
You settled together on the couch, his head against your shoulder, your fingers combing through his damp hair. For once he wasn’t tense, wasn’t preparing for a fight or bracing for an argument with Bruce. He was just Jason, warm, tired, human, breathing steadily against your skin. He fell asleep like that, his hand still wrapped in yours, grip soft but certain.
And you didn’t know, couldn’t know, that this was one of the last nights you’d ever get like this. But if Jason did… he didn’t show it. He only held on to you as if you were the one thing anchoring him to the world, the one thing he had chosen for himself, the one thing he loved without fear. And in the quiet of that rain-soaked Gotham night, before fate stole him away, he whispered it in his sleep, so soft you almost thought you imagined it. “I love you.”
Jason never told you everything. He never did. Not because he didn’t trust you, God, he trusted you more than he trusted himself, but because he loved you with that dangerous kind of devotion that made him keep all the sharp edges of his life pointed toward himself instead of you. That’s why when he discovered the truth about his mother, he didn’t open with the whole truth the night before he left.
He sat on your bedroom floor with his back against the bed, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed while you sat behind him on the mattress, fingers slowly threading through his hair like you always did when he wasn’t okay. He’d been quiet all night, eyes far away, expression hardened like someone trying not to give into hope. Hope was dangerous for Jason. You felt him inhale sharply. “Hey,” he said, voice too soft, too shaky. “Can I ask you something?” “Anything.” He turned slightly, looking up at you, and his eyes were a storm.
“If there was something I needed to do… and it was important… would you be mad if I didn’t tell you everything?” You froze. He never talked like that unless he was scared. Really scared. “Jason, what is it?” He swallowed. “I just… I found something out. Something big. Something about my family.” Your heart jumped. Jason never talked about his family unless pressed. He always locked that door tight. “Jason,” you whispered, cupping his cheek. “Tell me.” He leaned into your hand like he needed the grounding. “I think… I think my birth mother might still be alive.” Your breath caught, and your heart clenched, because the hope in his eyes was so fragile you were scared it might break him. “Are you sure?” you asked gently. “I don’t know,” he admitted, voice cracking. “But I have a lead. She’s in Ethiopia.” Ethiopia. Far. Too far. Too far from help, from Bruce, from you. “And you want to go,” you said quietly. He looked down. “I need to know. I need to know where I come from. Who I come from.”
“Did you tell Bruce?” “Yeah.” His jaw tightened. “Big surprise, he told me to wait. Told me he’d send someone else to check the lead first. That I wasn’t thinking clearly.” “Were you?” “Doesn’t matter,” Jason muttered. “It’s my life. My past. My mother.” He rubbed his forehead, pacing the small room like a soldier trapped in a cage. “He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t know what it’s like—to want to know so badly it hurts.” “Jason…” He stopped in front of you, breathing uneven. “I have to do this.”
“Then let me come with you.” He froze. His whole face twisted, love, fear, guilt, all at once. “No.” “Jason—” “I said no,” he snapped, but his voice broke immediately. “I can’t bring you into this. I won’t.” You stood, reaching for him, and he grabbed your hands like they were the only thing holding him together. “I’ll be back” he said, trying to sound light, trying to sound like the fight with Bruce didn’t matter, like his entire world wasn’t tilting. “I just need to know the truth. Then I come home. To you.”
“Promise me.” He hesitated, and the hesitation alone was the first warning you didn’t notice at the time. Then he whispered, “I promise.”
You kissed him, long and slow, and he kissed you back with a desperation he tried to hide, like a boy terrified he wouldn’t get another moment like this. Later, when he slipped out your window, he looked back. Just once. And that look… that was the second warning you missed. Because it wasn’t a promise. It was a goodbye.
Jason met Bruce at the Manor before he left. You weren’t there to watch it, but you’d hear it later in fragments, the shouting, the accusations, Bruce yelling that Jason was acting out of emotion, Jason yelling that Bruce didn’t trust him, didn’t believe in him, didn’t understand. The last thing Jason said before storming out was, “She’d want me to find her. She’s my mother. You don’t get to take this from me.” And he left.
Bruce tried to stop him, he did, but Jason was too fast, too stubborn, too sure he was finally going to find something in the world that belonged to him.
Except the Joker found him first. Sheila was his mother, she was okay, but she was also compromised, blackmailed by the Joker. Jason walked into a trap wearing Robin’s suit, believing in the kind of hope you give to family even when they haven’t earned it. And the Joker beat him. Beat him with a crowbar until the world went red, then black, then silent. Jason died trying to save her from the bomb Joker left, he died still trying to help.
Bruce didn’t know immediately. That’s the worst part. He lost contact with Jason hours earlier but he had no idea Jason was with the Joker. And you… You only knew Jason wasn’t answering your messages. The first hour you pretended he was busy, the second hour you blamed the time difference, the third hour you felt a cold, horrible tightness in your chest.
When the Batcomputer flagged an emergency alert from Ethiopia, Bruce left alone, he didn’t tell you, he didn’t tell anyone. He raced across a continent trying to get to his son in time, but he was too late. When Bruce found the warehouse, it was smoke and dust and firelight. The bomb had gone off. The building collapsed. He dug through wreckage with his bare hands, screaming Jason’s name through smoke and tears, until he found him. Broken. Still. Already gone. He carried Jason’s body out of the ruins.
You were pacing your apartment, staring at your phone, waiting for a message that never came. When midnight passed, you put on your jacket and went to the Manor. Alfred’s face when he opened the door was the third warning, the one that shattered you. “Miss,” he whispered, voice trembling. “Something’s happened.”
“Where’s Jason?” you asked. Silence. Thick, suffocating silence. “Where is he?” Alfred’s eyes filled. “Master Bruce… he’s bringing him home.” You felt your knees weaken. “He’s hurt?”
“Miss…” Alfred’s voice cracked. “He’s gone.” The world stopped.
Everything inside you ruptured.
You didn’t scream, not at first. You went silent, chest heaving, mind blank, everything inside you collapsing inward like a dying star. And when Bruce arrived… When he stepped into the Manor carrying Jason’s body in his arms… You broke. You screamed then, raw, ripping, unforgettable, because no part of you could accept that the boy who left your room last night with a promise on his lips would never walk back through your window again.
Bruce blamed himself. You blamed yourself. Gotham mourned a Robin who never got to grow up. But your grief was different, sharper, deeper, because you loved him before he died, because you knew the warmth of his heartbeat, the softness of his laugh, the weight of his head on your shoulder when he fell asleep. And now all you had left was the memory of the way he said “I’ll be back” and the awful truth that he meant it… he just never got the chance. You never found peace in the answers. Because the only answer you ever wanted was impossible, why didn’t he stay with you just a little longer? Why did he go alone? Why did the world take him? Why him?
But in the end, one thing became clear: Jason didn’t die angry. He didn’t die reckless. He didn’t die as the violent, furious boy Gotham misunderstood. He died trying to save someone, because that’s who he was, because that’s who you loved.
And because even at the very end, he kept the promise he made on your bedroom floor, he never stopped trying to do the right thing. Even when it cost him everything.
The world didn’t end the day Jason died… but it stopped making sense. Sounds still existed, but they came through muffled, like you were underwater. People still spoke, but their voices felt a thousand miles away. The city still moved, taxis, sirens, neon signs flickering in puddles, but none of it reached you.
The first three days were the worst. You didn’t leave the Manor. Alfred barely left your side, hovering with tea you couldn’t drink, blankets you didn’t feel, quiet touches on your shoulder when you shook without realizing it.
Bruce was a ghost, walking the halls silently, not eating, not sleeping, disappearing into the cave for hours at a time, coming back covered in dust and blood that wasn’t his. Dick returned from Blüdhaven the same night Bruce brought Jason’s body home. You remembered the moment he saw you standing in the Manor foyer, hands trembling, face wet with days-old tears you no longer felt. He didn’t say a word, he just crossed the room and pulled you into his arms, and you collapsed.
You cried so hard your lungs burned, so hard you thought you might tear something inside yourself. Dick held you through all of it, jaw clenched, tears running down his own face and dripping into your hair. “I’m sorry” he whispered over and over, voice breaking. “I am so… so sorry.” But grief isn’t kind. It isn’t gentle. And it doesn’t take turns. It comes in waves, violent, suffocating, cruel. At night you couldn’t sleep because every time you shut your eyes, you saw Jason, smiling, laughing, kissing you with that ridiculous smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, and then the image snapped to the reality Bruce brought home, the horrific contrast that made your stomach twist until you couldn’t breathe.
The nightmares started next.
You saw him trapped under rubble, calling for help, calling for you. You saw the Joker’s face in flashes, too white, too wide, too red, and woke up screaming. Dick was always the one who ran to your room first. Sometimes he sat on the floor beside your bed until dawn, making sure you slept again. Sometimes you didn’t sleep at all and just stared out the window while he talked quietly, stories about Jason, memories from their time as brothers. You needed those stories, you needed to remember him as alive. But grief does something else, too, it sharpens into obsession.
And yours sharpened into investigation.
You started going downstairs to the Batcave. The first time, Bruce didn’t acknowledge you. He stood over the computer, face blank, staring at mission logs and satellite scans from Ethiopia long after the point where they held no answers. You stepped beside him quietly. “I want to see the footage” you said. Bruce didn’t move, Alfred turned from the medical table, eyes widening. “Miss, I don’t think—”
“I need to see it.” Bruce finally spoke, voice hollow. “No.”
Your throat tightened. “He was my boyfriend.” Bruce’s jaw clenched. “He was my son.” The silence that followed was deadening. You could see it all over him, the guilt, the pain, the self-hatred, but you weren’t thinking about his grief, only your own. “Show me” you whispered, begging without pride. “Please.” Bruce closed his eyes. “I can’t.”
You left the cave shaking, furious through the tears. That night, Dick found you sitting on the Manor roof in the cold, staring out at the city Jason loved to patrol. “You know he’s trying to protect you” Dick said softly behind you. “I don’t need protection” you muttered. “I need answers.”
He sat beside you, legs dangling over the ledge. “I know. I do too.” You took a shaky breath. “Why did he go alone?” Dick swallowed hard.
“Because Jason was stubborn. Because he was hurting. Because… because he cared too much about everyone except himself.” “He promised me he’d come back.” Your voice cracked and the tears came again. Dick turned to you gently, eyes soft in the moonlight. “He wanted to. I know he did.” But that wasn’t enough, mourning wasn’t enough. You needed to do something.
The next morning, you walked into the cave again. Bruce wasn’t there. Dick was. Sitting in front of the computer. He swiveled when he heard your steps. “I thought you might come back” he said. “I need anything you have” you said. “Notes. Maps. Reports. Names.”
“You’re not going after the Joker,” Dick said firmly. “I’m not stupid,” you snapped. “I know I’d die.” Dick flinched faintly, the mention of death was still raw. “Then what do you want?”
“I want the truth.” Dick looked at you for a long moment, jaw ticking as he weighed his loyalty to Bruce against his loyalty to Jason… and to you. Then he turned back to the console and pulled up files Bruce hadn’t given you access to. “This is everything we have” he said quietly. You didn’t breathe. He handed you a tablet, GPS coordinates, timestamps, last movement signatures from Jason’s tracker, medical summaries, details about the remains of the bomb, the confirmed presence of the Joker in the region. And then… photos. Dick hesitated. “Maybe don’t—” “Give them to me.” He did. Your hands shook as you scrolled, the warehouse, the rubble, the shattered pieces of metal and concrete, the blood. You couldn’t look long. You dropped the tablet, pressing both hands to your mouth as a choked sound ripped out of you. Dick caught you before you slid to the floor, pulling you against him. “I know” he whispered, tears slipping down his cheeks. “I know. I miss him too.”
“I can’t… I can’t do this,” you sobbed. “I loved him. I loved him so much.” “He loved you,” Dick said fiercely. “He talked about you all the time. He thought he didn’t deserve you.”
That broke you even harder. Because of course Jason thought that, of course he did, and now he would never hear you tell him how wrong he was. You spent the next week studying the files, desperate for something Bruce missed, any clue, any detail. You didn’t sleep, barely ate. Alfred worried. Dick hovered. Bruce avoided you, not cruelly, but because he looked at you and saw his own failure reflected back. You learned everything: the Joker’s movements, the supply shipments Sheila Haywood signed off on, the blackmail documents, the timing of the detonator, the exact minute Jason’s heartbeat stopped on the tracker.
One night, your ninth day of sleepless grief, Dick came into the cave and found you sitting on the floor, surrounded by printouts and maps, eyes red, hands trembling. “You need to rest” he murmured. “If I rest, I’ll fall apart” you whispered. “You’re already falling apart” he said gently, sitting beside you. You let your head fall onto his shoulder, exhausted beyond tears. “Nothing makes sense without him.” Dick rested his cheek against your hair. “I know,” he whispered. “I know, because he was my brother. And you were the only person who made him feel like he wasn’t broken.”
“Then why did he leave me?” Dick exhaled shakily. “He didn’t leave you. He left a question he needed answered. It just… cost him everything.” You closed your eyes, the ache unbearable. “I hate the Joker.” “We all do.”
“I hate Bruce too,” you whispered. “Is that wrong?” Dick shook his head. “No. It’s human.” Silence settled, heavy and suffocating. Then Dick’s voice softened. “You know… he would want you to live. Jason. He’d want you to eat, to sleep, to yell at him for being reckless.” You let out a broken, humorless laugh. “He’d make fun of me for crying this much.”
“He’d pretend to,” Dick corrected softly. “But he’d hold you until you stopped.” You looked up at Dick, eyes blurred. “Who’s going to hold me now?” Dick’s face twisted, grief, sympathy, helplessness. “I will” he whispered. “As long as you need.”
And he did. For weeks. He carried you through every breakdown, every nightmare, every moment your knees gave out because grief was heavier than your body could bear. You never forgot Jason, you never stopped missing him, you never stopped loving him. But slowly, painfully, reluctantly, inch by inch, you started breathing again. Grief doesn’t end, it just changes shape.
Some days it felt like a bruise. Some days like a stab wound. Some days like an empty space beside you where Jason should have been. But every day, you carried him. In your memory. In your heart. In the ache that would never fully heal. And Dick walked beside you, the only person who understood the exact shape of your pain, helping you survive the love that ended too soon.
Jason wouldn’t have wanted your life to end with his. He loved you too much for that. And somehow, unbearably, beautifully… that love is what kept you alive.
It had been exactly one month since Jason died. One month of waking up every day with your heart in shards, one month of Bruce retreating into the cave like a ghost, one month of Dick trying to hold both himself and you together, one month of Alfred quietly crying in the kitchen when he thought no one could hear, one month of Gotham losing a Robin and gaining a wound. And then you heard it. The whisper. The rumor. The thing so unthinkable you refused to believe it until your shaking hands forced open the front doors of Wayne Manor and carried you inside, you heard there was a new Robin. You didn’t want it to be true. You didn’t want to believe Bruce could possibly, possibly replace Jason like that, like a uniform, like a mask, like a role to fill rather than a son he buried with his own hands. But the moment you stepped into the foyer, you felt it. A shift. Something unfamiliar. Someone unfamiliar. Voices echoed down the hall, Bruce’s low, quiet tone, and a boy’s voice. Young. Younger than Jason. You froze at the corner, heartbeat pounding in your ears. Bruce stood in the training room doorway, arms crossed, talking to… him. A boy, black hair, bright eyes, nervous posture, wearing practice gear with faint green and red accents, like a costume not yet complete. He looked so small. So innocent. So painfully misplaced in a home soaked in grief. Bruce noticed you first. His expression didn’t changed, it was carved from stone these days, but you saw his shoulders tighten.
“You shouldn’t be here” he said quietly. “The hell I shouldn’t” you almost hissed. The boy turned, startled. He looked at you with wide, open eyes, the kind of eyes that didn’t yet understand death the way you did. “Hi,” he said, voice soft, hopeful. “I’m—” “Don’t.” The word came out sharp enough to cut. He blinked. “I… I’m Tim,” he tried again, awkwardly stepping forward. “Tim Drake.” You stared at him like he was a ghost wearing Jason’s colors. Your hands shook, your throat tightened, your heart cracked open all over again. Tim swallowed, clearly trying to be friendly, polite, normal. “I’m… um… I’m the new Rob—” Your vision went red. It wasn’t rational. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t his fault. But grief is rarely rational, and nothing about this, this child standing where Jason should be, felt fair. “No” you whispered. Then louder “No. You’re not.” Tim froze mid sentence. Bruce exhaled slowly, like he’d been dreading this moment. “Bruce” you breathed, staring at him with betrayal burning under your skin, “tell me you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t replace him.” “It’s not like that” Bruce tried. “He needed help. Gotham needed—” “I DON’T CARE WHAT GOTHAM NEEDED” you screamed, voice splintering. “JASON NEEDED YOU!” Tim flinched at the name. Bruce’s jaw tightened. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand perfectly.” Your throat burned. Your chest dug inward. “Your son died. And one month later you found another one to put in his suit.” Tim looked horrified. “Wait—no— I’m not trying to replace— I just wanted to help, I swear, I—”
“Shut up.” The boy’s face crumpled in confusion. “I… I didn’t mean—” “I SAID SHUT UP!” You stepped toward him without realizing it, grief fueling your body like fire. Dick’s voice echoed distantly down the hall, “Hey, what’s happening—?” But he was too far away. Tim opened his mouth to explain again, something soft, something kind, and something inside you snapped. The same way it used to snap inside Jason when he felt cornered, overwhelmed, hurting too much to contain it. Before you processed it, your fist flew. A clean, sharp hook, the one Jason drilled into you a hundred times when you sparred in alleys after school, laughing breathlessly between hits. The same punch that always made him grin and say, “Atta girl.”
Your knuckles connected with Tim. Hard. Harder than you intended. The boy gasped, stumbling backward, hand flying to his chest as shock flooded his features. He hadn’t even lifted a guard. He didn’t know he needed one but the suit protected him enough that it didn't hurt him.
Bruce stepped forward instantly, grabbing your wrist mid-swing when you almost hit him again. “Enough” Bruce snapped, voice low and dangerous, but beneath it, beneath everything, you heard it: shame.
But you weren’t ashamed. Not yet. You ripped your hand out of his grip. “He’s a child, Bruce” you spat. “You put a child in Jason’s suit.” “I didn’t—” “YES YOU DID.” You turned on Tim again, tears blurring your vision. “Do you know what happened to him?” “I…” Tim looked terrified but didn’t run. “I know he died. I know he was Robin before me. I know he—” “You don’t know anything.” Your voice trembled violently. “You don’t know how he laughed. How he fought. How he hated mornings but always showed up anyway. How he never walked away from someone who needed help. How he died alone in a warehouse because he wanted to save his mother.” Your breath cracked. “You don’t know how it feels to see the boy you love lowered into the ground and then watch another kid try on his colors like a Halloween costume.” Tim’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m not trying to replace him” he whispered. “I just… I thought maybe I could help. Batman needed help. I thought…” He swallowed, voice tiny. “I thought Jason would want someone to help Batman.” The words sliced you open. Because part of you knew it was true, Jason would have wanted Batman to have backup. He would have wanted Bruce to have support. He would have wanted Gotham to have a Robin.
But right now, none of that mattered. Because Jason should have been here. He should have been alive. He should have been wearing that suit, not this trembling boy in front of you. Dick’s voice finally reached you as he ran into the room. “Stop!” He rushed to Tim, putting an arm between you. “What the hell happened— Tim— you okay?” Tim nodded shakily. Dick turned to you, eyes wide with shock and pain. “Why did you—?” “He said he’s Robin. You knew that dinner you?” you choked. Dick’s face softened instantly. “Oh… oh god.” You shook your head, backing away, chest tight and breath shaking. “I can’t do this. I can’t watch him— I can’t see anyone— I can’t—” Dick reached out for you. You flinched back like his touch was fire. “Don’t” you whispered. “Please don’t. I’ll break.” Dick’s eyes filled. “You’re already breaking.” Your knees buckled. Breath shuddered. Tears blurred the world into watercolor. Tim stood small and silent behind Dick, not angry, not defensive, just hurt, scared, and heartbreakingly compassionate for someone who didn’t even know you. Bruce stepped closer, voice quiet. “I never meant to replace him.”
“But you did.” He didn’t argue. He didn’t deny it. His silence said everything. “I can’t be here,” you whispered, voice collapsing. “Not with— not with a new Robin walking these halls.” Tim looked like you’d stabbed him. Dick took a step toward you again, slower this time. “Please,” he murmured, “don’t go. Not like this.” You wiped at your face with shaking hands. “I loved him” you whispered. “I loved him, and he’s not even cold in the ground before everything moves on.” “No one is moving on,” Dick whispered. “We’re surviving. Barely.” But it didn’t matter.
The room was shrinking, the walls felt too tight, the grief too big. You turned and left without looking back, the Manor echoing behind you, Bruce frozen in guilt, Dick torn between two hurting kids, and Tim standing bruised and trembling with a single whispered apology on his lips that you weren’t there to hear. “I’m sorry,” Tim whispered to the empty doorway. “I’m so, so sorry.”
And for the first time since Jason died… you weren’t sure who you were angrier at: Bruce, for moving on, or the universe, for taking Jason in the first place.
But one thing was certain, the grief wasn’t done with you. Not even close.
The cemetery always felt colder than Gotham proper, as if the air around Crime Alley’s dead knew exactly who they were burying and refused to get any warmer out of respect.
You stood where you always did, boots half sunk in the patch of grass you'd slowly carved by returning every single day since the funeral. The months after Jason’s death had blurred into a single long scream, too hoarse, too exhausted to sound out loud anymore. Now it was just silence. Silence and paper.
You knelt, the way you always did, your knees clicking against the stone path as you opened your bag, fingers trembling in the repetitive muscle memory of heartbreak. Jason Todd, a Good Soldier.
Beloved Son. Beloved Brother. A Robin Who Fell. They’d written that last part small, almost hidden, because Bruce had refused for weeks to choose wording and in the end Dick stepped in and handled the stone, shoulders shaking the entire time. You remembered him apologizing over and over that day, voice cracking, saying, “I’m sorry. I’m trying.” You had been too numb to answer.
You swallowed as you placed today’s letter down. The envelope was soft, edges slightly bent from being held too tight. And like always, before you could stop yourself, yoy whispered “Hey, Jay”
Your voice broke halfway through his name. It always did.
You sat beside the headstone, pulling your knees to your chest like he used to sit on rooftops, elbows on them, chin tucked down, waiting for danger with that cocky little smirk that drove you crazy. The fall wind cut through your coat, you barely felt it anymore.
You opened the envelope and reread today’s letter before leaving it. You always reread them, as if making sure your words were worthy of him.
Jason, I had another dream last night. You were laughing, not loudly, just under your breath the way you did when you were trying to be quiet but couldn’t help yourself. You asked me why I was crying, and I told you, “Because you’re dead.” You punched my shoulder and said, “Not dead enough to be rid of you.” I woke up smiling. Then it hit me again. I miss you. I miss you every single second. Gotham doesn’t sound right without you yelling at Bruce. My apartment doesn’t feel real without your jacket on the floor. Nothing feels real at all. If there’s anything after this, I hope you’re not alone. I hope it doesn’t hurt anymore. I hope you know I loved you. I still do.
—Yours, always.
Your handwriting wavered near the end, you remembered your vision blurring while you wrote it the night before, but you never rewrote them. He deserved the truth, even if the ink shook.
You exhaled slowly, folded the letter, tucked it beneath the small smooth stone you always used to weigh it down.
And then you froze.
Because the space beneath that small stone, the space where the letter you left yesterday should have been, was empty.
Completely empty. The letter was gone.
Your brain immediately tried to explain it logically, desperately, violently: the wind, a stray animal., rain, someone visiting another grave stepped on it, a cleaner picked it up.
But you had been coming here for years.
Nothing ever touched the letters.
Nothing moved them. Nothing disturbed them. Nothing took them.
Your breath hitched sharply, but you swallowed it down, forcing yourself not to spiral. You hated hope. Hope was cruel, hope was what Jason had the day he ran after the possibility of his mother, hope got him murdered.
And yet, you couldn’t stop staring at the empty patch of grass like it had bitten you.
“No,” you whispered, to yourself, to the empty air. “No. Don’t… don’t start that.”
But your hands were shaking.
You left another letter the next day. A simple one, shorter.
If someone took yesterday’s letter, please put it back. That’s all. Please.
You checked it eleven times that night in your memory before finally sleeping.
And the next day, you returned early, wearing the same coat, same boots, breath fogging. You walked the stone path automatically, because your body already knew the way.
Your knees hit the ground before your mind caught up.
The letter was gone again.
No wind. No rain. No footprints. No disturbance. Just gone.
And something in your chest, something you had been keeping buried deeper than Jason himself, struck like a fist to your ribs.
“No” you whispered again, this time almost a plea. “Jason’s dead. They… they buried him. I saw… I saw…”
But you couldn’t finish it. Couldn’t say out loud what you saw in that warehouse. What Bruce dragged out of there, what they put in the coffin.
You pressed your fists to your mouth and shook until your shoulders hurt.
You knew about resurrection, in theory. Ra’s al Ghul. The Lazarus Pit. The League. Jason had ranted once about how Bruce didn’t care enough to use that pit on anyone, not even Jason’s biological father. You remembered Jason calling it “a crock of mystical green shit” but also admitting, very quietly, that “if it’s real, B would never let anyone he loves near it.”
Your mind began spinning through every detail you knew. Every possibility. Every impossibility. Your breath quickened. You curled over the grass until your forehead nearly touched his name carved in stone.
“Jason,” you whispered, “if you’re alive… if you’re alive, why aren’t you coming home?”
It hurt to even speak it.
And even worse, a horrifying new fear curled inside you.
Because if Jason was alive…
And not coming home…
Then something was keeping him from it.
Or someone was.
And you knew Gotham well enough to know what that meant.
You stayed until the sun set and the cemetery turned blue purple, numb fingers tracing the carved letters of his name like you could memorize them into your bones. Your breath came uneven, the cold air scraping your lungs.
Finally, you pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. Your hands trembled as you wrote:
If this is you, Jay… please… just give me something. Anything. I don’t care what you look like. I don’t care what happened to you. I don’t care what’s wrong or what hurts or what changed. I just want you. I’ll take you any way you are. Please. Please come home.
You folded the letter carefully, placed it under the familiar stone.
You stayed for an hour. Two.
Three.
Nothing happened.
You finally walked away, shoulders caved, every step heavy with grief sharpened into a new, unbearable shape: what if.
Behind you, five minutes after you left, the branches near the grave stirred, part wind, part something heavier, something that breathed.
A gloved hand slipped from the shadows.
Scarred. Calloused. Shaking.
Jason Todd, older, angrier, alive in the wrong way, stepped close enough that the toe of his boot brushed the grass you had knelt on.
He reached down, picked up your letter with slow, trembling fingers, his breath broke in his chest as he read your handwriting, his name written the way only you wrote it. A cracked sound escaped him, half choke, half something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years.
He touched the stone marking his own grave, then he disappeared back into the darkness before anyone could see him, letter crumpled in his fist, your voice echoing through him like a ghost he didn’t know how to fight.
And you, miles away, felt the faintest hollow echo in your ribs, like something familiar had shifted in the world, but you couldn’t name it yet.
The night you finally saw him again didn’t feel special at first.
It was one of those Gotham nights where the air tasted like smoke and rain, where the sky pressed low as if trying to suffocate the city into silence. You'd been out late, too late, following a lead on a gunrunner you suspected might be connected to the same network that had once spread Joker’s weapons.
You weren't part of the Batfamily, not anymore, not since the day you punched Tim. Bruce hadn’t banned you, exactly, but he didn’t reach out. Dick checked on you from time to time, but even that had slowly faded, swallowed by grief and time and the kind of pain people don’t know how to touch.
You walked the rooftops like Jason used to, boots scuffing the ledges in that same restless pattern, the one he taught you when you were fifteen and bulletproof with love. Your breath fogged as you scanned Crime Alley. The place always felt like an open wound. His wound. Yours too.
The rain had started, faint, misty droplets gathering in your hair. You took a breath, ready to move but froze.
Someone else was in the alley.
Someone tall. Broad shouldered. Wearing a leather jacket darkened by rain, combat boots planted steady on the cracked concrete, and a helmet, a red one, glossy, sharp-lined, entirely out of place in the dark.
Red Hood.
The guy Gotham’s criminals whispered about. The one who left bodies where Batman left bruises. The one whose voice on police scanners sounded exactly like a ghost learning how to breathe again.
He stood with his back to you, tense, head tilted slightly as if he’d known you were following him long before you realized you were doing it.
Your stomach plummeted. Something ancient and instinctive in your bones twisted hard.
You didn’t know why, you only knew you couldn’t breathe.
You voice cracked out before you could stop it.
“Why are you taking them?”
He didn’t move.
Your heart thrashed against your ribs, painful and wild. You took a shaking step closer.
“The letters” you whispered, each word like peeling back your own ribs. “Why are you taking the letters from Jason’s grave?”
His shoulders stiffened, a violent, involuntary reaction.
You had spent years watching Jason Todd’s body language.
You knew that flinch, you knew that breath, the sharp inhale he tried to hide, you knew that stillness, the kind he used when he was lying or scared or both.
You didn’t breathe, couldn’t.
“It’s you.”
Barely a sound, but it broke the world open.
Red Hood didn’t turn. Didn’t speak. Rain slid over the helmet in quiet streaks, like tears the metal couldn’t feel.
You stepped closer, boots echoing on wet pavement. Your chest hurt so badly you thought you might collapse from it.
“Turn around” you whispered. “Please.”
Nothing.
You swallowed, voice cracking, “Jason.”
It was like you’d shot him.
His breath punched out of him in a sound you felt in your bones, raw, choked, the noise of a man who had avoided his own name for years. His shoulders curled inward, his hand lifting to the side of his helmet like it hurt him.
Slowly, he turned his head. Not fully. Just enough.
The red helmet caught the streetlight, a distorted reflection of the boy you once loved.
He didn’t move again.
You took the last few steps until you were right in front of him, close enough to touch him but too terrified that if you reached out, he’d vanish like all your nightmares of him.
Your voice was barely breath.
“Take it off.”
He shook his head once, a tiny, tight movement. Fear. Shame. Guilt. You read all of it. He was the same and not the same. Taller. Broader. Harder. The leather jacket strained against his shoulders. His stance was older, weighted by something heavy and violent.
You stepped closer until you could see your own reflection warped in the helmet.
“Take it off” you repeated, softer this time. Not a demand. A plea.
His breath stuttered.
Then, with a slow, shaking hand, he lifted the helmet. The hiss of the seal breaking echoed strangely loud in the alley.
He held it at his side.
And the world dropped open beneath your feet.
Jason Todd stood in front of you. Alive.
Older, scarred, hair a little longer and messier, jaw sharper, shoulders wider. His skin was pale like he hadn’t seen sunlight in years. There were faint scars along his cheekbone, another crossing his eyebrow. He looked like someone had rebuilt him from broken glass and rage.
But the thing that froze you, the thing that stole your breath entirely, were his eyes.
Eyes that had seen death and that now had the faintest green in them, probably an effect from the pit.
You choked on your own breath. "Your eyes…”
He looked away immediately, jaw clenching, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard.
“I know” he muttered, voice rough, deeper, damaged. “They changed.”
You stepped even closer, so close their boots nearly touched. “It is you.”
He flinched again. He still wouldn’t look at you.
You reached out, slowly, like approaching a wild animal, and touched the edge of his jacket sleeve. His arm tensed like he was made of live wire.
"You took my letters.”
His eyes squeezed shut.
You continued, voice trembling, “All those years. All those letters. You were reading them.”
His breath broke. A sharp exhale through his nose, like he was trying not to fall apart.
“Yeah” he whispered. “I— I tried to stop. I told myself to stop. But… it was the only thing that…” He swallowed hard. “The only thing that still felt like… like I was human.”
Your throat tightened so violently you tasted blood.
“Why didn’t you come home?” you whispered.
He finally looked at you.
And the pain in his eyes, haunted, bottomless, almost knocked you backwards.
“Because I’m not him anymore” he said, voice low, cracked. “The Jason you loved… the kid you waited for… he died in that warehouse. What came back—” He shook his head. “You shouldn’t have to see this.”
You stepped forward and grabbed his jacket, not gently, yanking him closer until you were chest to chest.
“I waited for you” you whispered, fury and heartbreak bleeding into each word. “Every day. Every night. I brought letters to your grave like an idiot because I couldn’t stop loving you. You think I wouldn’t want you just because you’ve changed?”
His breath caught, completely caught, frozen in his throat.
“I killed people” he whispered, like a confession. “I kill people. I’m not what you wanted. I’m not what you—”
You cut him off by grabbing his face in both hands, forcing him to meet your eyes.
“I don’t care what you’ve done. I don’t care what’s broken. I don’t care how you came back. You’re here. You’re alive. And if you think for a second I’m scared of you, you really never knew me at all.”
He stared at you like you had hit him, something cracking wide inside him, disbelief, grief, yearning, guilt, love he thought he’d killed years ago.
His hands hovered near your waist, not touching, trembling as if he didn’t dare.
“You shouldn’t love me” he whispered.
You leaned your forehead to his. Your breaths mingled, shaky, uneven.
“I never stopped.”
Jason’s breath shattered in his chest, he sucked in a ragged inhale, eyes squeezing shut, jaw trembling. He was fighting tears so hard it shook his whole body. He pulled back half an inch, looking at you like he was memorizing your face for the first time and the second time and the last time all at once.
“It was me” he whispered. “All the letters. I kept every single one. I couldn’t let them get ruined by the rain and disappear"
Your knees went weak.
You pressed your forehead to his shoulder, overwhelming relief crashing into you like a tidal wave.
Jason hesitated for one fractured heartbeat, then his arms wrapped around you, crushing, desperate, trembling so hard he nearly dropped the helmet. He buried his face in your hair and exhaled a broken sound that was half sob, half laugh, half prayer.
The moment you finally felt his arms around you, solid, warm, trembling, something inside your chest snapped open so violently you thought you might collapse against him and never get up again. It wasn’t just relief. It was grief, resurrected. It was years of begging stone and air for something that could never answer. It was hope yoj had buried with your own hands clawing its way back to life.
And Jason felt it.
He froze for half a second, startled by the way you clung to him, fists buried in the back of his jacket, arms locked around him like you werrified that if you blinked, he’d vanish. Then, slowly, everything in him softened. His shoulders lowered. His jaw unclenched. The violent tension that lived in his spine, the constant readiness to kill or die, melted under your touch.
His chin dropped onto your shoulder, and he inhaled like he’d been drowning for years and finally found air.
You started crying first.
It was the grief she’d held in for years, years of writing to a grave, years of nightmares, years of blaming herself and Bruce and fate and the entire world. It came out in a sound so raw it made Jason flinch as if he wasn’t sure he deserved to hear you cry for him.
Your fingers curled tighter into his jacket until the leather creaked.
“You’re alive” you sobbed into his shoulder.
His breath stuttered. And then you felt it, the tiniest tremor in the muscles of his back. Jason Todd, who had been rebuilt out of rage and vengeance, who killed men with his bare hands, who hadn’t cried since the day he woke up in a coffin, he was shaking.
“Don’t cry” he whispered hoarsely, but his voice cracked halfway through, betraying him. “Doll, please don’t… I can’t— I can’t take that.”
You pulled back just enough to see his face.
Tears were clinging to his lashes.
Jason Todd was crying.
But what broke you wasn’t the tears, it was the way he tried to hide them, turning his head away, swallowing hard, blinking fast like he had to force each one back down his throat.
“No,” you whispered, holding his face gently, “look at me.”
He resisted. you didn’t let go.
“Jason.”
Slowly, painfully, he met your eyes.
He looked at you like he was starving. Like he had spent years imagining your face and now couldn’t bear how real you were. His bottom lip trembled, just barely.
You cupped his cheeks, your thumbs brushing the wet tracks under his eyes.
He moved before he could think, his hands came up to cradle your head, fingers sliding into your hair, pulling you close like he needed the contact to stay upright. His forehead pressed to yours, breaths mingling, both of you shaking so hard it felt like the world was trembling with you.
“You still smell the same” he whispered, voice shattering, as if that was the one detail that killed him most. “You still… you still sound like you.”
You cried harder at that, because that was the kind of thing Jason noticed, the kind of thing Jason loved in the quiet, secret ways he was never good at saying out loud.
“You came back to me” you whispered.
“I didn’t mean to.” His voice was thick, ruined. “I didn’t plan any of this. I wasn’t— I wasn’t supposed to see you. I told myself I wouldn’t. I told myself you’d moved on, or— I don’t know— that you deserved someone actually good.”
Your fingers tightened in his hair.
“Don’t you ever say that” you whispered fiercely. “You hear me? Don’t you ever say that again.”
He sucked in a sharp breath, chest heaving.
“But I’m not him anymore” he said, trembling. “I’m not— I’m not soft. I’m not good. I’m—”
“You’re Jason” you said. “That’s all I ever wanted. That’s all I ever needed.”
Something inside his eyes cracked wide at that, something he had built like armor, something he had needed to survive. It broke cleanly, beautifully, painfully.
He kissed your forehead.
It wasn’t a romantic kiss.
It wasn’t heated or passionate.
It was desperate.
A prayer.
A plea.
A homecoming.
He pressed his lips there and stayed perfectly still, like if he moved too fast he’d shatter into pieces you couldn’t put back together.
You collapsed against him again, arms wrapped tight around his torso.
He wrapped both arms around your waist and held you the way a dying man would hold a lifeline, strong, shaking, terrified to let go.
“Don’t leave” you whispered.
His breath hitched, and he buried his face in your neck.
“I never wanted to leave” he whispered, voice tearing. “They took me from you. I swear, they took me from you.”
You cried again, fresh, violent tears and he held you through all of it.
No Red Hood, just Jason, your Jason.
Alive. Terrified. Soft only for you.
Minutes passed, or hours, neither of you caring about traffic or sirens or the fact that Gotham was still dangerous. The world shrank until it was just you, holding onto each other like you could rewrite fate itself.
Finally, when the rain softened to a drizzle, Jason pulled back slightly, just enough to see your face. His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek, slow and tender.
His voice was barely audible.
“Say my name again.”
You swallowed, breath trembling as you did it.
His eyes closed, as if the sound itself hurt him and healed him at the same time.
He leaned his forehead to you again.
“Only you,” he whispered. “Only you get to call me that.”
Your breath caught. “Why?”
“Because you’re the only person left who loved me before I died.” His voice broke. “And the only one who still wants me now.”
You kissed his cheek, soft, trembling, a promise. “I never stopped wanting you.”
He didn’t breathe for a moment.
Then his hands tightened around your waist, pulling you against him again, and he let out a soft, broken laugh, half relief, half disbelief, half a sob.
“It’s really you,” he whispered into your shoulder. “I… I can’t believe you’re real.”
You shook your head against him. “I could say the same.”
He held you tighter.
The city could have exploded around you and neither would’ve noticed.
You had each other again, nothing else mattered, nothing else ever would.
Jason doesn’t let go of your hand even once on the way to his place.
He keeps you tucked under his arm while you move across rooftops, slower than his usual rooftop run because he keeps glancing at you like he still needs proof you're real, alive, warm. The city is loud beneath you, Gotham’s heartbeat pounding in sirens and wind and neon, but around you it’s oddly quiet, like the world is holding its breath.
You don't ask where you're going. You don't care, you’d follow him anywhere and you already proved that, years ago, when you walked into war zones with a teenage Robin who had a grin too sharp and a heartbeat too fast.
He lands on a roof next to a worn-down warehouse, kicks open a rusted door, and leads you inside. It’s one big loft, half weapons-cache, half home. A couch that’s seen too many nights. A mattress thrown in the corner. A kitchenette with mismatched mugs. A helmet on the table, red and gleaming like something alive.
It’s messy, cold, lonely.
You look around as he watches you the whole time.
“…This is you now?” you ask quietly.
He shrugs one shoulder, suddenly awkward. “It’s temporary.”
“It looks like you’ve been here for years.”
“Yeah, well. Temporary for me is… different.”
You step closer, fingers brushing the edge of his jacket, grounding him. He exhales shakily, something heavy in his chest slowly unclenching. He doesn’t kiss you yet, he looks like he wants to, like he’s starving for it, but he’s giving her room, letting you choose.
You choose by stepping into him completely.
Jason’s arms go around you instantly.
He buries his face in your hair, inhaling like he hasn’t breathed since he died.
“You read all the letters” you whisper into his neck.
He nods.
“I memorized them,” he corrects softly, voice cracking. “Every single one. I… I needed them more than oxygen.”
Your throat tightens. You squeeze his jacket in your fists.
“So…You didn’t stop loving me” he says quietly, like he still doesn’t understand it.
“Not for one day.”
He swallows hard. His hand comes up, slow, hesitant, brushing your cheek with his knuckles. Like he’s afraid you'll vanish. Like he doesn’t trust the universe anymore.
He whispers, “Then stay with me tonight. Just—stay.”
You nod.
He leads you to the worn couch, sits, and gently tugs you into his lap, like it’s instinct, like he needs your weight to convince him he’s not dreaming. You curl against him, head under his chin, legs pulled up sideways, his arms a cage around you, protective, desperate, reverent.
For a long time, you don’t talk. The silence isn’t empty, it’s full, overflowing.
You run your fingers along his jaw, tracing the faint scar near his mouth, the one you don't recognize. He closes his eyes, leaning into the touch like a cat starved for warmth.
“You’re bigger,” you murmur, half teasing, half stunned. “Broader.”
“Yeah well,” he huffs softly, “death is a great bulking program.”
You smile weakly. “Jason.”
“Sorry,” he mutters. “Old habits.”
You continue tracing him, the lines of his neck, the curve of his shoulder, the calluses on his hands. Every inch you memorize again, relearns, reclaims. He watches you do it, eyes half-lidded, expression soft in a way he’s never shown anyone else.
“You always did this” he says quietly.
“What?”
“Touched me like I was something worth… holding.”
“You are.”
He kisses your forehead. Just that. A soft, lingering press. The kind that says more than words ever could.
“Lie down with me” he murmurs.
He shifts, bringing you with him, until you're stretched across the couch together, bodies fitting in that old, familiar way you used to when you were teenagers sneaking naps between patrols. Except now there’s more muscle, more height, more scars, and more ache underneath all of it.
You rest your head on his chest. He strokes your back in gentle, slow lines, like he’s counting your breaths.
“You scared me” she whispers.
“I know.”
“I thought you left me.”
He tightens his arms around you until you melt into him completely. “Never you. I never left you. Even when I was gone, I came back to you. All I did was come back to you.”
Your eyes sting. You nuzzle into his shirt, gripping the fabric.
He tilts your chin up with two fingers.
And finally he kisses you.
It’s slow. Tender. A confession and an apology and a resurrection all at once. His lips are warm and soft and trembling just a little. He kisses you like he’s afraid to ruin you, like he’s relearning how to be gentle.
You kiss him back, hands sliding to his jaw, holding his face as if to say you’re real, you’re here, you came back to me.
When you part, he rests his forehead against yours.
“You’re the only thing that makes me feel human” he admits, voice raw.
He exhales shakily and pulls you back down into his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head like you're the most precious thing he’s ever held.
You fall asleep tangled together, fully clothed, fully wrapped around each other, legs intertwined, his chin atop your hair, your hand fisted in his shirt, your breaths syncing.
Summery : In the middle of a huge fight in Gotham, everything suddenly pauses when Tim’s girlfriend shows up out of nowhere, acting totally calm and casual. She checks on him for a moment, then just leaves again—while everyone else stands there confused, trying to figure out what just happened.
Warnings: language, fighting
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
Gotham had stopped pretending tonight was normal about ten minutes into the alien invasion.
The sky was split open in ugly geometries, all hard angles and burning green light, like the universe itself had developed a migraine. Parademon-adjacent things—because of course they were—poured down between half-collapsed buildings. Justice League heavy-hitters were present, which normally meant things would be wrapped up neatly with a bow and a press conference.
Normally.
Tim Drake knew better than to trust “normally.”
He landed hard on one knee, staff skidding against broken concrete. His suit screamed warnings into his ear. Power at critical. Bruised ribs. Something wrong with his left shoulder. He shoved himself upright anyway, because that’s what Bat-kids did when the world was ending again.
Across the battlefield, Bruce was bleeding. Jason had stopped cracking jokes, which was always a bad sign. Dick was still moving but slower now, favoring one leg. Cass was a blur of perfect violence holding the line by herself. Steph was airborne with a grappling hook and sheer stubbornness. Damian looked feral. Duke’s light flickered unevenly. Babs’ voice in Tim’s comm was calm in that way that meant she was compensating hard.
This was tipping from “bad” into “statistically improbable survival.”
Tim ducked another blast and thought, not for the first time, that he was very tired.
Then the sky changed.
Not exploded. Not cracked.
It softened.
Stars bled through reality like watercolor into paper. A circular tear opened, rimmed with galaxies—slow-spinning clouds of violet and blue, constellations stitched together with impossible depth. Gravity hesitated. Sound dimmed, like the universe leaned in to listen.
Everyone froze.
Everyone except Tim.
Out of the portal stepped a girl in oversized pajama shorts, an old hoodie slipping off one shoulder, black hair messy like she’d just rolled out of bed. Pale blue eyes blinked once against the battlefield lights.
Annie Lisitsyn yawned.
She took in the scene, the aliens, the ruined skyline, the burning wreckage, the Justice League’s collective “what the hell” posture, and then her gaze found Tim instantly, like gravity had opinions.
“Hi, babe,” she said cheerfully, voice soft and warm and wildly out of place. “I saw you on the news and thought you could use a little help. ’Cause this looks like Avengers: Endgame, but with worse color grading.”
She kissed Tim on the cheek.
Tim leaned into it without thinking, exhaustion melting just enough to smile. “Hey, Annie.”
The Batfamily stared.
The Justice League stared harder.
Annie stepped past Tim, casual as a Sunday morning, and lifted one hand.
The air shimmered.
Stars spilled from her fingers.
Reality folded like it had always meant to do this.
Aliens unraveled—not exploded, not crushed—simply decided out of existence, probability rewritten so cleanly it felt polite. Energy weapons fizzled into harmless light. Portals collapsed inward like embarrassed secrets.
At the same time—because Annie multitasked like that—the city healed.
Buildings reassembled themselves brick by brick, glass flowing upward into windows that sealed without seams. Fires reversed, flames crawling back into nothing. Streets smoothed. Vehicles un-crumpled. Blood vanished. Bruises faded. Broken bones remembered better versions of themselves.
Tim’s suit stitched itself together, power levels refilling like a deep breath. His shoulder stopped hurting. His ribs snapped back into alignment with a quiet, relieved click.
Across the field, Bruce straightened slowly, hand unconsciously flexing as wounds closed beneath his armor.
Jason stared at his hands. “What the actual—”
Cass tilted her head, watching starlight ripple across the ground like a living thing. Damian’s jaw dropped an inch before he caught it, offended by his own reaction. Dick just laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. Steph clapped a hand over her mouth. Duke squinted like the physics offended him personally.
The League stood in stunned silence. Even Superman hovered, unsure if moving might be rude.
Annie finished, dusted off her hands, and turned back to Tim.
She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her forehead to his chest. Tim folded around her instinctively, exhaustion finally crashing through now that the universe had stopped actively trying to murder him.
They stayed like that for a minute.
Two, maybe.
Stars slowly dimmed around them as reality settled into its newly repaired shape.
Annie pulled back first, smiling up at him, eyes bright but gentle. She was quiet like that—soft-spoken, affectionate, never needing to take up space even when she technically was space.
“Okay,” she said, glancing over Tim’s shoulder.
She pointed at the Batfamily.
Then the League.
“I’m gonna go back to bed now,” Annie said mildly. “You should probably check on your friends. They’re… really pale.”
She kissed Tim once more, slower this time, and stepped backward into the star-filled portal.
Before anyone could speak—before Bruce could interrogate, before Diana could assess, before Batman could Batman—the portal folded in on itself, galaxies collapsing into a single spark.
Gone.
The battlefield was pristine. Gotham looked untouched. The invasion never happened.
Silence stretched.
Dick finally broke it. “Tim.”
Tim looked up, blinking, still processing the lingering warmth on his cheek.
“Yes?”
Bruce’s voice was very quiet. Very controlled. “Who,” he said, “was that?”
Tim smiled faintly, tired and fond and absolutely not answering the question yet.
“That,” he said, “was my girlfriend.”
And somewhere far away, tucked back into her sheets, Annie Lisitsyn rolled onto her side, stars fading from her fingertips as she fell back asleep, the universe humming softly in agreement.
Vampire Prince!Scaramouche x Blind!Reader [GOTHIC VICTORIAN AU]
anon . ݁⋆ i imagine the plot somewhat like this: humans being terrified of vampires because of the outbreak and all that, but User has a family full of aristocrats and lives in an estate (read more of the request here)
warnings (cw) .ᐟ yandere ꒰ manipulation ꒱ obsessive behavior・captivity ꒰ blood drinking・biting x loss of virginity ♰ dark romance ꒱ power imbalance ♰ unreliable narrator x psychological horror ꒰ chase scene ꒱obsessive behavior, ❝ dead dove ❞ porn with (a lot of) plot x sweet ending
word count 17k+ (don't ask)
authors note . ݁⋆ gifs at the beginning and my eyeball dividers (you’ll see when you read, sorry if they’re creepy) are all edited by me on flipping canva. please don’t repost/use the gifs, as they’re made specifically for this fic and probably wouldn’t work in other context, but the dividers you can use. cross-posted onto AO3. the reader has a similar aesthetic to Columbina.
You’ve never seen the sun.
You know it exists.
You’ve heard of its existence.
You’ve read of its existence.
And sometimes you can feel it.
You can feel it when the maids forget to close your curtains all the way, when the warmth of it creeps across your bedsheets and finds your skin.
It feels like being held.
It feels like something vast, something ancient is reaching through the glass just to touch you, just to remind you that you exist in a world that you’ll never witness.
You were born blind.
Your mother says that you came into this world with your eyes sealed shut, and when you finally did open them, or think you did, there was nothing behind them.
Emptiness.
Just darkness that has never, not once in 18 years, lifted.
You don't know what darkness looks like. You don't know what anything looks like. The concept of sight is as foreign to you as flight is to a fish. Fish don’t know of the world outside the sea, and they don’t know how some animals, like birds, can be free and fly anywhere. You feel like a fish, one that’ll never truly grasp freedom because you were born incapable of the tools needed for that.
You understand colors, scenery, and sight in general exist. You understand that other people are lucky enough to experience it. But… It’s something you’ve never had, so you’re incapable of missing it.
What you miss is freedom.
… Even if you’ve never had it.
Your room is your entire world. It’s large, you know that much. You know it’s large by the way you’ve mapped every inch of it with your hands and feet, memorized the distance from your bed to your vanity, from your vanity to your window balcony, from the window to the door that is always…
always locked.
Your family says it’s for your protection. Vampires are everywhere, they tell you. The outbreak has made the world even more dangerous for someone like you.
Someone fragile. Too fragile.
Someone helpless. Too helpless.
Someone…
blind.
They never say it, but you know it’s what they mean. You hear the servants whisper it sometimes when they think you can’t hear, but being blind since birth has made your hearing way too absolute, so nothing goes unheard with you.
You’re at your vanity today, in what feels like it could be morning, or late afternoon… You don’t know. Your concept of time has always been shitty because, in an enclosed space, most of your life has made it hard to learn what time feels like through your senses.
You’re running a brush through your hair for what feels like the thousandth time in this hour. The bristles catch on a small tangle, and you work through, repeating this process over and over. It’s something to do, something that’ll fill these endless hours.
You reach, and your fingers find a soft ribbon on your vanity, satin. You like that fabric a lot, it’s nice to feel, it’s not an understatement that you like soft things in your room. Soft always feels pretty to touch. You tie the ribbon into a tiny bow and clip it into your hair without needing to see, your hands already knowing the motion by heart.
Then, you grab your signature, the lace eye mask, delicate, so delicate, and you settle it over your closed eyes like it’s so a part of you that you would even consider it your second skin. You’ve worn one for as long as you remember; you change the fabrics sometimes, but you only wear it in white. Your mother started putting them on you when you were a child, said it made you look more comfortable… more at peace.
You think it just makes people less uncomfortable around you.
Less unnerved by the girl with the eyes that never open.
You hear a knock at your door.
You turn toward the sound, even though turning does nothing for you, because what would you even see? But even so, it’s just a habit that comes naturally, and you’ve been taught to be polite. "Yes?"
"It's me." You recognize the voice as your brother's, and you hear the lock click and feel the air change when the door swings open. You hear his footsteps cross the threshold, heavy boots on hardwood, and then the door closes behind him.
You turn back to your vanity, faced straight in front of your mirror that you’ll never see, picking up your brush, to again, brush your hair uselessly because at least it’s something to do. “You’re leaving today… I know, I just don’t know why I’m always the last one to hear about it.”
Like, I don’t matter enough.
You hear him cross the room to you. “Yeah… for a few days.” You feel him stop beside your chair, the slight displacement of air when he does. "There's a nest about two days' ride from here. Mother wants it cleared before it spreads."
"And Father?" You ask, pausing your movement with the brush as you do, like you’re almost scared of being alone without family, even for a couple of days, even though you’re never allowed outside your room without supervision, and your movements pick up again.
“Father?” he repeats, “Staying here, of course.” He pats your head as he continues, "Someone needs to manage the estate while we're gone."
You nod, because this is how it always goes. Your mother or father going with your brother for a hunt, and either parent stays behind to run the household… because you can’t. You’re incapable of overseeing the workers and the farmers, and the endless business dealings that keep your family weathering.
You stay in your room.
Always in your room.
Forever and always useless.
You drop your brush onto the table and fully turn your body where you can feel his. "... Can I come with you?" The words slip out before you can stop them, because they’re a habit.
You’ve asked before, and you won’t stop asking ever, because your voice is all you have. And yet… the answer is always the same.
"You know you can't." Your brother says, with a sigh, almost like he’s bored with this useless question of yours, but also feels bad about your incapabilities that make his reason.
Your voice picks up slightly, desperate for this time to be different. “I could help, my hearing is better than yours, you can’t deny that. I can detect them before you even- “
"And what would you do when you detected them?" He decides to cut in; his tone feels gentle, but also firm. "Run? Fight? You can't see them coming, little sister. You can't defend yourself."
“I could learn…” you start.
“No.” he finishes, final.
You sense him reaching out, and then you feel his touch, his gloved hand on your shoulder, he squeezes, just briefly, as if affection could dismiss what you’ve been wanting for forever.
"I brought you something," he says right after and your irritation fades oddly quick, replaced by curiosity, interested in anything new you could feel.
Your brother always brings you things from his hunts: trinkets, trophies, little pieces of a world you’re not allowed to experience firsthand.
He takes your hand, and you feel press something into your palm, it feels like cool metal with an intricate design. You run your fingers over it, mapping the shape, and it feels like a brooch, well, you assume it’s one with the circular shape, filigree around the edges.
"It belonged to a vampire countess," he mentions. "Mother put a stake through her heart last week... I thought you might like it."
"It's beautiful." You can't see it, but you know. The craftsmanship is exquisite beneath your fingertips. "Thank you, brother."
"Stay safe while we're gone." He kisses the top of your head, the way he's done since you were small. "Don't cause trouble for Father."
You let out a giggle, fingers still exploring the trinket as your head is tilted at the direction you feel your brother is at. "When have I ever caused trouble?"
He laughs, saying goodbye, and you hear the door to your room open, then close just as quickly, and then you hear the familiar and never foreign sound of the lock clicking into place.
And you’re alone again.
The hours pass slowly.
You read for a while, your fingers tracing over the raised dots of your books, but the story doesn’t hold your attention today. It’s a romance, which is one of your favorites, about a woman who falls in love with a man she shouldn’t. The villain of the piece, the one everyone warns her about.
You've always liked the villains.
Not because you think they're good. But because you understand them, in a way.
The books paint them as monsters, as irredeemable creatures of darkness, but you know that no one is born a monster. Something makes them that way. Trauma, or circumstance, or the simple cruelty of a world that refuses to show them kindness.
Not a lot of monsters do exist in the world you seem to live in, a lot of these are fiction, fake, or just myths. The only monsters that exist, the only ones you’ve heard about are vampires.
You wonder something stupid sometimes, stupid to you, you wonder what it would be like to meet one…
A vampire.
Your family has a history with them, generations of your family have been hunting them for centuries, and you’ve grown up on the typical propaganda your parents teach you.
That they’re wicked, bloodthirsty, that they’re dangerous, have inhuman speed and strength. You’re supposed to hate them, it’s what you’ve been raised to hate.
And you do because they’re monsters.
But sometimes, late at night, when loneliness feels like it might swallow you whole, you wonder if being a monster might be better than being nothing at all.
You set the book aside and make your way to the window. The route is familiar to you. Twelve steps from your bed, turn left, four more steps, and your fingers find the cool glass. You crack it open, just slightly, and the air rushes in.
It’s spring, you can smell it, and it’s your favorite season. The sweetness of blooming flowers in the garden, the dampness of recent rain, sounds of the sprinklers starting to go off.
You press your palm to the glass and close your eyes, even though they're already closed behind your mask, and you breathe.
This is as close as you get to the outside world.
You can hear the workers in the distance, the thud of someone chopping wood. You can hear voices too, too faint to make out the words. The estate is always busy during the day, full of people you've never met and never will.
You stay at the window for a long time.
Eventually, you close your window and return to your vanity. Sit down to brush your hair again. Tie a new ribbon. Change from your morning gown into an afternoon dress, soft white cotton with lace at the collar and cuffs.
You like soft things, white things. Light things, even though you've never seen light.
Your mother says you dress like a doll, maybe you do, and maybe that’s all you are.
A pretty thing to be kept on a shelf, looked at but never touched, protected but never freed.
You're brushing your hair again, for the thousandth time, when something changes.
The feeling is subtle at first, you can’t quite name it, but you freeze, brush halfway through your hair and listen.
The birds have stopped singing.
That’s the first change you notice. The constant chatter of sparrows and other beautiful birds that usually fill the air outside your window has gone… silent.
And beneath that silence, you sense something else.
A presence, one that doesn’t belong here.
Something is wrong.
You set down your brush, letting your panic settle in, listening to whatever strange instinct that you feel. Your heart is beating fast, and you don’t understand why. You shouldn’t feel scared, you shouldn’t ever feel scared because your room is safe. The door is locked, the windows are too high for intruders to climb, and your father is home.
But the silence drags on for too long, and your senses that most people take for granted, are screaming that someone is very, very wrong.
You could ring the bell by your dresser and wait for your father to come, hope he or a servant hears so you can’t alert them of the danger you sense.
Alert them of what danger? Nobody listens or would listen if you even tried to alert something you couldn’t describe. Maybe it’s nothing anyways, maybe you’re starting to go insane from the boredom up here and are hallucinating feelings.
Maybe the birds flew away because it’s about to rain?
You get up and walk up to your window, cracking it open, listening for anything.
It’s silent outside, perfect, unnatural silence compared to what you’ve listened to merely 15 minutes ago.
And then, distantly, a scream.
It cuts off almost immediately, far too quickly, and you press your hand to the glass, desperate to hear anything more, but there’s nothing after that scream, just dead silence again.
"Father?" you call, instinctively hoping he might hear even though you assume him to be downstairs in his study. You try again, louder. "Father!"
Nothing.
You close your window and move to your door, feeling the handle, try it even though you know it’s locked. It doesn’t budge, obviously, and you pound on the wood with your fist, but the sound seems to disappear into the silence, swallowed up by whatever wrongness has descended on your home.
"Someone!" you shout. "Please! Something's happening!"
Nothing again.
You back away from the door, your breath coming too fast. You’re trapped more than ever, it feels like the walls are closing in, and you can’t do a thing about it.
You give up banging when your wrist goes sore and achy, and you walk slow, in defeat towards your soft, large, ‘safe’ bed.
Minutes pass, long minutes, or hours. You can’t tell, you’ve stopped focusing on time, only focusing on your own spiraling thoughts as time passes.
Footsteps.
You finally, finally hear something close by your room. Someone walking through the halls of your home, opening doors, leaving them open, the sounds drift up from the floor below you, distant at first, then getting closer by the second.
Your father, it has to be. He’s coming back to check on you, tell you that everything is fine, that the scream you heard was nothing, that you’re safe, that he’s safe.
But why would he check every room before yours?
The footsteps climb the stairs to your floor.
You stand, smoothing your dress with shaking hands. The footsteps move down the hall, pausing at each door, and you count them, waiting as they get closer and closer.
They stop outside your room.
The doorknob twists, but doesn’t budge. Then you hear the lock to your room click, and the next thing you hear is the door swinging open.
“… Father?" You ask, voice small, standing by your bed, body facing the direction of your door.
It's silent for what seems like way too long. Then you hear a voice that isn’t your father’s.
"Interesting."
You scramble backward, your back hitting your vanity, and you knock something over. A perfume bottle that you hear shattering on the floor. The sound makes you flinch, but you quickly try to balance yourself against the table, swallowing big.
“Who’s there?” You ask, clearly frightened, not used to hearing a boy's voice that isn’t your brother's or father's. "Who are you? Where's my father?"
Your door stays open as you hear the boy’s footsteps cross the threshold into your room, fully.
The animal part of your brain keeps sending signals to run even though there’s nowhere to run.
"So you're the one they keep locked up here." His voice sounds young, now that you’ve heard him say more than one word. He also sounds amused in a way that makes your panic spike even more. "I was wondering what was in this… locked room."
"Get out." You reach behind you, fingers closing around the handle of your hairbrush. It's a pathetic weapon, but it's all you have. "Get out of my room!"
"That's not very hospitable." He's moving again. You track him by sound, but he's circling you, and you can't keep up. “… Though I suppose you have reason to be upset."
"Where is my father?" You grip the brush tighter. "What did you do to him?"
It's quiet, and you can sense that the boy has stopped moving, distance kept from you as he speaks again, and when he speaks, his voice is softer than what you heard before. "I'm sorry to tell you this. But your father is dead."
The words hit you like a physical blow, like a dagger to the stomach. You believe him immediately, because that’s never something to joke about, and it all does add up. You stagger back, your legs feeling weak, and you catch yourself on the edge of your vanity. "No." You say, even though you know.
"A vampire attack." He sounds sympathetic, and almost what you can assume as slight trauma in his tone, but it does sound oddly fake, "I arrived too late to save him. I'm sorry."
"You're lying." You shoot back, quickly, still in denial, your words not matching your thoughts.
"I wish I were." He replies.
Your… father. Your father, who has protected this estate for decades, who has hunted more vampires than anyone else in the region, who kissed your forehead last night and tucked you in, and did the same the night before that, and the night before that, every night for years.
Dead.
“Why are your eyes covered?” He asks suddenly, random. “Did you get some sort of surgery recently done or-”
You cut him off. "Who are you?" Your voice cracks on the last word. "How did you get in here?"
"My name is Scaramouche." Footsteps again, closer now. "My father does business with yours… Did business," he corrects, and there's something in his tone that you can't quite read. "I came to pick up some documents, and I found the door unlocked. I found-" He stops. "I found what I found."
"And you just happened to come upstairs?" Your question sounds weaker than an accusation of anything; no heat found, just despair, still processing your father's demise.
"I was looking for survivors." He sounds close now, very close, and you have no room to create distance because you’re already against your vanity. "The whole estate has been hit. Everyone downstairs is dead. I thought maybe someone up here had been spared." He pauses before adding, "It seems I was right."
You’re shaking, body trembling all over, and you don’t make an effort to hide how affected you are at this information… but it’s not that you don’t care, it’s that you can’t control yourself. You can’t control how weak you feel currently, how helpless and small you feel.
"I don't believe you." You muster out with your lips quivering, head tilted slightly down so he can’t see your eyes closed behind the mask.
“… About which part?" He says back, and there’s just the slightest hint of a tease in his words.
"Any of it… All of it." You raise the hairbrush, pointing it vaguely in his direction. "You could be a vampire yourself for all I know."
You hear him laugh, and it throws you off balance at how little you expected to hear one after an accusation like that.
"If I were a vampire, you'd already be dead." His voice is calm for someone you’re suspecting. "I'm not here to hurt you… I'm here to help."
“Help?” you say, palm tightening on your hairbrush. "By breaking into my room?"
"By saving your life, actually." His footsteps move again, and you tense, but he seems to be backing away, as if he could sense you want space. "The vampires are still out there. Most of them have moved on, but some might come back… This house of yours isn't safe anymore. I need to get you somewhere secure."
You let out a fake laugh, crossing your arms, head turned to the side. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
"Then you'll die."
The bluntness of his words makes you flinch. He doesn’t say it in a cruel manner, though; he says it matter-of-factly, like it’s nothing but an obvious truth that he’s ready to watch you learn the hard way.
"I will wait for my mother," you say. "And my brother. They'll be back in a few days-"
"A few days?" He sounds almost incredulous. "You think the vampires will wait a few days before coming back to finish what they started? They'll return tonight, as soon as the sun sets. And they’ll find you in your room… alone… defenseless. Does that really sound like something you’d want?"
"I'm not defenseless."
"Really? Said by the one holding a hairbrush."
Your cheeks burn at how right he is. You know a hairbrush isn’t a good defence weapon, it’s not even a weapon in general, but you don’t let go of it, because doing that might let him think you trust him.
"Look," he says, and his voice softens again, similar to the tone he gave when he told you your father is dead, "I understand you're scared and that you don't trust me. But I'm the only person standing between you and the same fate your father just met. Can you at least let me help you?"
Say no.
Tell him to get out.
Scream at him.
Tell him to let you mourn in peace.
But…
He’s right.
You’re alone in a house full of corpses.
The family you have that aren’t corpses are days away…
And…
You have no way to defend yourself against creatures that move faster than any sound your ears that are better than most can pick up.
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” You ask, voice small and unsure. “How do I know this isn’t some trick?”
"You don't." He's honest, at least. "But what choice do you have?"
None.
You have no choice at all.
Slowly, reluctantly, you move past where you sense him and lower yourself onto the edge of your bed. You can’t stand any longer because of the grief eating you inside. You lower your head and press a hand to your mouth to stifle the sob that threatens to escape.
Your father is dead.
Your father is dead, and you're alone with a stranger, and everything you thought you knew about your safe, sheltered life has just shattered like glass.
"You're blind."
The statement catches you off guard. You raise your head, even though you can't see him, can't see anything.
"Yes." You respond, voice tiny.
"I thought the mask before was for some kind of surgery, but you don’t react to my movements," he says, like he's working something out. "And your eyes seem closed beneath it… Why is that?"
"They've never opened." You lie, they can open if you want to, but you choose to keep them closed under the mask at all times. And you don't want to feel the need to explain such an odd choice to a stranger.
He takes note of that, and it’s quiet for a while; you can’t tell if he’s nodding at what you said, or staring into the mask deeper. But finally, as if he got the concept of a girl like you being blind, he says, in a quiet tone, “That must be… difficult.”
"I manage… I’ve gotten this far at least." You say, voice threatening to break as you talk, as you’re still trying to hold back tears, trying not to look smaller than you already feel in front of this stranger.
You hear footsteps again, ones that seem like he’s getting closer to you, but they’re slow this time, careful, aware, like he’s approaching a frightened animal.
"I'm going to sit next to you," he says, tone so gentle in a way that any people pleaser hearing it would say yes in a heartbeat. "...Is that alright?"
You’re too tired and so… scared to even muster up a no. You don’t give him a response, and you feel the bed dip beside you. He’s a little too close for someone who's a stranger to you, but you don’t move away or tell him to move.
Being this close to him, you don’t feel warmth next to you… It feels like he himself is cold.
"I won't let anything happen to you." His voice is soft, really soft, and you can sense confidence in it that makes you believe him, just a little bit, but not enough. "I promise."
Your head is tilted down, and your fingers are toying with the edge of the lace on your dress as you think before asking, “Why do you even care? I’m just some blind girl you’d be better off leaving behind… You could just go to your home, where it’s probably safe, but… You aren’t.
“I don’t know why I care to stay.” He sounds surprised as he speaks, as if the words are foreign in his own mouth, as if his own answer to you is something he’s never said before. “But I can’t allow someone to die defenseless, especially if I have a chance to save them before they even reach that level of danger.”
And with that, you start crying. Tears are sliding down your cheeks beneath the mask you wear, and your breath is hitching. And what you feel next is a touch you’ve never felt before. A touch by a gloved hand, his hand, on your face, tilting your head, probably in his direction, and brushing away the wetness with care a stranger shouldn’t have.
His thumb traces the curve of your cheek as you don’t make an effort to pull away. He does it gently, tenderly, and you’re so desperately lonely, more than ever, that you lean into the stranger's touch.
"You're so young," he says, not commenting on your tears. There's something strange in his voice, something you can't identify. "How old are you?"
You swallow before saying, "I’m eighteen."
"... Eighteen?" He repeats it like he's savoring the word. "I'm nineteen. Just a year older than you, shame we haven’t met until now. Just as much as it is a shame your parents choose to keep you locked in a room, not knowing it doesn’t keep you safe, just traps you, especially when there could be danger right outside your room… or in it."
You let him finish, before managing out a, “You sound older than that… nineteen.” You feel his thumb brush over your cheek as you talk, wiping a tear for you, and that makes your voice come out tiny at the end.
“Do I?” You hear him make a soft laugh, thumb moving on your cheek again. “Maybe you’re right. I’ve seen a lot for my age.”
His gloved fingers trail down your cheek, along your jaw, and then they're gone. You miss the contact immediately, and you feel pathetic for doing so.
"Wait here," he says. "I need to make sure the way out is clear. Then I'll come back for you, I promise."
"Don't leave me."
Your voice breaks on the last two syllables, a tiny sob leaking out from your lips right after. It sounds so childish, the very thing you hate feeling like, but the thought of being alone again in this room without a body to cling to… it makes your chest hurt with panic.
"I won't be long…" he starts.
"... Please." You cut in, voice fading in such a weak way that you suddenly feel his hand on yours, squeezing gently through the glove he’s wearing.
"Alright… I'll stay." He settles more comfortably on the bed beside you. "We'll wait here together until it's safe to move. I’ll be as patient as you need me to be, but… It’s getting late, and the sun will set soon. We'll need to be careful and leave before the others come back."
"Others?" You ask, confused at the random mention of a group.
“There was more than just one vampire, I’m assuming, one can’t just kill every person here without getting caught, especially since it’s daylight and that works against them.” He sounds like he knows a lot about this, but you don’t find that suspicious because if you were in his shoes, you’d assume the same. “I don’t see them now, maybe I came hours after they left, maybe I came just as they left, but I’m certain that they’ll return at nightfall. They always do.”
You don’t trust him as he’s still a stranger to you, but you nod at what he says, because it does make sense, and he seems to be the only option you have currently.
The hours pass in silence after that.
Sometimes he speaks to fill it, asking you small, minor things about yourself, your life, your family… It’s odd he seems so interested in you. He doesn’t need to fill the silence with questions; he could just leave, or he could just keep it silent and not interact until you’re ready, while he sits there bored. But he doesn’t, but you also don’t match the energy needed to keep a conversation flowing, you answer each other in fragments, too grief-stricken for full sentences.
Sometimes… he just sits beside you, quiet and still, and you listen to the sound of his breathing.
It occurs to you, distantly, that you haven't heard him breathe once.
But you're too tired to think about what that means.
"It's time to go."
His voice pulls you from the half-sleep you'd fallen into. You spring upright, disoriented, and his hand steadies you.
"The sun is setting," he says. "We need to leave now."
"But… I want to see my father first." Your voice still sounds broken from the crying you did; you stopped about an hour ago. You’re sore, almost emotionless on the outside, but split open in despair on the inside.
"Are you sure that's wise?"
"I need to say goodbye." Your voice is firm despite the trembling in your hands. You’re suddenly aching to meet your father's body now that the idea is in your mind. "I need to... I need to touch him one last time. Please."
He's quiet for a long moment. You can feel him considering, weighing options you can't see… or you just imagine that's what he’s doing.
"... Alright," he says finally. "I'll take you to him."
He stands, and then his hand is extended toward you. You know this because he tells you, guiding your fingers to his palm. His glove is soft, fine leather, and his grip is steady as he helps you to your feet.
"I can walk on my own."
"I'm sure you can." But he doesn't let go of your hand. "But the halls are... difficult. You told me it’s rare when you’re outside your room, so let me guide you."
You let him lead you because you’d feel even worse if you stumbled over something that could’ve been avoided with his help.
Your sense of smell has always been another good trait of yours, one that you hate, because bad smells are hard to ignore.
And what you smell when you step out of your room, holding his hand…
It’s bad.
Something copper-rich that makes you feel like you might just gag.
Blood. You're smelling blood.
"Don't let go of my hand," he says quietly, careful to speak if there’s somebody or something lurking. "And try not to touch anything."
You just nod and trust him to do everything for you, everything to keep you safe.
Trust?
Where the fuck did that come from?
He leads you down the hall, down the stairs, through rooms you've never been allowed to enter. Your free hand trails along the wall occasionally, feeling the familiar texture of wallpaper, and then something wet, and you jerk your fingers back.
"I told you not to touch anything."
"I know… I’m sorry," you say, voice weak. “I just rely on touch a lot, especially with the things I haven’t explored yet.”
He doesn’t respond, his grip just tightens on your hand… firm in a way that feels possessive.
You walk for what feels like forever before he makes a full stop.
"He's here," he says. "In front of you… About two steps."
You let go of his hand.
Take one step… Two.
Your foot bumps against something soft and heavy, and you sink to your knees.
Your hands find him by touch. The broad chest, the fabric of his coat, the familiar shape of his shoulders. Your fingers travel up, trembling, to his face… his jaw… his cheek that’s already going cold.
And then his neck. Your fingers come away wet.
"No." The word is a whimper, more panic than denial. You press your palm to his throat, feeling the ragged edges of torn flesh, the slickness of blood that hasn't dried yet. "No, no, no-"
You gather him into your arms as best you can. He's heavy like the dead weight described in some of the books you read. And he’s so cold, cold in a way that makes you break further, sobbing suddenly, ugly wrenching sobs that tear through your chest.
"Papa." You haven't called him that since you were a child. "Papa, please. Please wake up. Please don't leave me alone. Please-"
He doesn't wake up…
He’ll never wake up.
You press his hand to your face, just to feel it one last time. The rough calluses on his palm. The familiar weight of his fingers. You memorize it, brand it into your memory, because this is all you will ever have of him now.
Behind you, Scaramouche watches this all play out in silence.
He watches you cry until you can’t cry anymore, how your voice sounds raw at some point, how your father's blood soaks into the fabric of your dress.
He watches… watches as you just kneel there, holding him, unwilling to let go.
And he doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt.
"We need to leave." His voice is gentle in a way that, if you were paying attention enough, he almost sounds like he’s faking kindness. "I'm sorry… really, truly sorry. But we need to go."
"I can't leave him." You yell, shocked at the desperation mixed with anger in your tone.
"You have to."
You resist the moment you feel his hand on your shoulder, trying to pull you away gently, you clutch onto your father’s coat… but… all that crying, all that grief, everything has made you too exhausted to fight back. So you let yourself get pulled to your feet.
His hand finds yours again, holding them in a way strangers shouldn’t, and he guides you away from your father's corpse.
A corpse he is the cause of.
You don’t look back when you walk away, hand in Scaramouche’s, because that would imply you could see, and you’ve never seen anything, anything in your life.
You’ve never been allowed to be normal.
You've been outside before, briefly, under heavy supervision. But this… this is different. This is the world, vast and open and terrifying, and you cling to Scaramouche's hand like it's the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.
"Where are we going?" Your voice is hoarse from crying.
"My home… It's safe there. You can wait for your mother and brother to return."
You walk in silence for a while. The ground changes beneath your feet, smooth stone, then rough earth, then gravel, then something softer. Grass, maybe. The air smells like trees and night-blooming flowers and something else, something you can't identify.
The room they've given you is beautiful.
At least, that's what Scaramouche tells you. He describes it in detail: the canopy bed draped in white silk, the antique furniture, the chandelier that catches the light just so. You can't see any of it. But you can feel the softness of the sheets, the smoothness of the polished wood, the weight of the heavy curtains that you've never been able to move.
"Can I open the window?" You ask one day.
"Not right now." His voice is gentle, apologetic. "It's not safe."
"... But I want to feel the sun."
"The sun is dangerous right now. They’re still vampires in the area. They might see the light from your window and know someone's here."
It doesn’t make sense, none of it does. But you're in a strange place, dependent on a stranger's kindness, and you don't have the energy to argue.
"Okay..."
He visits you every day. Or every night, you've started to realize. You can never quite tell when he arrives, but it always feels like evening, like the world has gone dark and quiet outside your sealed windows.
It’s weird he never shows up during the day.
He brings you food prepared by servants you’ve never met, carried up on silver trays. Sometimes he feeds you himself, guides the utensil to your lips, and the intimacy of it should make you feel embarrassed… but you’re not.
Because you’re falling in love with this strange… kind stranger.
Well, is he a stranger anymore?
It’s stupid how quickly you’ve fallen for him. It’s been a week, and you barely even know him… but he’s the only person you have now, the only voice in your silent world, and when he touches your hand or brushes the hair from your face, you feel something warm bloom in your chest.
"Tell me about yourself," you say one evening, or morning… You can't tell anymore.
"What do you want to know?" He responds, casual, ready to share whatever it is you want.
"Anything… Everything." You're sitting on your bed, your back against the pillows, and you can feel him next to you, how he moves closer to you. "I don't even know what you look like."
"... Would you like to?"
"Yes."
You feel him take your hand, slow, and raise it to his face. "Go ahead," he says. "See me."
Your fingers tremble as they make contact with his skin… his skin is cold, colder than it should be, colder than anyone’s skin you’ve felt. But it’s smooth, and you feel that makes up for it.
"Why are you so cold?" You ask.
He leans into your touch, and you can hear a slight sigh come from him, as if this relaxes him. "I run cold... I always have."
You map out his features, feel the sharp line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the soft curve of his lips. His cheekbones are high and prominent, and his face is narrow and elegant.
"You're beautiful," you whisper, even though you can't see him.
He tilts his head at your touch. "... Am I?"
You smile, tiny in response. "I can feel it."
His hand covers yours, pressing it flat against his cheek. He's still wearing his gloves, even though you wish he weren't.
"What color are your eyes?" you ask even though color is foreign to you.
"Do you even know color?” He chuckles, playful in a way. “It’s dark violet… almost indigo, in some lights."
You nod, fingers still exploring. "That sounds pretty… What about your hair?"
"Similar, actually. Very dark, with hints of blue." You feel him shift, leaning closer. "Does that help? Can you see me now?"
"I don’t see, Scara.” You giggle, comfortable around him enough that you use a nickname now, “But I think I can imagine." You're building him in your mind, piece by piece, as you speak. "You're taller than me?"
“Im sure you can feel that I’m a little taller than you, but, unfortunately, not by much.” He laughs softly. "I'm quite short, by most standards."
"And thin?"
"Very."
You lower your hand from his face, and you feel him catch it before it falls. He holds your hand between both of his… gloved ones.
"Can you take off your gloves?" you ask.
He pauses, with clear hesitation at your question, squeezes your hand just once before saying, “If that’s what you want, then I will.”
You hear a soft sound of leather being removed, and then you feel his bare hand in yours. It’s cold just like his skin, but smooth, and soft, and you trace the lines of his palm, the shape of his fingers, and he pretends it doesn’t tickle.
"You're freezing." You note, again.
"I told you… I run cold."
You come up with a solution. “We should go outside, in the morning, when the sun is warm. It’ll help… and I like the outside air.”
You feel him go still beside you, like what you just said is something nonnegotiable, something he couldn’t ever possibly agree to.
For reasons you don’t know yet.
Then, as for what you’d assume to be a distraction, his free hand comes up to touch your cheek, and you sense him getting closer, leaning in.
"We can't go outside," he murmurs, and his lips brush yours.
You’ve never been kissed before, this is your first one, and he does it softly, and you don’t even know what to do. His mouth moves against yours, gentle, but also patient for you, and you try to follow his lead because this is something you definitely want.
When he pulls back, you're breathless.
"It's not safe," he whispers against your lips, continuing his last murmured statement while his thumb rubs over your lips. "I won't risk you."
"But-"
But he kisses you again, and that cuts you off. This kiss is deeper than the first, as he slides his hand into your hand, cradling the back of your head, and tilting his own head into the kiss. You melt into it… into him. And when he breaks away this time, you’ve forgotten what you were going to say, all you just want is more of that feeling he just gave you.
"Trust me," he says. "I'll keep you safe. I promise."
And you trust him way more than anyone in your position should.
More days pass after that… or nights, you don’t know.
You've lost track entirely.
He kisses you now. Often. His hands find excuses to touch you, your shoulder, your waist, the small of your back. Always through gloves, always careful, but the touches are becoming bolder. More intimate.
He kisses you a lot after that day, after that first kiss. Often… really often. His hands find excuses to touch you, your shoulder, your waist, the small of your back. Glove gone, because now he knows you don’t care about the cold. The touches are careful, but they’re also becoming more bold as the days go on… more intimate.
You don't mind, of course. And of course you want more.
"Scaramouche?"
"Mm?"
He just finished feeding you lunch, and he set the tray aside, setting onto the bed beside you. His presence has started to feel too much like home.
“I like it when you kiss me… touch me and all, it feels nice.” You start, voice small, nervous even as your head is tilted down, hand curling at your duvet. “I want more…”
He’s quiet as you speak, after you speak. You feel him looking at you, even though you can’t see his gaze. "Are you sure?"
"Yes." You respond, eager, but shy.
You feel his hand cup your cheek, turn it to face his direction, and you lean into his hand instinctively.
"You're so beautiful," he murmurs. "Do you know that?"
“But…” you shake your head, tiny. "I can't see myself."
"I know… But I can." His thumb traces your lower lip. "You look like a doll. Like something precious that should be kept under glass."
"... Is that how you see me?"
"It's how I want to keep you." He leans in, and his lips brush yours. "Safe... Protected. Mine."
The word sends a shiver through you. Mine.
He kisses you, his tongue sliding past your lips. You gasp, and he swallows the sound, his hand fisting in your hair. The kiss goes on and on, dizzying, overwhelming, and when he finally pulls back, you're panting.
"More?" he asks.
"Please."
His mouth moves down your jaw, along your neck. His lips are soft against your skin in a way that makes you whimper, involuntarily at each kiss.
"You smell incredible," he breathes against your skin. "Has anyone ever told you that?"
"No."
"You smell like..." He trails off. His mouth lingers at the curve of your neck, just above your pulse, and you feel his breath go shallow. "Like everything I've ever wanted."
You don't understand what that means. You feel his lips pressing kisses to your throat now, gentle and almost reverent, and you tilt your head back to give him better access.
"Lie back," he says. "Let me take care of you."
You obey his words, taking it as permission for what you were already going to do. You sink back into the pillows, your white nightgown riding up around your thighs. You hear him move, feel the mattress shift as he positions himself over you.
“Have you ever been touched before? He murmurs, pressing more kisses down your throat as he asks.
"No." You breathe out.
"Good."
His hands find the hem of your nightgown, and you feel his fingers slide beneath, skimming up your thighs, and your breath catches at that.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he says against your mouth.
You've never wanted anything less in your life for him to stop.
He moves down your body, trailing kisses along your collarbone, your chest, the swell of your breasts through the thin fabric. And then he's sliding lower, pushing the nightgown up, disappearing beneath the sheets.
"... Where are you going?"
"Relax." His voice is muffled now, distant. "You'll see."
You won't see, you think. You never see.
But then his lips are on your thigh, pressing soft kisses to the sensitive skin, and you stop thinking entirely.
You feel him make a nip at your skin, just slightly, and you let out a soft whimper before you can stop yourself.
"Did that hurt?" He sounds curious, not concerned, curious.
"N-no. It felt..." you start, voice tiny.
"Good?" he finishes for you.
"Yes," you agree.
You feel him smile against your skin. And then his fingers are hooking into your underwear, sliding the soft satin down your legs, and you're bare beneath his gaze.
His mouth finds you, and you can feel his tongue licking up through your folds, a sensation you’ve never felt before, and you cry out. It’s nothing like the vague descriptions in some of the smut you’ve read… occasionally, it’s overwhelming… consuming.
"Ah... Scara..."
"That's it." His breath ghosts over your sensitive flesh. "Say my name."
His tongue circles your clit, teasing, tasting, and your hips buck involuntarily. He pins them down with one hand, holding you still.
"So sensitive." He sounds delighted. "And you can't even see what I'm doing to you. You can only feel it."
Every touch feels magnified tenfold. This is what being blind has given you… this heightened awareness… this desperate sensitivity.
He slides a finger inside you, and you gasp.
"Tight," he murmurs. "We'll fix that."
He works you open slowly, one finger, then two, stretching you while his tongue continues its assault on your clit. It feels too much by the way you can’t help but squirm, but it also feels like not enough, and also just everything all at once.
"Hah... please... I need..."
"What do you need?"
"I don't know... more... something..."
He adds a third finger, curling them up, finding a spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your closed eyes. His mouth seals over your clit, sucking gently, and you shatter.
The orgasm crashes through you like a wave. You cry out, your back arching, your hands fisting in the sheets, and he works you through it, relentless, drawing out every last tremor.
When you finally come down, he's crawling back up your body. His mouth finds yours, and you can taste yourself on his tongue.
"Good?" he asks.
"Yes... hah... yes..."
He pulls back and you can hear the rustle of fabric, the soft sounds of clothes being removed. And then his hands are on your nightgown, sliding it up, over your head, leaving you completely bare.
"You're beautiful," he says again. "So beautiful."
His hands run over your body, mapping your curves, and you wish desperately that you could see him. See what he looks like above you, naked and wanting.
"Can I touch you?" You ask.
"Yes."
He guides your hand down, down, until your fingers close around him… what you’d assume to be a cock. He feels hard, and the shape of it seems big. It’s heavy in your palm, and warm, warmer than the rest of his cold skin.
"Oh..."
"Do you feel what you do to me?" His voice is strained. "How much I want you?"
You nod, speechless.
He moves your hand away and positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against you. Your breath catches at the feeling, realizing that this is really happening, that you’re really losing your virginity.
"This will hurt," he says. "At first."
"I know."
"I won't be gentle."
"... I don't want you to be, Scara."
And with that, he pushes inside, one thrust, all the way.
You scream, not from pleasure, not yet, just from the sudden fullness, the pain of being stretched beyond what you thought possible. He swallows the sound you make with a kiss, his mouth claiming yours, his hands pinning your wrists above your head.
"Shh." His lips move against yours. "Breathe."
You try to listen and breathe, but it’s hard when he’s inside you, especially so impossibly deep, filling every inch of your body. But you don’t feel pressured, as he’s very patient, holding you still and letting you adjust.
"Does it hurt?"
"Y-yes..."
"It won't for long."
He starts to move, it’s slow at first, long strokes that pull out almost all the way before pushing back in. His thumbs simultaneously rub soothing circles on your belly, a strange counterpoint to the ache between your legs.
And then the pain starts to fade... Replaced by something else. Something warm and building.
"Oh... hah..."
"There we go." He picks up the pace slightly, noticing. "That's it. Feel me."
And you do, you feel every inch, every thrust, every time he angles his hips to hit that spot inside you. Your moans grow louder, more desperate, and he swallows each one with kisses.
His mouth finds your neck again, and he kisses, sucks, and marks the skin there. He’s obsessed with your throat, you realize, with the way his lips keep gravitating there, always lingering.
"Can I..." You gasp as he hits that spot again. "Can I ask something?"
"Anything."
"Will you... Will you bite me?"
He goes still.
For a moment, you think you've said something wrong, that you’ve gone too far. But then his hips start moving again, harder than before, faster, and his voice is rough when he speaks.
"You want me to bite you?"
"Yes... please... I want..."
"Are you sure?"
"Ngh... yes... please, Scara..."
His teeth sink into your neck.
It’s not hard enough to actually break your skin, but it’s hard enough that it hurts, that it makes you cry out, that it makes the pain mix with pleasure in a way that you can’t tell them apart. He bites you again, and again, marking your throat with red impressions of his teeth.
"Mine," he growls against your skin. "You're mine."
"Yours... hah... I'm yours..."
He's fucking you harder now, losing control, his breath ragged against your neck. And then he's tensing, burying himself deep, and you feel him spill inside you.
And when he cums inside, something he does happens by accident.
His teeth clamp down hard on your neck. His teeth don’t even feel like teeth when he does it; it feels like a knife piercing your skin, something sharp, not like human teeth.
You let out a confused whimper in response to it, and his hips are stuttering, groaning against your throat, and the pain you feel fades into a strange, floaty warmth.
When he pulls back, his mouth lingers on the bite, kissing it, licking at something wet that trickled down your neck.
"Sorry," he murmurs, still inside of you. "Got carried away."
"S'okay..." You're drifting, boneless, blissed out. "Felt good anyway..."
He laughs softly, and you feel his thumb trace the bite mark, pressing gently, and you wince.
"I left a mark." He points out.
"I don't mind..."
"No?" He kisses the spot again, more focused on kissing that than your own lips, and then he licks it, slow and deliberate. "I'll have to be more careful next time."
Next time. The words warm you from the inside.
He shifts, pulling out of you, and you whimper at the loss. But then he's lying beside you, pulling you into his arms, and you curl against his chest.
"Will you stay?" you whisper. "Tonight? Sleep with me?"
"Yes."
"You never stay."
"I'll stay tonight." His arms tighten around you. "I'll stay as long as you want me."
You press your face against his chest, feeling safe in someone's arms, something that has always felt foreign to you until now.
"I love you," you whisper, 3 words you’ve never said to anyone once before.
He goes still at your murmured confession, not expecting to hear those words from you so soon, but he doesn’t mind it. His hand finds your hair, and he strokes it gently in a way that makes you curl into him further.
"I know," he says. "I love you too."
You fall asleep like that.
Wrapped in the arms of a monster you can't see.
You wake up to him still on your bed, his hand still on your hair, like nothing changed after you went to sleep.
Well… except for the fact that your nightgown is back on. You remember falling asleep naked in his arms, but now the soft fabric is back, covering you, and you wonder if he dressed you while you slept.
"You're awake."
His voice rumbles through his chest, vibrating against your cheek. You lift your head, even though lifting does nothing for you, even though you can't see him, no matter which direction you face.
"How long was I asleep?"
"A while." His hand starts to begin it’s pattern of stroking you hair. "You needed it."
You settle back against him. The silence is comfortable, easy in a way you've never experienced with another person. You've spent your whole life alone, and now you're not, and the relief of it is almost overwhelming.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"Tell me about your family." You trace a small circle on his chest with your finger. "Your father… What's he like?"
Theres a brief pause, almost imperceptible, but you catch it. "He's a busy man," Scaramouche says. "Always working. I don't see him often."
"And your mother?"
Another pause, a longer one this time.
"My mother," he repeats, and there's something strange in his voice… something heavy. "My mother is... complicated."
"Complicated how?"
"She lives here. In this estate." His hand stills in your hair. "She's… powerful. Important. Everyone knows her name, fears it, respects it. But… she's never been much of a mother to me."
You wait, sensing there's more.
"She's neglectful," he continues, quieter now. "Always has been. Too busy with her own concerns to notice her son. Too wrapped up in her own world to care about mine." He laughs, but it's hollow. "I hate her sometimes. Most of the time, actually. But somewhere, deep down, I suppose I still..."
He trails off. You press your palm flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat, not questioning why you can’t find it.
"I'm sorry." You say, clear sympathy in your voice.
"Don't be." His hand resumes its gentle stroking. "It's just how things are."
"Can I meet her?” You ask, more curious than eager. “Your mother?"
He tenses when you ask that, and he tries to cover it up, acting normal by continuing his rhythm in your hair. "Maybe," he says. "Someday. I'm not sure."
You accept the non-answer, it’s what you’re used to. Your whole life has been built on them.
"Scaramouche?"
"Mm?"
"My mother and brother." You swallow. "Do you know if they're back yet? From their trip?"
The silence that follows after what you say feels different than any question you’ve asked. It feels heavier, makes you feel oddly tense.
"Why do you want to leave so badly?" He says in a tone lacking of any emotion, in a way that sounds scary and not at all like the sweet boy you’ve grown to love.
It catches you of guard, definitely, and you shake your head immediately, frantically even.
“I don’t… not at all, Scara. I would never want to-” You stop, realizing what you just said without giving it a single thought. Never. You just fucking said never. You clear your throat, trying to fix your words. “I just… I want to know if they’re safe… that’s all. It has nothing to do with me wanting to leave.”
You feel him shift beneath you, feel his hand move from your hair to cup your cheek. That motion would normally make you feel secure, safe, loved by him. But right now… you’re just confused at his behavior, confused on why he can’t just give you a proper response without having you fall apart first.
"I visited your estate two days ago," he says finally. "To check. And they weren't there."
Your heart drops hearing those words. It’s been two weeks, they should be back by now on there trip, should’ve been back days ago, but what Scara’s telling you makes you think they never made it back… or did, and got killed by the very thing they’re skilled at hunting.
"What do you mean they weren't there?"
"I didn’t just look, also. I asked around… not your dead servants, but I asked your neighbors, anyone alive in the vicinity…” His thumb traces your cheekbone, it seems like he’s doing it to comfort you, but to you it feels like he’s mocking you. "I’ll be nice and say they're possibly missing."
All blood drains from your face as you process his words, you feel your body go cold just like his… you feel the relapse of emotions you felt the day your father was murdered.
Your face is gone.
Your mother… and your brother are missing.
You have no one.
… no one but him.
“No,” you whisper, shaking your head in denial, hoping that the worst isn’t as true as it seems. “No… that can’t be right. They were supposed to come back… they always do, I never worry about them when they go on hunting trips… I just feel sad that I’m never allowed to come with them. I wish I was now… I wish my brother wasn’t such a stupid asshole that only sees me as something weak… because maybe then, I’d be able to say goodbye.”
You burry your face in Scara’s chest, trying not to sob, but the tears threaten anyway. “I’d rather die with them, than not be with them at all.”
Scara watches this display of your… emotions without uttering a word, none until you’re finished.
“Shh.” He starts, voice soft and nothing compared to the uncanny, emotionless one like before, he strokes your head as you cry onto his chest. “I’ll check every day for you, I promise. I’ll go back and look, over and over, day and night if I have to. And the moment I see them, I’ll bring them to safety and tell you immediately.”
The words don’t help, not at all, because how would something as a promise you’ll never be able to see experience, actually, and I mean, actually make you feel better.
“Let me come with you…” You sit up, desperate, clinging onto his shoulders. “Please, Scara. I want to go home… I want to feel my house again, smell it, actually open the curtia-”
He cuts you off, “You can’t.” His tone is calm in a way that it makes an insane contrast with how much you’re currently spiraling.
"Why not?" You say, just as desperate as your words before.
"It's not safe." He says it like it’s already been decided, confirmed.
“I don’t care if it’s safe or not!” Your voice cracks. “What the hell, Scara, they’re my family… my fucking family! I’m an adult, not just some child that wants to be locked all the time, I can fend for myself, I’m sick and tired of being forced to stay in bed like if I even stepped out of it, I’d be in danger.”
"You can't come with me." His words are, again, firm and final. You’ve heard them before, a thousand times, coming from the very people you’re so desperate to find.
You're too fragile. Too delicate. Too blind.
But there’s a difference here because Scaramouche doesn’t say any of that. He doesn’t call you helpless, he doesn’t point to your disability as the reason. He knows your senses are strong, he’s seen you navigate his estate, memorize the layout of your room, detect his presence before he speaks. He knows you’d be more useful than him at searching, that your hearing could pick up things his eyes might miss.
So why won't he let you?
"They’re vampires out there," he says, as if reading your thoughts. "The ones who attacked your home. They're still in the area. I won't risk you."
Vampires.
You think of your father, his throat torn open, his blood soaking into your hands. You think of the creatures that did that to him, the monsters that hunt in the night, and hatred rises in your chest like bile.
"I hate them." The words come out bitter. "I hate vampires. They're disgusting creatures. Monsters. They killed my father, they destroyed my life, and I hope every single one of them burns."
Scaramouche doesn't respond.
You keep going, unable to stop yourself.
"My family has hunted them for generations. We've killed hundreds, thousands. And it's not enough. It'll never be enough. They're a plague, a disease, and the world would be better off if every last one of them was wiped from existence."
Still nothing.
You take a breath. "But..." You pause, uncertain. "I would like to meet one. Someday…"
"What?" Scaramouche finally responds.
"A vampire." You turn your face toward him, even though you can't see his expression. "In my books, they're always described as hideous. Monstrous. Twisted things with rotting flesh and hollow eyes. But… I don't believe that. I think they must be beautiful. Terrifyingly beautiful. And I want to feel one, just once. Even though I know it would be impossible. Even though they'd kill me before I could get close."
It’s quiet in the room, and you wonder if you’ve said something wrong, you wonder if he hates vampires as much as your family does, that maybe he was raised the same as you, but isn’t weird like you.
"You imagine them as beautiful," he repeats slowly.
"... Yes."
"Even though you hate them."
"I can hate something and still find it fascinating." You shrug. "I've never been able to separate the two."
He doesn't respond to that. Instead, he changes the subject entirely.
"Have you ever opened your eyes?"
The question startles you because no one has ever asked that before. People assume you can't, that there's something wrong with them, that keeping them closed is a medical necessity rather than a choice.
"No."
"Never? Really?"
"I choose to keep them closed." You touch the edge of your lace mask, feeling the delicate fabric beneath your fingers. "I can't see anyway. Opening them wouldn't change anything."
"Then why keep them closed?"
You hesitate because this is something you’ve never told anyone, not even your family. Something private, sacred, held close to your chest like a secret.
"You’ll probably find it stupid… but I'm saving them," you say finally. "For someone special."
"Someone special?"
"Someone who'll stay with me for eternity." The words come out soft, almost reverent. "Even in a human life. Someone who'll love me and protect me, but who'll also let me feel protected on my own. Someone who'll trust me to keep myself safe. Someone that I love enough to open them for."
You pause, your chest feeling tight.
"Someone who'll love me forever."
The silence that follows is so heavy you could drown in it.
"Only a vampire can love you forever."
You tilt your head, confused as his response, and let out a nervous giggle, thinking what he said to be a joke. "What?"
His lips find yours before you can say another word, he kisses you soft, gentle, cutting of your confusion before in can fully form.
"I'll love you for an eternity," he murmurs against your mouth. "And you can choose when you want to open your eyes for me."
You melt into the kiss, the strange comment already fading from your mind.
Days pass.
He sleeps in your room now, every night, he crawls into bed beside you, pulls you against his chest, holds you until morning… or what you assume is morning, you never know for certain.
He still feeds you, more now that the relationship you two have seems more established than ever. You wish though, that it was different, that you could feed yourself, and he does the same infront of you. One day, as he’s feeding you, you ask, "Can I eat with you? At a table, like normal people?"
"Maybe one day," he says.
That day never comes.
The day does come for a different shared experience, one that doesn’t involve eating but involves a lot of trust and intimacy.
"Let me bathe you."
The words catch you off guard completely. You’re sitting on your bed, tracing the embroidery on your pillowcase when he says it. You were going to bathe later, in a few hours, it’s not necessary to do it now… but you shake your head, almost at yourself, continuing to trace as you respond.
"I can bathe myself."
"I know you can." You hear him move closer, feel the mattress dip as he sits beside you. "But I want to do it. Let me take care of you."
You’ve been bathing yourself your whole life, navigating through your bathroom with the ever-present fear of falling. You’ve memorized the layout of every bathroom you’ve ever used, mapped the distance from every object… you don’t necessarily need help.
But… the thought of him doing it, of his hands on you, of not having to worry about slipping and cracking your skull on the edge of the basin because he'd be there to catch you...
"Okay."
His hand finds yours, and it’s cold, as always, but you’ve stopped flinching at the temperature. Ever since that night, the first night, when his skin pressed against yours and you were too overwhelmed by the softness of it to care about the chill. He's touched you more since then, like something shifted between you and he no longer feels the need to hide.
He leads you out of your room and down a hallway you haven’t memorized yet. You count the steps as you both walk, fourteen until you turn left, seven more, then a door on the same left side of the wall.
"Bathroom," he says, unnecessarily, leading you inside and shutting the door behind you both, locking it. "Stay here."
You stand on a rug, seemingly in the middle of the bathroom while he moves around the space. You hear water running, the squeak of a tap being adjusted, the slosh of liquid filling something large and deep. A bathtub bigger than any you've had before, by the sound of it.
"Temperature's good." His footsteps return to you. "Arms up."
You raise your arms, and his hands find the straps of your nightgown. It’s a short white babydoll dress, and he slides the straps off your shoulders, slow, deliberate, and the fabric pools at your feet.
You’re naked now, fully exposed, and you can feel his gaze on you like he’s physically touching you, tracing the curves of your body, the dip of your waist, the swell of your breasts. You can’t see his expression, but you can feel the weight of his attention.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, almost to himself.
His fingers find your face and they trace along your jaw, up your cheekbones, and then higher. They go to the lalce mask you’ve worn everyday since childhood.
"Can I take this off too?"
Your breath catches at that question. No one has ever seen you without it, not since you were a baby… too young to keep it on yourself. It's part of you now, as familiar as your own skin.
But he's already seen everything else. What's one more piece?
"... Yes. You can, Scara…"
He’s gentle as he unties the ribbon at the back of your head, sliding the delicate fabric away from your face.The air feels strange against your closed eyelids, more exposed than even your naked body.
He doesn't say anything for a long moment.
"You're not opening them," he says finally.
"I never do, I told you."
"I know." His thumb brushes across your closed eyelid, featherlight. "Your lashes are longer than I expected."
You don't know what to say to that. You've never thought about your eyelashes. You've never thought about any part of your face, really. It's just... there. A thing you can't see, can't evaluate, can't compare to anyone else's.
He cups your face in both hands and tilts it up toward him.
And then he kisses you.
Not your mouth, though, you feel him press a soft kiss on your cheekbone… then your eyelid, so gentle you can barely feel it, then the other one… reverent.
Worshipful.
You giggle because you can’t help it, the kiss on your eyelids tickles, and it’s also so sweet. You’re overwhelmed by the tenderness of it.
He doesn’t just stop there, he kisses your mouth next, lips moving against yours, his tongue sliding past your teeth. You melt into it, your hands coming up to grip his shoulders, and you realize he's still fully clothed while you're completely bare.
"Your turn," you murmur against his lips.
"... What?"
"Your clothes." You fumble for the buttons of his shirt, your fingers clumsy. "Take them off."
He laughs, soft and amused. "Eager."
"I want to feel you."
He lets you try, lets you figure it out yourself. Your fingers work at the buttons, struggling with the unfamiliar task, because you’ve never worn buttons before, and he doesn’t help. You get three undone before you give up, frustrated.
"It's hard when you can't see what you're doing," you mutter.
"Most things are."
You can't tell if he's mocking you or sympathizing… Maybe both.
He takes over, shrugging out of his shirt, then his pants, and then he's as naked as you are. "Come on." His hand takes yours again. "Water's getting cold."
He guides you to the edge of the tub, and helps you step over the high rim. The water feels perfect, warm, but not scalding, and you sink into it with a sigh of relief. The tub is enormous, deep enough that the water comes up to your chest when you sit.
He slides in behind you.
His legs bracket yours, his chest close to your back, and you feel his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you back against him. You let your head fall onto his shoulder.
"Comfortable?" He asks.
"Mm." You say, completely lost like you’re under some kind of spell.
He reaches for something, you hear the click of a bottle opening, and then his hands are in your hair. You feel him lathering shampoo through the strands, his fingers working at your scalp.
You let out a tiny, embarrassing (to you), whimper at the feel of it.
No one has ever done this for you, never touched your hair like this… with this much attention, this much care. His fingers press and circle, finding the stops that make the tension drain from your shoulders, and you go boneless against him.
"Good?"
"So good." Your voice comes out dreamy, like you’re distantly there. "... Don't stop."
He washes your hair thoroughly, rinsing it with ahndfuls of water, and then he reaches for another bottle, conditioner, you assume, and he works through the ends, detangling with his fingers, patient and methodical.
You could fall alseep like this if you aren’t careful. Being here… feeling this… makes you want to stay here forever, floating in warm water, his hands at your hair, his body solid and real behind you.
His hands go lower… down your neck, across your shoulders. He’s washing you now, his palms sliding over your skin, leaving trails of soap. He washes down your back, the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist.
And then he goes to the front of your body. His hands cup around your breasts.
You gasp, but you don’t pull away. His palms are slick with soap, sliding over the soft flesh, and his thumbs find your nipples, he circles around them, clearly teasing.
"Still okay?"
"Yes." The word comes out breathless, and you nod. "Yes, keep going."
He doesn’t rush after your full permission, he touches you like he has all the time in the world, like your body is something to be explored and memorized, the same as you do any room you come into. He learns the weight of your breasts, the way your nipples harden under his attention, the sounds you make when he pinches just slightly.
He lingers at your breasts for way too long.
"More?" His voice is low, rough against your ear.
"Please, Scara… "
His hand slides down your stomach, over the curve of your hip… between… your thighs.
You spread your legs without being asked.
He touches you slowly here too, like he’s learning, just like everywhere else. His fingers trace along your folds, slipping through the slickness that has nothing to do with the bath water. He finds your clit, circles it ones, then twice, and you let out the cutest whimper in response.
"Sensitive," he murmurs, you’re always sensitive, one of the few things you like (and hate) about being blind. "I like that."
And because he’s obsessed with it, because he seems to always go to it, his mouth finds your neck. He presses kisses to the curve of it, and you feel his teeth, just barely, tiny nips that send shivers down your spine. You're too focused on his fingers to pay much attention, too lost in the way he's touching you, slow circles that build heat in your core, especially when he slips two fingers inside.
He learns what makes you gasp, what makes the little hitches of breath you cant control, and he exploits it ruthlessly. Pressing harder when you react, curling up in the spot that makes your eyes roll back behind your eyelids and always pulling back when you get too close.
"Scara..." You're squirming against him, trying to grind into his hand. "Please..."
"Please what?"
"I need to cum... Please let me cum."
He bites your neck, harder than before, and it’s hard enough to sting. While he does it, his curl up into your cunt, abusing that spot of yours perfectly, in the way you’ve been needing this entire time.
The orgasm crashes through you, your body arching in the water, waves sloshing over the edges of the tub. He works you through it, his fingers relentless, his mouth still pressed to your throat, tiny bites you barely register through the pleasure. You're distantly aware of his teeth breaking skin, just slightly, just enough to taste, but it's lost in the overwhelming sensation of cumming on his hand.
You slump back against him, panting, trembling, and his hand moves away from between your legs to rest on your stomach.
"Good girl," he murmurs against your skin.
You're too blissed out to respond.
He holds you like that until the water goes cold. Then he lifts you out, wraps you in a towel, and carries you back to bed. You fall asleep in a new nightgown he got for you, in his arms, still floating.
You don’t notice the small wounds on your neck until the morning, when you accidently touch it because your neck feels weird. But even then, because you cannot see the weird look to it, how it just looks like two holes punched into your skin, you don’t think much of it.
Needless to say, you’ve become dependent on him.
He's the only person you see, the only voice you hear, the only touch you feel. When he's not in the room, you sleep. You can't help it. There's nothing else to do, no one else to talk to, and sleep is the only way to make the waiting bearable.
Sometimes, when you can't sleep, you walk. Around the room, tracing the walls with your fingertips, memorizing the furniture and the layout and the exact number of steps from the bed to the door.
The door that's always locked.
You think it's been three weeks.
On what feels like the twenty-second day, something changes.
You wake up alone, as usual. Reach for the door, as usual. But when you turn the handle…
It opens.
That makes you freeze because why would the door be unlocked? Did he forget to lock it when he left? But… Scara doesn’t seem the type to make a mistake, ever.
Your heart pounds.
You've memorized your room, but… you don't know what's outside it. The hallway, the stairs, the rest of this place that might be a mansion or might be something bigger. You're terrified of unknown spaces, always have been. The thought of stepping into an area you haven't mapped makes your hands shake.
But you're also curious.
And right now, curiosity is stronger than fear.
You step into the hallway and cling to the wall, feeling the texture beneath your fingers, and you start walking, slow. You’re careful as you walk, one hand staying on the wall, the other extended in front of you.
Your goal of finally being able to get out of that room without Scara’s supervision is to find a window. Not to jump or anything sucidial in that manner, you’re happy… happy in the sense that you’re trying not to think too much of your family, and think more of how Scara treats you. You want to find a window so you can feel the sunlight again. The curtains in your room are too heavy to move, and you miss the feeling of warmth on your skin.
But you don't find any windows. Not ones you can reach, anyway.
What you find are stairs.
You navigate them slowly, one step at a time, clinging almost for dear life onto the railing. Down, down, stop, hover your foot just to make sure that what’s under is really a step, then down, down. They’re more stairs than there should be, more than any normal house would have… this place is enormous, which would be any blind person nightmare to walk through, if they’re alone.
But you manage.
You reach the bottom, and the floor is soft here, carpet maybe. And being down here, you can hear voices.
Not Scaramouche's voice.
Multiple.
You freeze hearing them, every muscle in your body going tense. The voices seem to be coming from a room nearby, the people, you assume, probably don’t see you, so your panic does fade, just slightly. You inch toward the room you hear the voices coming from, and you feel for the door, it feels ajar, which is better than it being fully open, and you press yourself against the wall, moving as silently as you can.
"-tired of this," one voice is saying. It sounds like a male’s voice, deep, rough at the edges. "Three weeks and we're still tiptoeing around."
3 weeks? That’s the same amount of time you’ve known Scara.
"The prince wants her kept alive," another voice responds. Also male, but higher, more nasal. "What the prince wants, the prince gets."
The… prince?
"But the smell." The first voice again, frustrated. "Do you have any idea how maddening it is? Human blood, everywhere, all the fuckin’ time. It's all I can focus on."
Your blood runs cold.
Human blood.
"He keeps her locked up," the nasal voice continues. "Won't let anyone near her. He won’t even let us look at her."
"The prince has always been selfish." A third voice, bored. "You remember what he did to that village last century? Killed everyone, just because one of them looked at him wrong."
The first voice laughs. "Scaramouche has always been-"
You stop breathing.
Scaramouche.
They're talking about Scaramouche.
They called him prince.
Business partners' sons aren't royalty. Business partners' sons don't have people calling them prince, don't have people talking about villages they destroyed last century.
The man you've been living with, sleeping with, kissing, loving-
"Do you think the human smell's gotten stronger?" the first voice asks suddenly. "Over the past few minutes?"
"Now that you mention it..."
You run.
You don’t think before you do. Plan? Out the fucking window you’re never allowed to feel. You don’t have time for any of that, this is life or death, these… whatever these people are, vampires, sound hungry for you.
Your hands frantically feel along the walls, your feet stumble over unfamiliar terrain, you’re looking for a door… an exit, anything…
And oddly enough…
You don’t hear those men chasing you.
You don't hear them at all anymore, and that's worse. That's so much worse, because vampires are silent, vampires are fast, vampires can move without making a sound-
You collide with a body.
The impact knocks the breath from your lungs. You stumble backward, your hands coming up instinctively, something you assume to be a defensive position. Your arms crossed in front of your face, body curled inward, the way you've read about in books.
A familiar laugh cuts through the darkness.
"That's what you'd do if a vampire ever tried to attack you? Seriously?"
Scaramouche.
Something in his voice is different… the gentleness of it has been stripped away, like the way he acted before, was all just an act he was too good at. He sounds amused, yes, but in a cruel way, a mocking way.
"You-” Your hands go down now that you know who it is, but not in a way that you aren’t ready to try and defend yourself. You're shaking, trembling all over. "Y-you're a-"
"A vampire." He finishes for your stutter, and he says it causally too, like this confession is nothing to him. "Yes. Obviously."
"You killed my father, didn’t you." You say, hurt at the betrayal, the heartbreak is painfully clear in your voice.
"Mm. He died quickly… if that helps."
Something inside you snaps.
You lunge at him, fists swinging, you can’t see where you’re aiming, can’t see if you’re even close to hitting him, but you don’t care. You want to hurt him… you need to.
Your fists connect with nothing.
He’s moved, and you don’t know where, you just know he’s not where he was, and that causes you to stumble forward, off-balance. You feel a hand catch with your wrist, twisting it behind your back, and suddenly, you’re pressed against him, your back to his chest, and you can feel his mouth at your ear.
"That was pathetic," he says pleasantly. "Try again."
You struggle, trash, try to break free of his grip. And he seems to barely even be trying, his tight grip is effortless, his body immovable like a statue. You’re fighting with everything you have, and he’s just… standing there.
"LET ME GO!" You yell, loud, ready to bite at his hand if he tries covering your mouth.
"No." He says, casual, while you’re frantic.
"YOU KILLED HIM!" Tears are streaming down your face now, soaking into your mask. "You killed my father!!” You scream, your own throat burning and your next words come out quiet, broken, “You made me think… you made me… love you-”
"I didn't make you do anything." His voice is cold, a perfect match with his body. "You fell in love all on your own. I just... helped it along."
Your voice raises again. "You're a MONSTER!"
"Yes."
"I HATE YOU!"
"Do you?"
“ILL NEVER LOVE YOU!” You don’t stop screaming, you don’t care if someone hears, you don’t care about anything but seeing your family right now. “ILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU! Do you understand that, you fucking ugly, disgusting VAMPIRE. I hope someone drives a stake though your nonexistent fucking heart and-”
"Careful." His grip tightens on your wrist. "My patience has limits."
“I don’t care, I don’t fucking CARE ABOUT YOU. LET ME GO!! LET ME GO.”
He does, and you stumble forward, nearly falling. You spin around, your hands up, and your breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Fine," he says, and he sounds bored. "You want to go? Fucking go."
You freeze, hearing something you definitely didn’t expect. “What?”
“The door is right behind you, I’ll even open it for you, so you won’t struggle to find it like I know you will. You can walk out… into the night, because it is night right now, where they’re dozens, and I mean, dozens of vampires far less patient than me, and you can fend for yourself.” He pauses and you can feel amusement, something mocking in his tone. “Is that what you want?”
Yes.
No???
You… you don’t know.
"You're bluffing.” You say instead.
"Try me." He counters.
You hear footsteps, his, walking past you, and a large door creaking open from behind. Cold air rushes in, and it’s the same air you’ve been craving to feel weeks ago, and you can sense, just by it that he’s right, that it is nightime.
"There you go," he says. "Freedom, just like you want. Take it."
You want to be the brave one and run, sprint out that door and never look back.
But you’re terrified. The night is full of monsters, ones you’ve never encountered once in your life, apart from this one, and as much as you hate to admit your disability being the very think that makes you weak… you’re blind, and that ruins any chance of a proper escape you could ever have.
"That's what I thought." He sounds amused noticing your hesitation. "You want to prove you can protect yourself? That you don't need anyone? Then prove it."
You turn, following the air your feel and take a step forward, than another.
"Brave," he murmurs. "Or stupid. We'll see which."
You keep walking, out the door, into the cold, onto the ground that feels like dirt and grass and leaves. You’re also not wearing shoes, only socks, white ones with lace that cuffs at your ankles, you feel stupid remembering your lack of footwear, and you know that’ll just make this even more dangerous for you.
“How long have I known you?” He asks, suddenly.
You turn your head back toward his voice. "What?"
You hear the irritation in his voice, like he’s annoyed he has to repeat something he said that he knows made clear sense. “How long has it been since we’ve met?”
Your brows knit, confused at why this is a question he’s asking now. “I don’t know, I don’t remember.”
“Guess it then.”
You think, even though you’d rather be running right now "... Three weeks?"
"Close enough." You hear him step out after you. "I'll give you a three-minute head start."
You back up, arms crossed. "What the fuck? Excuse me?"
"Run." His voice is soft now, almost gentle, despite that one word sounding like a clear warning. "And I'll chase. That's how this works."
Your hands drop at your sides, "You're going to-"
"I'm not going to let some nobody vampire eat you." He sounds almost offended. "Just who do you think I am? You're mine. If anyone's going to kill you, it'll be me."
Your blood runs cold.
"A little tip," he whispers, and suddenly he's right behind you, his breath cold against your ear. "It's better to hide than to run too far. But even then... your scent gives you away. So either route you take, you're completely fucked."
You run before he finishes speaking.
The forest swallows you.
At least, you think it's a forest. They’re trees everywhere, you can feel them, their bark rough against your palms as you push past. You don't know where you're going, you can't see the path, can't see anything, can only feel and smell and hear.
You don’t even know hiding spots, if one you took would actually keep you hidden, or make you look obvious. Every direction you take feels dangerous, every step feels like a giant risk. You could be running toward more vampires, or running off a cliff… or just looking like an idiot, running in circles.
Your father is dead.
The thought crashes over you like a wave, nearly sending you to your knees.
He killed your father… Scara. How fucked up at you to still be reffering to him as the nickname you’ve been calling him? He’s the same man who held you, kissed you, made love to you. And he’s the same one who tore out your fathers throat and then walked upstairs, pretending to be your savior.
Your mother and brother might be dead too, because Scara told you he’d visit your estate daily, and now… with everything you’ve heard, and heard him confess to you, you wouldn’t be surprised if he did harm them, kill them.
Or worse, they might be alive, mourning you, searching for you, never knowing that you're just a few miles away, trapped by the very monster they've spent their lives hunting.
And you loved him.
You fucking loved him.
You… love him.
And that’s the worse part. Because even now, even knowing what he is, what he did, theres a part of you that wants to run back or stop running and just wait. That part of you just wants to throw yourself into his arms and pretend none of this is real.
Is he a monster?
He killed your father, lied to you, manipulated you into falling in love with him.
But was he a monster when you fell in love with him? Was he one before you knew? Was he always one, or did the truth change something fundamental about who he is?
You don’t know… You don’t know anything anymore.
You just don’t understand why you?
The trees seem to shift around you… you think you’re going in a straight line, but you keep feeling the same bark, same pattern, like you’re circling back without realizing.
He's playing with you.
He’s not chasing you, he’s herding you. He’s using his speed, his silence, his knowledge of this terrain to push you in whatever direction he wants.
You spin around, reaching out, trying to detect him.
Nothing.
Then you hear a rustle to your left, you turn, heart pounding.
Nothing.
A snap behind you, you spin again.
Nothing.
He’s everywhere and nowhere at once. Circling you like prey, messing with your senses, the very senses you’ve always relied on, the ones that are supposed to be better than anyone elses.
It's not enough.
It's nowhere near enough compared to a vampire.
"I can't do this anymore!" You're crying, tears streaming down your face, your voice cracking. "I'm tired! I’m so fucking tired…” You rub your head, exhausted, spiriling. “I can't-"
A laugh echoes through the trees. "Already?" He sounds delighted. "That was barely what? Two minutes."
"Please-"
"But you wanted to prove yourself, remember?" His voice comes from everywhere at once. "You wanted to show me you could protect yourself. That you don't need anyone's help."
You spin again, reaching blindly.
"Then do it."
Something shifts in the air and the next thing you feel is pain.
He slams you, hard, very fucking hard against a tree, and your back hits the bark hard enough to drive the breath from your lungs. Before you can recover, his mouth his on your neck, and his teeth are sinking in.
Sharp, knife sharp, actually, sharper than any knife, any sewing needle, it’s nothing compared to the playful nips like before.
You scream… or honestly, try to. What comes out is more of a whine, high and broken and pathetic. He bites again, different spot on your neck, just as hard, and again, and again, and fucking again. He’s relentless with it, like an animal, his mouth is everywhere, marking you, claiming you, and all you can do is hang there and take it.
"This," he growls against your skin, "is what I've wanted to do since the moment I saw you."
"Please-" Another bite cuts you off. "Please, I don't want to die-"
"I'm not killing you." His tongue drags across a bleeding wound, and you shudder. "Just tasting... You're too valuable to waste."
"I don't want to be a vampire-" You're sobbing now, ugly and desperate. "I don't want to be a monster like you-"
His teeth sink again, harder this time, obviously for your comment of calling him a monster, and it’s hard enough to make you scream for reach. The sound echos through the forest, and he groans against your neck like it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.
"Call me that again," he murmurs. "See what happens."
You can’t do anything else anymore… not even your voice seems to work as the blood loss is making everything fuzzy and distant. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, in your neck also, where he’s been taking and taking like you’re a snack. All you do is whimper helplessly, hands limp at your sides.
When he finally stops biting you’re barely even conscious. You feel him, distnatly, because of how blacked out you’re feeling, him licking the wounds, cleaning the blood thats dripped down your neck, pressing soft kisses to each bite mark like an apology.
Except he’s not sorry.
And he never will be.
Your legs give out.
He catches you before you even have the chance to fall onto the dirty ground. His arms slide under your knees, your back, lifting you easily, bridal style. Like someone out of one of your romance novels. The irony would be funny if you weren't too exhausted to laugh.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, as your head falls limp in his arms. You think apologizing sounds better than continuing to yell at him, at this point, and your words come out weak, barely audible from the bloodloss. “I’m so sorry, Scara… P-please… take me home… even if it’s just for a second. Let me see- I mean… feel my house again, just one more time, and you can do what you want.”
“I am taking you home, obviously,” he says, and his voice sounds calm, pleasant for someone who just tore your throat open in a forest. “My home is yours now, more than ever.”
You shake your head, a weak no coming out as you continue, “Please, Scara… I want to see my mother… my brother.”
"That’ll never happen, you don’t see y/n, remember?"
"Please-"
"You will never feel or sense their presence again." He starts walking. "Those are just terrible people who’ve kept you locked in a room your entire life. Who’ve made you feel like a burden. And you want to go back to that? They don’t even deserve you. They don’t even let you live.”
You start crying again, quiet, weak tears you’re too exhausted to wipe. “W-what? How can you even say that…” But your voice sounds so, barely audible, the weight of them feeling low in a way that seems impossible to defend yourself, your own family. “You don’t know them… they… they’re my family…”
"They're your prison." He cuts off your pathetic attempt at trying to defend, his own words heavier than yours tenfold. "But you're free now. I'll teach you to protect yourself. I'll teach you to keep yourself safe. I'll let you go outside, feel the sun, do anything you've ever wanted. I couldn’t before, because I couldn’t let you know I was a vampire just yet."
Your voice cracks, and you can feel your hair sticking to some of your tears, “B-but I don’t want-”
"With time, of course." He sounds almost reasonable. "I can't trust you yet. But it's a promise I'm confident in."
You grit your teeth, but even that’s a weak movement of yours. "I hate you."
"Do you?"
"I'll never love a monster… A vampire like you." Your tone is filled with disdain, even in this state.
"You already have." His arms tighten around you. "You're letting me carry you right now. You're fighting your own emotions, telling yourself you hate me, but you don't. If you truly hated me, you would’ve kept fighting. You would’ve clawed and screamed until I had to knock you unconscious to get you home."
You don't respond because you don’t have one.
"Here's what's going to happen," he says, and his voice drops, turning serious. "As long as you continue to love me, as long as you never stop, I'll keep your mother and brother safe."
Your tears suddenly stop hearing that, processing that last part faster than you’ve processed anything before.
"They're alive," he continues. "I know where they are. I've seen them. They've been back for a week, mourning your father, setting up a funeral while I watched from the shadows. Your brother misses you. Your mother sleeps in your room at night, waiting for you to come home."
Tears stream down your face again.
"But if you show hatred for me..." His voice goes cold. "If you try to run again. If you make me think, even for a second, that you've stopped loving me. I'll kill them. And your attempt to escape won't even matter, because you're never leaving anyway."
You're silent the rest of the way because of that.
Because you’re scared to speak now, scared to say anything that might sound like hate.
Or love.
Or both.
He carries you back to your room.
The room you’ve been staying in, you’ve assumed was for guests. But as he lays you on the bed, tucking the blankets around you, he says, "This room is yours. I decorated it especially for you."
You don't respond, but you listen.
"The rest of this mansion is dark," he continues. "Red and black to be specific. Everything is dark-toned, dark-colored, shadows and gloom. But this room..." He pauses. "This room is different. It’s white… soft, light."
You still don't respond, but he knows you’re listening.
"That's what I associate you with," he says quietly. "Light, in the middle of all this darkness."
You turn your face away.
"I left the door unlocked on purpose," he adds. "I wanted you to find out eventually… I didn't want to be dramatic and tell you myself."
You’re still silent, so much that if he didn’t know you, he’d assume you passed out by now.
"Do you have any questions?" he asks.
You do, you have so many that your head might explode. But, you feel weak, and only one matters right now to you.
"Do you love me?" Your voice is hoarse, broken. "Actually love me?"
"Yes." No hesitation. "You're the only person I've ever cared about. And I'll love you forever."
"Why me?" You turn to face him, even though facing him doesn't mean you can see him. "What about me could you possibly want? You've only known me for three weeks."
"When I walked into your room that day," he says slowly, "I felt something I've never felt before. Something as stupid as love at first sight. I've seen thousands of humans in my time on this earth. Hundreds of years of faces and bodies and souls. And you're different than any of them."
"How?"
"You dress differently… Probably because you can't see." He sounds almost fond. "You're beautiful, even with your eyes always closed. And I'm impressed with how much you manage without sight. How you need to feel things before you're comfortable with them. How your senses are stronger than any human I've ever met."
"That's my favorite part about you," he says quietly. "Your senses. The way you experience the world. It's... fascinating. Beautiful, in its own way."
You don't know what to say.
So you don’t say anything.
Eventually, he leaves.
You stop counting the days.
What's the point? Time has lost all meaning. You're here, in this room, and you'll be here forever. Whether it's been three weeks or three months or three years makes no difference.
You avoid him.
Not physically, you can’t avoid him physically, because he still comes to your room every day, still brings you food, still sits at the edge and talks to you. But the difference is that you don’t respond, or engage. You give him nothing to work with, not love, and no hate, just… emptiness.
He watches you a lot.
You can feel it, his eyes on you, all the time, even when he’s giving you space. Even when he’s standing on the other side of the room, he’s watching, waiting.
For what?
You don’t have a fucking clue because you aren’t giving him shit.
You stop eating, too.
It’s not conscious, not something you’re doing in retaliation… you just can’t. The food tastes like ash in your mouth, and swallowing feels like choking, and eventually you just stop trying. You loose weight of course, which turns you into something you hate, getting weaker, more fragile, but even though that is something you hate… you don’t care at this point.
You’d be fine dying like this.
He gets mad pretty quickly.
You can hear it in his voice, when he threatens you, tells you he’ll force the food down your throat if he has to, calls you childish, pathetic, weak.
You barely flinch or react when he yells, and he hates the lack of reaction, hates how emotionless you’ve become… depressed, almost like a corpse that only chooses to move when they’re forced to. And your eyes being closed never helps that.
You eat, only to get him to go away, and you don’t let him feed you. You take the fork from his hand before he even can, and eat mechanically, joylessly, and you don’t let him touch you.
He doesn't push, surprisingly.
He respects the boundaries you've drawn, even though you know he doesn't have to. He could force himself on you. He could pin you down and take whatever he wants. But… he doesn't.
It’s like he respects you as a person in the way your family never has, even though the situation is dark.
Oh yeah, your family…
The only time he actually makes a threat about your mother and brother is when you make a mean remark towards him, specifically calling him a monster, telling him you hope he burns, anything your brain can muster out that sounds good enough to be hatred.
"Careful," he says each time. "Remember what I said."
And you remember.
And that makes you shut your mouth.
On what you think might be the twelfth day of silence, you break.
You don’t know why… you don’t know what about that day makes you crack, but when he walks into the room that evening, you don’t stay in bed, you don’t turn away from him.
You get up, cross the room, and wrap your arms around him.
He goes still at the sudden motion he hasn’t felt in days from you. You feel the tension in his body, the surprise, and you’re crying, tears soaking into the fabric of his top, and you’re holding onto him, tight, with strength you’re surprised your weak body can manage.
"I'm sorry," you whisper, your head desperately nuzzling onto his chest. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
He’s quiet for a long moment, still processing all of this, and then, finally, his hands wrap around you, pulling you closer, and you feel warm… protected when he does.
"I'm sorry," you say again. "I'll stop fighting. I'll let you love me. I'll... I'll give it back. I'll try."
He lifts you effortlessly, and carries you to your bed, carefully settling you against your pillows. You try desperately reaching for him, craving his touch back, even though it was just a second, and he settles beside you. He touches you again, his hand on your face, thumb brushing away your tears.
"I know," he says quietly. "I know you will."
He kisses away the wetness of your cheeks, and you whimper, and he doesn’t stop. He presses his lips to your closed eyes, the very ones he worships when you’re without your eye mask, and he kisses your forehead, your nose, and when his mouth finally finds yours, you melt into it.
You give in.
Completely.
When he pulls back, you feel him smile against your lips.
You realize, it’s the first time you’ve ever felt him smile before.
Like he won.
The days become easier after that.
Not good, or happy just… easier. You talk to him again, let him feed you, touch you… hold you. You don’t tell him you love him, though, you can’t, maybe not ever you feel, but you show him in other ways.
You offer him your hand.
He takes it, confused, and you guide his to your wrist. "Drink," you say.
He doesn’t ask if you’re sure, if you’re aware that the skin on wrists is thin and that cuts, punctures there hurt worse, burn even. He just lifts your wrist to his mouth, and his fangs sink in. You gasp at the pain, whimpering as he sucks, because that pain fades rather quickly into something else. Something warm and floaty… and almost pleasant.
You offer him your neck, too.
This becomes a routine. Everytime he visits your room, which is every night, you tilt your head, exposing your throat, inviting him to drink. You don’t need to say the words anymore, he understands.
He's not gentle with it at all.
You don't want him to be, anyway.
His teeth tear into you, hungry, possessive. He drinks until you’re dizzy, until you can barely stay upright, and then he licks the wounds clean, pressing apology kisses on them and he holds you as you recover.
"You're getting better at this," he murmurs one night, his mouth still pressed to your throat. "Taking it so well."
You don’t respond, you don’t talk when he feeds. You just thread your fingers through his hair and hold him closer.
He keeps his promises.
The door is unlocked now, all the time. You can leave your room whenever you want, wander the halls, explore the mansion. You still cling to the walls, still map everything by touch, but the fear is fading… slowly. And he helps you the first couple of times, teaching you what each room is, giving you a large tour while he lets you move independently, without his hand, but of course, he steps in when you’re close to tripping or falling.
He takes you outside, too.
The first time he does, you cry. Actual tears just streaming down your face as you stand in the garden and feel the breeze on your skin. The air is fresh and clean and alive, and you haven't felt anything like it since before your father died.
He watches from a distance.
You don’t know how far, you just know here there… in the shadows, keeping you safe while letting you believe you’re on your own.
When the sun rises, he retreats further. He goes into the deepest shade, where the light can't reach him. But he stays, always.
You don't know how many days have passed.
Months, maybe. It feels like months. The seasons have changed, you can feel it in the air, smell it in the flowers, hear it in the birds that sing different songs now.
You're sitting in the garden, your face turned toward the sun, when you realize something.
You love him.
Not the fake love he manipulated you into. Not the desperate clinging of a captive to her captor. Real love… Terrible, terrifying, all-consuming love.
He killed your father, kept you prisoner, threatened the rest of your living family… and yet, you love him anyway.
Maybe that makes you as much of a monster as he is.
"Scaramouche."
He appears beside you fast, and silent as always. You've stopped being startled by it.
"I want to show you something," you say, turning to your right, where you sense him.
"What?"
Your hands are shaking as you reach for your face. For the lace mask you've worn since childhood, the one you've never removed in front of anyone.
"Wait." His hand catches your wrist. "You don't have to-"
"I want to."
You pull the mask away.
You feel vulnerable much like that day in the bathroom, much like some of the nights in bed with him when you take it off, just so you can feel him kiss your eyelids again. You feel vulnerable, because you know what you’re about to do, and you’re ready for it also.
Slowly, carefully, you open your eyes.
Nothing changes for you when you do it, you can see anything you’ve never been able to see, and no doctor, nothing supernatural will ever change that.
But… the act of opening them, of revealing this part of yourself that you’ve kept hidden for eighteen years, feels monumental.
He's silent.
For a long, long moment, he's completely silent.
"Are they..." You laugh nervously. "Are they white? Do they look strange? I've always wondered if they're all one color, or if-"
"They're beautiful." His voice is reverant, fully reverant, not a mock in sight.
"What color are they?" you ask. Not that it matters, you don't know what colors look like anyway.
"I'm not going to tell you."
You knit your eyebrows, rolling the eyes only he can see. "And why not?"
"Because you don't need to know." His hand comes up, cupping your face, and his thumb traces the skin beneath your open eyes. "You just need to know that they're the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen."
You lean into his touch, your eyes still open, still staring at nothing, and you feel tears start to fall.
"I love you," you whisper head tilting in his touch, to him, it looks like you’re staring up at him, to you, you’re just falling the direction where you sense him. "I don't know when it became real. I don't know when I stopped pretending. But… I love you, Scara."
He’s quiet, again, he’s always quiet after you drop big moments on him, quiet because you’re unable to see the expression he makes, but you imagine him smiling, a pure smile on his face. His forehead touches yours, and you can feel his breath ghost across your lips.
"You asked me once," he says softly, "what kind of person could love you forever. Who could stay with you for eternity. Who could protect you and trust you and give you everything you've ever wanted."
"... I remember."
"Only a vampire can love you forever," he murmurs. "Only a vampire like me."
He kisses you.
And you kiss him back.
And somewhere in the distance, the sun begins to set.
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