How I look reading the most unhinged, absolutely feral smut known to mankind even tho I literally went looking for something soft and wholesome ‘cause I had a shitty day… but now I can’t stop reading ‘cause the smut is lowkey good as hell.
Damn bro… sometimes I even surprise myself with the stuff I read.
This is quite a controversial topic. A lot of men and women want their partner to be obsessed with them, because they think that someone obsessed with them equals guaranteed loyalty.
But that couldn’t be further from the truth.
Someone who’s obsessed can still cheat on you, betray you, disappear without a trace, or even abandon you. On the other hand, someone who’s devoted to you—without being obsessed—builds their bond on loyalty, respect, and consistency.
Obsession is instability. Devotion is sustainable.
Obsession = volatility.
Devotion = loyalty.
You don’t need someone obsessed with you. You need someone who’s sure about you—and about themselves. That’s the only real sign you should look for. Not their looks, not their money, not their status.
You might ask yourself: Are they sure about me?
And you’ll know they are because they do things for you—effortlessly, without being asked or begged. That alone creates a clear difference from the way they treat everyone else. You don’t need to chase, beg, or convince them. Love isn’t just about being infatuated. Love is logistics. Obsession burns out over time, but devotion lasts the more you nurture it.
By the way, I came up with all this while eating a bowl of cereal at 3 a.m., lol.
a song of past romance a royal / greek au gojo fic
pairing ⸺ suitor/king!gojo x princess!reader
summary ⸺ king gojo satoru of ithaca travels to sparta, seeking to win over who they say is the most beautiful mortal woman's heart. so when he sees you upon his arrival weaving under an olive tree, looking goddess-sent, he immediately loses the plot and concludes that it must be you that the tales and legends must talk about. it is not, but gojo has chosen who his queen will be. as gojo continues to break down your walls with his endless devotion and silver tongue, you must decide: will you let duty and your loved ones's expectations decide your fate, or will you choose the man who would defy even the heavens to claim you as his queen ?
warnings ⸺ smut, p i v sex, oral f recieving, whimpering gojo agenda <3, fluff, a big of angst if you squint, some insecurity, pining, banterTM, gojo is really whipped for reader, odypen inspired (this one's for my epic/pjo baddies), extensive greek mythology knowledge not needed, athena is tired of gojo lol, jealousy, helen is a sassy diva, not totally accurate to the lore of the illiad bc i just use the premise, mentions of children/pregnancy at the end if you squint, semi edited, art by @/yunonoaii
a/n my hyperfixation made me write this lol. you dont need to know anything about greek mythology to read this fic it's more of a period piece / royal au :3
general masterlist
You had registered the young man’s presence for quite some time now.
Ever since your beloved cousin Helen—the most beautiful woman in the world, the kallikomos, kalliparēios Helen—had come of age, your palace had been plagued by an unceasing tide of suitors. Even a respite alone in the garden, in peace, was not guaranteed to you; just as the ivory haired suitor (who thought himself furitive) that had been sneaking and skirting around you for a while now, there were countless of men on the palace grounds desperate to even get a glimpse of what the countless legends and tales about Helen had described.
Though, you weren’t jealous of your lovely cousin—you loved her to death. But it was getting on your nerves, because you had hoped for a quiet evening relaxing under the olive tree you were sitting in. This mn, however, was different.
For some time now, the ivory-haired suitor had been skirting the edges of your sanctuary, moving as though he thought himself invisible. You could feel his gaze, sharp and intent, as you alternated between weaving and reading. His persistence should have irritated you. And yet, there was something amusing about his poor attempt at stealth.
The telltale rustle of grass betrayed him once again. You sighed, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before reaching up to gather it all, baring the curve of your neck to the evening breeze.
The stalker suitor tripped with a loud thud.
You blinked. Then, sighing once more, you set down your spindle and turned. "I know you’re there," you called, unimpressed.
Silence, then a low chuckle.
When he finally stepped into the open, your disinterested gaze lifted—and promptly widened.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. The build of a warrior, yet the face of a prince. A mischievous, almost boyish charm softened the sharp lines of his features, but his striking blue eyes gleamed with something untamed.
Helen would have a field day with him. Like that one thing she said about how she looovedd versatile men, the ones that could manhandle you but also whimper. Or whatever.
Then, to your utter shock, he dropped to one knee, extending his hand toward you in a bold gesture of devotion. His demeanor was confident, but you saw him sporting a hue of pink on his cheeks. It was rather cute, but any feelings of fondness disappeared at his next words.
"O’ Helen—" the suitor began, his voice rich with reverence, "fairest of all women, whose beauty outshines even the dawn—"
You exhaled sharply through your nose. Of course.
"—permit me but a moment to bask in your radiance, for no mortal man could gaze upon you and remain unchanged—"
Your fingers curled tightly around the threads of your spindle.
"—grant me the honor of—"
"Try again," you cut in, your voice deceptively sweet.
The suitor paused mid-sentence, blinking up at you.
"Pardon?"
You raised an unimpressed brow, tilting your head. "If you’re going to wax poetic, you might at least direct it toward the right woman."
His lips parted, then pressed into a puzzled frown. He tilted his head, sharp blue eyes scanning your face as if trying to decipher a riddle. "But… you are Helen," he said slowly, as if testing the words.
You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. "Afraid not."
A pause.
His gaze flickered over you again, as if he could will you into being Helen just by staring hard enough. "Are you sure?"
You gave him a look. "I would hope I know my own name."
His brows drew together, clearly struggling to process this revelation. "But you’re—you’re sitting under an olive tree, looking vaguely divine. Your hair caught the light just now in a way that seemed very… goddess-sent. You have the whole tragic air of someone who is probably devastatingly beautiful and sought after by hundreds."
You blinked, trying to fight the heat creeping up your neck. You shouldn’t be affected by his bromides, for his words must be a ploy to gain back his image after offending you. "Is that supposed to be an apology?"
He squinted. "More like a logical assessment of my mistake."
You sighed. "Well, your 'logical assessment' is incorrect."
He sat back on his heels, regarding you with blatant skepticism. "I don’t know," he said slowly. "I came here for Helen. You’re here. And you're lovely. Seems like a very Helen thing to do."
You gave him a flat stare in return. "What, exist?"
"Exactly."
You rolled your eyes. "I see why they make you fight instead of think."
At that, the suitor huffed a short laugh, his earlier embarrassment giving way to something more amused, more interested. "Alright," he conceded, crossing his arms over his knee. "If you aren’t Helen, then who are you?"
You leaned back against the tree, allowing yourself a small, satisfied smirk. "The woman you just proposed to by accident."
He blinked. Then groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "The gods are laughing at me."
"As they should," you replied smoothly.
To your surprise, he grinned. "That makes two of us, then," he mused, tilting his head at you. "I get the feeling you enjoy seeing men suffer."
A non committal hum from you. “Maybe, maybe not.” With that, you began weaving once more, giving him the signal that his presence and platitudes were no longer needed.
Yet, he remained.
You could feel his gaze lingering, heavy with an amusement that refused to wane. He had the look of someone thoroughly entertained, and that irritated you more than anything. Having conversed with him, you knew he was sharper than the average suitor—quick-witted, quicker still to recover from his blunders. Though he had not done anything to overtly suggest it, there was something about him that set him apart. It was a feeling—an air around him, something god-graced.
You paid it no mind.
He had not meant for you to be the one on the receiving end of his affection, and it would do you no good to cling to a man who had come here seeking another. He was meant to lose his mind over Helen, not take interest in you.
"Tell me your name," he said suddenly, breaking the silence.
You didn't pause in your weaving. "Why?"
A short huff of laughter. "I figure if I’m already embarrassing myself in front of a woman, I should at least know which one."
You shot him a sidelong glance, unimpressed. "Bold of you to assume you’ll be staying long enough for it to matter."
His grin deepened. "Well, now I have to stay, just to prove you wrong."
You sighed, shaking your head. "You’re insufferable."
"I’ve been told worse," he admitted. Then, leaning forward just slightly, he added, "Though never by a woman whose name I don’t know."
You lifted a brow at him, unimpressed. "And do you have a name, then, mysterious suitor?"
His expression shifted, something proud yet teasing gleaming in those striking blue eyes.
"Gojo Satoru," he declared, as if it should mean something to you. "Of Ithaca."
You hummed, as if considering. "Never heard of it."
He blinked, then scoffed. "Never heard of Ithaca?" He placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. "A land of brilliant minds, fierce warriors, and some say the most handsome men to ever walk the earth—"
"Ah," you interjected, dry. "That explains it."
He smirked. "Explains what?"
"Why I’ve never heard of it."
A beat of silence. Then, to your dismay, he laughed—fully, unabashedly, as if you’d just handed him the greatest gift in the world.
You huffed, returning your attention to your weaving. "Now that you have a name to be proud of, surely you can be on your way."
"Not yet," he said, far too easily.
You didn’t look up. "Why?"
"Because you haven’t given me yours."
You didn’t miss the way his voice dipped, taking on something smoother, something more coaxing. He was trying to charm it out of you, as if your name was a prize worth winning.
"Perhaps I simply don’t wish to give it," you mused, feigning disinterest.
"Perhaps you’re afraid," he countered.
You did look up at that, leveling him with an unimpressed stare. "Afraid?"
He shrugged, utterly unbothered. "That if I know your name, I’ll never forget it." His gaze flickered to your hands, to the weaving that had slowed ever so slightly. "And maybe… neither will you."
You forced yourself to resume your work, your fingers steady despite the odd flutter in your chest. "You think too highly of yourself, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca."
"I’m told it’s my greatest flaw," he admitted, smirking. "Well—one of many."
You ignored him, the rhythmic motion of your weaving serving as a convenient distraction.
Gojo exhaled, as if relenting—though something told you he was nowhere near finished with you. He rocked back on his heels, eyeing you with unconcealed interest. "Alright, mystery woman," he drawled. "If you won’t give me your name, I suppose I’ll have to keep guessing."
You didn't dignify that with a response.
But somehow, you knew—this would not be the last time Gojo Satoru of Ithaca sought you out.
He had yet to claim your name.
No matter how cunningly he pried, no matter how sweetly he coaxed, you remained steadfast, denying him that small but significant victory.
Satoru had undoubtedly set sail for Sparta in search of a worthy challenge and a faithful bride—but he had not expected to find both in one woman. You were a puzzle, divine and elusive, a riddle spun by the Fates themselves. And for a man who relished the thrill of unraveling mysteries, you were the most captivating enigma he had ever encountered.
Not since the day he bested the enchanted boar—a feat that had drawn Athena’s keen eye and earned him her favor—had he felt such a rush.
He’d dare say you were the first one he’s felt an affinity for, despite the countless of women and candidates he had faced ever since becoming the king of Ithaca.
But before he could ponder more on the thought, he sensed a presence, tensing immediately. Heavy-set footsteps, trying to be quiet in the hallway they were both in.
Satoru crossed his arms, halted where he was. “I know you’re there.”
A laugh barked out in a deep voice. “Perceptive like they say, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.”
Satoru watched as Toji Fushiguro sauntered toward him, his movements unhurried, yet carrying the unmistakable confidence of a seasoned warrior. The man was broad-shouldered, his presence commanding, the kind of brute who could cleave a man in half with a single swing of his blade. Yet his grin—sharp, knowing—held more calculation than recklessness.
Toji came to a stop before him, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one foot like he had all the time in the world, smirking. "No wonder Athena’s got her eye on you."
Satoru tilted his head, feigning nonchalance. "I do have a way of impressing gods and mortals alike," he mused. "Though I imagine you didn’t come all this way just to admire me."
“Just assessing the competition,” Toji hums in response, eyes still assessing Satoru. He was trying to plan three steps ahead; unfortunately for him, Satoru was ten steps ahead.
“There is no competition,” comes Satoru’s cool response.
Toji studied Satoru for a moment, his sharp green eyes narrowing slightly. Then, with an amused scoff, he asked, "You’re not here to fight for Helen’s hand? Are you crazy?”
Satoru let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as if the very thought was amusing. "Helen?" he echoed, letting the name roll from his tongue with deliberate care. He lifted a hand, absently brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. "No, I’m afraid I have no interest in her."
Toji studied him, eyes narrowing. "She’s the most beautiful woman in the world."
Satoru did not deny it. "So they say."
"And yet," Toji pressed, his tone skeptical, "you aren’t here for her?"
Satoru finally looked at him properly, his head tilting, his gaze alight with something teasing, something unreadable. "Not in the way you are." He let the words settle between them before continuing, his tone almost indulgent. "You’re welcome to her."
Toji’s mouth pressed into a thin line. His instincts told him Satoru was not lying, yet something about the Ithacan’s expression, the way he carried himself, the glint in those striking blue eyes—it all made him wary. He had met many warriors in his time, but this was no brute with a sword, no hotheaded prince desperate to claim a prize.
Satoru Gojo was something else entirely.
"So what is it, then?" Toji asked, crossing his arms tighter, his voice edged with suspicion. "You sailed all this way, and for what? A festival?"
Satoru’s smirk deepened, his expression inscrutable. "Let’s just say Sparta has given me a rather interesting puzzle."
Toji scoffed but let it drop, running a hand through his dark hair. "Whatever," he muttered. "If you're really not here for Helen, then maybe you can help me."
Satoru hummed in vague interest. "Oh?"
"I intend to win her," Toji stated plainly. "But I could use an extra hand in ensuring things go my way."
Satoru did not answer immediately. Instead, he turned his gaze upward, as though admiring the vaulted ceilings of the hall, as though considering some grander design that only he could see. Then, with the ease of a man wholly unbothered by the concerns of others, he exhaled through his nose, the beginnings of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.
"Don't worry about it," he said at last, his voice rich with something almost too smooth, too assured. "Everything is already falling into place."
Toji stiffened slightly at the words, his war-honed instincts bristling at their implication. He did not like things he could not predict, and Gojo Satoru of Ithaca was proving to be as unreadable as the gods themselves.
His brows lowered. "And what the hell does that mean?"
But Satoru only laughed, turning on his heel, the faintest shimmer of torchlight catching in his silver-white hair.
"Guess you’ll just have to wait and see."
And with that, he strode off, his footsteps unhurried, leaving Toji standing in the flickering shadows, frowning after him.
The great hall of Sparta was alive with the clash of bronze and the roars of men. The suitors, assembled from all corners of Greece, fought with a desperation that could only belong to those who sought glory and the hand of Helen. Blades flashed, spears thrust, and the resounding clamor of shields meeting shields filled the air like the din of battle.
Satoru Gojo of Ithaca stood at the edge of the fray, watching with a detached amusement. He had not drawn his blade, nor did he so much as feign interest in the chaos unfolding before him. Instead, his arms were loosely crossed, his posture relaxed, his sharp blue gaze studying each warrior as though they were mere pieces on a game board.
Meanwhile, you and Helen watched from the shade of a marble colonnade, seated atop a cushioned bench where servants had arranged fruits and wine for the both of you. But neither of you reached for the offerings; your gazes remained transfixed on the chaos below.
You shook your head at the ridiculous display. "It must be nice to be fought for by so many men," you murmured, resting your chin in your palm.
Helen sighed daintily—in a way that was so typically Helen it made you smile fondly—her hair catching the afternoon light like threads spun from the sun itself. “I will admit that it has its advantages.”
You cast her a dry look before gesturing at the men below. “Helen,” you shook your head, sighing exasperatedly, “they’re savages. They’re beating each other senselessly. Does this not disgust you?”
Instead, your cousin’s beautiful lips curled up in a knowing smile, teasing you, “Jealous, my dear cousin?”
“No.” But the answer came a little too quickly, a little too defensively. The yells and violence was a display of brutishness—but you would not be truthful to yourself if you didn’t admit that you were a bit envious of the attention your cousin was getting.
However, one would be a fool to confuse your sentiments for bitterness—as a princess yourself, there were no shortage of men who would be here to get you as a prize, if they did not get Helen. No shortage of men wondering who is he? Who is the man who’ll have the princess as his wife?
But unfortunately, it seemed that your father, the Spartan king Icarius, had other plans, for he would not let any man be your husband so easily. In fact, he did not wish you to marry and be taken away from him.
It was safe to say that not much male attention was on you due to this obstacle.
Helen showed no reaction to your response, but only hummed. “This fighting—sooner or later, you’re going to be in my shoes. You’re going to have to choose at one point, too, my dear.”
“Says who?” You scoffed, turning your eyes back to the courtyard. “Do not forget Helen, these men want power. Power so they can tower above each other, place themselves above all others.”
Helen shrugged. “So what?”
You shook your head. “Silly Helen. Wouldn’t you prefer some intellectual prowess over some…savage?”
Before Helen could reply, a shift in the air drew both of your attention back to the courtyard.
The chaos had stilled, if only for a moment. A singular figure stood at the center of it all, his ivory hair catching the wind, his stance languid yet poised.
That suitor.
The gathered nobles whispered among themselves, exchanging glances as Satoru approached the high table where the King of Sparta, Tyndareus, sat watching. The aged king stroked his beard, his expression unreadable as the Ithacan prince stopped before him, offering a bow that barely concealed the glint of mischief in his eyes.
"Your Majesty," Satoru began smoothly, "it seems we have our victor. But before we move forward, I believe there is an agreement that must be made."
The murmurs in the hall grew louder. Tyndareus narrowed his eyes slightly. "Speak, Gojo of Ithaca."
Satoru straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. "These men have come from every kingdom in Greece, each seeking the honor of marrying your daughter. Such a prize, however, comes with its dangers. Whoever wins Helen’s hand will earn not just her love but the envy and ire of the rest." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the hall. "If left unchecked, this jealousy could lead to war."
Tyndareus’s jaw tightened. It was a concern he himself had harbored, though few had dared to speak it outright.
Satoru’s lips curled at the edges, his voice turning smooth, persuasive. "I propose an oath. Let every suitor here, whether victorious or defeated, swear allegiance to Helen’s chosen husband. Let them vow, upon the gods, to uphold this union and defend it should any outside force seek to undo it. In doing so, Sparta ensures peace among the great kingdoms, rather than sows the seeds of discord."
Silence fell over the hall. The assembled nobles exchanged glances, the weight of the proposal heavy in the air. Even Toji, ever the warrior, raised a brow in consideration.
Tyndareus studied Satoru for a long moment, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his throne. Then, slowly, he nodded. "You are wise beyond your years, Gojo of Ithaca. Your proposal is sound. Let it be done."
A herald stepped forward, calling for the gathered suitors to kneel. One by one, they bent the knee, placing their hands over their hearts, swearing their loyalty to Helen’s future husband, binding themselves to an oath that would shape the course of history.
As the final echoes of the vow rang through the hall, Satoru turned his gaze to Toji, his smirk deepening ever so slightly. The pieces were falling into place, just as he had foreseen.
Meanwhile, in your place—where you and Helen were spectating the whole event away from common sight—Helen nudged you slightly, voice hushed in interest you hadn’t seen her display for any suitor yet. “Did you see that—the way he sweet talked my father?” Her gentle eyes widened in a way that could kill a man. “Who is he?”
You had no answer. Because, truthfully, you were wondering the same thing.
The palace gardens were quiet at this hour, bathed in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. The scent of myrrh and olive trees lingered in the air, mixing with the faint salt of the distant sea. You sat with Helen beneath the shade of a vine-laden pergola, her back pressed against your legs as you wove your fingers through her silken strands, carefully braiding them into an intricate plait.
Helen, ever the restless one, sighed dramatically. “Do you suppose I should be flattered or terrified?”
You didn’t have to ask what she meant. The courtyard had been in an uproar for hours after the suitors’ oath had been sworn. Servants gossiped in hushed tones, and noblewomen tittered behind their veils. The future queen of Sparta had just gained the loyalty of every warrior present—whether she wanted it or not.
“Why not both?” you mused, separating another section of her hair.
Helen laughed, tossing her head slightly. “It is one thing to be the object of admiration. It is quite another to be the cause of bloodshed.”
You hummed in acknowledgment, though your fingers stilled when she spoke again, voice full of mischief.
“Did you see him?”
You resumed braiding. “Who?”
Helen turned just enough to throw you an incredulous look. “Who?” she repeated, mockingly. “As if you do not know exactly who I speak of. Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.”
You clicked your tongue. “Oh, him.”
“Oh, him?” Helen scoffed. “Do not play coy, cousin. He commanded that entire courtyard without lifting a blade.”
You smiled, but she could not see you. “That only proves he is cunning,” you pointed out, keeping your voice neutral.
“That proves he is powerful,” Helen countered, shifting as you tugged lightly at her braid. “He held those men in the palm of his hand.”
Barking out a laugh, you continued your work. “Or perhaps he simply enjoys hearing himself speak.”
Helen laughed, tilting her head back against your lap. “You wound me with your dullness. Do you not see? There was something about him. He has the air of a man accustomed to winning.”
You tried not to scowl. Of course he did.
And if Helen had her eye on him, there was no chance for you.
The thought settled in your chest like a stone.
It was not as though you had entertained any hopes—but you were not blind. The way he had looked at you in the hallways, the way he had tried to coax your name from you, the way he had seemed amused by your defiance. It had sparked something treacherous inside of you, something unspoken and foolish.
Because no man, no matter how powerful or wise, would ever choose you over Helen.
You forced your thoughts aside and tightened the braid. “And what of Toji Fushiguro?” you asked lightly, forcing the subject to change. “I noticed you watching him as well.”
Helen hummed, pleased with the shift in conversation. “A brute, but a striking one. I imagine he fights as well as he looks.”
You snorted. “I imagine he thinks with his fists.”
“All the better,” Helen teased. “I should not mind a warrior who throws me over his shoulder and carries me off.”
You rolled your eyes, but you giggled regardless. “You are insufferable.”
Helen twisted, kneeling so that you were now face to face. She reached for your hair, her fingers beginning to weave it into a braid of your own.
“You say I am insufferable, but you have yet to deny that Gojo Satoru is worth admiring,” she murmured.
You sighed exasperatedly, looking anywhere except for your cousin’s eyes. “Must we discuss this?”
Helen’s fingers worked deftly, her expression smug. “It is only natural to discuss the most intriguing men.”
“And yet I am sure you are doing it to torment me.”
“Perhaps a little.” Helen’s grin softened as she studied you. “You would not be so opposed to him if you did not find him interesting.”
You swallowed, looking away. “That is not—”
“You braid my hair with such care,” she interrupted, looping another section of yours. “And yet, you guard your own thoughts as if I am the enemy.”
You closed your eyes briefly, inhaling the scent of lavender and sun-warmed stone. Helen had always been perceptive when she wished to be.
“There is nothing to guard,” you murmured.
Helen merely smiled, finishing your braid with a satisfied tug.
But the knowing look in her eyes unsettled you more than any battle in the courtyard ever could.
Despite coming for Helen, Satoru continuously seeks your presence.
Your presence is intoxicating, even the smallest of glimpses of you enough to induce a feeling, one he’d liken to eating the gods’ ambrosia or drinking the finest nectar. Every time he saw you, it was passing moments in the hallways of the palace or sneaked glances while you were in the garden—your chin up, posture proud. Your eyes downcast as if you had no interest in the countless of men among you. The light only returned when you were weaving, or discussing with your cousin.
But Satoru had not been able to see you more than just those miniscule, fleeting moments—it was your accursed father that kept an eye on you during dinners, his withered glare threatening all suitors, as if to remind them: You’re here for Helen, and keep my daughter out of this, for she is not a prize you can easily win.
Little did he know Satoru loved challenges.
So he thanks the gods that an annual Spartan festival is thoroughly celebrated in the palace today.
The hall is the spitting image of revelry. Men adorn their finest tunics while women have braids of flowers and cloths, wine, fresh fruits, and meat are plentiful on all tables. There’s singing, there’s dancing, and, best of all, there’s you.
Satoru’s been observing you for quite some time now. It wouldn’t be fair to call it something akin to a predator stalking his prey; no, you far from being bested by Satoru. More like a bird waiting for all the weaker mates to filter themselves out.
They were like peacocks, the men that came up to you, with the way they flared their artificial grandeur. Each time a young man sat next to you, you remained aloof, giving them nothing but a bunch of polite glances and nods. But it was clear that what ever your responses or questions were, they were nonplussed. Satoru almost felt bad for the fools if it weren’t for how they were encroaching on his time to finally talk to you.
It was the opening that a particularly witless and brutish man had given him—the guy basically leaves the seat next to you, almost in tears from whatever you had said to him, but you only blinked as Satoru approached.
Satoru slid into the recently vacated seat beside you with the grace of a man who had never been denied anything in his life. He draped an arm over the back of his chair, all effortless ease, as if he had been waiting for this moment all night.
"Whatever you said to him, I’d like to hear it," he mused, his lips quirking in amusement. "Though I do hope you go a little easier on me—I’m rather sensitive, you see."
Your gaze flickered to him, unimpressed, though there was something almost imperceptible in your eyes—mild intrigue, perhaps.
"If you are so easily wounded, Your Majesty, then I fear you are not prepared for a Spartan woman’s words."
His grin widened. "Oh, but I live for danger."
You hummed, noncommittal, before returning your attention to the food before you. Satoru, however, found himself transfixed by the way you reached for a slice of fruit, your fingers delicate yet decisive as you brought it to your lips. You took a slow, deliberate bite, and for the first time in his life, Satoru forgot how to speak.
It was absurd, really. He had seen beautiful women eat before—Helen herself had a practiced elegance to it—but there was something about you. Something about the unthinking ease with which you did it, how your lips parted just slightly before closing around the fruit, how you chewed with quiet, effortless grace, unbothered by the weight of hungry gazes that lingered on you.
For a man who had always been surrounded by beauty, who had spent his life sated and indulged, it was utterly unfair that something so simple could leave him spellbound.
Perhaps the gods were toying with him.
"You’ve been staring for quite some time," you remarked, snapping him out of his reverie.
Satoru exhaled a laugh, recovering with impressive speed. "Can you blame me? I’m simply trying to unravel the mystery of how you managed to make that poor soul flee in tears. I’d rather not suffer the same fate."
"Then I suggest you leave now, Your Majesty."
"Not a chance."
You sighed, though there was the ghost of amusement at the corner of your lips. "Persistent, aren’t you?"
Satoru grinned. "And yet, here you are, still talking to me."
He watched as you reached for another piece of fruit, this time slower, as if testing him, watching to see if he would stare again. He nearly laughed—because, of course, he did.
"You truly are hopeless," you muttered, shaking your head.
"Ah, but at least I am entertaining," he countered. "And I do believe I’ve managed what those other poor fools could not—I’ve kept your attention."
You opened your mouth to retort, but he was faster. "Go on, you can admit it," he teased. "I make for much better company than them, don’t I?"
For a moment, you merely regarded him, expression unreadable. Then, to his absolute delight, a soft laugh escaped your lips.
It was small, barely more than an exhale, but it was real.
And gods, it was beautiful.
Satoru leaned in slightly, drinking in the sight of you as if committing it to memory.
"See?" he murmured, triumphant. "I told you I’m quite good at this."
Your amusement lingered, but you shook your head as if in exasperation. "If you say so."
He did not say so. He knew so.
Because despite all the reasons he had come to Sparta, despite all the men who had gathered to win Helen’s hand, Satoru had found himself drawn to you instead.
And he had no intention of stopping now.
But before he could get another word in, a horn sounds, and you nod to him, somewhat apologetically. “That is my call.”
Before he can ask, you head, skirts fluttering behind you as you move to join a growing group of young ladies in the middle. It’s clear the gathering has captured the interest of most of the men that were previously dining.
You make your way down to the middle, where you arrive at your position—it’s the one you’ve occupied every year. This dance is a show of grace and lineage, a chance for the noblemen to watch and admire, to see which girl carries herself with the most poise, the most elegance, the most effortless charm.
In Gojo’s eyes, it’s easy to determine who that is.
You take your place among your cousins, hands joining as the musicians begin their melody. It is a lighthearted dance, nothing too intricate, nothing that demands much more than the ability to move in time with the others. Your skirts flutter with each step, the long strands of your braid swaying as you turn.
It’s a girlish, lighthearted dance you’ve done since you were little. You and your younger cousins giggle as you go through the motions, reveling in the attentions of the spectators that witness the lovely display with amusement and pure, wholesome adoration.
That is, until you register a special set of eyes on you.
In a specific turn along to the strum of the lyre, you turn gracefully—a move that orients you towards Gojo’s direction. When you finally see his face and notice his presence, it’s like you’re kicked in the chest in a spar with Helen, with the way your breath leaves you.
His eyes are dark, enraptured on you, and only you. Heat creeps up your neck as you move your hands as you’re oddly flustered. His gaze is admiring and is respectful, but the intensity of it—like longing that is toeing the line between lust and pure yearning—makes your heart quicken in a way that you rue your accursed organ, for it to beat so traitorously. When he notices that you’re staring back at him, his jaw—which was clenched—loosens in a smile, but the smile isn’t innocent. It spells out a promise—one unspoken, one that curls at the edges of his lips like a secret meant for you alone. It is the kind of smile that men wear when they know something you don’t, when they have already decided on something long before you’ve even had the chance to argue.
It is sharp. Focused.
It traces the curve of your waist, the sway of your hips, the way your arms extend with each graceful movement.
It darkens.
Heat spreads up your neck before you can help it. The flickering torches of the hall must be to blame, or perhaps the wine in your belly, but you feel warm, too warm, and it is absurd.
Why should you care where Gojo of Ithaca’s eyes linger?
His smirk grows, and it is cocky. Infuriating, even. You snap your head away before he can see how your face burns, resuming your dance with the others, willing yourself to shake off the foolishness that has settled in your bones.
But even as you turn, even as the skirts of your dress flare and the room around you continues its celebration, you feel it—
His eyes.
Still watching.
“Athena, I swear to you that I need her. She is my future wife!” Gojo insists, stomping his feet as he trails the goddess as if he were a child. It reminded the goddess of wisdom of when she first met him—when he had taken down the magic boar she had let loose, showing him of having intellect worthy of being mentored by her.
But Athena had meant to be a mentor to a warrior of the mind—not this lovesick, pathetic fool in front of her, like a dog whining for food. Athena sighed exasperatedly as another animal she was hunting runs away from Gojo’s sheer loudness. “Enough!” she snaps, but not unkindly. “Who is this princess you speak of, and what kind of spell has she cast on you to become this much of a fool?”
Gojo ignores any insults directed towards him, and instead adorns a bright smile at the mention of you. “She is the cousin of Helen of Sparta, and the daughter of Icarius—”
Gojo is interrupted by a snort. “The same one that swore to never marry his daughter off?”
This gives Gojo a reason to pause. He had not known this fact. “So, how do you propose I—”
Much to his chagrin, the w goddess is already a few steps ahead. “To waste my time on strategy to secure a woman, Gojo, is quite preposterous.
But if you must insist on my counsel, then you shall earn it," Athena declares, turning on her heel to face him fully. Her gaze, sharp as a well-honed blade, sweeps over him, as if assessing whether he is truly worth the effort. "Icarius is a man of reason before all else. He values intellect, discipline, and above all, loyalty. If you wish to stand a chance, you must prove to me two things: one, that she is a wise woman worth of being sought after, and, two, you must prove that you are not merely another suitor blinded by beauty."
Gojo grins, clearly pushing his luck. "So you will help me?"
Athena exhales, the very picture of divine suffering. "I will not gift you the answer, but I will grant you the means to find it yourself."
"Which is just a long-winded way of saying you will help me." He nods sagely, as if he has unraveled the mysteries of Olympus itself.
Athena rubs her temple. "I should have let the boar trample you."
Gojo only laughs, stepping in line beside her as they weave through the woods. His mind is already turning, piecing together what little he knows of Icarius, of you, and of what he must do to win. Because one thing is certain—he will win.
Icarius may have sworn never to wed you off, but Gojo Satoru has never been one to abide by the rules.
You do not want to be here.
All you simply wanted was time in your sanctuary, your olive tree. It remained hidden in the royal gardens, so it’s a wonder that Gojo of Ithaca had found you. Of course, you would have to be a fool to not admit that these suitors’ wit paled in comparison to that white-haired young king. Such as this one, for example.
“My lady, I could not help but notice your fair disposition when I looked upon you,” the suitor grins, his teeth bared like a dog catching scent of a meal. It is not a pleasant expression. You do not react, save for clutching your weaving tighter to your chest. He steps closer, and you take measured care not to recoil, though the instinct is strong. “May you grant me your name—”
“I would have to apologize,” you cut him, already turning away. “My father does not—”
You’re stopped by a harsh grip on your wrist, and you wrench your gaze back to the suitor in shock.
"You wound me, my lady," the man says, still smiling as if this was amusing. As if he had power over you. Physical power, you suppose, but clearly this man was lacking in intellect, to not have noticed his presence. "You have been so cold to me, and I—"
He does not notice the shadow behind him.
“Ah,” a voice interjects, smooth, easy. “That’s no way to hold a lady’s hand, is it?”
The grip on your wrist slackens, but another takes its place—light, barely a touch.
Gojo.
The suitor’s face twists in confusion, but it quickly shifts to pain as Gojo applies the smallest pressure to his wrist.
“You—”
“She said no,” Gojo interrupts breezily. “And I’d hate to make a scene, so do us all a favor and leave before I decide to break something, yeah?”
With an effortless flick of his hand, the suitor stumbles back, shaking out his wrist as if burned.
Gojo does not spare him another glance. His attention is on you.
“Are you alright?” His voice is softer now, no teasing lilt, no easy arrogance.
You hesitate, unsettled.
“I was handling it,” you say, though it does not come out as firm as you would like.
Gojo only hums, something that sounds like, I know you could, but you’re distracted by his eyes drifting down to your wrist, where a faint mark has already begun to bloom.
His gaze darkens, but you hurry to assure him. “I’ll bandage this, it’s not a big wound—”
He interrupts you. “No need,” gently holds your shoulder, as if imploring you to follow him into the direction he’s started to walk, “I’ll do it myself.”
“That’s not—”
“Look.” He shoots you a look, but it is not unkind nor patronizing. You realize belatedly that it has set your heart aflutter. “I trust that you know how to bandage your wound. But I have had countless like it, so you are with a skilled master in healing. And who knows which suitors may find you on your journey to the physician?
You purse your lips, biting back a retort but failing. “And aren’t you one of the said suitors?”
His lips pull back in an amused smile, and you notice his hand is still resting lightly on your shoulder. “I think we both know I’m different.” You bite back a smile.
“Oh, really?” you remark dryly, but the look in your eyes is anything but. “And how did Your Majesty acquire the title of being different?”
His thumb brushes, just barely, against the fabric of your sleeve before he withdraws his hand entirely, as if sensing that he’s lingered too long. But his smirk remains, insufferable as ever.
“For one, I don’t make a habit of forcing myself upon unwilling women,” Gojo remarks, a pointed edge to his otherwise careless tone. “And for another…” He tilts his head, considering you. “I daresay I might be infatuated in a way they—or you—couldn’t comprehend.”
Your breath catches, but you recover quickly, huffing as you turn away. “All these sweet nothings. Helen will love you.”
Gojo chuckles, stepping ahead of you as he leads the way. “Yet she is not the one I am after.”
You pause. Soak in his words. Outwardly, you roll your eyes and follow him for you were at a lack of words, but inside Poseidon’s storm rages inside you at his words, creating a ferocious whirlpool of conflicting feelings.
His strides are long and easy, as if he belongs wherever he walks, and yet, he slows his pace just enough for you to keep up. The gesture is not lost on you.
The physician’s chamber is quiet when you arrive, save for the distant chatter of servants outside. Gojo does not call for assistance. He merely gestures for you to sit, pulling out a small cloth and a bowl of water, his movements easy and practiced.
“You’ve done this before,” you murmur as he kneels before you, pressing the damp cloth against your wrist.
His smile is unreadable. “I am a warrior, am I not?”
The cold seeps into your skin, making you shiver. Gojo notices. His touch, for all his bravado, is unbearably gentle. You do not know what to make of it.
“You’ll bruise,” he says softly, fingers skimming over the faint marks. “Does it hurt?”
You swallow. “No.”
A lie.
Gojo’s gaze flickers up to yours, and for the first time, there is no teasing in his expression—only something quiet and knowing, something that makes your heart betray you in its weakness.
For a moment, you both fall into a silence, and, to avoid his gaze, you go back to clutching at your hand and staring at it, as if there’s something really intriguing about it. Then, he speaks up. “Want to play?”
You bring your gaze back to him, caught off guard. “What?”
He cocks his head in a direction to which you face, and there you see it: a game board. One to play petteia.
You turn back at him, blinking. “You play petteia?”
Gojo grins, stretching out with a lazy ease that only makes you more suspicious. As if he has ulterior motives to this. “What, surprised? Strategy games are a warrior’s pastime.”
You squint him. That line of reasoning was rather true, you suppose. Something told you—something being the way he convinced Helen’s father so easily, how he always seemed three, no, six steps ahead—that he was no normal warrior, no normal brute. Huffing, you remark offhandedly, “I suppose a true warrior does sharpen his mind as well as his sword. It’s a pity that you’ll be losing today. To me.”
His smile deepens, and it makes you notice small indents in his cheeks as a result, and the way there’s a rosy pink hue on his cheeks, as if he’s excited to see what you can do. “Then by all means, put me to shame.”
You settle onto the floor, determined, as he arranges the pieces between you. The rules are simple enough—capture your opponent’s pieces by flanking them on either side—but the way Gojo moves is anything but. He plays with an insufferable sort of confidence, shifting his pieces with flicks of his fingers, as if the game is already his to win.
Until it isn’t, obviously.
He frowns when the click of stone dropped onto the board sounds. You’ve cut off his advancing soldier, trapping it neatly between two of your own.
“Huh,” he muses, tapping his chin. He stares at the board, mind no doubt going at a speed unfathomable to most. His eyes flick rapidly, as if assessing the position of all the stone and calculating all the possible moves and permutations that can salvage him out of the situation you’ve created for him. You maintain your poker face, but inside, you want to smile. You had calculated those said combinations a few steps ago, and it’d be really hard to get out of this. Then, comes out a “That was… unexpected.”
You smile sweetly. “What’s wrong? Did the great King of Ithaca not anticipate that?”
Gojo exhales, dragging a hand through his hair while huffing out a laught. “You’re quite ruthless, aren’t you?”
“I’m practical,” you correct, claiming another of his pieces. “And good at this game.”
Gojo squints at the board, as if trying to decipher where exactly he went wrong. “You do know you’re supposed to let me win, right? My pride is fragile.”
“I wasn’t aware kings had fragile pride.”
“You wound me, my lady.” He presses a hand to his chest, but his movements are distracted as he moves another piece—only for you to immediately trap it.
His head snaps up. “Wait—”
You make your final move, effortlessly cornering his last few soldiers.
Silence.
Gojo blinks at the board.
You clear your throat. “Do you need a moment to process this?”
Slowly, he leans back, shaking his head with something close to awe. “You know, I was planning to go easy on you, but I don’t think that would have helped.”
You grin, triumphant. “I’ll take that as an admission of defeat.”
Gojo exhales through his nose, then tilts his head at you, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes.
“You’re dangerous,” he says, and you’re not quite sure if it’s a compliment or a warning.
“Maybe to an overconfident king who underestimates his opponent.”
That urges out a laugh from him, and he shakes his head. “Trust me, I was not underestimating you. It seemed that I had overestimated myself.”
Before you can respond, Gojo leans forward, propping his chin on his hand as he watches you with something unsettlingly thoughtful.
You don’t trust that look.
“What?” you ask warily.
He hums. “Just thinking.”
“That’s a dangerous pastime for you.”
Gojo presses a hand over his chest, as if wounded. “Cruel. After I iced your wrist and let you absolutely demolish me at petteia, this is the thanks I get?”
“You act as if I owe you something.”
His smirk returns, slow and smug. “Well, since you mention it…”
You narrow your eyes. “No.”
“You didn’t even hear me out.”
“I know you well enough to predict whatever absurd request you’re about to make.”
Gojo lets out a dramatic sigh, tilting his head back. “And here I was, about to propose something completely reasonable. A fair exchange.”
You arch a brow. “Fair?”
He nods, all feigned seriousness. “See, I let you win.”
“You most certainly did not.”
“And I helped with your wrist.”
Your lips press into a line. “Which you did of your own volition.”
Gojo ignores this. “So, as a completely justified request, I think you should let me meet you in the royal gardens.”
You blink. His words hang in the air between you, a casual proposition that somehow carries more weight than it should.
“The gardens?”
He nods. “By the olive tree at sunset. The one where we met.”
“Why?”
Groaning, he lounges back, pushing his feet out while doing the motion. It makes his long legs come closer to where yours are opposite from him, so much that you can feel their heat. Not direct contact, but there. “Have I not made my advances clear by now?” He moves to a sitting position, a more serious look in his eyes as he earnestly looks at you, but you find it hard—despite your usual dry disposition towards suitors—to maintain eye contact, so you opt to look at your hands instead as his next words strike blows to your treacherous heart.
“Your Highness, I am here for you. You are far wittier than me—I have things to learn from you. You have bewitched me, for I did not know it was possible for a lady to consume my every waking thoughts in such a violent way as you have. You may think me a stranger, and you may think me one of the many foolish suitors here for Miss Helen’s hand, but I will make you fall in love with me. I will show you that despite my pride, I will be a kind and gentle husband.” He exhales, as if steadying himself, but his eyes remain fixed on you. There is no jest in them, no trace of the arrogance he so often wears like armor. Only something raw.
“And I will absolutely not leave this city until you come back to me in my kingdom as the Queen of Ithaca. It may require god-like skill to convince your father to marry me—but I am nothing if not persistent.”
Before you can even begin to form a response—before you can push past the breath lodged in your throat, the furious pounding in your chest—there’s a voice.
"There you are!"
Helen.
You turn just as she strides toward you, golden as ever, a vision of effortless beauty. She doesn’t seem to have heard a word of what was just spoken, too preoccupied with her own delight at having found you.
"I’ve been looking everywhere," she sighs, linking her arm through yours before glancing at Gojo, who, for once, remains uncharacteristically silent. Her eyes flick between the two of you, and then she hums. "I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything?"
Gojo recovers faster than you do. "Not at all, Your Highness," he says smoothly, a practiced smile slipping into place. "I was simply getting to know your cousin better."
Helen gives him a flirtatious smile, but nevertheless turns to you, frowning. “And why are you at the physician’s?”
You feel Gojo’s eyes follow your movements as you shake your head and rise, walking towards Helen. “An unruly suitor. It was a light bruise, it is not a great matter–”
“A bruise?!”
“Come with me,” you hissed, waving her along so she did not question further. It seemed that the room was very warm, for you felt a heat creep up your neck the longer Gojo’s eyes unequivocally stayed on you.
Helen blinked, at a loss for words, no doubt pondering why you both were leaving Gojo’s presence so readily. “But His Majesty—”
“Cousin,” you snapped, “did you not have a reason to be looking for me?”
Helen blinks, momentarily distracted. Then, as if something suddenly occurs to her, she brightens.
“Oh! Yes, Father wanted to see you.”
You exhale, relieved—only for it to be short-lived, because she doesn’t move.
She remains rooted in place, glancing back at Gojo with a look that is far too amused for your liking. The flirtatious smile returns, softer now, more intrigued.
“But surely,” she muses, tilting her head, “you wouldn’t mind if I stayed a moment longer? It’s not often one meets a man as charming as His Majesty of Ithaca.”
You narrow your eyes. “Helen.”
“What?” she says, all innocence. “We’re simply talking.”
You glance at Gojo, expecting him to look insufferably pleased, but instead, he’s watching you. Not Helen. You tear your gaze away.
It’s only once the two of you are walking through the halls, out of earshot, that Helen sighs, linking your arms again.
“He’s quite something, isn’t he?” she murmurs.
You keep your eyes ahead. “Perhaps. A bit arrogant, though.”
“He’s clever,” she corrects, then gives you a knowing look. “And you like him.”
You scoff, though the heat on your skin betrays you. “I do not.”
Helen only laughs, shaking her head. “Dearest cousin,” she sighs, “I have seen you endure the most persistent suitors with all the warmth of an ice-cold river. And yet, here you are, playing petteia with him, letting him tend to your wounds.”
You do not have an answer to that.
And Helen does not press further. She only smiles wistfully to herself, as if she already knows how this story will end.
…
The halls are silent at this hour, save for the whisper of your steps against the cool stone. You keep to the shadows, careful, quiet. If anyone were to see you like this—wrapped in a cloak, a weaver in hand, slipping through the corridors like a thief in the night—there would be whispers by morning.
But then again, what whispers have ever concerned you?
The thought does not comfort you as much as it should.
Your grip tightens around the weaver, its familiar weight grounding. You brought it with you on the off chance that Gojo, like most men, proves unreliable. You have no reason to believe he will come; his feelings for you could be temporary lust, a second option in case his primary one—Helen—fails. No reason to have entertained his invitation at all. And yet, you go.
You cannot say why.
A foolish impulse, perhaps. Or simple curiosity. Or maybe—
You push the thought away, focusing instead on the memory that surfaces unbidden.
A conversation with your father, just today while you dined.
You had spoken of Helen’s upcoming wedding of the foreign princes and warriors who sought her hand, of the future that awaited her.
Your father had frowned, the lines of his face deepening. “It is dangerous,” he had said, quiet but firm. “To entrust my daughter to a man who cannot ensure her well-being.”
You had smiled then, easy and unbothered, as if his words did not touch something in you. “It is not you he must convince.”
He had looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his gaze, but ended up remarking offhandedly, as if reminding you. “I do not want you to go far from me.”
And you, still smiling, had said nothing at all.
Now, in the solitude of the night, you are no longer smiling.
You know your father’s concern is not unfounded. It is not simply Helen’s future that weighs on him—it is yours.
But it is a strange thing, the way his words linger, how they press against you, heavy and quiet. Not as a warning. Not as a burden. But as something else. Something you cannot yet name.
You reach the courtyard, the olive tree standing tall against the night sky behind a series of trees. You exhale, slow and steady, before walking to reach it, weaver in hand.
If he comes, he comes.
And if not—
Well. You were never the kind to wait idly for a man.
But before you could go on your endless mental tirade of how despicable the male species were, you heard a voice. Gojo’s voice in particular.
Walking closer and closer—to where your olive tree was but not where you were visible, trees providing coverage—you noticed him talking to someone in a hushed, yet excited tone. You use the window of sight allowed by the gap between the trees’ leaves to see him, standing with an owl on his forearm. It’s turned to him, as if paying attention, although exasperatedly, to him while he stands tall as ever, his foot tapping impatiently against the grass.
You hesitate, watching as the owl blinks at him, as if listening, considering his words.
And then it notices you. Its, well, owlish eyes are wide as they lock in on your figure.
With a quiet rustle of feathers, it takes flight, disappearing into the night.
Gojo turns, following its path before his gaze lands on you.
“You scared my friend away,” he says, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.
You blink at him. “You were talking to an owl.”
He shrugs, as if this too is perfectly reasonable. “She’s a good listener. A little judgmental, though.”
You give him a look, unimpressed. “I see you’ve finally found an audience that suits you.”
His lips curve into a slow smile. “And yet, here you are.”
You huff, settling onto one of the smooth stones beneath the tree. “I didn’t come for your company.” You hold up the weaver in your hands, as if that alone is proof of your intentions. “I came to pass the time.”
“Ah,” he drawls, stepping closer, hands slipping into the folds of his cloak. “And yet, you’re talking to me instead.”
You narrow your eyes at him, but he only grins, triumphant.
“Tell me,” he muses, dropping down beside you. “Were you hoping—or predicting, with that fast mind of yours—I wouldn’t come?”
You don’t answer right away, fingers idly threading the weaver. The night air is cool, the scent of olives and earth thick around you.
“Would it have mattered?” you ask at last, voice light, careless.
Gojo watches you, and for a moment, he does not answer either.
Then, quietly, as if confessing something neither of you are ready to name, he says, “Yes.”
You inhale slowly, fingers stilling on the weaver as his answer settles between you.
Yes.
It wasn’t spoken in jest, nor with the easy arrogance he so often wielded. Instead, it was quieter, more certain—like an unshakable truth, unburdened by expectation.
You don’t know what to make of it.
You cast him a glance from the corner of your eye. He’s sitting close but not too close, his long legs stretched out before him, arms resting lazily over his knees. His usual grin is absent, replaced by something unreadable, something you cannot name.
The weight of his gaze is different now. Not teasing, not searching for amusement—but waiting.
You look away first.
Your fingers resume their slow, practiced work, weaving delicate patterns into the fabric, though your thoughts are anything but orderly.
“Why are you here?” you ask, voice softer than you intend.
A beat passes before he answers.
“Because you are.”
You swallow.
He leans back onto his hands, tilting his head toward the night sky, moonlight catching in the pale strands of his hair. It makes him look otherworldly, like a figure carved from myth—too beautiful, too untouchable.
“I’m not Helen,” you say after a moment, unsure why the words leave your lips. “You have nothing to gain from this.”
Gojo exhales, a quiet sound, but when he looks at you again, there is something almost amused in his expression—touched with something softer, something more patient.
“Do you think I speak to owls for political gain?”
You huff, trying to ignore the warmth threatening to creep up your neck. “I think you do most things for your own amusement.”
He hums, as if considering that. “You wound me.”
“I doubt that,” you mutter, eyes fixed on your work.
And yet—his fingers twitch where they rest against the stone. It’s small, barely noticeable, but your eyes catch it, and you wonder.
Does he want to reach for you?
The thought unsettles you more than it should.
He exhales again, then shifts, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees, expression thoughtful. “You know,” he muses, “I had a whole speech planned.”
You raise a brow. “Oh?”
“Something about how I was drawn to you the way sailors are drawn to sirens. That you, unlike any other, have made me question things I thought I knew.” He looks down at his knees, lips pulling in a mischievous smile. “But with you, I doubt a night of spilling sweet nothings or perhaps…other things would have swayed you.”
Your fingers still.
“But I think I’ve changed my mind,” he continues, tilting his head. “I think I’d rather just talk to you.”
You stare at him, caught somewhere between wariness and something dangerously close to wonder.
And then, before you can stop yourself, you ask, “What would you have said next?”
His lips twitch, and for the first time tonight, there is mischief in his gaze again. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
You roll your eyes, but the moment has shifted, lighter now, though something unnamed still lingers beneath it.
“Keep your secrets, then,” you mutter, returning to your weaving.
“You wound me,” Gojo says again, pressing a hand to his chest as if truly affronted. “Here I am, spilling my heart, and you deny me even a scrap of sentiment.”
You let out a quiet scoff, keeping your focus on your weaving. “Perhaps if your words weren’t so dramatic, I’d be inclined to believe them.”
Gojo gasps. “Dramatic?” He leans closer, an almost boyish grin tugging at his lips. “My lady, I am nothing if not a man of sincerity.”
“Oh? So that speech about sirens wasn’t an embellishment?”
“Not at all.” He sighs, as if suffering under some great burden. “I wake in the morning thinking of you, I lay my head at night wondering if you’ve thought of me at all. It’s agony, truly.”
You roll your eyes, but your lips betray you, twitching into something dangerously close to a smile. “That sounds more like a malady than love.”
“Ah, but love is a sickness, is it not?” He exhales dramatically. “And you, my lady, have made a very ill man of me.”
Despite yourself, a laugh escapes—light, unguarded, like something slipping past your defenses before you can catch it.
And then—silence.
You glance at him, and find him already watching you.
His usual mischief is gone, replaced by something softer, something wholly unprepared. His breath is caught somewhere between his ribs, his lips slightly parted as if the sight of your laughter has stolen the air from him.
And then—
A blush, unmistakable even in the moonlight.
Your heart stutters.
Oh.
For the first time, you allow yourself to study him properly. The sharp angles of his jaw, the elegant bridge of his nose, the vivid eyes that hold yours so intently.
He is very handsome.
The thought settles somewhere unexpected, like an admission you’ve been avoiding.
Before you can dwell on it, something light catches against your shoulder—a drifting leaf, caught in the folds of your garment.
Gojo moves before you can react.
His fingers brush against the fabric near your collarbone, and then linger, featherlight and warm, as he pulls the leaf free. The moment stretches—longer than it should, charged with something unspeakable.
You feel his breath before you see him move, close enough now that the space between you is barely a whisper.
His hand, now free of its task, hesitates—before it trails downward, catching yours in his grasp.
He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to fill the moment with jest. His thumb traces the back of your hand, slow and absentminded, as if memorizing the shape of you.
Your own breath falters.
His breath is warm in the cool night air, his proximity setting something taut beneath your ribs. You are no stranger to flirtation, nor to men who think they can win you with pretty words, but Gojo—Gojo is different.
Perhaps it’s the way he looks at you now, his usual mischief tempered by something quieter. Or perhaps it’s the fact that, despite his arrogance, despite his clever tongue and tireless persistence, he does not presume to take.
He waits.
A dangerous thing, because it gives you time to notice the way his fingers twitch slightly against the fabric of your sleeve, the way his lips part as if tasting the words before speaking them.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs, tilting his head.
You arch a brow, feigning indifference despite the heat pooling low in your stomach. “Am I?”
His lips curve. “Should I be flattered?”
You hum, as if considering it. “I’m only making observations.”
“Oh?” He steps just a fraction closer, his voice dipping. “And what have you observed, my lady?”
“That you blush quite easily,” you say smoothly, pleased when the faint flush creeps further up his neck. “That despite your grand declarations, you are, in fact, a little shy.”
Gojo lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Shy? My lady, you wound me.”
“Do I?” You tilt your chin up slightly, your voice softer now, your hand still in his.
His gaze flickers to your lips.
Your breath catches, just for a moment.
And then—
His hand moves, fingers brushing along the curve of your jaw before settling at the nape of your neck, his touch deliberate, careful. A question, waiting for an answer.
You don’t grant him words—only the tilt of your head, the briefest lean forward.
It is all the invitation he needs.
He kisses you like a secret, like something to be savored—slow at first, testing, before he grows bolder. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you just a little closer, and warmth floods through you, seeping into your bones.
The world is silent save for the soft hitch of breath, the faint rustle of fabric as he deepens the kiss, as you allow yourself to press into him, fingers curling into the front of his tunic.
For a man who never stops talking, he is utterly wordless now.
When you wake up next in the morning, it is grumpy and tired. Not only were you up late into the night, talking to and…kissing Gojo of Ithaca, or rather, Satoru (while you were drunk on each other, he had convinced you to call him Satoru), but the sound of Helen’s squealing made your head ring, putting an unbearable pressure onto them.
“Helen!” you scold her, throwing a spare pillow at her. She easily dodges while you sit up in the bed, half-heartedly rubbing your eyes to wipe the sleep from them. As she throws herself onto the foot of the bed, you notice and hear the pitter patter of rain, casting a somber gray light in your bedroom that is occasionally interrupted by Zeus’s thunder, as if the god was angered or sharing a premonition.
Shaking off the thought, you scowl at your cousin, who’s excitedly prattling about things you still have yet to comprehend. “Slow down! Tell me, without spewing all your words at once.”
“Father gave me permission to marry!” she squealed, jumping on you and hugging you closely. She seemed happy, and you loved your cousin very much, even if you did not show it much. Pure affection permeates your countenance, as she continues. “You know I’ve always wanted to marry him, with his big arms and all. He could totally manhandle me, but you knoooww I love the ones that can whimper—”
“Oh my god,” you groan, covering your ears as if scandalized (you’ve said much worse to her), but you grin regardless. “Who is the man that you have chosen?”
“Well,” she laughs, flipping her hair off her shoulder, “Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.”
Your heart drops to your stomach.
What she says next seems to blur together, not registering because you are shocked, your world almost tilted.
Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.
It is then you realize belatedly that Helen seems to be calling out to you, and what you notice the most out of anything on her face is the soft smile she has on her face. One that shows that she is fond of Satoru Gojo, that she has affection for him. And who are you—the girl whose father doesn’t wish for her to marry, one that isn’t to be promised—take that away from Helen, from him?
Gojo has made it clear that he is not here for Helen—but wouldn’t it be better for him and his kingdom (which you discovered last night that he cares so dearly for) for him to marry Helen? A beautiful queen and a wise king.
What a match.
You swallow, throat suddenly dry, but you manage a smile—strained, weak, but a smile nonetheless.
“Helen,” you begin, voice steady despite the storm brewing inside you, “are you certain?”
“Of course!” she beams, oblivious to the way your fingers tighten in the fabric of your bedding. “Father said Gojo has yet to ask officially, but he will, I know it. And why wouldn’t he? A match like this—it’s fate.”
Fate.
What cruel irony.
You remember last night—Gojo’s hands warm against your skin, his laughter pressed against your lips, the way he had murmured your name like a vow.
And yet—
You look at Helen, golden and radiant even in the gray morning light, her eyes alight with genuine happiness. You love her, truly, and have since childhood. She has always had her pick of men, but there was something softer in the way she spoke of Satoru just now.
The soft smile, the dreamy lilt to her voice.
She wants this.
And what of you?
Your chest aches, but you laugh, the sound lighter than it should be. “You sound quite taken with him.”
“I am,” she beams, watching you. “He’s gorgeous! Charming, too. He told me last night that he thinks my eyes are like the sea at sunrise.”
Your stomach twists and it seems that the panic overwhelms you because all you can manage to do is swallow and nod. “Well,” you look at her with a tight smile, “I congratulate you. Let us discuss this matter further over breakfast.” She smiles and squeezes your upper arm in a goodbye, and the touch of it burns.
You don’t ever make it to breakfast that day.
It continues raining that day, and it’s quite appropriate for how you’re feeling. The feeling of melancholy permeates the air around you as you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Usually, you occupy your time by reading or, more likely, weaving, but you couldn’t muster the energy to find interest in that either.
Over a man. What a shame.
You were not one to lie idle—you were constantly praised as a princess wise beyond her years, and it would be wise, in this situation, to move on. Because the man you had grown feelings for is now engaged to your cousin, or, at least, your cousin intends to be engaged with him. And it would be wiser to let it happen, for Helen’s happiness was your happiness.
Sighing, you stuff your face into your pillow and groan, muffled by the linen fabric of your seats. You then decide grudgingly that if you’re not going to leave your room at all, it may be best to shed yourself of your clothing and lay comfortably in your loincloth and mamillare.
But right as you put your hand on your clothing to strip yourself, you hear a noise.
The sound comes again—a sharp, rhythmic tap-tap-tap, just barely audible over the rain. You freeze, fingers still curled around the fabric of your chiton, half-peeled from your shoulder. At first, you think it might be a stray branch scraping against the stone, wind-tossed by the storm. But then it happens again—more deliberate this time, insistent.
Then, looking at the new objects strewn across your balcony, you realize it’s not branches—it’s pebbles.
You scowl, tying your garments hastily before moving toward the balcony. The rain is gentler now, more mist than storm, clinging to the stone and silvering the world beyond. You grip the railing and peer down—
And there he is.
Satoru.
Drenched from head to toe, hair plastered to his forehead, a frown curving his lips as he concentrates on where he’s going to throw his pebble next. His stance seems urgent, but you’re so caught up on the fact that he’s here, as if he isn’t supposed to be engaged to Helen or be subjected to whatever congratulatory round of alcohol men bestowed upon each other after securing the most beautiful woman alive.
Your heart stutters.
You pull back immediately, breath catching in your throat. You shouldn’t have come to the balcony. You shouldn’t be looking at him, shouldn’t be thinking about this morning when Helen’s voice still lingers in your ears—Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.
The pebble strikes the stone beside you.
“I know you’re up there,” Gojo calls, tone indecipherable. “Are you really going to ignore me? After all we’ve been through?”
You swallow and your voice trembles when you say, “Go away.”
His resulting laughter sounds betrayed, hurt. “You don’t mean that.”
“Satoru,” and you don’t know if it’s a plea or a warning. His head tilts, an anguished look on his face as he closes his eyes and sighs.
“You wound me,” he huffs out a pained laugh, “After all, I run the risk of sickness just to see you and tell you that you believe wrong.”
Something is created in you, then. Something dangerous like hope. “What?”
But instead of answering, Gojo crouches, then, in one smooth motion, leaps up, catching the edge of the balcony with ease. You barely have time to react before he’s pulling himself over the railing, stepping onto solid ground with practiced grace.
You stumble back, eyes wide. “I told you not to come up.”
“And when have I ever listened?”
There’s something in the way he looks at you then—an intensity you aren’t prepared for. The air between you is charged, thick with something unspoken, something far too dangerous to name.
He takes a step forward. “I thought you were smarter than this.”
You blink, startled. “Excuse me?”
Gojo exhales, running a hand through his damp hair. “Why would you ever think it would be Helen?”
Your stomach lurches. “She said—”
“She assumed,” he corrects, cutting you off. “But I did not accept her. And you let her do that.” His voice drops lower, softer, a stark contrast to the teasing lilt he so often wields. “Do you truly think so little of me?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you do, it will come spilling out—the hope you tried to bury, the ache that settled in your chest the moment Helen uttered those words.
He moves closer, and you don’t stop him.
“Princess,” you can see his ivory lashes with how close he is, his face covered in raindrops, “for how wise you are, you seem to not have caught on. What animal is the emblem of Athena?”
Blinking, you’re taken aback by the sudden quizzing. “Owl, what about it—”
Oh.
He sees the realization dawn over your face, and now his tense expression melts into a bittersweet smile. “The goddess of wisdom has been my companion ever since I was a child, helping me attain whatever I needed the most. Whether it be to gain the knowledge one must have to be worthy of being king, or,” he inhales sharply, vibrant eyes scanning over your face vulnerably, “to gain the power to be able to make the wisest, wittiest, funniest, and most beautiful girl I’ve ever known my queen.
“After all, I have my wit—add a little of godlike power, and even I could defeat your father. Respectfully,” he adds quickly. He looks anxious you realize, as if he is about to make a risky move, a big ask. Something he’s been anxious to ask, but scared to. His eyes are still scanning you and his hands twitch at his side as he says, “I hesitate to make this decision, to ask you still after knowing the true nature of my desire for you—”
“Ask me what?”
His eyes are fixed on you, and you think that both of your hearts are beating very, very fast at the moment. “What do you think, princess?”
The silence that falls is loaded, heavy, and laden with hesitation. It’s as if a vice has caged its way through your heart, squeezing and squeezing until all the things you’ve left unsaid threaten to spill out. Things like I don’t want you to marry my cousin. Or yet, even worse, I want you to marry me. “I would not want to throw out my guesses, Satoru,” you instead opt to say, voice soft. “Things like this must be said directly, to not leave any confusion or misunderstandings.”
His jaw tightens, his breath coming harder as he stares at you, something raw and dangerous flickering in his eyes. “I agree. These things should never be left unsaid.” His voice is low, almost seething, but not with anger—no, this is something else entirely, something desperate. “I love you.” The words are unshakable, like a vow. “And I refuse to sit here and pretend my thoughts of you are anything less than ruinous. I dream of you in ways no other man is allowed to, ways that would send me to Hades with a smile on my lips. You have bewitched my soul, stolen the breath from my body, and most dangerously—you have claimed my mind.” His voice drops, softer now, but no less intense. “I do not know how to make you believe me, only that I would sooner challenge the gods themselves than let you slip through my fingers. The world could promise me tens of Helen, but there is only one woman I would ever choose.” His hand finds yours, fingers tightening, as his next words fall like an oath.
“You.”
Your breath stutters, throat tightening as his fingers tighten over yours. His touch is searing, as if the gods themselves have set him aflame, and yet you cannot pull away—you do not want to pull away.
“Satoru—” His name slips from your lips like a prayer, and he swears under his breath, his free hand coming up to cradle your jaw, thumb pressing just below your lips, as if he is fighting the urge to kiss you.
“I would tear down Olympus itself if it meant keeping you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your cheek. “I would make war with the gods, call upon Athena to guide my spear, and spill the blood of any man foolish enough to think they could take you from me.” His voice is rough, almost a growl, and you swear your knees would give way if not for the way he holds you now, as though letting go would be his ruin.
It is reckless, to let yourself lean into him, to let your fingers curl into the fabric of his damp chiton as though you could anchor yourself to him. But he is an anchor—pulling you into something deep, something dangerous, something you know you will not escape from unscathed.
His nose brushes yours, his lips so close that you feel his every breath, his every hesitation. But you see the war in his eyes, the battle between restraint and desire, and for once, you decide to let yourself be selfish.
So you whisper, “Then prove it.”
And that is all it takes for him to break.
His lips crash against yours, urgent and claiming, as if to kiss you any softer would be to deny himself the air he breathes. He groans as your hands tangle in his hair, your body pressing flush against his, his own hands no longer gentle but gripping, desperate, possessive. His teeth graze your bottom lip before he deepens the kiss, one hand trailing lower, pressing against the curve of your waist, then lower still—
Thunder crackles, as you gasp out his name. He pulls you both apart, looking anguished as if he’s fighting the urge to keep touching you, to make you moan out his name. Realizing this, you grab his hands and put them on yourself. “My love,” you say, tenderly, and you see how his pupils dilate in response, “you may touch me—”
“Are you sure? For if you say that, I may not be able to stop myself from indulging. Because I will take and take, until you can give me no more.” The way he says it, uncharacteristically serious and brows furrowed, makes you heat up even more, dizzy with lust and your pent up longing for the man.
But your response stays the same, paired with a firm nod. “I am sur—mmmph.”
He smothers you with his lips before you can finish, cupping your jaw until his hands start to move downwards. They move, tracing the planes of your body, and they are relentless in their exploration—they grab you possessively, pushing you closer and closer to him until his hands are below your thighs. Satoru maneuvers you until your legs are straddling his waist so that he can pick you up and carry you to your bed.
After he throws you down like carrying you poses to him as much of a challenge as carrying a light potato sack, he admires you—-thighs clenched, hair splayed around your head like a halo. The skirt of your clothes has inched its way up, exposing your thighs. “Gods, you don’t know what you do to me.”
But instead of playing the innocent maiden, you look at him through your lashes, laughing. “Satoru, time is of the essence. Flattery will get you nowhere—you must show it through your actions.”
You didn’t know what saying his name—and prompting him like that—does to him. He meets your lips in a furious kiss once again, this time hand sneaking up your skirt. He meets the fabric of your loincloth, hooking at its sides and pulling them downwards and downwards, until it is hooked off your ankle (not before Satoru leaves it a trailing kiss there, of course. It is only until Satoru’s eyes hone in what’s in the middle of legs that you realize that you are bare to him. “Satoru, I—”
“I must do something,” he instead responds, and you look at him in confusion. He’s moving down your body as you ask him what he means and if something’s wrong.
You’re interrupted by your gasp as his mouth descends on you, leaving hot, openmouthed kisses directly on your core. His tongue delves inside your lower lips, pleasing the nerves and leaving them singing. He undoes you, leaving your legs feeling like jelly, and the fervor he does it with is nauseating—as if your nectar is ambrosia itself.
Soon enough, with his reverent worship—and a finger or two added to stretch you out and make you emit embarrassing noises that only encourage him further—you come with a cry of his name. As you roll your hips, riding out your climax, his mouth and head follow and trail your hips, unrelenting in pleasuring you even though you’re overstimulated and left quivering.
“I—” you blurted, trying to fill the silence after he had just made you taste colors. “I hate you.”
Satoru faux pouts, biting back a grin. “Rude thing to say when I just made you—”
“Don’t finish that!” you shriek, swatting his head lightly as he laughs, kissing his way back up your body. In a tone more shy than you’d like, you say in a small voice, “But I hope we’re not done yet?”
Satoru’s made his way up to your clothed breasts, kissing them tenderly. However, when he hears the question, he stills, looks at you with wide eyes, and he groans, as if surprised by your forwardness. “Princess, the things you do to me.”
He kneads your ass while he stands up, orienting himself into a position to do—that. A voice in the back of your head reminds you that you’re not supposed to be doing this before you get married, but your lust is too strong. And, after all, you trust that there’s no way Satoru wouldn’t marry you.
You feel a slight pressure in your nether regions, and you realize that it is Satoru’s cock. His eyes are on you, blown out with lust, as he continues to stroke the length of it while observing your every reaction. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes.”
With your confirmation, his eyes next left your face as he pushed in, moving slowly and gently. He gauged your features for any signs of discomfort or pain as he moved in shallow thrusts, gradually increasing their length. You gasped, his murmurs and sweet nothings coaxing out your whimpers and whines as he bumped a spot inside of you. As he did, fireworks erupted in the back of your mind, leaving you boneless as he got you closer and closer to your climax once again.
For someone who didn’t experience carnal desires often, you wonder how you’ve gone without this kind of pleasure for so long. Satoru made you feel worshipped, tracing kisses with a love that was almost pious. It doesn’t take you long after that to come once more, thrashing in his grip.
Your climax sheathed on his cock unlocks something in him, for he begins to thrust harder and faster, becoming sloppier and sloppier. His voice is by your ear, whining your name continuously. When he finally feels himself climb over and finally orgasm, he breathes out an “Ah,” and thrusts himself to completely bottom out while his come fills you up, pooling inside of you.
You both stay interlocked for gods know how long. Until Satoru pipes up, voice still unstable and panting, “By the way, it went unsaid, but I’m going to marry you. And you can’t say no.”
Your resulting giggle makes him break out in a big smile before he hugs you, wrestling you both to lie side by side in bed.
It goes without saying, but it all goes smoothly according to plan.
When Satoru had played with petteia with you, he had aimed to show Athena your wit. It is no small claim to defeat him, a king associated with Athena, in the game. The following events further made Athena approve of you and give her blessing.
So Gojo was already ten steps ahead when he asked your father for your blessing. Your father was furious, of course—he did not want to let you go. After much cajoling and agreement to beat your father, a champion runner, in a race to attain your hand, Satoru wiped his brow. The way your father loved you would be scary to him if he didn’t love you as intensely as he did now.
And of course Satoru won. Athena got her fellow Olympian, Hermes, to rent out his infamous speed. When he wins, Sparta is in an uproar, including your cousin.
“So, how is he?” Helen asks mischievously. You later found out that day that Helen’s words of marrying Gojo had a purpose—to push you both towards each other, once and for all.
“I don’t know what you mean,” you turn away, with a hmph. Crossing your arms, you pretend to roll your eyes at the knowing look she had.
“I don’t know, cousin,” she giggles, “I heard a couple of voices in your room when I tried to visit you a few nights back. Tell me, does he whimper—-”
“Helen!”
The day you marry, donning beautiful and regal clothes, Gojo sneaks you away multiple times to kiss you under your veil when no one is looking.
His wedding gift is built by him—on the voyage back to Ithaca, he not only takes you away from Sparta, but the olive tree that you both had met at. He builds the shared marital bed out of the olive tree for his queen with his blood and sweat. It is a symbol of your love, everlasting, and you would daresay that it is the most precious gift anyone has ever given you.
What you give him in return is one fat and giggly baby. Your father grumbles that the child looks too much like his father, but the way he holds the babe—so carefully, so gently—betrays his affection. Helen coos at her little nephew, amused at how utterly soft Satoru has become, how the once-cocky king now spends his days doting on both you and your child, as if he has won the world itself.
And perhaps he has.
After all, Satoru has always been a man of ambition. A man who would scheme, fight, and even defy the gods for what he desires. And yet, as he holds your child in one arm and you in the other, murmuring teasing words against your ear before stealing another kiss, you realize something—
He had never needed Athena’s wisdom, Hermes’ speed, or any other divine favor to win you.
Because you had already been his, just as he had always been yours.
general masterlist
a/n thank u to my very supportive bestie @purplegemadventures i love all ur ideas ml <3 anyways like always all my beta readers are the goats thank you for reading my incomprehensible ideas. it's 5am and there's a mosquito that's hovering near me and im not totally happy w how this turned out but it was fun writing it kjenkjne. i may write more greek mythology aus but i need to lock in on my series....
ppl who asked to be tagged: @heh123321 @melotter
thank you for reading! reblog and comment to let me know ur thots <3
PSA! you don't have to have smut in your fic to make it good.
for all the butthurt people in my reblogs, i’m literally a writer too. that’s literally why i made this post, never said you shouldn’t. just said you don’t have to? (all the people complaining about this post just know i’m laughing at your replies🙂↕️)
BRO, I'M LITERALLY TIRED. I JUST WANT TO GET HOME AND READ SOME SAD, PAINFUL ANGST THAT MAKES ME POUND MY CHEST AT HOW SAD IT IS. NOT NECESSARILY SMUT (although I don't mind but some distressing sadness wouldn't hurt my boring life)
A bell chimed the moment you walked through the doors of the restaurant. Warmth rolled down your back and you shivered, rubbing the cold out of your arms. Kieran followed suit behind you and whispered into your ear.
"Do you want my jacket from the back of the car?"
"I'm okay," you smiled up at him, "Inside is warmer than I expected it to be. I'll be fine."
The inside was just as grand as the outside. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling and soft music played over the speakers that were built into the building. You glanced around at the customers, chattering softly in low voices, reminding you of the mumbles your mother always made with her friends every time you got home from school.
A waitress walked up to you and smiled. Her lips were painted red, her skin smooth, and her brown hair pulled into a tight bun. She looked far more elegant than whatever you were wearing. You crossed your arms and smiled back.
"Welcome to Papillon. Seats for two? Romantic seating?"
"Oh no, uh, we are meeting someone here. His last name is Evergrown?"
The waitress perked when his name was mentioned. Her nails clacked against the clipboard she was holding. Something was unsettling about the gleam in her eye, almost greedy, as if she was viewing you and Kieran like bags of cash. "Oh yes, you must be Mr. Evergrown's guests. Follow me and I will take you to him now."
You blinked rapidly. He had to be a regular if she acted like that at the mention of his name. Glancing at Kieran from the corner of your eye, he slid his hand behind you to the small of your back, walking with you. He didn't seem that curious. He kept glancing at the people in the restaurant and the doors.
His head was obviously stuck somewhere else.
The hostess led you to a more private part of the restaurant where there were less people and fewer windows. The warm lighting cast shadows against the walls, showing off the numerous expensive paintings. The whole place gave off the vibe that they were trying to be cozy, but only ended up being more uncomfortable. One of those paintings had to cost more than your entire house.
Turning your head, you whispered to Kieran. "I thought this restaurant wasn't this fancy... Do you think we have enough money?"
His green eyes melted into liquid emerald. His cheeks dimpled ever so slightly when he grinned. "Yes, Котик. We have enough."
"Are you sure? What if we don't and—"
He drummed his fingers against your back, making you jump slightly. He chuckled, mumbling. "I assure you, we do. Pinky promise."
You bit your lip. Before you had a chance to make sure for a third time, a familiar face caught your attention from the corner of your eye. You almost stopped dead in your tracks.
You barely recognized Danny. The slicked-back kid you knew in high school was gone and replaced with a charming, handsome man with a dazzling smile. His brown hair was neatly cut, his face clean-shaven, and his hazel eyes twinkling with amusement. He wore a suit. A fancy suit that reminded you of your father; maybe because of the blue tie. His shoes peeked out from under the table and you noticed how glossy they were. He stood up when he noticed the two of you, jutting out his hand with a grin. He was a couple of inches shorter than Kieran.
The hostess stood by with a plastic smile. You didn't like how she was treating him like her boss. You didn't think he owned the building, after all.
"(Y/N), it's so nice to see you again," he took your hand and placed a chaste kiss on it, glancing at Kieran when he leaned back up, "and you too, Kieran. I see you're still following her like a dog."
"Well, she is my wife so it's expected."
So much for being on good behavior. You didn't miss the small snark to Kieran's tone or the way his hand curled around your waist and pulled you ever so slightly closer to him. He smiled back at Danny cheerfully. Oh, how could you forget? He was joking with Danny again. The two of them were like that in high school (only Kieran was a lot more rude back then).
Danny's eyes widened in shock at the new information. "You two got married?"
"Did you think I would follow her around like this if I wasn't?"
He looked confused. Glancing between the two of you, his lips quirked up into a smile, albeit a little forced, and he motioned towards the table for you two to sit. "Oh my, well, apologies. You always followed her around like this in school when you were dating so I thought it was the same. Congratulations on your marriage."
This wasn't Danny. Well, it was him, but it wasn't the young man you thought you knew. Time changed everyone but you never expected him to change this much. This version of him was far too charismatic, charming, and snooty. His gaze felt daring and judging towards everyone in his line of sight—and in that moment, it was Kieran and you.
You said nothing and sat down.
"Thank you. We've only been married six months so it hasn't been long."
Danny took the menus from the hostess before speaking. He watched her scurry away. With a clear throat, he asked, "And you're happy?"
Your eye twitched. Who was he to ask that? Maybe the years whittled down his polite nature because you were too shocked to respond right away. Irritation flooded your senses and Danny glanced up. The words finally found your lips.
"Of course we are. I didn't know that you lost your manners over the years," you deadpanned. It sounded a little harsh, but you didn't care all that much. "Unless it's now polite to ask that to newlyweds?"
Danny blinked and he chuckled embarrassingly. "Oh, I—I'm sorry. I wanted to ask since we've been friends for so long... I meant no offense. I just want the two of you to be happy together."
Kieran shifted through the menu and said nothing, however, you noticed him glancing up at Danny with an unreadable expression every now and again. Well, great, now you felt like the bad guy. Your lips zipped shut. You blamed it on the restaurant, it was leaving you on edge. The fancy decor reminded you of your childhood home and the table you were sitting at was uncomfortable.
You opened your mouth to find something to say in response to that. "Oh, I see—uhm..."
"Thank you for the concern, but I don't believe our marriage is any of your business," Kieran butted in. "Friends or not, some things aren't meant to be asked in a public setting, much less over a meetup like this. We haven't seen you in a while and we have no obligations to share our marriage details with you."
Danny's cheeks reddened. You could only silently agree with Kieran, watching as your old friend sunk back in his seat and bounced his leg up and down. "Ah. You're correct, I apologize. It seems I stepped over a line."
Kieran was always better at words compared to you. Even if you were going to study psychology in school, you weren't the greatest at controlling your own life, much less your words. You shuffled uncomfortably in your seat and said nothing when a waitress came over to take your orders.
"Red wine and baked spaghetti for me," Danny said.
"I'd like water, no food, and my wife wants..."
"Uh, I'll just take a black coffee."
You didn't think you could stomach anything else other than that. Your nerves were rattling your bones like drums. Plus if Keiran wasn't getting food, you didn't want food. You didn't want to think about how much a full meal would cost anyway. The waitress said nothing after she wrote down her orders and walked away. When her heels were out of hearing range, Danny cleared his throat.
"So, how has life been treating you two?"
You straightened up. "It's been well. I'm going to school and Kieran is working full time. There isn't much excitement going on in our lives as of right now."
Danny looked at Kieran. "Full time? You? You always hated working when we were in high school, always running off to skip class or break some type of rule. What are you doing now? How do you do it when you've always been so wild?"
Kieran shuffled to get comfortable, laughing softly at the jabs towards his younger self. "Ah, well, you could say I am no longer a fifteen-year-old boy, that's how. But to answer your question, I'm an editor and freelance writer."
You nudged Kieran's side softly. Just because Danny missed the way he was mocking him, didn't mean you did. The mocking went right over Danny's head and he beamed, turning to look at you now.
"Oh, that's amazing! What about you, (Y/N)?"
"I'm going into schooling for psychology," you scratched at your neck sheepishly. "Not as creative as what Kieran is doing, but I try. I've always enjoyed the thought of helping people."
Danny's eyes sparkled and he leaned forward at the table. His hazel eyes softened and a glimmer of the old Danny shone through for a second. "Yeah, you've always been like that. Empathy has always been one of your strong suits. I remember thinking you had too much of it at times, especially when you started placing yourself in the shoes of people who didn't deserve it."
You tilted your head. He was rubbing you the wrong way. "People who didn't deserve it?”
"Yeah, like scumbags."
"Everyone deserves to be understood, Danny. We are all human. I would be a shitty therapist if I played Judge every session and decided which people deserved help or not."
Maybe you were just being sensitive? Or taking things too personally without reason? Ever since you saw Danny, your irritation kept bubbling up and up. It wasn't like he was doing anything specific to irk you, but he just was, and you couldn't place it. Maybe it was the way he was smiling, the way he kept looking at you, or how he barely glanced at Kieran at all.
Danny raised an eyebrow. He didn't pick up on your uncomfortable tone, so he carried on. "So if you met a serial killer, you think they'd deserve someone stepping in their shoes to understand them?"
"Of course! Yes."
"Even after they killed three people?"
"What type of question is that? Yes—"
Your jaw clamped shut when the waitress came back with the food and drinks. Your coffee was placed in front of you and Danny thanked her before taking his spaghetti. You didn't even notice when Kieran took a sip of your coffee, grimaced, and then gulped his water.
Danny had to be doing this on purpose to annoy you! What type of medical professional studying the human brain, to help people, would turn away someone acting on homicidal thoughts? Of course, you'd turn them over to the police, but if they required therapy and you were assigned, you wouldn't turn them away.
They did monstrous acts, but those monstrous acts were most likely developed through mental or sometimes physical trauma. It was up to psychologists and therapists to figure those things out! The more a professional learns, the more they can prevent things like that from happening in the future. Damn, all of this was making you think of the conversation you had with Kieran earlier in the car.
You watched as Danny took a bite of his food and hummed in delight. Your jaw clenched and unclenched.
"Danny, how have you been?" Kieran asked for you, deciding to move the conversation on for you. "You look happy and put together. Did you take up your family's line of being a surgeon?"
"Oh no, no! I could never. I started working for a bigger business and it pays well. I actually had the idea to reach out because something happened."
Kieran learned further and placed his elbows on the table. "Hm?"
"Yeah. (Y/N), your father called me recently. It made me think about high school and then out of the blue, I saw your social media. I knew I had to reach out and say hello."
The saliva in your mouth dried up within seconds. The world shifted and specks of color swirled in your peripherals, the edge of your toes running numb while itchiness spread across your body in rolling waves. Your nails bit into your palms. Maybe you heard him wrong. No way he just said your father, because no way would your father reach out to Danny. He knew very well you and Danny used to be friends, so he wouldn't have any reason to do so.
Kieran's hand slid over and squeezed your thigh. Unlike you, his face was unreadable, while the reflection inside your coffee mug stared back in apprehension.
"I—what? My father?"
Danny nodded. "Yes! It was a surprising call if I have to be honest. I didn't know how he got my number, he must have found it online somewhere. I doubt any of my coworkers gave it to him."
You were stunned. "...Well, uhm, I apologize that you had to deal with him."
"Ah no, it actually wasn't that bad. He was polite and started asking about what I was doing, and how my life was, and then started talking about you when the call ended. When I first got the call, I was expecting him to ask about my parents. I know that he enjoyed them when we were younger, but it turned out he didn't want to talk about them at all."
You were going to vomit. The world spun around and around, and suddenly, you were even more grateful that you didn't order any food. Kieran tenderly massaged your thigh. He didn't mind your shaking hands or the ways your nails raked over his skin, scraping at the scabs on his hands already. His soothing touch felt worlds apart from your experience.
You didn't get it. Why was your father calling Danny? Why did he mention you? Why was he even interested in Danny? Your family cut contact with you after your marriage and when you were friends with Danny in high school, they never talked to him then, so there was no reason to talk to him now. There was no reason for your father to be interested in your life when he made it pretty clear that he didn't want to be a part of it.
Fuck, you didn't want him to.
"And what was he saying?" Kieran asked the questions you couldn't.
Danny took a sip of his wine and glanced between Kieran and you. He said nothing on the matter, saying, "Something about the (L/N) business and (Y/N) as the successor. At one point he did start asking about your life. Though he never informed me that you were married, he said something about an arranged marriage, so I assumed you and Kieran broke up. That's why I was shocked to see Kieran here."
You opened your mouth but nothing came out. You preoccupied yourself with a greedy gulp of coffee, watching Danny waving his fork around.
"He didn't mention anything more about the arranged marriage when I asked. Instead, he kept blabbering about one of your cousins. Dominic? Or something? A fancy name, someone I've never met."
Dominic.
Suddenly, you didn't want to be here. You wanted to be home, in your bed, on your phone scrolling through social media to distract you from whatever was going on here. Kieran twisted his fingers into yours and pulled your hand away from your thigh; you were scratching at your leg without even realizing it, causing the skin to go red underneath.
"He said Dominic? Are you sure you heard him correctly?" you asked.
Danny tilted his head. "Yes, he said it plain as day."
What could you say in response to all that? Dominic, your older cousin's nickname, was someone who always helped your father around the house. When you were little, your main memory was your father shouting from his office and the following comes from Dominic calming him down. You viewed your father as the mad villain; Dominic was the sidekick, the butler, the one who pulled the strings. If they were talking about successors and mentioned your name, that meant they wanted you back in the family.
You? In the family again? The (L/N) family again?
You could recall how grand the house you grew up in was, and just how many patterns you could count on the ceiling every night. Muffled arguments, shady deals, and the constant flow of guests in and out of the house who leered at you like vultures. Your father never had normal "friends" and he made it quite clear that he did business with anyone who could meet his pay and requirements. Sometimes he threatened to sell you to them when you misbehaved. Even now, you couldn't tell if it was a real threat or not.
If he wanted you as his successor to his business, he'd do anything to get it. He wasn't the type of man who listened to the word "no". Denying him was something he always took extremely personally. Your mother knew that very well.
She didn't want children, but it wasn't like he listened. It made sense why she hated your guts. Each time she looked at you, she saw a little girl whom she was forced to birth to because her husband wasn't considerate enough of her feelings and autonomy. You supposed you couldn't blame her, but it didn't make it hurt less.
But if all of this was true, why hasn't he called you yet?
Sure, you blocked him a while ago, but that never stopped him in the past. He'd change his phone number, get other people to call, or find some other way around being ignored. He always found a way.
Danny sipped on his wine and watched you with a perplexed expression. He knew about your relationship with your family, but he didn't know they disowned you the day you got married to Kieran. He had no idea that mentioning them caused extreme anxiety, enough anxiety to make your skin itch all over your vision blur. Fight or flight was telling you to run for the hills.
Kieran leaned close to you and whispered, covering his mouth with his hand so Danny couldn't make out what he was saying. "Do you want to go home, Котик?"
Yes, you did. But leaving so abruptly in the middle of a meal with an old friend was rude and it wasn't like Danny purposely wanted to freak you out. You sucked in a sharp breath and tried to regain your senses. Kieran took your response as a no and frowned, but said nothing and leaned back. When you wanted to go home, you'd tell him, he trusted you.
"I see... thank you for telling me, Danny."
Danny grinned ear to ear. Whether or not he was disturbed by your obvious discomfort, he said nothing and took a bite of his food before swallowing. "Talking to your father gave me an idea, (Y/N). Of course, you don't have to agree with me or anything, but I wanted to share what I thought with you."
You didn't have to be a genius to understand what you were feeling was dissociation. The more correct term, if you had to pull it from your medical textbooks, would be derealization. It felt as if your brain was outside your body and you were watching him blabber to someone who wasn't you. Like a fucked up fever dream.
You knew you weren't outside your body from a second point of view, but it felt like it. You rapidly blinked and took deep breaths to ground yourself. It wasn't helping that much.
"I've been looking for someone to fill in a missing spot on my team. Where I work is a very important place, so it is not something I can just let random people apply for. But you're not a random nobody! I trust you more than anyone I've interviewed, and we have been searching for more empathetic and ambitious workers."
Wait, wait, wait.
One moment he was talking about how your father tried to get information out of him, but now he was saying something about a job opportunity. You refrained from rubbing your temples. Danny didn't notice your mood and kept chattering, his smile switching to that familiar 'business' smile that your father always had. He wasn't giving you any time to think.
"I wanted to—"
"Daniel," Kieran hummed, his voice heavier than normal. It sounded foreign to your ears. "Be considerate and stop talking so fast."
Danny flinched when he heard his real name. In a mere second, droplets of sweat built on his brow and he wiped them away with the back of his hand. Kieran stared at him with an unreadable expression. He couldn't tell if it was threatening or not, friendly or not. His bones lurched back in his seat when Kieran shifted.
When they were younger, Danny always felt inferior compared to Kieran. Grades and smarts didn't mean everything and when he lost you to him, that was the biggest blow he ever felt. Because yes, it was true that Danny had a crush on you back then, you were just too oblivious and dumb to see it. One of the many reasons he felt inferior was because Kieran never hesitated to throw a punch when need be—and that was terrifying.
He had a feeling that if he said the wrong thing at this table, he might become black and blue just like those kids used to be back in high school. His teeth gnawed on his bottom lip and he took a sip of his wine.
"Ah. Sorry."
Kieran just raised an eyebrow and nodded in return. He was scarier now than he was back then, especially with the width of his shoulders and the framing of his arms. He looked like he could crack his head open against the table.
You ran your hands over your hair and pushed it all back from your face, not paying attention enough to hear or see what was going on between them. Gather your thoughts, take a breath, and pull yourself together.
Even if your family was planning to drag you into the business, it wasn't like they could do anything. You were married to Kieran and you were a grown-ass adult. You had people to back you up if something wrong happened. Plus, it wasn't like your family was in the restaurant with you. You'd know if they were!
Danny cleared his throat and dragged you from your thoughts. "(Y/N)?"
"Oh, I'm sorry! I was just a little shocked," which was a plain lie but you said it with your chest, so that was all that mattered. "Uhm—go ahead. What were you saying about work? You mentioned a team of some sort?"
He was glad to move on as well. A grin fixed its way up on his face and you shivered slightly.
"What I was saying was that your father gave me an idea for work. I need someone to fill in a spot and when he mentioned you, I realized I trust you a whole lot more than any person I have interviewed. You'd be paid, of course, and the business I work for might even be willing to help with school payments if your work is impressive enough."
This definitely felt like a fever dream. The depth of the table felt so far away and the coloring of the lighting felt dim and soulless. The conversation being held was being jumped through hoops and hoops of new information without any lead-up or warning.
You rubbed your brow. Wasn't he just using you? At this point, you were aware that this was just a business proposition, not a meeting with an old friend. If you had to sum up this whole meeting, you've talked more about his work than anything else. Your anxiety fizzled into anger and your teeth clenched together.
"Did my father put you up to this?"
You had to ask it. You didn't put it below or above your father to ask Danny to do something for him, and if you had to be honest, you didn't trust Danny enough to turn down your father. Not when he wasn't his old self anymore. If this was the old Danny, you would have trusted him. Not this one.
Danny's mouth formed an 'o' shape and he shook his head. "No, no! This was totally my idea. Back when we were in school together, I knew how bad your family treated you. I wouldn't listen to anything he said anyway. He sparked an idea, it wasn't his own though."
Kieran was saying nothing. He was staring at you from the corner of his eye. Whatever he was thinking, he wasn't voicing it. You were glad that he wasn't arguing or saying anything. You were already dissociating enough as it was, so you were grateful for his quietness and soothing thumb that kept rubbing fingers on your hand. It was his way of trying to ground you.
"So you're saying my father didn't give you this idea or plan this in your head? Or tried to persuade you of anything?"
"No! I promise!"
You weren't sure you believed him. There was this sneaking suspicion that he worked for your father. Maybe he didn't, but you were paranoid now. Especially since Danny mentioned Dominic and the next possible successor of the (Y/N) business, which so happened to be you.
"Okay, okay..."
Kieran cleared his throat. "And what business do you work for? You haven't told us yet, and believe it or not, I find that rather important when being offered a job deal."
He blinked and his eyes lit up with stars. He sat up in his seat and took his elbows off the table, his legs bouncing up and down under the table. It was as if his personality changed. One moment he was anxious, the next moment he was levitating off his seat in pure pride.
The constellation rizzanon welcomes you to her blog <3
ABOUT ME:
call me iff or rizz or rizzanon. currently re-reading and grieving orv and lotm. literally nightwing. actually the secretive plotter. kim dokja my beloved. batfam and flash enthusiast. never beating the mlb allegations. 2.6k loves. chat with me about anything <3
you always were a quiet child, swallowing all the hurt you felt and buried it within your soul. he fears the hurt has consumed you.
he can't confidently say that he's done all he could for you, trying to manage the manor along with the other dysfunctional residents amd their nightly activities, which rendered him unable in giving you his undivided attention.
if he could to back, he would change it all in a heartbeat.
he vividly remembers the day commissioner gordon had phoned him about you, and was briefed about your background and the “accident” through the call, feeling a sense of relief that you had a somewhat normal background. when he saw you, he took that back. the chair you were on looked too big for your malnourished frame, the bandages swallowing your entire body and a couple bruises here and there. but what struck him were your eyes. they were so distant, bags heavy, with no light in them. the eyes that wordlessly show the hidden horrors you’ve been through.
you reminded him of bruce.
you were understandably skittish, settling into a completely new environment and seeing unfamiliar faces that you just had to accept were your now family. he assumed that with time you'd be able to overcome it after mourning the loss of your aunt, along with the help of everyone welcoming you with open arms and getting you accustomed to your new life as part of their family.
yet, that never happened.
he sees them dismiss you.
he’s seen you stand politely outside bruce’s office until he’s done with his tasks before requesting something (the bare necessities), all because previously, the first time (and only time) you had mistakenly interrupted his meeting in order to hand him the papers that alfred had asked you to, bruce had raised his voice at you for being a nuisance.
he’s seen the way you stare at dick when he interacts with the other members, showering them in brotherly love, yet walking past you like you were a piece of furniture, not noticing you.
he’s seen the way you had recommended jason books based on what he had read, only for him to scoff into your face and undermine your intellect, purposely limiting his interactions with you.
he’s seen the way you curiously looked through tim’s door that was left ajar, only for him to give you a scornful look and slamming it in your face, calling you annoying.
he’s seen the way you had agreed to every one of damian’s snide and hateful comments about how you were never good enough for the last name you do not hold, just because he was the only person who paid you any mind.
he's seen the way cassandra could easily read people, but never seemed to think you were worthy enough to give you the time of day, even while your eyes would try to find hers.
he's seen how easy it was for you to cry yet you never allowed yourself to do so, you'd curl your hands into tight fists until it pales and bleeds.
he’s seen the emptiness in your gaze when they’re locked on everyone during dinner, talking and engrossed in each other’s conversation, taking part of each other's lives while leaving you in the sidelines, standing at the doorway before you'd leave to your room, never joining them.
do they not see you?
a few months after you'd settled in, you had requested alfred that he would only really need to come clean your room once a week if at all, claiming that cleaning gives you a sense of control and there's a particular way it needed to be done. you rarely asked anything of him, you were self-sufficient to a fault, never allowing yourself to rely on anyone but yourself. he had offered to learn how you liked the cleaning to be done, but you remained unconvinced. so as to not overstep, he obliged.
he wished he didn’t.
he sees you retreat further into yourself.
he sees you spiral.
he sees it all, yet was unable to stop it.
he sees, but does nothing.
alfred cared.
but that didn’t mean he could save you.
the weather was gloomy, the grey sky stretched on above you as you watched the soft puffs of smoke escaped from your lips floated up to join the clouds. the familiar comfort that a cigarette brings you feels like a blessing these days. smoking helps lift the weight that weighs heavy on your skull, you try to soothe it even more by pressing harshly against your eye with your other hand void of the burning cigarette. you know it's a bad habit that you should ideally kick, especially worse if you were caught by anyone, but do you actually care?
“thought i'd find you here.”
you don't even need to turn around, recognizing the voice too well.
“what is it this time?”
another voice chippers, the peaceful atmosphere you were surrounded in was interrupted. you sigh and put out the cigarette, waving your hand around to fan the smoke away from your only two friends. they both giggle and extend their arms towards you to pull you up.
“you know, with the amount you've smoked lately, alfred might find out. like, i can smell you before i see you.” they tut at you half-heartedly, watching you brush the dirt off your uniform.
it has become a routine for you, to linger behind after school ends at the more secluded areas, where you hide your bike inside the overgrown bushes (in fear of it being stolen yet again) and smoke away your troubles before making your way back. it's not a habit you started recently, you first smoked when you were working that shitty job to keep you and your aunt afloat, and having mental breakdowns behind the restaurant during break on every shift started to become too much of a nuisance, which was when a coworker had offered you theirs; but you can tell your friends could see that you've been turning to it more often.
with the chatter following behind, you start walking your bicycle towards the main gates of the school, ready to take your usual route home. occasionally joining in their conversations, you're about to bid your friends goodbye until you catch the weird looks the other students throw at you while trying to increase their distance. your hands tighten around the handlebars, trying to remain unfazed as you stood there.
you couldn't even consider yourself a complete social reject, you had tried to remain on everyone's good side to ensure a smooth educational experience: you were helpful and nice, you had good grades and were consistently the top 5 students in your year, and taking parts in various clubs and after school activities.
however, no amount of effort could erase the somewhat unsettled look your classmates throw your way and the worried look you teachers would cast at you.
for once, you hoped to not be seen.
does the disdain come from how they never saw your family show up to anything that involved you? or was it because you were a tryhard? it's not like you did it to prove yourself to your family or classmates, but it was a good distraction from the numbness that's eating you whole. you don’t understand what you’ve done. you were clearly not lacking in terms of academic achievements and extracurriculars, so it only left your social life to be judged.
your social circle, which only really included your 2 friends, are the sweetest and most supporting characters you’ve known despite being constantly ignored by others, so you come to conclude that you must be the problem. the duo gave you a worried glance, patting your shoulder as you stood there. “hey, don't mind them, you can't please everyone you know.”
“yeah, you can't control everything! just let it go.” your other friend chimes in, pushing the back of your bike, prompting you all to walk again.
you smiled, your friends have always been your source of comfort, it was a bond you’ve built on trust and wordless understanding, they had been so compassionate about what you’ve been through even if you rarely opened up - they might be the only people keeping you sane. they understood you more than you did yourself.
you compose yourself and hop on your bicycle, turning back to wave at them. with a sigh, you pushed off, their silhouette fades into into the distance as the wind caresses your face while you pedal. you try not dread having to go back to the manor, enjoying the few short moments you feel at peace within your daily routine, you cycle on the familiar path you've taken countless times before - it's just another day to return to the house that was not your home.
damian was rummaging through your room. mostly out of boredom from roaming the countless empty halls within the manor absent-mindedly, walking past countless doors before he noticed yours. he really didn't have any malicious intentions, despite his distaste of your existence, he was not one to seek you out to make your life harder, he was above that - at least, that's what he believes.
there's not much to see in your room, a couple band posters peeling at the edges, books scattered next to the table lamp on the carpet, bed tidy but not neatly, opened notebooks on your desk. it fills him with contempt. you are less than: no prophecy to fulfil, no legacy to uphold - but also, no trauma to drag you down, your past a clean slate. sharing the same father, but not cut from the same cloth.
unlike him, you were ridiculously normal.
unlike him, you were free.
maybe he resents you more than he initially thought.
his eyes lands on a small shirt hung on the wall, it might as well be baby attire.
it was a ragged looking thing, really. the colours worn off, the edges a little frayed but not from use, but rather the quality. curiously, he steps on your bed reaching for it to investigate further.
"what are you doing."
embarrassingly, damian did not care enough to get caught being nosy in your room in the first place. so when you opened your door that was oddly left ajar to see damian standing on your bed with his shoes on after a long day of school, he feels compromised.
before he stumbles off your bed, his hand manages to snag the edge of the shirt, pulling it off the walls. your eyes finally catches on to what he was reaching for and your heart rate quickens.
despite how increasingly difficult it was for you to remain calm, you try to smile, "please give that back, damian" you're so nervous your hands almost shake trying to urge him to return it. damian feels humiliated being forced to confront the person whose room he was snooping through, so he fists the article tighter in his hand and snarls at you. seeing as he is not intending to return it, you take a cautious step forward, raising both of your arms.
like a threatened dog, he pushes you harshly with his entire body weight to make way for the door. you stumble back in shock, but grab onto his shoulder before he manages to leave your room. "damian, please, that's very important to me" you plead, trying to pry his fingers off it.
in damian's mind, this was no longer about what's yours, this was his power being questioned.
"you don't even need this rag anymore" he slaps your hand away. your patience wearing thin, frustration bubbling to the surface of your composure, you start forcefully trying to snatch it back. soon, you both were fighting for it, pulling back and forth. you were obviously at a disadvantage, but in your desperation, it didn't matter. you scream at him to let go.
and damian? he's starting to get entertained, having never seen you this emotional before. this was like a game to him, it's too easy to overpower you, so he drags the fight on despite you landing a few hits on him yourself - he's mocking you. the brawl continues, until the sound of fabric ripping stills you.
in your hand was nearly half of your shirt, the other half still firmly held in damian's grasp.
colour leaves your face, you stare in horror at the torn up shirt, not being able to utter a sound.
meanwhile, the fun was over for damian, so he saw no purpose in remaining in your room as he wordlessly let go of the fabric and walked out, stepping on it on the way as if for good measure.
you grabbed him by the shirt, eyes holding back tears. "that was the only thing left from my mother."
the revelation stills him, he feels bad, and he hates that he feels anything for you besides hatred.
"so? that's not my problem. it's not my fault your peasant of a mother couldn't afford anything else to leave you with" he taunts, "in fact, she couldn't even afford to raise you, so now you're here leeching off while haunting the manor with your unnecessary presence."
"what do you know about my mom" damian's eyes widen, taken aback by the seriousness in your tone, contrasting all the times defaulted into being a pushover when with him. you're so upset, your grip on his shirt tightens as you glare through the tears streaming down your face, "i didn't even get to know my mom!"
it's no surprise that with the ruckus that you both caused, it wouldn't have gone unheard. so when alfred came to check and inquire what all the noise was about, he witnessed you yell and push damian to the floor harshly.
before you could even register alfred's presence, a force had struck you - your head snapped to the side while the sting starts to burn on your cheek.
alfred had slapped you.
alfred. slapped. you.
you and damian stare at him in shock, alfred himself is in disbelief. what had he done? he tries to justify his actions to you, trying to make himself believe he did the right thing.
"damian is younger than you, as the older child you must understand. this is, in no way, an acceptable display as the older sibling."
surely you understand, you always do! he just feared things would have spiraled out of control. right?
you're almost catatonic, eyes wide staring at him in disbelief, not believing your ears.
"you must understand."
he stares into your eyes, almost pleading that you'd forgive him. but all that was reflected in your gaze was a look filled with horror and betrayal.
you pushed through both of them, the call of your name falling on deaf ears, storming into the bathroom and slamming the door, locking it.
alfred cared, but not enough.
heyyyyyyyyyy 👋☺️... i uh.. may or may not have used actual events that happened to me in here #projecting am i right :heh: thank you for all your lovely comments 🫶 you're all so skibbidi it really helped motivate me (not to abandon my writing)! as always interactions are very appreciated ⊹ ࣪ ˖
(TAGLIST) lmk if you'd like to be added to the taglist :yowaimo:
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synopsis. it’s harder to keep your relationship with jason a secret from the world's greatest detectives than you thought. (3 times each wayne family member tries to prove that you and jason are together and 1 time they actually do.)
notes. ooc. tooth. rotting. fluff. like 3k words of it and im sick. my first time writing for jason ever yay!
“You know, if you stare any harder, you might actually burn a hole through her head.”
Dick’s teasing voice slices through the comfortable silence between the two brothers, save for the distant sirens and the low hum of Gotham’s never-ending nightlife below them. They’re perched on a rooftop across from an upscale bar, the neon sign casting a soft glow on their suits. Through the massive glass windows, you sit at the bar, leaning in with an easy, disarming laugh as the suspect, some sleazy drug trafficker falls right into your trap.
Jason, crouched beside Dick with his elbows on his knees, grumbles beneath his mask. “I’m not staring.”
Dick lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Right. Then I must be hallucinating.”
“I thought we got you checked out for that already,” Jason shoots back, his voice sharp.
Dick winces, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. “Low blow.”
“It was pretty funny.”
Dick doesn’t argue, just settles into a knowing silence, watching as Jason’s hand unconsciously flexes against the holster at his hip.
Jason exhales through his nose, his jaw ticking. “I don’t understand why she has to flirt to get intel. We could just beat the answers out of these guys. Hell, we’d probably get it faster.”
The older vigilante shakes his head. “Yeah, because nothing says ‘covert op’ like bashing heads through walls.” His voice is light, but his eyes flicker to the way Jason’s fingers tighten around the grip of his gun. “Relax. Your sweetheart can handle herself.”
Jason freezes, but only for a fraction of a second. His heart, though, does that annoying thing where it skips a beat, both traitorous and stupid.
Your sweetheart.
Not that anyone knew. Not that anyone could know. As much as he wanted to grab you by the waist and kiss you breathless after missions, he wasn’t about to hand his family more ammunition for their relentless teasing.
Dick, for one, was proving exactly why this relationship stayed a secret.
The silence should have been Jason’s first warning. The way Dick just sits there, absently swinging a batarang between his fingers, watching the bar with an all-too-pleased expression.
“You know,” Dick hums, as if lost in thought, “it’s important to let that special someone know how you feel. Your twin flame. That one person you’ve been pining over since– oh, I don’t know, your youth.”
Jason doesn’t move.
Dick pauses for dramatic effect, then casually props his chin in his hand, his gaze flicking to Jason. A slow grin tugs at his lips.
“Hm. You’re blushing.”
Jason’s breath stills. His eyes snap to Dick, but his head remains stubbornly forward.
“I am not blushing.” His voice is gritted steel. “And I haven’t been pining over her for that long.”
Dick tilts his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Huh. Funny.” He leans back with an exaggerated stretch. “I never said who.”
Jason’s fists clench.
Damn it.
His mask covered his whole damn face. There was no way Dick could have seen a blush, no way he could have known.
Jason grits his teeth as realization dawns.
He walked right into that.
Like a lovesick fool.
The next time Jason’s nearly caught is at one of Bruce’s galas.
Jason had grumbled and rolled his eyes when you insisted on attending—something about not wanting to spend the night in a “stuffy ass ballroom pretending to care about Gotham’s elite.” You had countered that it was for a good cause, something you actually cared about, and that Bruce would appreciate the support. Begrudgingly, he agreed.
But, of course, he couldn’t just let you go without making things complicated.
“Matching colors,” Tim observes, arms crossed, his sharp blue gaze flickering between you and Jason.
You school your expression into something neutral. Jason, standing entirely too close to you, does no such thing.
“What a coincidence,” Tim drawls, a smirk tugging at his lips.
“It really was,” you force out a laugh, silently screaming at Jason for his careless mistake.
He had seen your dress before the gala, made a gruff noise of disapproval, and then—without a single word—had left only to return an hour later with a tie in the exact same deep shade of red.
You had almost thrown a shoe at him.
As endearing as the gesture should have been, it was infuriating. He was the one insisting that your relationship remain under wraps, but he was awful at hiding it.
Right now, you can practically feel his warmth radiating onto you, his fingers twitching at his side, itching to settle on your waist. His entire presence screams possessive, yet he’s standing there trying to play it cool.
“Right, Jay?” you prompt, hoping begging he plays along.
“Total accident,” he deadpans.
You mentally facepalm. He is not selling it.
Tim’s smirk deepens, thriving off Jason’s obvious discomfort.
“Well then,” Tim shrugs, barely suppressing his amusement. “If she’s not your date, do you mind if I steal a dance?”
Jason’s shoulders tense. His jaw clenches so tight you’re surprised his teeth don’t crack.
“Go ahead.”
His tone is flat, but you know better. His hands may be in his pockets, but you can see them clenched into fists. His entire body is rigid, like he’s forcing himself to not grab your wrist and pull you back to his side.
You want to laugh. It’s so obvious.
Tim takes your hand and whisks you away onto the dance floor before Jason can change his mind.
He’s is a smooth dancer, you’ll give him that. He moves with confidence, leading you effortlessly through the slow, sweeping steps of the waltz. The ballroom around you is a blur of glittering gowns and dark suits, the music swelling in a soft, romantic rhythm.
You try to focus on the dance, but you can feel Jason’s stare.
It’s burning into you from across the room, a weight against your spine that makes your pulse spike.
Tim notices. Of course, he does.
“I know I have a grand total of one song before your guard dog comes back,” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly as he spins you. His fingers press lightly against your back, his mouth close to your ear. “So, between you and me… you can just tell me if you’re dating.”
You groan. “Why is everyone so obsessed with this?”
Tim pulls back just enough to give you a pointed look. “Because the two of you have been dancing around each other for years. I’m in pain just watching.”
“You’re so dramatic.” You roll your eyes, trying not to laugh. “Buzz off and focus on your own romantic life, Drake.”
Tim just grins. “Yours is so much more interesting.” He spins you gracefully, his smirk growing as he catches sight of Jason still watching. Still fuming.
He tugs you back in, dropping his voice to a whisper. “So tell me… are the two of you together? Because I’ve been sensing–”
“You’ve been sensing jack shit, Drake.”
The voice is low, sharp, and pissed.
You barely have time to process Jason’s arrival before you feel a hand—his hand—on your waist, warm and grounding and claiming.
Tim barely gets a breath out before Jason smoothly steps in, seamlessly taking his place as if he had planned this from the start. His movements are precise, natural, possessive. The transition is so smooth it’s like the dance was meant to end like this—with you in his arms.
Tim watches, looking utterly delighted.
“Wow,” he muses. “Not even a full song? Possessive much?”
Jason doesn’t acknowledge him. His grip on you tightens, and you feel his breath against your temple as he leans in just enough to send a shiver down your spine.
You should step back. You should do something to break the illusion.
But you don’t.
Because his hand is on your waist, his other hand holding yours just right. His body is solid and warm against you, moving with you effortlessly like he was made for this. The scent of leather lingers on him, comforting and intoxicating.
He is looking at you like you are the only person in the room.
And you don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until he speaks.
“I don’t like how low his hands were.”
The words are gritted out, low and quiet, meant just for you.
Your heart stumbles. You should not find that as attractive as you do.
“Jason–”
He exhales sharply through his nose. “He knows. He’s just trying to het under my skin.”
You blink up at him, heat rising to your cheeks. “Jay, it was just a dance.”
His fingers flex against your waist.
Your breath catches in your throat. The words send something electric through you, something dangerous. You don’t have time to respond.
Because Tim, damn Tim, is still standing there, watching the whole exchange with way too much satisfaction.
“Well,” he muses, rocking back on his heels. “That was interesting.”
Jason finally acknowledges him by glowering in his direction.
“Get lost, Drake.”
Tim grins. Because while he may not have gotten a confession, he definitely got confirmation.
After your encounter with Tim, you and Jason had agreed to lay extra low. No unnecessary risks, no slip-ups. No feeding into their suspicions. That plan, of course, went up in flames, quite literally when you almost lost a damn arm.
Jason had nearly lost his mind.
Now, standing in the training room with Cassandra, you tug absentmindedly at the hem of your sleeve, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in your arm.
Cass, however, does not.
“That’s one nasty burn,” she winces, crouching slightly to get a better look at the angry, blistering wound.
You shift uncomfortably under her scrutiny. “It’s nothing, really,” you say, waving a dismissive hand. “I was just reaching into the oven to grab some muffins, and my arm accidentally hit the hot rack.”
Jason, standing beside you with his arms crossed, snorts.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Told you to be careful this morning.”
The second the words leave his mouth, his body goes rigid. His eyes widen slightly, realizing his mistake.
Shit.
Cass doesn’t even blink before zeroing in.
“What was that?”
Jason schools his expression into mock confusion. “What was what?”
“Don’t play coy, Todd.” Cass’s voice is sharp, her dark eyes locked onto him with an intensity that could crack glass.
Jason ever so stubborn and entirely unwilling to admit defeat, doesn’t back down.
“I don’t know what you mean.” He doesn’t flinch.
Cass tilts her head, unconvinced. “I heard the two of you were on patrol pretty late last night.” Her gaze flickers between you and Jason, noting every shift in body language, every subtle tell. “So tell me, Todd… what were you doing with [Name] this morning too? Did you, perhaps, sleep together?”
Silence.
The tension in the room thickens, settling over you like an impending storm. Your pulse spikes. Jason’s jaw locks. Cass’s eyes remain unmoving, sharp as a blade.
The stalemate stretches too long.
Before Cass can press further, you jump in.
“What Jason meant,” you say quickly, forcing an easy laugh, “is that our patrol ended at around six in the morning. I invited him over for a snack, is all.”
You will her to believe it.
Jason exhales subtly beside you, relaxing ever so slightly at your quick save.
Cass, however, is not satisfied.
“You never invite me over for snacks,” she states, arms crossing over her chest.
You frown. “I’m sorry, Cass. How about next time?”
She considers for a moment, expression unreadable, before nodding.
“I’ll be there at sunrise.”
You smile, nudging her shoulder. “It’s a deal.”
Cass eyes the two of you for another long second before finally, finally, grabbing her bag and exiting the room.
The moment the door clicks shut, Jason lets out a heavy breath.
Without warning, his large frame topples over yours, his solid weight pressing against your back as he buries his face into the crook of your neck.
“You’re gonna kill me one day,” he mutters, lips brushing the sensitive skin near your ear. His voice is low, gravelly, full of something raw and unguarded.
His arms encircle you, pulling you flush against him.
You bite back a smile, leaning into his warmth.
“Have I told you how much I love you?” His lips graze the nape of your neck, lingering.
“Not nearly enough,” you murmur.
It’s a lie.
Because Jason tells you every single day.
If not with his words, then with the way he looks at you. With the way he touches you like you’re the most precious thing in the world. With the way he freaks out over every little injury, over every near miss, like the thought of losing you would be enough to unmake him.
And God, if he wasn’t so damn obvious about it.
Your charade finally comes to an end on a rare night. The entire family gathered around the Wayne Manor dining table. It had taken weeks of convincing, countless rescheduled plans, and Alfred’s unshakable will to make it happen. You silently applaud him, watching as he moves seamlessly around the table, topping off glasses and making sure everyone eats.
The conversation is lively but controlled, an unspoken agreement hanging in the air: no fights. Bruce was actually eating rather than brooding, Damian had only thrown out two insults so far, and Tim was at least half-awake. For a Wayne family dinner, this was practically peaceful.
No one notices that you and Jason are sitting a little too close, they’re all too engrossed with the hearty meal and a rare opportunity of having a civil conversation with each other.
Jason, ever the attentive boyfriend, wordlessly reaches for the serving platter and places another thick slice of roast onto your plate. Then, he carefully spoons asparagus onto your dish, making sure it’s coated just enough with hollandaise sauce just the way you like it.
“Eat up, sweetheart.” His voice is low and smooth, meant just for you.
Your heart does a little flutter at the name, and your lips tug into a smile as you pick up your fork.
But then a familiar voice turns the entire night around.
“Forgive me if I’m wrong,” Damian’s voice cuts through the table, as sharp as one of his throwing knives, “but doesn’t ‘sweetheart’ have romantic implications?”
Silence.
A few forks hover mid-air. Bruce pauses as he cuts into his steak. Dick, who had been talking to Cass, freezes mid-sentence. Tim, who had been half-heartedly scrolling through his phone under the table, suddenly looks very awake.
“No, you’re absolutely right,” Dick leans back in his chair, grinning like he just hit the jackpot. His eyes flicker with amusement as he clasps his hands together.
Jason’s chewing slows. Your eyes flicker to his face, trying to gauge his reaction. This was it. The moment he always dreaded.
“Todd just called [Last Name] ‘sweetheart,’” Damian supplies, ever helpful, pointing at the two of you with his fork.
Cass and Tim share a knowing glance, both nodding in quiet confirmation.
Dick gapes. “In front of my salad?”
Jason, rather than looking panicked, looks entirely unbothered. Too unbothered. His jaw moves as he stuffs another carrot into his mouth, chews deliberately, and then–
“It’s our one-year anniversary next month.”
Chaos erupts.
“WHAT?”
“I KNEW IT!”
“Called it.”
“Took you guys long enough!”
Tim smacks the table, rattling the silverware. Dick throws his hands in the air. Cass laughs silently, shaking her head as if she’s just been vindicated after months of waiting.
Stephanie, meanwhile, grabs Tim’s arm and shakes him. “You owe me fifty-bucks, Drake.”
Bruce, to his credit, looks unfazed, save for the slight twitch of his eyebrow. He sets his knife down and looks at Jason with a measured expression.
“Well done, son.”
Jason stares at him for a moment before giving him a single nod, as if they’re discussing business strategy rather than his romantic relationship.
You’re still flustered under the sheer weight of all the attention, but then Jason’s fingers interlace with yours under the table. Warm. Steady. Protective. He gives your hand a light squeeze, and just like that, your nerves settle.
The chatter continues, voices overlapping.
“I suppose that means I won the bet?”
The room stills.
Jason’s head snaps up. “Wait. What?”
Tim, not even looking ashamed, shrugs. “Technically, nobody won. We all knew already.”
Damian scowls. “The condition was that someone had to prove it. I did that tonight. Therefore, I win.”
Jason straightens in his chair, voice dangerously low. “Hold on. You had a bet?!”
You grimace, bracing yourself as the night takes a turn.
Tim leans back in his chair, smirking. “Oh, yeah. This has been going for months.”
“How much?” Jason demands, his eyes narrowing.
Dick, grinning, raises his glass. “A hundred bucks.”
Jason turns to you, betrayed. “Did you know about this?”
You shake your head furiously. “I would’ve rigged it to win if I had.”
“Unbelievable,” Jason mutters, rubbing his temples.
But then he feels your thumb brush gently over his knuckles, and suddenly, the noise fades into the background. He turns to you, the frustration melting from his features as he takes in the warmth of your smile, the way your eyes are only on him.
You squeeze his hand. “Well,” you say softly, just for him. “At least we don’t have to sneak around anymore.”
Jason exhales a low chuckle, shaking his head before turning to you fully. There’s adoration in his eyes, open and raw and entirely unguarded. His lips form the silent words, ‘I love you,’ and though no sound escapes, you hear it in the way his eyes soften, in the way his fingers tighten just slightly around yours. Your breath catches, warmth blooming in your chest, and without thinking, you smile radiantly, mirroring the love on his face.
thank you for reading! comments n reblogs are appreciated 💋
Yandere idea, reader is dicks baby mama and when dick decides to bring her to the wayne manor the batboys are instantly smitten with her and now all the boys are trying to steal her away from dick who is ready to fight everyone for his baby mama and baby
Smooth Criminal
Synopsis: Dick's brothers want his baby and his baby mama.
Pairing: Soft!Yandere!Batboys X Fem!AFAB!Reader
Tw: Attempt at crackfic; Implied kidnaping; Implied babytrapping; Reader is insecure with post-pregnancy body; Implied forced relationship; Dick controls what Reader wears; Jealous and possessive Dick Grayson; Touchy batboys; Batboys try to gaslight Dick but he's too smart for that; Slightly angry!Reader and accepting!Reader; English isn't my first language.
Word count: 1,2k
Requested? Yes.
Extra notes: Lol this was fun. Divider.
General masterlist
“And how did this happen?”
“Oh well, this one tried to hide the little one from me for a while, but of course I found them!” Dick exclaimed proudly, but with a hint of his (mostly) past anger at you. You bit your tongue while his family laughed.
You were sitting in the manor’s living room, wearing a sundress that Dick chose, waiting for the picnic on the gardens to be prepared by Alfred. The dress was pretty, and it had plenty of room for your babygirl to grow inside your belly without restricting you. Part of you wanted to resent her for being the reason you're stuck with Dick, but it was not her fault, and not yours either, Dick would shackle you to him one way or another.
Damian put his hand on your belly. Without your permission.
“Is she kicking yet?” Dick answered him for you. “You're 17 weeks along, it could happen anytime.” He started rubbing circles on your belly, out of nowhere. “I don't think Grayson would be a much useful help with that. Truthfully there is no sure way to make a baby stop kicking. But you can try to alleviate the discomfort with warm tea, calming music, light stretching exercises and rubbing the stomach.” He smiled gently. You were taken aback.
“Damian is a pediatric surgeon.” Dick explained while draping his arm over your shoulders, before planting his lips on your neck momentarily.
“Yes. But I mostly stick to managing my clinic nowadays. Your labour’s in good hands. I only have the best of the best on my teams.” Damian gave you a small, soft smile, as if trying to reassure you. He stopped his hand movements and smoothly slid his hands around each side of your waist. He was way too close to be comfortable, and even Dick frowned, confused, at that. You tensed at how close his face was from yours, especially because of your belly and chest grownth, and the fact he was kneeling in front of you. But then- Oh…
Your whole body relaxed instantly and you just had to close your eyes.
Damian grinned smartly and Dick looked at him, bewildered.
“Back pains.” He explained swiftly, while his magic hands worked on your back. You found yourself leaning against his chest and almost laying your head on his shoulder. You sighed dreamily. “You can stop by or call me anytime those get to be too much.”
“... Or I can do it myself.” Dick went to replace Damian's hands but you shot your arms out towards him to stop him.
“No, no, no, don't- don't stop…” You moaned when Damian kneaded a particularly tense knot and practically melted against him. Damian held back a smirk, staring innocently at Dick, who looked murderous.
“Thank you, Jay. I really needed that…”
“I know, you looked so tense when I got here. I knew I could use my hands to loosen you up…”
Dick bursted in the apartament, having just come back from the Titans Tower and heard the weird talk inside.
“Jay… What’re you doing here?” He said, strained, but hiding behind a mask of good humor.
“(N/N) called me.” Jason shrugged.
“Didn't know you were on nickname basis…” Dick contemplated, entering the room and taking your daughter from Jasons’ arms. He started rocking her to keep her doozing.
“We're closer than you think, Dickie.” Jason snorted. You pursed your lips and decided to just keep sitting down on your rocking chair.
“Love, why did you call him?” Dick asked, ignoring his brother and looking straight at you.
“The shower broke, your baby wouldn't stop crying, and I’m gross.” You crossed your arms.
“Seem’s to me someone’s slacking on the job…” Your eyes darted to Jason, wide, and ready to scream at him, even if it would make your daughter wake up. “Not you, sweetheart, never you. But your boy here certainly needs to step up.” He side-eyed Dick. It was unfair, Dick basically took over 90% of the baby’s care when he was home, because he was a good father, and he was slightly afraid you would run if given the chance. He even stopped working just to spend more time with you. The only reason he was away for days and didn't take you with him was because of something with the Titans and some guy called Deathstroke. You didn't really care to pay attention to anything he said as long as it didn't involve your life or the world’s safety.
“You're an asshole, get out of here!”
Jason smirked.
“Can’t. Just put a bun in the oven for (Y/N).” He shrugged.
“WHAT?” You and Dick exclaimed at the same time.
“I’m baking some bread, relax…”
“I need some help…” You were in a clothes store with your husband and his brothers, trying to find a dress for an upcoming gala that you didn't want to go, especially since your body changed during pregnancy, and your previous size isn't fitting the way you wanted to anymore. It’s especially annoying that Dick has to give you permission or order you to wear something, regardless of your opinion.
Before Dick could hand the newborn over to her uncle and get up to help you zip the back of your dress, Tim shot up from his seat.
“I’ll do it.”
Tim stood behind you and clasped the zipper between his fingers, before pulling it up. It went smoothly, until it reached your upper back and it wouldn't go up anymore. You felt embarrassment sink in the bottom of your heart, and before Tim could say something, you turned around.
“It doesn't fit, I should try something else.” You averted your gaze to the floor.
“Nonsense. You look stunning right now, (Y/N). It's just your…” Tim’s gaze flicked to your chest momentarily, before quickly staring at your eyes again. “... New curves. Let me use both hands and I’m sure it will fit.” He smiled at you, soft, reassuring, and trying to convince you really bad.
You let out a huff of breath from your nose, and begrudgingly turned again. Truth to his words, with his other hand gripping the fabric above the zipper, it went up smoothly again.
You pursed your lips, analyzing yourself in the mirror. It was tight, but not uncomfortable, red, and long, with a high slit showing off your thigh. But the cleavelange was a little too much to what you were used to.
“I don't know…”
“Oh, please…” Tim, still standing behind you, placed both hands on either side of your waist and squeezed. You felt momentary shivers run up your spine, and your face warmed from shyness. “You look beautiful. Really.”
“Timmy, back down. The wife is mine.” I’m not an object! Your mind screamed, while you held back the urge to clench your hands and stomp your feet.
“I’m not doing anything.” He shrugged. “If you’re so insecure, that's a ‘you’ problem.” Tim winked at you from the mirror, with a convinced half-smirk. “What do you think, (N/N)? I think he's just jealous that you and the little one like me more…”
“The baby doesn't like you more. She likes anyone who will give her junk food and new toys. You're not special.” Dick retorted, and Tim squeezed your hips. “Now back down before people think you're a couple.”
You had just—what, snapped at Tim? And not in the normal, passive-aggressive, “I’m going to make this as difficult as possible for you” kind of way.
No. You had gone dramatic.
Full “No, Tim. Don’t. I’m not here to listen to whatever you have to say” levels of dramatic. Like you were starring in some self-indulgent soap opera about betrayal and lost trust.
And then, because that wasn’t enough, you had kept going.
“The least you can do after following me like this is help out with the kids with your friends.”
Like you were some righteous saint, personally assigning him his penance.
And then, to top it all off—
“You don’t have to bother yourself with me anymore. I’ll make sure of that.”
You’ll make sure of that.
You’ll make sure of that?
Make sure of that how?
What were you going to do, take out a restraining order? Get a new identity? Flee to Europe?
Who did you think you were?
God, the moment you had walked away, the sheer mortification had hit you like a brick wall. You had barely managed to keep yourself from cringing so hard you collapsed in on yourself like a dying star.
And now here you were, sitting in some abandoned corner of the orphanage’s yard, forcibly repressing every memory of the last ten minutes before you actually had a stroke.
You inhaled sharply, running a hand down your face.
No. You couldn’t afford to let this mess with your head.
Not right now.
Because you had work to do.
Mrs. Cole was out on errands. At least, that’s what you had overheard from one of the staff members you’d befriended. If there was ever a time to do some snooping, it was now.
You just needed to—
“Wow. You look like you just had the worst conversation of your life.”
Your entire body tensed.
Because of course.
Of course.
Slowly, you turned your head—only to be met with the sight of none other than Conner Kent standing a few feet away, arms crossed, an easy grin playing at his lips.
Because apparently, the universe hated you.
For a moment, you just stared at him, trying to gauge what he wanted, the sarcasm practically dripping from your voice. “Finally making use of that superhearing of yours, huh?”
Kon’s eyes glinted with amusement. “Only when it’s worth it,” he said, tilting his head slightly, clearly intrigued.
“You looked like you were about to burst into flames back there. Just thought I’d check in on you.”
Of course he noticed that.
You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Well, you checked in. You can go now.”
Kon raised an eyebrow. “Not even a ‘thank you’ for my concern? Cold.”
You rolled your eyes and turned away. “Go bother someone else.”
“Nah.” Kon said simply, pushing himself off the wall and stepping closer to you. He plopped down beside you in that effortlessly casual way of his, as though it was totally normal for him to invade your space like this. “I’m good, thanks.”
You sighed. Loudly.
Because of course he wasn’t going to leave.
Of all the people to find you, it just had to be him.
You and Kon had never really been close.
You’d only ever known him as Tim’s best friend. Tim’s partner-in-crime. Tim’s “I’m going to try and clone you 99 times because I have attachment issues” best friend. The guy who didn’t really fit into your orbit. But now, here he was, standing right in front of you, apparently more interested in whatever you were doing than the kids in the yard.
Other than a handful of stakeouts and a few missions where you’d been forced to work together, you had barely interacted.
And yet, somehow, somehow, he was the one who had found you.
You were already trying to fix things in your head, and now Kon—Kon, of all people—had decided to join you for the pity party.
Fantastic.
You exhaled sharply. “If you’re just here to talk, don’t bother. I’m not in the mood.”
Kon tilted his head. “Not in the mood? Or trying to be sneaky?”
Your fingers twitched.
Because that was dangerously close to being an actual observation.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said flatly.
Kon hummed. “Sure you don’t.”
You shot him a warning look. “Are you done?”
“Not really.”
You sighed again. “Then what do you want?”
Kon grinned. “Needed a break. The kids get exhausting after a while.”
That, at least, was something you could understand.
You huffed, shaking your head. “Yeah. I don’t know how the others do it.”
“Right?” Kon groaned, dropping down to sit beside you. “One Bart is enough. A whole room of them? No, thanks.”
That caught you off guard. You hadn’t expected Kon to be so honest about his frustration. And, to be honest, you felt it too. You let out a soft, surprised chuckle, a real one.
It was soft. Brief.
But Kon heard it.
And when you glanced at him, he was staring.
Brows slightly raised, lips parted just a fraction.
Like he had just witnessed a goddamn miracle.
You raised an eyebrow, suddenly wondering what had caused the shift in his mood. “What?”
Kon blinked, then grinned. “So even you can laugh, huh?”
You deadpanned. “What, am I not allowed to?”
Kon held his hands up. “No, no. Laugh all you want. Just thought you’d be more of a carbon copy of your pops.”
The words hit you harder than you expected. It was like a sharp stab to the gut. You weren’t sure why, but it made you feel something close to irritation.
And without thinking—
“Don’t compare me to him.”
Kon froze.
You weren’t angry, per se.
But there was a sharpness to your voice that hadn’t been there before.
A warning.
Kon, to his credit, immediately backtracked. “Right. My bad.”
And just like that, he dropped it, his face shifting to one of genuine apology as he raised his hands in defeat.
No jokes. No teasing.
Just a simple, straightforward apology.
That… was unexpected.
You glanced at him, considering. Then, reluctantly, you decided to cut him some slack.
You stood up from your crouched position, brushing the dirt off your pants. “Well, I’ve got work to do.”
Kon looked at you, mildly confused. “Work?”
You gave him a pointed look. “Staff needs help around here. I’ve got my hands full.”
Which was true—on the surface. You had offered to help out with some of the administrative tasks the orphanage had, but in reality, your purpose was entirely different. You had to move, to snoop. Mrs. Cole would be out for a while, and you needed that time.
Kon’s brow furrowed slightly. “I’ll tag along.”
“No.”
Kon blinked. “No?”
“No.” You said it too quickly, too firmly, and you knew it.
Kon squinted at you, eyes narrowing with exaggerated suspicion. “Aww, why not? Thought you’d be grateful to get some help around here. After all, isn’t that what you wanted Tim to do?”
Your stomach dropped.
Of course, he’d heard that.
Of course, with his super hearing, he’d caught every single word.
You forced yourself to keep your expression neutral, even as your mind raced for an out. “You’re not going to let that go, are you?”
Kon grinned, leaning back against the courtyard railing with all the ease of someone who had all the time in the world. “Nope.”
You exhaled sharply, rubbing your temple.
Kon, still lounging like he owned the place, tilted his head at you. “So, are you gonna let me help you out, or—”
“I like to work alone,” you cut in, shutting him down before he could finish.
And then, before he could argue, before he could get another teasing word in, you turned on your heel and walked off, heading straight into the orphanage building.
You didn’t look back.
But you could feel his gaze on you the entire way.
For a moment, it seemed like he wasn’t going to follow. You could feel his gaze on your back, but he didn’t move.
Good. You needed him to leave.
Once inside, you made your way toward the front desk, where one of the orphanage staff members—Miss Jenkins—was standing, sifting through some paperwork. She wasn’t as unsettling as Mrs. Cole, but she was efficient, always delegating tasks to whoever was willing to help.
You cleared your throat, catching her attention. “Miss Jenkins.”
She looked up, offering a polite smile. “Ah, good timing. I was just about to look for someone to help with some tasks.”
Perfect. The more she trusted you, the easier it would be to sneak around later. You forced a pleasant expression, nodding. “I can help.”
Miss Jenkins looked relieved. “Great. There are some supplies that need organising in the storage room—”
A sudden weight landed on your shoulder.
You stiffened instantly.
You knew who it was before you even turned your head.
Because of course.
Of course.
Slowly, almost dreading what you’d see, you glanced to the side—only to be met with the insufferably smug face of none other than Conner Kent, grinning down at you like he had just won something.
And technically, he had.
“So,” he drawled, his arm still slung casually over your shoulder, “what are we helping out with?”
You have got to be kidding me.
You just stared at him.
Flabbergasted.
Because what part of “I like to work alone” had been unclear?
You were sure you had said it clearly. Firmly. Finally.
And yet, here he was.
Looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Miss Jenkins, completely unaware of the silent war you were now fighting, simply smiled. “Oh, perfect! That makes things easier.”
No, it does not, you thought, barely restraining the urge to pinch the bridge of your nose.
You wanted to strangle him.
But you couldn’t.
Kon was watching you expectantly, clearly waiting for you to argue.
To fight him on this.
To give him some reaction he could latch onto, poke at, use as an excuse to keep going.
And you refused to give him that satisfaction.
So you swallowed your frustration, inhaled sharply, and turned back to Miss Jenkins.
You forced a tight-lipped smile, nodding as if nothing was wrong. “Yeah,” you said, voice strained. “Great.”
Miss Jenkins handed you a list of things to check, still clearly pleased by the unexpected extra help. “If I’m not around, just put the list back here when you’re done.”
“Got it.”
If she noticed the way your voice was slightly strained, she didn’t comment on it. She just nodded, already moving back to her paperwork.
That was your cue to leave.
You turned on your heel and walked briskly down the hall, doing your best to ignore the very solid, very annoying presence that was now trailing after you.
And, to his credit, Kon didn’t say anything.
Not right away.
He just kept up easily, hands tucked into his pockets, his usual air of relaxed confidence somehow making it even more obvious that he was enjoying himself.
You could feel it.
The sheer smugness radiating off him.
It was unbearable.
The second Miss Jenkins was out of eyeshot, you grabbed Kon by the arm and dragged him toward the nearest empty hallway, shoving him against the wall.
“What are you doing?” you hissed, voice low but sharp.
“What are you doing?”
You clenched your teeth. “I asked first.”
Kon raised an eyebrow. “Look, I know I might be a hot hunk”—
You rolled your eyes. Seriously.
Kon chuckled. “But that doesn’t mean I’m dumb. I know you’re up to something.”
You crossed your arms over your chest, narrowing your eyes. “So, what if I am? Are you going to snitch?”
Kon pretended to think. But you knew from one look that he was only playing with you.
“No. Never. As long as you let me join in on whatever it is you’re planning to do.”
Damn it, you thought, internally groaning. The last thing you needed was Kon sticking his nose into your business. “Why?” you asked, your voice dripping with exasperation.
Kon shrugged nonchalantly, completely unfazed by your frustration. “Why not?”
You gave him a look. “You’re wasting your time.”
Kon shrugged, his smile still intact. “So? I’ve already given Tim my time and day to spy on you. Might as well use the rest of it on you again.”
You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Not funny.”
Kon sighed dramatically. “Right. Got it. I’m just… offering help, like a good citizen, y’know.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re not a good citizen.”
He gasped, feigning offense. “Wow. Rude.”
You weren’t in the mood for this. “Conner.”
“Call me Kon.”
You sighed sharply, rubbing a hand down your face. “Kon, I swear to—”
“So what exactly are you snooping for?” he interrupted, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “Because let’s be honest, you’re not exactly a volunteer type.”
You glared. “And you are?”
He shrugged. “Nope. But I can recognize a lie when I see one.”
You clenched your jaw, mind racing. You had two options: make up some excuse or tell him the truth. Both had risks. If you lied and he caught on, he’d definitely tell Tim. If you told him the truth, there was still a chance he’d tell Tim.
Neither outcome was ideal.
Kon, as if sensing your internal battle, grinned wider. “Man, you’re really overthinking this, huh?”
You huffed, crossing your arms. “I’m considering my options.”
“Options?”
“Yeah. Like whether I should knock you out or just leave you here.”
Kon chuckled. “Right. That’s an option.”
Silence stretched between you.
Then, after a beat, Kon leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a lower, more curious tone. “Seriously though. What’s going on?”
You studied his face. He wasn’t just messing with you anymore. There was genuine curiosity there. Maybe even concern.
You hesitated. That made it harder to brush him off. Because it didn’t seem like he had any other agenda.
Then, finally, you quietly mutter, “Something isn’t right about this place.”
Kon blinked, the teasing glint in his eyes dimming just a fraction.
You expected him to brush it off, to laugh, to call you paranoid.
Instead, he tilted his head. “Yeah?”
That threw you off. You had expected teasing. Maybe a sarcastic remark. But he wasn’t mocking you. He was listening.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
Kon considered that for a moment. Then, with a shrug, he said, “Alright. Guess I’m in.”
You stared. “What?”
His smirk returned. “You heard me.”
It made you pause.
“You believe me?” You asked slowly.
Kon blinked. “Yeah?”
You frowned. “Just like that?”
“Just like what?”
“You don’t think I’m being paranoid or overreacting?”
Kon shrugged. “If there’s one thing I learned after working with Tim and you Bats, it’s to trust your instincts. Because somehow, for some godforsaken reason, you guys are always right.”
You froze.
The way he said Bats. Like it still applied to you.
Like you were still one of them.
You weren’t Batgirl anymore. You weren’t—one of them anymore.
You swallowed, staring at Kon’s face, but he wasn’t looking at you like he’d said something strange. He wasn’t looking at you with pity either, or like he was trying to backpedal. He’d said it so naturally, so easily, like it was a simple fact.
Your throat felt tight.
You looked away.
“You do know I’m not Batgirl anymore, right?” Your voice came out quieter than you intended, and you hated how it sounded—how it almost wavered.
You saw Kon hesitate, as if trying to find the right words to say.
“Yeah. I heard.”
You waited.
Waited for the inevitable Why? that always followed.
But it never came.
He didn’t ask. Didn’t press.
Just accepted it.
Your brows furrowed slightly, caught off guard.
“You’re not gonna ask why I quit?”
Kon shrugged. “Nope.”
And that… that was surprising.
You blinked. “…Why?”
His smirk softened, losing its usual cockiness. Just a fraction. “Because if you wanted to tell me the reason, you’d do so without any prompting.”
You stared.
Something deep twisted in your chest.
That was—unexpected.
People always asked.
Over and over, like they needed to hear you say it out loud.
But Kon…
He just accepted it.
Like he didn’t need an explanation.
Like your choices were yours.
You had no idea what to do with that.
Your throat felt tight again, and you cleared it quickly, shifting your weight like that would somehow shake off the sudden heaviness in your chest. “Well. Uh. Thanks, I guess.”
Kon’s grin returned in full force, his usual playful energy slipping back into place. “Anytime.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t quite shake the feeling in your chest, like something had settled in there, unfamiliar and warm.
Pushing past it, you nodded toward the hallway. “Come on. We have an orphanage to snoop through.”
Kon chuckled, pushing off the wall with ease and falling into step beside you. “Lead the way, not-Batgirl.”
You shot him a look, but he only smirked wider, clearly enjoying himself.
The search was… frustrating.
You and Kon had started with the staff rooms, slipping through the halls unnoticed, careful not to make a sound.
But there was nothing.
No weird documents, no strange behavior from the staff, no hidden files. The most suspicious thing you found was an outdated carton of milk in the break room fridge.
Then you moved onto Mrs. Cole’s office, lingering outside the door, waiting for the perfect moment.
“Seriously, what are we looking for?” Kon muttered beside you, shifting his weight.
“Anything suspicious,” you whispered back.
Kon snorted. “Right. Because that narrows it down.”
You shot him a look before cracking the door open and slipping inside, Kon following behind you.
Mrs. Cole’s office was surprisingly neat. A single desk sat in the center, with a few filing cabinets lined up against the walls. Everything was orderly. A little too orderly.
Kon leaned against the desk, arms crossed, watching as you surveyed the room. “Alright, detective, what’s the plan?”
You rolled your eyes. “Just—check the drawers.”
Kon gave you a lazy salute before crouching down and yanking one open. Meanwhile, you moved toward the filing cabinets, quickly skimming the labels.
Most of them were standard. Financial records, employee files, supply orders. Nothing remotely suspicious.
Kon, however, had taken a different approach.
“Hey, do you think she’s hiding secret documents under here?” he asked, knocking against the bottom of the drawer like it might pop open to reveal a hidden compartment.
You turned to see him casually opening and shutting random drawers, half-heartedly rummaging through them.
“You’re terrible at this,” you muttered.
“Excuse you,” Kon shot back. “I am fantastic at this.”
You huffed, moving toward the desk instead, running your fingers along the edges. Sometimes people had false bottoms in their drawers, or a safe tucked underneath. Maybe that was the case.
Meanwhile, Kon had apparently decided he was bored of the search already. “I’m just saying, if I were running a shady operation, I wouldn’t be dumb enough to leave evidence lying around in a desk.”
“Well, lucky for us, not everyone is as smart as you, Kon-El,” you deadpanned.
“Damn right.”
You ignored him, crouching down to check the bottom drawers. One was locked.
You tried tugging on it again. Still locked.
Bingo.
Kon, of course, noticed immediately. “Oho, what’s this?”
“Locked drawer,” You murmured, studying it.
Kon’s grin widened. “Want me to break it open?”
You stared at him. “And make it painfully obvious that someone was snooping around?”
He shrugged. “I could put it back together. Maybe.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “No. No breaking things.”
Kon sighed dramatically but backed off, leaning against the desk again. “So, what’s the plan, oh wise and paranoid one?”
You pulled a bobby pin from your pocket.
Kon’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you seriously about to pick that lock?”
You held up the pin. “Why else would I carry these?”
He looked vaguely impressed. “Okay, I take it back. That’s kinda badass.”
Rolling your eyes, you crouched down and got to work. It wasn’t a particularly difficult lock. You had it undone in less than a minute.
Kon gave a low whistle. “Damn. The big Bat really did teach you guys everything, huh?”
You didn’t respond to that. Instead, you pulled the drawer open, feeling a flicker of anticipation—
Only for it to disappear just as quickly.
The drawer was filled with basic paperwork. A few financial reports. Some school records. Nothing remotely unusual.
You flipped through them quickly, hoping for something, anything that would justify the nagging feeling in your gut. But after a good five minutes of searching…
Nothing.
No hidden records. No cryptic documents. No damning evidence.
Just… nothing.
You sat back on your heels, frustration clawing at your chest.
Kon, peering over your shoulder, let out a low hum. “Sooo, either Mrs. C is really good at covering her tracks, or—”
“There’s nothing to find,” you finished bitterly.
The words tasted wrong in your mouth. Because that wasn’t possible. You knew something was off about this place. You could feel it.
So why wasn’t there anything here?
Your mind started spiraling. Had you misread the situation? Had you let paranoia cloud your judgment? Were you just wasting your time—wasting Kon’s time—chasing after nothing? Just because of something you conjured up in your mind?
Your fingers curled into a fist.
Then—
A warm hand suddenly landed on your shoulder.
You blinked, pulled out of your thoughts as Kon gave you a small, reassuring squeeze.
“You’re spiraling,” he said simply.
You stared at him, caught off guard.
He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t mocking.
He was just… grounding you.
You swallowed, exhaling slowly. “I just—” You hesitated, struggling to put it into words. “I know something’s wrong here, Kon.”
Kon nodded, like he believed you without question. “So, we’ll keep looking.”
You frowned. “Even though we just found nothing?”
“Yeah,” he said, like it was the easiest thing in the world. “If you still feel like something’s off, then I’ll help you figure it out.”
You blinked. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
You hesitated.
It was stupid.
This was stupid.
You should refuse. You should just let this go.
You shouldn’t drag him into this.
But…
Maybe—just maybe—it’d be nice to have help.
Without it feeling like you were being dumb. Weak.
Without feeling like someone who wasn’t capable of doing things on her own.
Without the skepticism, the side-eyes, the exasperated sighs.
Kon wasn’t doing that. He might be humoring you, but he wasn’t questioning your decisions, either. He was just… there. Standing beside you, unwavering.
You let out a slow breath, forcing yourself to unclench your fists.
“Alright,” you muttered. “Fine.”
You looked up at him. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”
Kon grinned. “Of course you do. I am pretty great.”
You rolled your eyes, pushing yourself up. “Come on. Let’s wrap this up before someone finds us.”
The two of you made quick work of putting everything back in place, slipping out of the office unnoticed.
And you guys quickly cleaned up and organised the storage room, before rejoining the others in the courtyard.
You exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. It was so typical. So stupid. You had thought—no, you had to believe—that something was off about this place. That there was something hiding beneath its surface. But now, after sifting through Mrs. Cole’s meticulous paperwork and pristine office, as well as clean fhe storage rooms and found absolutely nothing, you couldn’t help but wonder if you were just seeing shadows.
Or worse… you were going insane.
It is plausible. After all, you somehow came back to life and you still don’t know how or why—
“Looks like we’re back to square one.”
Kon’s voice was casual, the kind of tone that suggested he wasn’t bothered by the dead-end. But then again, he always had that air about him. Like everything bounced off. You watched as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket, glancing over at you with a half-smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. His eyes weren’t teasing. He wasn’t giving you that cocky grin. Instead, there was something else there. Something quieter. Something more… understanding.
You weren’t sure if you wanted to dive into it right now. Maybe you were too tired to unpack the layers of meaning in his expression.
So, you did the next best thing—you rolled your eyes and muttered a half-hearted, “Yeah, no kidding.”
Kon chuckled softly, a little sound that felt almost like a weight lifted from your chest. It was strange how much he could make you feel lighter, even in the most absurd situations.
Maybe that was why Tim kept him around. As his friend.
You shook the thought away, rubbing your forehead as if that could erase the last few hours of frustration. It wasn’t his job to take away your weight.
“We’ll find something,” Kon said, voice steady, though there was a hint of something that sounded like reassurance. “We just gotta keep looking. No need to make it harder than it is.”
You exhaled slowly, glancing at him. “We, huh? You were really serious about helping me out with this?”
Kon shrugged, his smile returning, albeit a little more teasing. “Of course! What do you take me for?”
You sighed. “Alright, fine, you win this time, Kent.”
His grin returned, lopsided and teasing. “Damn. Must’ve been hard admitting that, Wayne.”
You rolled your eyes. “Go back to Tim before I decide knocking you out is a viable option.”
Kon smirked but backed away with his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright, I’m going. Don’t miss me too much, partner.”
You groaned, shaking your head, and turned on your heel.
You walked back toward the courtyard where your friends are, feeling that ever-present weight of unease still sitting in your chest. But it wasn’t as heavy as before.
Maybe because you weren’t the only one carrying it anymore.
Your friends were scattered, lounging on benches and idly chatting, before you felt it.
A familiar pang in your chest.
A gut feeling that you knew very well.
Adrien and Caitlyn were already watching you, and it wasn’t a gaze of mere curiosity. No, it was that unmistakable, mischievous glint. The kind that always meant they knew something.
Caitlyn’s grin was practically ear-to-ear. “Don’t think we didn’t notice who you came back with, hun.”
You couldn’t help the sinking feeling that settled into your stomach. God. You hadn’t even said a word and they were already making assumptions. You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the heat rising to your cheeks.
“Oh, shut up,” you muttered, even though you were already bracing for what was to come.
Adrien raised his eyebrows, a knowing, too-perfect smirk on his face. “What?” He pretended to look innocent. “It’s just funny. You disappearing with Mr Hotshot—and coming back with him. Alone. After what? Hours?”
“We’ve been gone for barely an hour—”
Caitlyn nudged him in the side. “Totally suspicious.”
You tried to hide your irritation. “It’s not like that.” You crossed your arms, fighting the warmth creeping up your neck. “Kon just helped out with some of the stuff around the orphanage, which is what we’re supposed to do as volunteers by the way.”
“Already calling him by nicknames, eh?” Caitlyn teased, folding her arms and giving you a look.
Ok, this was too much.
“That—“
Adrien’s grin widened, impossibly smug. “Uh-huh. Sure. You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say something’s going on between you two.”
“Nothing’s going on,” you snapped, but your voice came out sharper than you meant.
That only made them more excited.
“Right.” Adrien’s tone was playful, but there was a sharpness to it, as though he knew exactly what buttons to press. “Then why are you getting all defensive, huh?”
“I’m not defensive.”
“Oh, you so are.” Caitlyn insists, raising a finger to tap her chin. “I think she’s hiding something, Adrien.”
“I’m not—”
As you said it, you turned slightly—and your gaze landed on him.
Kon, who was now on the other side of the courtyard.
Kon, who had somehow gotten himself into what looked like a heated argument with Tim.
Tim, who looked seconds away from beating his ass over something.
The two of them were practically going toe-to-toe, Kon’s arms crossed and his posture that of someone who didn’t give a damn, while Tim’s posture was stiff with irritation, his words sharp and fast.
Yikes.
And at that exact moment, as if he felt your stare, Kon glanced up—right at you.
You both froze.
The moment your eyes met, something shifted.
His gaze softened, his expression pulling into a quiet smirk. It wasn’t teasing this time. It was something a little… fonder.
Then, ever so casually, ever so smugly, he winked.
The small, silent gesture hit you like a jolt, making you freeze.
And, with a knowing smirk, he lifted a finger to his lips in a shush motion.
You blinked.
It was a promise.
He wasn’t going to tell Tim.
The thought swirled in your mind as you processed his gesture. Your breath caught in your throat, a small smile curling up your lips before you could stop it.
It was small. Grateful.
A silent thank you.
You dipped your head at him, and he gave you a lazy salute once more before smoothly dodging a half-hearted swipe from Tim.
The moment was fleeting.
But it meant everything.
“Did you fucking see that?”
You whipped your head back toward your friends, but the smile on your face was gone, replaced with a forced indifference. “What?”
Caitlyn gasped. “Conner just winked at you, didn’t he??”
“No.” You were emphatic, trying to brush it off, but it didn’t feel right. You were lying—to them, and to yourself.
“Uh-huh. You’re smiling way too much by the way.”
“Shut up.”
But they weren’t done. They never were.
Adrien leaned forward. “You totally like him, don’t you?”
Before you could answer, there was a sharp cough from behind you, followed by the sound of boots striking the ground.
Damian.
Your stomach dropped.
You barely even noticed him standing beside your friends.
And before you knew, Damian was heading straight for Kon, his eyes narrowed with barely concealed fury.
You could see his fists tightening as he closed the distance, his lips pressed into a thin line.
Kon, oblivious to the brewing storm behind him, was still bantering with Tim. But you could see it in his posture now, that little glint of recognition in his eyes as he noticed Damian’s approach.
RIP.
—
A: “I swear I’ve seen that guy somewhere before.”
“No, you haven’t.”
A: “He kind of looks like Lex Luthor if you squint—“
“Nope. Definitely not.”
Tim was not having a good day.
It had been one of those afternoons where the lines between “whatever” and “I’m about to snap” blurred, and now he was pacing the courtyard, trying to ignore the incessant buzz in his mind. He’d been looking for Kon ever since his argument with you. Well, if he can call it that.
Cassie and Bart were just a few paces ahead of him, chatting casually, but Tim couldn’t focus on their conversation. Not with Kon completely disappearing out of his sight. He had a bad feeling about it. More than usual. Something about today—about Kon’s behaviour—had felt off. So, Tim just… asked around.
“Hey, Cassie. Bart. Have either of you seen Kon?” Tim asked, his voice tight, trying to keep his growing irritation in check.
Cassie shrugged nonchalantly, her eyes scanning the area. Bart just raised an eyebrow, looking far too innocent, as if he hadn’t been the cause of half of their chaotic antics.
“Nope,” Cassie answered, glancing at Bart, who gave a shrug of his own, and Tim could tell they were both just as clueless as he was.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. Where the hell was he?
And then it happened.
There, emerging from the orphanage building, was Kon.
And—what the hell?
You were with him.
Tim’s stomach twisted as his gaze shot to the two of you. You were walking side by side, talking in low tones. A small smile tugged at your lips, a genuine smile, the kind Tim hadn’t seen in what felt like forever.
Why were you smiling at him?
Tim’s breath hitched. You looked comfortable—too comfortable. That smile wasn’t something you gave just anyone. It wasn’t something you gave him. So why the hell were you smiling like that at Kon?
A red flag.
The first one of the day. What were you and Kon talking about?
Tim swallowed hard, trying to steady his thoughts. He needed answers. He had to know what the hell was going on. He wished for a moment that he had superhearing, just to catch even the smallest fragment of your conversation. What were you saying to him? What was Kon saying to you? His gaze never left you both. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the way you stood there with him, the subtle way you nodded your head as you exchanged words, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. His fists clenched, but he stayed silent, watching.
The second you broke away, walking back toward your friends, Kon turned and made his way back toward theirs. And that’s when it hit Tim—he couldn’t let this go.
Tim immediately stepped forward, his feet bringing him toward Kon as he approached the others. There was no more waiting. No more uncertainty. This time, he’d get answers. He had to.
“Kon,” Tim said, his voice edged with irritation, “where the hell did you go? And what were you doing with (Name)?”
Kon’s face was a mask of casual indifference. He leaned against the wall, his posture relaxed, as if the world was his to do with as he pleased. “Oh, I was just helping her out with some cleaning,” Kon said, the words rolling off his tongue as if they were completely innocent. But Tim could see it. He was lying.
That much was obvious.
“Really?” Tim asked, crossing his arms. “Just cleaning? You’re telling me you spent all that time in there just… cleaning?”
Kon shrugged, giving him that easy-going grin that Tim hated so much right now. “Yeah, sure. There was a lot of stuff to organise, so I helped out.”
“Right...”
Kon raised an eyebrow. “What? You don’t believe me?”
“Well, yeah,” Cassie added, crossing her arms together. “I bet you guys were doing more than just cleaning.”
And Kon—
Kon just shrugged.
And that itself was an answer.
“What the hell.” Tim snaps, but he immediately was about to interrogate the half-kryptonian full on.
But then he saw it.
Kon’s gaze, drifting elsewhere. His attention shifting. Tim frowned.
Kon wasn’t looking at him anymore. He wasn’t focused on Tim’s interrogation or on his friends. His eyes were elsewhere.
And then, like a slow-motion train wreck, Tim’s gaze followed Kon’s, and his breath caught.
Kon’s eyes were on you.
And your eyes were on him too.
Tim couldn’t help but feel a knot tighten in his stomach as he watched Kon wink at you, his expression mischievous, his grin more playful than Tim had ever seen it. But it wasn’t the wink that caught Tim’s attention—it was the damn shush that followed. Kon placed a finger to his lips, and Tim’s world seemed to slow down, his heart beating out of sync with everything else.
What the hell?
And as if that wasn’t bad, you smiled back.
You smiled at Kon. You actually smiled at him, the same smile that you didn’t just give anyone.
Tim’s mind spiraled, crashing into chaos. His thoughts were all over the place, every tiny movement, every subtle glance now magnified in his mind.
First Damian, now Kon.
Why does it feel like everyone else can move forward with you, but when it’s you and him, it’s always two steps back?
What had he missed? What had happened between you and Kon?
That smile. That damn smile.
He could feel the tension in his chest rising, his hands clenching at his sides, fighting the urge to storm over and demand answers from both of you. Why the hell was he acting like that? What was Kon hiding?
“Yeah, okay, I’m done,” Tim muttered, hands clenched into fists. He took a step forward, his voice tight with something he couldn’t quite place, and definitely didn’t want to admit. “You winked at her.”
Kon chuckled. “What? I think you’re seeing things, Timbo.”
“You winked.” Tim repeated, louder this time, his frustration reaching a boiling point. “What are you guys hiding? What did you two do?” He struggled to find the words, his brain running a mile a minute.
Cassie, sensing TIm’s growing frustration, leaned back on her hands. “Whoa, whoa, hold up. Calm down, Tim, I’m sure they didn’t do anything bad.”
“If it’s nothing bad, Cassie, why isn’t he telling us?” Tim shot back, his voice dripping with exasperation, before his eyes darted over to Kon.
Kon, predictably, didn’t back down. Instead, he chuckled, clearly enjoying the chaos he was stirring up. “Relax, Tim. We can’t keep secrets now? We were just having fun, alright?” He shot a quick look at Tim’s clenched fists, before shooting him a grin. “How about we all take a chill pill?”
Before Tim could snap back, another voice interrupted him.
“Kent.”
“Oh boy, here we go…” Tim heard Cassie’s sigh. He didn’t even have to turn around to know that Damian Wayne was approaching their group.
The younger boy, clearly agitated, marched over to Kon with an intensity that matched Tim’s own. The way his eyes narrowed, fists clenched at his sides, told Tim everything he needed to know—Damian was pissed.
“Tell me what you did with (Name). Now.”
For the first time in a long while, Tim felt a strange sense of solidarity with Damian. At least someone else was as frustrated as he was. Maybe together, they could pry the truth out of Kon. Maybe, just maybe, they’d get the answers they needed.
Kon barely had a chance to react before Damian was on him, arms crossed, gaze murderous.
“You,” Damian seethed, “are going to tell me what exactly you and she were doing.”
Kon blinked, caught off guard for maybe a second—before his trademark smirk slid into place.
“Oh?” he drawled. “Why do you want to know, Damian?”
Damian’s glare sharpened.
Kon grinned. “What? You jealous?”
Before he could so much as breathe, Damian lunged.
The sky had begun its slow descent into evening, streaked with warm hues of orange and pink as the day at the orphanage came to an end. The kids were beginning to settle down, some still clinging onto the last bits of playtime before dinner. You stood at the entrance of the courtyard, watching as Caitlyn and Adrien said their goodbyes to the kids they’d grown especially fond of over the past few days.
Meanwhile, Tim and his friends, as well as Damian, were nowhere in sight. The last you saw them, you watched Damian pounce on Kon and the rest was a mystery.
Elliot, as usual, was pressed against your side, his small fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. He hadn’t said much in the past few minutes, content just to be next to you, but you knew that look on his face—the gears in his little mind were turning, the questions were forming.
And sure enough—
“Hey,” he started, tilting his head. “Who were those people that came today?”
You froze.
You should’ve expected it. Of course he’d ask—he was an observant kid. He had been there after all, when you confronted Tim and his friends who had been spying on you from the bushes, and brought them in to play with the other kids.
It was a simple question, an innocent one, but something about the way he asked it made your mind stall. Your throat tightened slightly, and you hesitated longer than you should have.
Your mouth opened, then closed again, as you scrambled to come up with an answer that wouldn’t feel like a lie.
“They were… my brother,” you said at last, your voice even, careful. “And his friends.”
Elliot’s eyes widened in excitement. “Oh…! So Tim is your brother too? You have two brothers??”
There was an odd weight to that word—brothers—when spoken so freely by someone else. You hesitated, then gave a slow nod.
“…Yeah, I suppose so.”
You weren’t going to tell him that, technically, you had two other brothers and a sister as well—if you could still call them that.
If they still wanted you to.
If you still wanted to.
If they ever really were that.
But that wasn’t something you could even begin to explain to a kid.
Elliot, blissfully unaware of your inner conflict, perked up at the answer, his excitement growing. “That’s so cool!! I wish I have siblings. The other children here are fun, but it’s not the same as having a brother or sister.”
You exhaled slowly, bracing yourself for the wave of questions.
“Is Tim older or younger than you?”
“Older, by a year.” Not really.
“Wow! So you have an older brother and a younger brother. That’s so cool!”
“There are cooler things, Elliot.”
Elliot giggled, his face lighting up with amusement. “Maybe, but siblings are still cool! Do you guys fight a lot?”
You paused, then snorted. “You have no idea.”
Elliot gasped. “Like, actual fights?”
You hesitated again. “…Something like that.”
“Do they ever fight you?”
“Not physically.”
“Then how do you fight?”
“We… argue.”
He made a face at that, as if arguing was a far less exciting concept. “Oh.”
Before he could go down another rabbit hole of questions, you reached out and ruffled his hair. “Alright, buddy, calm down. Having brothers isn’t always fun.”
Elliot looked genuinely confused by that. “Really?”
“Really.”
He furrowed his brows, then shook his head. “But Tim was real fun today!”
That threw you off.
You blinked at him. “…He was?”
“Yeah!” Elliot nodded enthusiastically. “He helped us build that giant block tower after teatime! And when his friend, the really fast one, accidentally knocked it over, he helped put it back up again—twice! And he did that really cool thing where he guessed all the card matches without looking. How’d he do that? Is he magic?”
You stared at him, your thoughts grinding to a halt.
Tim… did all that?
After everything?
After that whole argument—confrontation you had with him, after storming off on him earlier, after being frustrated, and snappy, and distant—he still… sat with the kids here? He actually did what you told him to do and spent time with them? Helped them?
You weren’t sure why that surprised you. It wasn’t that Tim was heartless or incapable of kindness—but you hadn’t expected this.
Hadn’t expected him to listen to you.
Hadn’t expected him to go out of his way to be there, even in the smallest of ways.
Not after how everything had felt today.
You exhaled slowly, ruffling Elliot’s hair again. “…I see.”
Elliot grinned, pleased with himself, and you offered him a small, fond smile.
“I’m just glad you enjoyed yourself, kid.”
Elliot’s grin grew, and he leaned into your touch, his small head pressing against your palm.
Before you could say anything else, he looked up at you, voice softer this time. “Will Tim and his friends come back?”
Your smile faltered slightly.
You didn’t know how to answer that.
Because what were you supposed to say?
That Tim and his friends did not have any obligation to come again? They had no other reason to come again?
That wasn’t something you could explain to Elliot.
So instead, after a beat of hesitation, you simply said, “When they have time, maybe.”
That was enough for Elliot. He beamed, nodding, before waving excitedly and running off to join the other kids.
You exhaled, watching him go, before turning to find Caitlyn and Adrien walking up to you, both looking entirely too smug.
“You two definitely have favorites,” you accused, crossing your arms.
Adrien scoffed. “We have favorites? That’s rich, coming from you.”
Caitlyn smirked. “Yeah, let’s not forget your little moment with Conner earlier.”
Your expression immediately soured. “We’re not talking about that.”
“Oh, I think we are,” Adrien said, grinning.
“You two are the worst.”
“Love you too.”
You groaned, shaking your head, before clearing your throat. “Anyway—same time tomorrow?”
Caitlyn and Adrien exchanged glances before Caitlyn winced. “Actually… I can’t make it tomorrow. I promised my aunt I’d help out with some stuff in her shop.”
Adrien nodded. “ And I have that to serve detention for that stunt I pulled in Ms H’s class, remember?”
You paused, the answer catching you slightly off guard. “Oh.”
You quickly schooled your expression, nodding in understanding. “Got it.”
A quiet beat passed before Adrien nudged you. “You still gonna come?”
You hesitated. Your eyes flickered back to the orphanage, watching as the kids ran around, playing, laughing—completely oblivious to all the complicated things that sat heavy in your chest.
Your gaze found Elliot again, still smiling, still happy.
“…Yeah,” you said finally, voice softer. “I’ll come.”
The late afternoon sun cast a hazy glow over Gotham, though Jason barely registered it. His focus was on the ongoing call in the earpiece pressed to his ear as he walked, voice low and even.
“So, let me get this straight,” Roy drawled on the other end, the sounds of clanking metal and some kind of electric buzz filtering through the call. “You just finished dealing with a gang shootout last night, probably haven’t slept, definitely haven’t eaten, and instead of—I don’t know—taking a second to breathe like a normal human being, you’re already running off after another lead?”
Jason exhaled sharply, adjusting his grip on his gun as he navigated quieter side of Gotham’s industrial district. “Pretty sure I didn’t ask for a lecture.”
“Oh, no, you definitely didn’t. That’s just a fun little bonus,” Roy quipped. “Seriously, Jaybird, do you even know what the word ‘break’ means?”
Jason’s expression remained flat. “Sure. It’s what your bowstring does when you don’t maintain it properly.”
There was a loud clang from Roy’s end. “First of all, rude. Second of all, false. I take excellent care of my bow, thank you very much.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I do!”
Jason chuckled, stepping off the curb and weaving through the alleyways.
“I just don’t get it,” Roy continued. “You could’ve taken a day off—gone to a bar, watched a movie, literally anything else—but no, here you are, chasing down some random lead for God knows what.”
“It’s not random,” Jason corrected, rounding a corner. “Weapons smuggling. Shipment came in last week, no record of it anywhere. Thought I’d check it out.”
Roy sighed. “And who told you about this?”
“…I have my sources.”
“That’s code for ‘I found it in a back alley conversation, and now I’m running with it,’ isn’t it?”
Jason smirked faintly but didn’t argue. He had more important things to focus on—like the unmarked warehouse he was now approaching.
“I gotta go,” he said, tone shifting back to business. “I’ll check in later.”
Roy groaned. “Yeah, yeah. Try not to get shot, explode, or mysteriously disappear, alright?”
“No promises.”
Jason hung up.
The warehouse was quiet. Too quiet. No guards, no movement. Just the eerie stillness of a setup that was either abandoned or a trap.
Jason slipped inside through a window, boots making barely a sound as he landed.
Inside, it was dim, dust motes swirling in the filtered sunlight. Crates were stacked haphazardly, some half-open, revealing stolen tech and firearms. Jason moved silently, boots making no sound against the concrete as he picked through the scene, scanning the contents—stolen tech, modified weapons, and—
Jason frowned.
There was something off about these. They weren’t standard black-market stock. They looked… almost gimmicky. Like they weren’t meant for your average arms dealer.
His fingers barely brushed against one of the devices when—
Click.
A sharp hiss filled the air.
Before Jason could react, a fine, invisible gas burst from the crate, dispersing into the air around him.
Jason recoiled, but it was too late.
His throat tightened. His head swam. His pulse spiked in alarm as a heavy, sluggish sensation crawled over his limbs.
His breath hitched. His vision blurred. His limbs felt like lead.
Shit.
Jason shoved back, forcing himself toward the exit, but his body was already betraying him. His head swam, nausea curling in his gut as he stumbled out onto the street.
His nearest safehouse wasn’t far. Just a few blocks. If he could just—
He barely made it past the first alley before his legs buckled.
His body was already shutting down on him.
Jason lurched against the nearest wall, breath coming shallow, mind fogging with every passing second. He forced himself to stay upright, but his body wasn’t listening anymore.
His vision tilted.
His knees hit the pavement, the rough brick of the alleyway biting into his shoulder as he slumped against it, legs giving out beneath him.
His mind fogged, the city sounds around him distant, muffled.
He barely registered the way his breathing slowed, the weight of unconsciousness dragging him under.
He gritted his teeth, trying to fight the darkness clawing at the edges of his mind.
Stay awake. Move.
But his limbs were numb. His breath was shallow.
His fingers twitched toward his comm—
And then—
Darkness.
The walk to the orphanage was supposed to be uneventful.
But the moment you turned down your usual route, something in your gut twisted.
You hesitated mid-step.
It wasn’t a noise, not anything obvious. Just an instinct, a quiet pull at the edges of your awareness. A feeling you couldn’t quite shake.
Your fingers curled at your sides.
Ignore it? Keep going?
The orphanage was only a few more blocks. If you were lucky, Elliot and the other kids would be outside playing already, ready to bombard you with their usual chaos.
…And yet.
Your feet had already shifted before you made the decision. You veered left, cutting through an alley that wasn’t part of your usual route.
The air here was heavier, the city quieter. Not unusual for Gotham, but enough to put you on edge.
You didn’t know what you were expecting.
But it wasn’t—
A figure slumped against the brick wall.
You stopped short, breath catching in your throat. For a second, your brain struggled to process what you were seeing.
Leather jacket. Boots. Black hair complementing the dark red of his helmet—
No.
Not his helmet.
It was off, discarded a few feet away like he hadn’t had the strength to hold onto it. His head was tilted to the side, eyes barely open, unfocused.
Jason.
lololol finally part 3 and end of chapter 7 🤗 (don’t hate me for the cliffhanger, but its pretty obvious that Jason and reader are going to interact in chapter 8 so stay tuned for that emotional turmoil) posting this before attending my vb training (yes i’m fasting and still have to attend vb training 🥲—tho i get to chill if i’m tired so that’s ok)
Bruce’s brows furrowed, his usually calm expression giving way to faint confusion. “You’re… quitting?”
“Yes.”
For a moment, silence filled the cavernous Batcave, save for the faint hum of the Batcomputer. He studied you, his piercing blue eyes narrowing slightly as though trying to read your mind. “Why?” he asked finally, his voice measured, almost clinical.
You froze, caught off guard. Why? Why had you suddenly decided to quit? Sixteen-year-old you wouldn’t have even entertained the idea. This life was everything she had worked for—every patrol, every bruise, every sleepless night fueled by a desperate need for validation. Why had the words come so easily to you now?
Your mind reeled, racing to string together an explanation that made sense. After a long pause, you took a deep breath and met his gaze. “Because… you were right,” you said finally, your voice quieter than you intended. “This life… it was never meant for me. I was just too dumb to realize it before. But now, I do.”
The admission felt strange, almost foreign. Sixteen-year-old you wouldn’t have said that—not to him, not to anyone. And yet, as the words left your mouth, they felt right.
Bruce didn’t respond immediately. He just watched you, his gaze intense, cold, and calculating. You could almost feel him inspecting every inch of you, every nuance in your expression, searching for cracks in your resolve or signs of insincerity. The weight of his scrutiny was almost unbearable, and you found yourself holding your breath.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he leaned back slightly and nodded. “If that’s what you’ve decided,” he said simply, his tone unreadable. Without another word, he turned back to the Batcomputer, his eyes scanning the reports as if the conversation had never happened.
You blinked, stunned. That easy? He really just let you go like that?
For a moment, a flicker of relief passed through you, but it was quickly overshadowed by another thought: Just how much did he not want you to take up the Batgirl mantle? The thought gnawed at you, but you shoved it down, forcing yourself to nod.
“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice barely audible. Without waiting for a response, you turned and walked back toward the staircase, your footsteps echoing in the vast space.
As you ascended, you couldn’t help but glance back once, but Bruce didn’t move, his attention fixed on the screen. You pressed your lips together and forced yourself to keep going.
Bruce heard your footsteps fading up the stairs, each one echoing through the cavern like a countdown. He stared at the Batcomputer, his hands resting motionless on the console. But his eyes weren’t scanning the reports anymore.
He couldn’t stop himself from glancing over his shoulder as the clock door slid shut behind you. His expression hardened, his brows furrowing deeply.
Something about this felt… wrong. Letting you walk away like that—it felt final, like a line had been drawn in the sand. A line he couldn’t cross.
You’d said you were quitting because the life wasn’t meant for you. Bruce should be relieved that you were no longer putting yourself on the line, no longer risking your life for the sake of crime-fighting.
But now, it was as if he was watching you slip through his fingers, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Should he have said something? Say what exactly? That you shouldn’t quit being Batgirl? That he wanted you in his this life?
Bruce clenched his jaw and forced himself to look back at the screen, willing the unease in his chest to go away. He told himself it was for the best. He already long knew that this path was never meant for you.
And yet…
A faint, nagging voice whispered at the back of his mind, telling him he’d made a mistake. That letting you go like this wasn’t just about the Batgirl mantle—it was about you. About him. About the growing distance between the two of you.
He couldn’t afford to dwell on it, not now. Pushing the thoughts aside with the same discipline he applied to every other personal distraction, Bruce returned his focus to his work.
But that unease lingered, a heavy weight in his chest that no amount of reports or missions could quite shake.
“Richard,” Damian began, his tone flat and serious. “What does it mean when a girl cuts her hair short?”
The fast-food restaurant buzzed with the usual cacophony of clinking trays and murmured conversations. Damian sat stiffly across from Dick, his arms crossed and his brow furrowed in a way that made it clear he’d rather be anywhere else.
Dick, mid-bite of his burger, froze. Slowly, he put the burger down, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing. Then, with a sly grin, he leaned forward. “Why’re you asking? Is there someone who caught your eye, little D? Someone from school, maybe?”
Damian scowled, his cheeks tinging slightly pink. “Do not be absurd. This is not about me.”
Dick chuckled, brushing crumbs off his hands. “Oh, so it’s not about you. But you want my expertise on the matter? Man, I didn’t know you valued my opinion so much.”
“I don’t,” Damian snapped, his glare intensifying. “But you’re a certified idiot when it comes to women, so your insight into their ridiculous behavior might be useful.”
“Ouch.” Dick placed a hand over his heart, feigning injury. “And here I thought we were bonding.”
“We’re not,” Damian replied flatly, though his posture shifted in discomfort.
At that moment, Tim approached the table, balancing a tray piled high with burgers and fries. He slid into the booth beside Dick, setting the tray down with a thud.
“What’s going on?” Tim asked, popping a fry into his mouth.
“Damian here wants to know why a girl would cut her hair short,” Dick said, his grin widening. “And apparently, I’m the expert on ‘ridiculous behavior.’”
Tim raised an eyebrow at Damian, who was now scowling at both of them. “Uh… okay. Who are we talking about?”
“It’s about… (name),” Damian muttered.
The lighthearted teasing immediately stalled. Tim and Dick exchanged a quick glance, their expressions shifting to something more serious.
Dick, however, quickly recovered, leaning back in his seat. “Nah, no way. (name) wouldn’t cut her hair. She’s been growing it out for years. You’re making this up.”
“I am not,” Damian snapped, crossing his arms. “You’ll see for yourselves later if you’re too thick-headed to believe me.”
“Okay, first of all, rude,” Dick said, grabbing a fry. “Second, I don’t know, man. She’s always been pretty attached to her hair. Like, she used to freak out if even half an inch got trimmed too short when she was younger.”
Damian scoffed audibly, narrowing his eyes at Dick. “Tsk. It’s not just a trim, Grayson. She cut her hair to her shoulders.” He said the word shoulders like it was a personal affront. “And it looks ridiculous.”
Dick frowned immediately. “Don’t say that, Damian,” he chided, but then his voice trailed off as his mind wandered. Shoulders? That was… really short.
His brow furrowed slightly as he thought about it. Had you really cut your hair? You were always so particular about it. He remembered vividly the offhanded comment you made years ago about how you liked your hair long because it made you feel elegant, pretty—like yourself.
Wait, years ago?
That sinking feeling began to gnaw at him. Sure, people changed their preferences all the time, but this felt… odd. Why now? Why so drastic?
“Grayson?” Damian’s sharp tone cut into his thoughts. “Are you malfunctioning, or have I rendered you speechless for once?”
“Huh?” Dick blinked, refocusing on the youngest Wayne.
“Useless,” Damian muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “I should have known better than to seek advice from you.”
Dick snapped out of it, shooting Damian a half-hearted glare. “Hey, you came to me, remember? And cutting hair isn’t ridiculous; it’s just a personal choice. People grow, Damian. Maybe she just… wanted a change.”
Damian raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Wanted a change? That’s the best you can come up with? Tt. I thought you were supposed to be insightful.”
“Okay, first of all,” Dick said, pointing at him with a fry, “you’re lucky I don’t throw this at you. And second, you’re the one acting all worked up about her hair. I’m just trying to figure out why you even care.”
“Oh, trust me, buddy, we know your standards are very high.” Dick smirked. “For someone who claims not to care, you’re putting a lot of energy into this.”
Damian glared, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I will not waste further time explaining myself to a fool.”
“Love you too, Dami,” Dick said with a cheeky grin, earning an eye roll from the younger boy.
Tim, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke up. “Alright, so… are we just going to sit here debating haircuts, or are we going to eat?”
“Good idea,” Dick said, popping a fry into his mouth. But the momentary distraction didn’t stop his mind from circling back to you.
Why did you cut your hair? Was it really just a preference change? Maybe.
Damian’s voice interrupted his spiraling thoughts again. “Grayson, you’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Staring into space like a dim-witted cow.”
Dick sighed, shoving a fry into his mouth. “Great talk, Damian. Really helpful.”
“Likewise,” Damian muttered, clearly unimpressed.
But Dick was already tuning him out. He needed to check in with you later. He heard you had patrol tonight—or at least that’s what Barbara had mentioned. Wait, why didn’t you tell him that yourself?
Whatever. He’d figure it out. If you were on patrol, he’d just join you and ask about that then. That is, if Damian doesn’t insist later on being his patrol partner…
Maybe it was nothing…
Tim sat in the booth, idly picking at a fry as his mind wandered. He’d been the one to steer the conversation away from your haircut, but now he couldn’t help but think about what Damian had said. You cut your hair? That didn’t sound like you at all.
Then again, what did Tim really know? It wasn’t like the two of you were close. Despite living in the same manor for the past three—almost four—years, there had always been this… distance between you.
He frowned, resting his chin on his hand. It hadn’t always been that way. He remembered the earlier days, when both you and him were just starting out. Back then, you used to ask him the most ridiculous questions about cases and missions—questions that made him pause and wonder if you were even paying attention to the briefing.
“What do you mean, ‘How do you know which lead to follow?’” Tim had asked once, incredulous. He’d given you a look, that signature are you serious expression he reserved for when someone asked something truly baffling. Then, as always, he ended up solving the issue himself, bypassing the need to answer you at all.
At the time, it was mildly annoying but manageable. He figured you were just trying to find your footing. He told himself it wasn’t a big deal. But gradually, the number of times you came to him for help lessened. At first, Tim thought it was progress, that you were finally figuring things out on your own.
But no.
It didn’t take long for him to realize that your work was slipping. You’d miss key details, overlook evidence, or focus on the wrong leads entirely. And every time, it was Tim who ended up fixing it behind the scenes, covering for your mistakes before they could turn a case—or worse, a mission—into a disaster.
He hadn’t minded at first. But as it kept happening, as he kept watching you barrel forward with that same stubborn, hard-headed determination, something shifted.
Tim’s frustration grew. He started to wonder why you were even in this line of work. If you couldn’t handle the basics, what were you doing risking your life out there? Of course, he never said it out loud. He wasn’t that cruel, and he knew voicing those thoughts would probably lead to a fight neither of you wanted.
But still, it gnawed at him. That unspoken tension built over time, creating the invisible wall that now sat between you. He’d distanced himself on purpose, convinced that staying out of your way was better for the both of you.
But was it?
Tim sighed, pushing his tray of fries away as Damian and Dick bickered in the background. Now, the idea of you cutting your hair had wormed its way into his thoughts, and he couldn’t shake it.
You cut your hair.
It wasn’t about the haircut itself—it wasn’t about aesthetics or style. It was about what it represented. Something had changed. Had you?
And while Tim told himself he didn’t care, deep down, a small part of him wondered if he’d made a mistake keeping you at arm’s length all this time.
“Hold up, Babs, why exactly am I needed at the Batcave tonight again?” Stephanie said, twisting the tool in her hand to tighten a small screw.
She sat at Barbara’s clocktower, absentmindedly flicking through her phone while doing a small repair on one of her gadgets. She was content, for the moment at least, doing something mindless and waiting for whatever task Barbara would assign her for the night.
But when Barbara called her name and asked her to suit up for the night, Stephanie couldn’t help but frown.
Barbara sighed, her voice a little tired but still managing to hold a calm tone. “Tonight, we’re a little short-handed, Steph.”
“A little short-handed?” Stephanie repeated, letting out a disbelieving scoff. She glanced up at Barbara, clearly unimpressed. “How can it be short-handed when she’s around?”
Barbara knew who Stephanie meant by “she”. Why? Because you used to grab every mission or patrol you could, like you were always hungry for action, hungry for validation. There had always been this one-sided animosity between you and the blonde—more so you toward her. And it wasn’t like Stephanie was oblivious to the reason why.
It was because she’s Batgirl too. When Barbara and Dick allowed her to don the cowl during the events after Bruce’s “death,” Stephanie had been given the opportunities you wanted for yourself. Barbara knew that too, but she had chosen not to intervene, thinking that the animosity you felt would die down after a while.
Well, it did. But not in the way anyone expected.
Barbara adjusted her glasses as she leaned back in her chair. “(Name)’s not around tonight.”
Stephanie raised an eyebrow, confused by the simple statement. “Well that’s a first. Why not?”
Barbara hesitated, the words slow to come. “She… she quit.”
“…..”
“…..”
“WHAT??!?”
Barbara didn’t flinch at the outburst, her calm demeanor masking her own lingering confusion.
“Wait, wait,” Stephanie said, waving her hands in the air like she was trying to physically stop Barbara from speaking nonsense. “She quit? Are we talking about the same person? (Name) Wayne? The same person who basically begged to be Batgirl?”
Barbara shrugged slightly. “Bruce told me earlier today. Said she came into the cave, and told him she was done, and walked out. That’s all I know.”
“That’s all you know?” Stephanie repeated, her voice tinged with disbelief. She shook her head, scoffing. “That’s insane. She’s gotta be pulling some kind of dramatic move. Like, I don’t know, trying to get some attention or whatever. She’ll come back. Give her, like, two days, tops.”
Barbara frowned, though she didn’t entirely disagree. You were the type to make bold, emotional decisions, always seeking to prove yourself in some way. But there was something about how quiet and decisive you’d been when you quit that didn’t sit right with her.
“You don’t think she’s serious, do you?” Stephanie asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I don’t know,” Barbara admitted. “It’s… unlike her, I’ll say that.”
Stephanie scoffed again, shaking her head as she stood up to grab her Batgirl suit. “Whatever. I’m calling it now—she’ll be back, and when she is, I’m going to remind her just how ridiculous she’s being.”
Barbara watched Stephanie slip into her suit, her mind racing with questions she didn’t have answers to. This wasn’t like you at all. You were persistent, stubborn even. You fought tooth and nail for the Batgirl mantle, always pushing to prove yourself despite the doubts and obstacles.
For you to just walk away, without warning, felt… wrong.
As Stephanie tightened her utility belt and prepared to head out, she didn’t notice the far-off look in Barbara’s eyes. Even if you were planning to come back, the decision to quit felt too deliberate, too final.
And for the first time in a long time, Barbara found herself worrying about you in a way she hadn’t before.
After telling your father that you quit—and seeing how easily he let you go—you couldn’t stop replaying the scene in your head.
You walked through the halls of Wayne Manor, your mind heavy with frustration, confusion, and a gnawing emptiness that you couldn’t quite name. As you turned the corner, too lost in your thoughts to pay attention, you bumped into someone.
“Sorry,” you muttered automatically, not even looking up at first. But when you did, you froze.
Cassandra.
She stood in front of you, already suited up in her sleek black Bat costume, the faint outline of her emblem catching the light. She looked ready for patrol, or maybe she was just on her way to the Batcave. Her mask wasn’t on yet, so her sharp eyes were trained directly on you, studying you in the way that always made you feel exposed.
For a moment, you two just stared at each other in silence.
You were the first to move, brushing past her quickly without another word. But before you could make it more than a few steps, her voice stopped you in your tracks.
“Your hair.”
You turned around, confused, and caught her still looking at you with that unreadable expression of hers.
“Yeah,” you said, your tone clipped. “I cut it. I know. I get it. It’s awful.”
You made a move to leave again, but her next words surprised you enough to freeze you in place.
“No,” Cassandra said simply, her voice softer now. “It looks… really nice.”
You blinked, staring at her like she’d grown a second head. A compliment? From Cassandra? That wasn’t something you were used to.
“Thanks,” you said after a moment, your voice quieter now. “I guess.”
Without waiting for her to say anything else, you turned and headed back to your room. Your mind raced with the strangeness of the interaction as you climbed the stairs, the faintest trace of heat rising to your cheeks.
It wasn’t just her compliment that threw you off. It was the fact that she’d initiated a conversation at all. Cassandra had always been silent around you, her communication limited to nods, gestures, or the occasional word when necessary. For her to speak up, to make an effort, felt… different.
Weird, you thought as you closed the door behind you.
Uncharacteristic.
But as you sat on the edge of your bed, you couldn’t help but replay her words in your mind.
“It looks… really nice.”
For some reason, they lingered longer than you expected.
From the moment Cassandra bumped into you in the hallway, she could tell something was off. The way you carried yourself, the weight in your movements—it was different. Subtle, but undeniable. She couldn’t quite place what had changed, but it unsettled her.
As she descended into the Batcave, the low hum of tension greeted her before she even stepped off the elevator.
Bruce and Damian were mid-argument, their voices sharp and escalating. Damian’s fists were clenched tightly at his sides, his face twisted in anger, while Bruce’s tone was firm but weary, as if he’d been repeating himself for the hundredth time.
Nearby, Dick stood between them, hands raised in a futile attempt to diffuse the tension. Stephanie leaned casually against the wall, scrolling on her phone while occasionally glancing at Tim, who was tinkering with one of his gadgets. They were the only ones who seemed unaffected by the brewing storm.
When Cassandra stepped into view, Steph looked up and gave her a warm smile. “Cass! Finally, someone sane. Come join us before this place explodes.”
Tim glanced up as well, offering a quick wave before turning back to his project. Cassandra hesitated for a moment but walked over to join them, her eyes still flicking toward the argument at the center of the cave.
Damian’s sharp voice cut through the relative calm of her corner. “Why is Brown here? Isn’t it supposed to be (Name)’s turn to patrol tonight?”
Stephanie scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Wow, thanks for the warm welcome, little guy,” she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm.
Damian ignored her, his gaze locked on Bruce. “Well?” he demanded.
Bruce sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. “She’s not patrolling tonight.”
Damian’s brows furrowed, his tone growing more impatient. “And why not? Where is she?”
The tension in the room thickened as Bruce finally answered. “She quit.”
For a moment, the entire cave went still. Everyone except Stephanie and Bruce froze, their expressions a mix of shock and disbelief.
“What?” Damian said flatly, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
Dick was the first to intervene, stepping forward and addressing Bruce directly. “What do you mean, she quit?”
Bruce’s tone was even, but there was an edge of finality in it. “Exactly what I said. She told me she quit, and I respected her decision.”
Damian’s jaw clenched, his hands tightening into fists. “And you just let her?”
Bruce gave him a calm but firm look. “If that’s what she wants, who am I to stop her?”
Damian’s expression darkened, his anger bubbling over. “Unacceptable,” he growled. “There’s no way she just quits. Something’s wrong.”
Before Bruce could respond, Damian spun on his heel. “I’m asking her myself,” he snapped, already storming toward the elevator.
“Damian—” Bruce started, but Damian ignored him, disappearing up the elevator shaft before anyone could stop him.
The silence that followed was palpable, the weight of Damian’s fury lingering in the air.
Dick broke it first, his voice calm but resolute. “I’ll go talk to him.”
Bruce hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Go. Make sure he doesn’t do something reckless.”
As Dick followed after Damian, the remaining group stayed quiet, each lost in their own thoughts. Cassandra’s gaze lingered on Bruce, her mind still replaying your distant expression from earlier. Something about all of this felt… wrong.
And she wasn’t the only one who thought so.
The peace and quiet of your room shattered when the door slammed open without so much as a knock. You looked up, startled, to see Damian standing in the doorway, his eyes blazing with fury and confusion.
“You quit?” he demanded, his voice sharp and biting, his tone leaving no room for pleasantries.
Caught off guard, you blinked at him. “Good evening to you too, Damian,” you said dryly, already bracing yourself for the argument that was clearly brewing.
He stepped inside, fists clenched tightly at his sides. “Don’t give me that,” he snapped. “What do you mean you quit? You seriously quit? Why?”
You let out an annoyed sigh, already tired of his interrogation. “Why? Can’t I quit?” you said, sarcasm dripping from your voice.
Damian’s jaw tightened, his expression shifting from anger to utter disbelief. “Are you right in the head?” he shot back, his voice rising. “What kind of madness is this? Did all those late nights finally drive you insane?”
Ok, that ticked you off. Slightly.
“Seriously?” you deadpanned, giving him a pointed look. “You think this is about me losing it?”
“Yes!” Damian barked, his voice ringing through the room. “First, you cut your hair off like it didn’t mean a damn thing to you, and now you suddenly walk up to Father and say you’re done being Batgirl? Just like that? You’ve completely lost it!”
You frowned, irritation creeping into your voice, but you kept calm. “Nothing is wrong with me,” you replied firmly. “I made a decision. I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“Not my business?” Damian repeated, his voice incredulous. He stepped closer, pointing a finger at you. “This affects all of us! You can’t just make a decision like this without considering what it means for the rest of the family!”
You stood up, arms crossed. “And why does that bother you so much? You’ve never cared about what I do. All you’ve ever done is criticize me, undermine me, act like I don’t belong here in the first place! So why do you care now?”
“I don’t care!” Damian snapped, though his voice faltered for just a second. “I care about what your actions mean for our family. You walking away like this—it’s selfish, reckless—”
That was it. The breaking point.
“Selfish?” you shot back, the irritation in your voice finally boiling over. “You’re calling me selfish? After everything I’ve done to prove myself? After all the crap I’ve put up with just to show all of you that I deserve to be here? And you have the audacity to call me selfish?”
Damian threw his hands up in frustration. “This isn’t just about you! Do you even realize what you’re throwing away? What your actions say about the rest of us? You’re acting like—”
“Like what? Like I’m done?” you yelled, cutting him off. “Because I am, Damian! I’m done trying to live up to expectations that no one even thought I could meet in the first place! I’m done being the one who has to prove herself every damn day just to get a shred of acknowledgment!”
“That’s ridiculous!” Damian shot back, his tone defensive. “Father wouldn’t have given you the mantle if you didn’t deserve it. You’re just—”
You cut him off again, your voice sharper, harsher. “He gave me the mantle because I practically begged him to. Not because he thought I deserved it. And every day since, I’ve tried to make up for it, to prove that I do deserve it. But nothing ever works. I get sidelined, tossed aside, whenever Father or Dick or anyone else decides I’m not good enough to help.”
Damian scoffed, crossing his arms. “You don’t get sidelined. You’re just making things up.”
“Oh, shut up,” you snapped, your tone biting now. “Don’t act like you know what I go through.”
Damian opened his mouth to retort, but you cut him off again, your voice rising. “No, don’t you dare. You don’t know. You don’t know how it feels to constantly feel like you’re not good enough, to be compared to everyone else and always come up short. You don’t get it, Damian, and you never will. Because you’ve always been the heir, the one Father sees as his true successor. But me? I’ve been nothing but an afterthought.”
Damian’s face faltered for a brief moment, something unspoken flashing in his eyes. He hated the way his chest ached at your words.
“That’s not true,” he said finally, though his voice lacked conviction.
“Isn’t it?” you challenged, your voice trembling with exhaustion and frustration. “Because it sure doesn’t feel like it. Not when I’m constantly being sidelined, not when I have to fight for scraps of approval while everyone else gets a free pass. And definitely not when even you can’t see me as anything but second-rate!”
Damian hesitated, caught off guard by the raw emotion in your voice. He quickly shook it off, doubling down. “This is beneath you,” he said coldly. “Throwing a tantrum and walking away won’t fix anything.”
“A tantrum?” you echoed, your voice trembling with a mix of fury and hurt. “You think this is a tantrum? Damian, this is me saying I’ve had enough. I’m tired of breaking myself for a family that doesn’t even see me!”
“Then make them see you!” Damian countered, his voice rising again. “You don’t just quit because it’s hard! You don’t just give up!”
You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “Of course, that’s your answer. Just fight harder, right? Because that’s all you know how to do. But I’m not like you, Damian. I can’t keep pretending that this fight is worth it.”
“Not worth it?” Damian repeated, his tone disbelieving. “Are you actually kidding me? Richard told me that fighting for family is always worth it—”
“Well Richard can go fuck himself for all I care,” you snapped, cutting him off. “For someone who prides himself as a family guy, he’s done a great fucking job proving that, hasn’t he?”
Damian bristled, his voice rising. “Don’t talk about Richard that way—”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said with a roll of your eyes. “I forgot he actually gives a damn about you. No wonder you have such a biased perspective on how he really is.”
Damian froze, stunned into silence by your words. The room grew unbearably quiet, tension heavy in the air.
Finally, Damian let out a sharp breath, his voice low but laced with finality. “This isn’t over,” he said, turning on his heel.
The door slammed shut behind him, leaving you alone, your chest heaving from the intensity of the argument. You sank back into your chair, exhaustion settling in as the adrenaline faded. But the ache in your heart lingered, sharp and unyielding.
Damian’s words echoed in your mind, each one like a sharp jab to the chest. Selfish. Reckless. The words rang in your ears, infuriating and unfair.
Damnit. You hadn’t meant to blow up on him. But everything was just… too much. It wasn’t like you could keep pretending it was fine anymore.
Your fingers dug into the armrest of the chair as you shut your eyes, the headache beginning to set in behind your eyes. You could almost feel the physical ache of the emotional turmoil. I don’t care… You repeated the words silently, but it only made the ache in your chest worse. You had always cared about this family. You had tried so hard to belong, to prove yourself.
But what had it gotten you? You fought tooth and nail for the mantle of Batgirl, begging for the chance to prove you were worthy of it. Yet, here you were, useless in Damian’s eyes, ready to walk away. Maybe he was right—maybe you were being reckless, selfish. Because if you weren’t being Batgirl, who were you anymore? You certainly didn’t feel like the Bruce Wayne’s daughter.
You scoffed bitterly, shaking your head. They’d be fine without you, you thought. They always are. It wasn’t like your role in the family made a difference. You had always felt like an afterthought, never quite fitting in the way your siblings did. They all had their roles—Damian was the heir, Tim was the brain, Jason was the wild card, Cassandra was the silent powerhouse, and Dick was the one holding everyone together. You? You were just… there. Batgirl, but only when they needed you, only when it was convenient. When Stephanie wasn’t around. You hated to admit it, but she was undeniably a better Batgirl than you could ever be. You only saw that now, after everything you’ve been through.
“I should’ve quit a long time ago,” you muttered to yourself, your voice hollow.
They didn’t need you. Not really.
You clenched your fists at your sides, frustration building again. But then, as much as you tried to convince yourself that quitting was the right decision, you felt the doubt creep in. The sting of Damian’s words lingered like a cut, refusing to heal. What had you really thrown away?
Damian thought it was selfish? Well, maybe it was. But that wasn’t all there was to it. He couldn’t see it. He didn’t know the pain you’d been carrying all this time. The weight of the mantle, the pressure to be someone you weren’t sure you could be. You literally died because you wanted to prove you deserved this mantle.
But Damian didn’t know that. No one in the family did. To them, you were still 16. But you were 20, somehow in your 16 year old body. And frankly, you didn’t think anyone would have believed you if you told them. They’d probably rule you off as delirious.
Was it selfish to want to take a step back, to breathe, to figure out who you were without the costume, without feeling the need to live up to unrealistic expectations?
You ran a hand through your hair, pulling at the ends of the newly cut strands. It felt different—lighter, maybe—but it didn’t fix anything. The ache in your chest remained.
Taking a deep breath, you stood up and walked over to the window, staring out at the Gotham skyline. The night was quiet, peaceful even, but you felt nothing but turmoil inside. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You weren’t supposed to feel so lost, so empty after making a decision that was supposed to bring you peace.
But all you felt was the sting of Damian’s words, the echo of a family that would carry on without you. Maybe you weren’t meant to fit in. Maybe you were never meant to be Batgirl. Maybe quitting was the only way to let go of the weight you couldn’t carry anymore.
But the thought of it didn’t bring relief. It only brought more questions. More doubts. And the ache in your chest kept growing.
Dick made his way out of the Batcave, the soft hum of the cave’s equipment still echoing in his ears as he began his search. He knew the halls of the Batcave well, had spent hours running through them as a child, but for some reason, he couldn’t place exactly where Damian had gone.
Where would he be?
He knew Damian wasn’t the type to go off and brood in silence. No, if Damian had something to say, he’d say it—loudly. So the question was: Where would he go to find you?
Dick’s feet moved without thought, his mind running through options, trying to remember every possible place Damian could have gone. There was the training room, sure, but that didn’t seem likely. The library, maybe? No. He probably went to look for you in your room.
Dick’s boots echoed softly on the polished floor as he headed toward the hall where your room was supposed to be. His steps slowed, however, as a troubling realization settled in his chest.
Wait… where was your room?
Dick froze in the hallway, blinking in confusion. His gaze wandered down the corridor, his mind grinding to a halt. He’d known you for years, shared the same space, even lived under the same roof for what felt like forever—but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember where your room was.
It was a simple enough question—where was your room? He’d been there countless times, right? He’d spent so much time around the Manor, yet now, all he could think about was the fact that he couldn’t pinpoint the location of your room. The door had been right there, hadn’t it? Near the end of the hall? Or maybe down by the study?
Dick’s breath caught in his chest, and he quickly shook the thought off.
This is ridiculous.
He was probably just overthinking it. He was the oldest, the one who had been around the longest. It didn’t make sense for him to suddenly forget something so simple. Get it together, Grayson.
But the more he tried to focus, the more his thoughts twisted into a spiral. He knew where everyone’s room was.
How could he not know? Sixteen years. He’d known you for sixteen years. He’d visited this house, stayed in this house, lived in this house for years, and yet…
His breath hitched. The realization was almost too absurd to comprehend.
He knew where Damian’s room was. Knew where Tim’s was. Knew Cassandra’s, hell, he even knew where Jason’s childhood room was—Jason, who didn’t even live here anymore. He even knew the little quirks about each of their spaces: the sword display in Damian’s, the books stacked haphazardly in Tim’s.
But your room?
His mind was blank. He couldn’t even picture it.
Had he ever been to your room? Surely, he must have at some point. Right? His stomach twisted as he tried to remember, as if dredging up a memory he wasn’t sure even existed. Why couldn’t he see it in his mind? How could he have let this slip past him?
Panic began to rise in his chest as the uncertainty clawed at him. He’d been part of this family for years. He knows you the longest out of everyone. He should have known this.
Dick stood in the middle of the hall, mind reeling. How could he forget?
Before he could descend further into his spiral, he heard it. Muffled voices, raised in anger, followed by the unmistakable sound of a door slamming shut.
Your room.
Without thinking, Dick’s instincts kicked in, and he started moving toward the sound. He rounded the corner just in time to see Damian storming off, his face set in a mask of fury. He didn’t even spare Dick a glance, his steps quick, purposeful.
“Damian!” Dick called, jogging after him, a mix of concern and confusion flooding his mind. “Hey, wait up.”
Damian didn’t slow down. If anything, his pace quickened, and he shot a look over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. “I don’t have time for this, Grayson.”
Dick’s frustration only grew. “What’s going on? What happened in there?”
Damian’s fists clenched at his sides as he turned his head back toward the direction he was walking. “Nothing you need to know.” His voice was tight, clipped.
Dick’s steps faltered, but he wasn’t about to back down. “Damian, come on—don’t shut me out. What happened with you and (name)?”
Damian, however, wasn’t interested in talking. His head jerked up with a scowl. “I don’t need you to fix this, Grayson. I don’t need anyone’s help.”
Dick, unwilling to let it go, caught up to him and blocked his path. “Damian, I’m not trying to fix anything. I just want to understand what happened. Why are you so upset?”
Damian’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with something more than anger. “Because I don’t understand it!” he snapped. “(Name) quit. She quit, Dick! And you’re all just standing around pretending like nothing’s wrong! That it doesn’t matter!”
That stopped Dick in his tracks. His heart sank as the weight of Damian’s words hit him. Standing around and pretending like nothing’s wrong? That it doesn’t matter? Of course not. He’s worried too. You quit? It didn’t make sense. But before Dick could respond, Damian was already pushing past him, practically shoving him out of the way.
“Damian—” Dick started again, but the younger boy cut him off, raising a hand to silence him.
“Don’t. Just don’t. I’m done with this conversation.”
Dick’s hand shot out instinctively, grabbing Damian’s arm before he could walk past. “Damian, stop. Just talk to me for a second.”
Damian whirled around, his eyes full of frustration and barely contained rage. “Why? So you can tell me everything’s fine? That we’re just supposed to accept this?” His voice cracked, just slightly, and Dick saw the sharp pain beneath the anger. “You don’t get it, Grayson. She quit. She walked away, and it feels like no one’s doing anything about it. No one cares!” His fists clenched tighter, the tension in his body radiating off him like a live wire.
Dick felt a heavy lump settle in his throat, a mixture of confusion and concern. He understood Damian’s anger—he was angry too, but his reaction was much more raw, and far more personal than Dick had anticipated.
Dick’s hand remained on Damian’s arm, his grip tightening ever so slightly, trying to ground him in the chaos of the moment. He stared at Damian, confusion and concern evident in his eyes. “What do you mean by that?” Dick asked, his voice softer now, tinged with confusion. “Of course I care about her, Damian. But getting upset won’t change anything.”
Damian let out a sharp, humorless laugh, his eyes narrowing in frustration. “Sure, you care now,” he scoffed. “But it doesn’t feel like that to her, does it?”
Dick froze, his hand still gripping Damian’s arm, but now it felt more like a lifeline for him, trying to hold onto something solid in the midst of this emotional storm. “What are you talking about?” he asked, his heart starting to pound. “You’re not making sense.”
Damian pulled his arm away sharply, his movements tense and jerky. “Whatever,” he muttered, his voice growing colder. “I don’t have time for this. I’m going to the cave.” He turned on his heel, striding away, his anger still hanging heavy in the air.
Dick stood there for a moment, his mind reeling. Damian’s words were like a punch to the gut, and Dick couldn’t make sense of them. It doesn’t feel like that to her. What was he talking about? Was Damian implying that you didn’t believe Dick cared about you? That you’d somehow gotten the impression that no one cared, that no one was doing anything to stop you from leaving?
A knot of anxiety formed in Dick’s stomach as the implications of Damian’s words settled in. Did you really think he didn’t care? The thought gnawed at him, twisting and turning in his chest.
He had always assumed you knew how much he valued you, how much he cared for you—as family, as his sister. But now, he wondered if he’d ever truly shown that.
Damian’s words continued to echo in his head as he stood there, frozen for a moment longer. What did he mean? Dick couldn’t fathom why you would feel that way.
With a sigh, he pushed those thoughts aside, his mind refocusing. He had to find you. He couldn’t let this go on any longer, especially if you thought you weren’t seen, weren’t valued. He had to fix this, whatever it took. But when he makes his way to your room, Dick just freezes in his place. What should he say to you? What would make you feel better? Dick hates how nothing instantly comes to his mind, hates how he couldn’t form a solution to try and resolve whatever conflict you had with Damian.
Without another word, Dick turned towards the cave, his resolve hardening. He’ll just wait until you’ve calmed down from your emotional argument with Damian, and then talk to you.
how we feeling about this chapter 😘
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neglected to regressor batsis! reader x platonic batfam
what if after 20 years of neglect from your family full of vigilantes, you face an unfortunate death, only to find yourself regressed back to when you were 16?
⤷ lots of emotional neglect, reader was batgirl, reader was a tryhard and an overachiever, reader had no social life in her first life, mentions of drugs, mentions of human trafficking, mentions of death, regression themes, toxic and unhealthy relationships, dysfunctional family, toxic mentalities, reader and everyone else needs therapy…, canon divergence, major character death(s) | tba | based on this
⤷ info! (background) 1 | 2 | read this first to understand the plot and each batfam better :)
(I sincerely hope you like it! It feels like forever since I’ve written something like this, let alone something spicy.)
Entrapment
A talk. That’s all this meeting was suppose to be. Just a simple and civil discussion about the upcoming court proceedings regarding the divorce and what would be happening afterwards regarding your relationship with the family (especially Damian), nothing more. So, how did it end up like this? How could it have possibly strayed so far off track?
~~~~
You weren’t too surprised when you got a call from Bruce. He often went between nonstop blowing up your phone to not reaching out to you for days at a time, you were getting more and more used to it by now. You of course didn’t answer it, your lawyer had advised you not to after your telling them of how Bruce was throughout your entire relationship with him. His tendencies and the way he behaved when it came to you. Your lawyer wasn’t exactly completely believing of it, and that was pretty understandable given some of the things you had divulged to them (if you hadn’t lived and dealt with it yourself you would have had a hard time believing it too) but they decided it was better to be safe than sorry and advised you to not interact with Bruce outside of them. And so you hadn’t and you didn’t plan to either. That was until you listened to the voicemail that he had left behind.
He had an offer. He wanted to meet in person and discuss this whole situation, one on one. He wanted to come to an equal agreement outside of having to go to court. And as much as you hated it it sounded like it might be the better option. There was no pretending that this divorce would go in your favor, there were just too many things going against you. Bruce had the money, he had the means to get the best damn lawyer in Gotham and fight this to the very end. Not to mention that this divorce would be very public in general given just who it involved. And he could very easily get the media on his side, tarnishing your image as a whole. Not that you cared too much for that, you had planned to leave Gotham behind anyway after the divorce was final but the thing that got you the most was the rest of the family.
You adored Alfred. Not only was he simply one hell of a butler but he had been so good to you throughout your marriage to Bruce. Even though you two hadn’t been married that long, Alfred was still very much a support to you and what you went through. He didn’t completely agree with what Bruce did or how he went about things, you were your own person and he tried to remind Bruce of that on many occasions, but there was only so much he could do. And it wasn’t just Alfred you cared about, you also loved all of Bruce’s kids. Once you married Bruce they didn’t just become your family, they were your babies too. And you still wanted to have them in your life and you knew Bruce would hold them over your head no matter which way this divorce went.
Sure, the rest of the family had been involved to some extent with what Bruce was doing in your relationship, especially when it came to keeping you isolated and cooped up in the manor. But as far as you saw it that was all due to Bruce’s influence, you couldn’t bring yourself to actually believe that they would willingly go along with it of their own accord. Or that they even gave Bruce ideas to begin with to keep you by his side and with them as a result. You just couldn’t possibly think of them like that, you just couldn’t. So, it of course scared you at the thought of being completely cut off from the people you had opened your heart to. You still wanted to be there for them, still be a part of their life but just at a safe arm’s length away instead of how it was before.
The more you thought about it, mulling it over and over again in your head, this offer was sounding like the more beneficial thing to do. You did still have love for Bruce of course, you just didn’t want to be in that kind of situation again and you knew the only way to prevent that and keep yourself safe was to step away from him and any form of romantic relationship with him.
~~~~
The day was finally here for the two of you to meet and you couldn’t help the anxiety that washed over you. You never truly knew what Bruce would do, what he was really thinking in the moment. He was unpredictable like that. He could come off oh so charming and inviting, it was scary how easy he could lure you into his trap. And you knew better than anyone what it was like to be caught in that snare. That was what your whole marriage had been with him after all, just one big entrapment.
Even when you were briefly on the phone with him to set up this meeting you couldn’t contain the tremor of nerves you had just hearing his voice again. You really did miss it, you missed him. But this needed to be done. For the both of you. At least that’s what you kept telling yourself.
Seeing him face to face again was something else. He looked good, he looked like he was taking care of himself again. That was a far cry from how he was the first few months after you left. He was a mess and it showed. That alone almost had you going back to him just so he’d be alright but you knew what came with him being back to himself and you couldn’t put yourself in that position again. You just had to remind yourself that this was it and it would soon be over for good.
Bruce greets you with open arms, you’re not quick enough to back out of his reach before he’s already enveloped you in his hold. He’s warm, he’s always been so warm. And his hold is tight, longing but not as suffocating as it used to be. And just as you’re beginning to feel yourself unconsciously fall into his warmth just like you used to so many times before, welcoming his touch again, he pulls away. For a split second you want to reach out to him and feel his touch all over again but you remind yourself that this isn’t what this is anymore. It can’t be.
Once the two of you are settled you start off talking small talk and everything seems good, everything seems okay. Bruce asks how you’ve been, if you’re doing alright with everything that’s been going on. He seems caring. He seems like he genuinely wants to know how this has affected you but you remind yourself yet again that this isn’t what you think it is. He then moves on to talking about the family and how they have been holding up through out this process, everyone’s taking it hard. Dealing with it in their own way but it seems Damian is the one who is taking it the hardest. That’s what you had feared. You worried about how Damian was taking all of this, how he was being effected by it. He was such a guarded kid, so closed off. You felt terrible having to put him through this, as well as the others but it’s what needed to be done. Right?
It isn’t until you try to bring up the original topic of discussion, the entire reason for this meeting in the first place, that you see how this wasn’t remotely the meaning of this meeting. You barely caught sight of Bruce’s jaw clenching when the words left your mouth, that was enough insight for you to know that this wasn’t at all what it was meant to be.
It’s obvious that it’s the last thing he wants to do, you can tell. He’d rather talk about anything else other than that. It’s one thing to ask how you’ve been regarding it or talking about how the rest of the family’s been taking it in but he doesn’t want to actually get into it. He’s avoiding it, of course he is. You can’t blame him but this needs to be over with.
“Bruce.” He tenses. It feels like it’s been forever since you said his name, he’s missed hearing it from you. He wants to hear it over and over again, like a mantra. God, the way it hit him when that’s all you could say as he thrusted so deep into you, just his name rolling off your tongue repeatedly. Fuck he missed it. He missed you.
“Remember, we’re meeting here for a reason. I don’t want to take up much more time than we need to. So, could we get to it?” Business. That’s all this was. Bruce hated it. Of all things, this is what brought you out of hiding? This is what opened you up to seeing him once more?
No.
He wouldn’t take that as an excuse.
He just wouldn’t.
“You’re right, (Name). Let’s get to business.”
~~~~
Without a doubt in your mind this was his intention all along. Of course it was. How could you see it any other way?
Bruce was calculating. He proved that more than once since you have known him.
It showed I n how he talked, the words he said dripping off his lips one after another, the sweet nothings he filled your head with.
In how he touched you; the placement of his hands, the way his fingers brushed you, the methodic way they curled deep inside your warmth.
But more importantly he was the most calculated when it came to fucking you. He knew you better than yourself, he spent your whole entire relationship learning and memorizing your body. What you wanted, what you needed. What exactly drove you to the deepest depths of pleasure. He knew it all. And he certainly knew how to use it to his advantage.
Each thrust, deeper than the last, was all so cunningly planned out. The way he grounded his hips into yours, the way he clutched you so close, melding himself into you, opening you up even more to take him completely. Every single move was so irrevocably mapped out.
~~~~
Your warmth. Oh, how much he’s missed it. How much he’s fucking craved feeling it wrapped around, enveloping him whole again, only for him to feel. You have no idea how many times he’s touched his throbbing cock to the thought of it, to the thought of having you sprawled out under him again. You have no fucking idea.
Once he has you right where he wants you, completely lost in the ecstasy of it all, he allows himself to finally give in to his own blinding pleasure.
No more calculating.
No more cunning.
No more being methodic.
No more.
Now it was all solely his mindless self indulgence. His once slow, deep thrusts turned into rapid, savage pounding. His kisses were more aggressive, sloppy. His touch was burning hotter than ever as he gripped and grabbed every piece of you he could.
At this point, Bruce let himself get lost in it. He let himself fall into the deepest, darkest pits of his desires. All he wanted now was to chase that feeling he’s been left without for so long, over and over again.
One after another, he released everything he had deep inside you. Again, and again, and again. All of this; all of his pent up anger, hurt, passion, everything he had bottled up inside throughout this whole shitshow of a situation, he was free to let it all go.
After the haze finally let up, Bruce was left basking in the aftermath. He couldn’t have felt better than ever before. He had you again, he had you here in his arms and it wasn’t a dream this time. You were the real deal and he couldn’t have been happier.
He couldn’t help but look at you,, watching you, taking all of you in again just like the many times he used to before. You were a fucking mess after everything and he absolutely loved it. He did that to you, he made you that way. And he took great pride and pleasure in it. He left you so full, both with himself still inside you (he just couldn’t bring himself to part with your warmth again) and all his cum. This was how he wanted to stay. This was how he wanted to be.
Placing his large hand on your stomach, he caressed it tenderly. There was no way you wouldn’t fall pregnant after this, he had made sure of it with all the times he filled you with his seed. He wanted you pregnant, he wanted you filled to the brim with his baby. He needed to have you tied for life and what better way to ensure that than by bringing a new life into the world together.
You wouldn’t be able to get away from him now. This had been yet another way to entrap you, to keep you in his grasp and Bruce wasn’t going to leave any room for you to wriggle out of his reach again.
“Let’s start anew, (Name). After all, we’re going to have even more of a reason to work things out now.”
dededos
stormborns
annaxmalina
snowghoul
yousharknotpass
origamiaround
