I alone am the honored one

Alex/AJ [23] Non-Binary (they/he). I write requests... sometimes

[that-bi-bitch-writes]

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Welcome!! I tag all asks and nsfw. anything that’s not a fic was supposed to get tagged #not a fic but i forgot. i tag all works (not mine) i like with the tag #fic reblog

I am non-binary but I am okay with being called masc terms. No fem terms please. I use they/he pronouns & prefer they and you can send an ask at anytime about anything. I write male readers and nb/gn readers.

If you’d like you can check out my sideblog @dumb-enby-juice or my writing archive @that-bi-bitch-reroutes (← has my masterlists)

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[that-bi-bitch-writes]

[that-bi-bitch-writes]

Just started e23. Was focused on eating my mango snack until I heard the intro song "I’m your man" which is very popular on my TikTok thirst edits fyp, it’s like they directly called my name. Anyways, going back to it.

what if we start seeing posts about criminal minds predicting the future the way the simpsons is credited for knowing so many upcoming events

[purplespiritimagines]

the warmth between shadows - bruce wayne

request anon - meta human reader that has like scp 999 powers to spread joy, emotionally comfort and even reformed villains to rehabilitate and their powers manifest back when they feel so alone of wishing someone was there to comfort them and for someone to believe in them that things can be better and so one day their powers got triggered when they wanted to comfort an animal and now they're able to do those things for anyone and anything but sadly can't do so for themselves

content bruce wayne x gn! reader, meta! reader, comfort powers, metahuman exploitation mention, emotional burnout, power overuse, panic attacks, trauma responses, implied childhood neglect/loneliness, animal injury mentioned, animal rehabilitation, mind control/forced violence, gun threat, hostage-style gala attack, hurt/comfort, non-graphic violence, mild injury/bruising, references to past criminal activity and rehabilitation

masterlist

word count 7.6k

Bruce Wayne first met you in a room full of broken things that people were trying to convince themselves could still become beautiful.

The room belonged to the east wing of the Gotham Renewal Conservatory, though “conservatory” felt like a generous word for a glass-walled building that had spent the last decade losing arguments with weather, budget cuts, and Gotham’s general commitment to decay. Half the windows were patched with plastic sheeting. The ironwork along the ceiling had rusted into reddish blooms. Ivy climbed the brick walls in wild, stubborn curtains, thriving despite neglect, which felt very Gotham of it. The air smelled of damp soil, old stone, rainwater, and the faint medicinal sweetness of plant food. Outside, the city growled and hissed and bled neon into the evening. Inside, a dozen people in work gloves were trying to coax life back into damaged roots.

Wayne Foundation had taken the conservatory on as one of its quieter projects, the kind that did not photograph as well as a hospital wing or a scholarship gala but mattered more than most people knew. It offered work placements for parolees, therapy programs for kids who had seen too much, and a small animal rehabilitation unit tucked into the back where injured strays were brought when the city shelters overflowed. It was exactly the kind of place Gotham liked to forget existed: soft, underfunded, necessary. Bruce had come expecting a tour, several firm handshakes, a conversation about structural grants, and possibly one politely worded warning from the director about the roof.

He had not expected you.

You were kneeling beside a shattered planter when he entered, sleeves pushed to your elbows, damp soil streaked across one cheek like war paint. A teenage volunteer stood beside you with their arms folded tightly over their chest, face red with the terrible effort of not crying. The broken planter lay between you both in three large pieces and several smaller ones, its roots spilling out like exposed veins. A young lemon tree leaned sideways, leaves trembling from the disturbance.

“I ruined it,” the teenager said, voice thick. “I told you I’d ruin it.”

“No,” you said, gently enough that Bruce stopped walking. “You dropped it.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“It really isn’t.”

The teenager stared at the plant like it had personally confirmed every cruel thing anyone had ever said about them. Bruce knew that look. He had seen it in mirrors. He had seen it on his children. He had seen it in the faces of people who believed a mistake was not an event but a verdict.

You reached for one of the broken pieces of clay, then paused, glancing up at the teenager. “May I?”

They blinked. “It’s broken.”

“I know.”

“So why are you asking?”

“Because it’s yours right now.”

The answer landed oddly in the room. Bruce felt it more than heard it. The teenager hesitated, then nodded once. You picked up the shard and fitted it against another with careful fingers. “There’s an art form in Japan called kintsugi,” you said. “Broken pottery repaired with gold. The crack doesn’t disappear. It becomes part of the piece.”

The teenager gave a wet, bitter laugh. “Great. My emotional support lemon tree has lore.”

You smiled, and the whole room seemed to soften around the edges. Not dramatically. No glow, no cinematic swell, no obvious miracle. But the teenager’s shoulders loosened. The sharpness in their breathing eased. Even Bruce felt, for one strange second, as if someone had lowered the volume on an old ache he had forgotten was playing.

“Everything has lore in Gotham,” you said. “Even lemons.”

The teenager laughed for real that time, small and surprised. You handed them the shard. Together, the two of you began gathering the broken pieces, not with panic, not with shame, but with the quiet certainty that damage did not have to be the end of the story.

Bruce watched from near the doorway longer than was strictly polite.

You noticed him eventually. Your eyes flicked up, caught his, and your expression shifted into something guarded but not unfriendly. Bruce knew the look. People in Gotham tended to measure him in pieces: billionaire, donor, headline, liability, opportunity, Wayne. You did not look dazzled. You did not look impressed. Mostly, you looked like you were trying to decide whether he was another fragile thing pretending not to be.

“Mr Wayne,” you said.

Bruce put on the smile that usually made board members relax and journalists lean closer. “Bruce, please. Mr Wayne is what people call me right before asking for money.”

You rose from the floor and wiped your hands on a cloth. “This is a nonprofit conservatory in Gotham. Statistically, I will be asking for money within the next ten minutes.”

His smile became real before he could stop it. “Efficient.”

“I like to respect everyone’s time.”

The director, who had been hovering near the orchids with the nervous energy of someone responsible for a building held together by optimism and grant applications, hurried forward to make introductions. Your name came with a job title that seemed too small for what Bruce had just witnessed: rehabilitation coordinator. You managed volunteers, therapy programming, animal intake, and the small team that paired people with plants and animals depending on temperament, trauma history, and recovery goals.

“Basically,” you said, “I assign emotionally unstable Gothamites to emotionally unstable ferns and hope they learn from each other.”

Bruce glanced at the lemon tree, now being carefully repotted by the teenager. “Does it work?”

“More often than you’d think.”

“And when it doesn’t?”

You looked at the cracked planter pieces laid out on the table, then back at him. “Then we try something else.”

It was such a simple answer. Worse, it sounded like you meant it.

Bruce spent the tour listening to the director talk about repair costs and community impact while his attention kept drifting back to you. You moved through the conservatory like someone who knew every wounded thing by name. You corrected a volunteer’s grip on a watering can, coaxed a nervous child into feeding a rabbit, reminded an older man with shaking hands that pruning was not punishment, only care redirected. People leaned toward you without realising they were doing it. Animals watched you with soft, trusting eyes. Even the plants seemed theatrical about it, though Bruce was aware that it was not an evidence-based conclusion and would absolutely be mocked by Tim if said aloud.

Still, something about you unsettled him.

Not because you seemed dangerous. Because you seemed kind in a city that treated kindness like exposed skin.

By the time the tour ended, rain had begun to fall against the glass roof. The director pulled Bruce aside to discuss numbers, and you slipped away toward the animal wing with a crate of clean towels balanced against your hip. Bruce found himself watching you go until the director cleared her throat.

“Sorry,” he said, too quickly.

The director’s smile turned knowing in a way he did not appreciate. “They have that effect on people.”

Bruce adjusted his cufflinks. “Do they?”

“Yes,” she said. “People feel better around them.”

Bruce looked toward the animal wing again. He remembered the way the teenager’s panic had eased, the way the room itself had seemed to exhale.

Then he did what he always did when something gentle frightened him.

He made a mental note to investigate.

You were careful with your power because you had learned early that people loved miracles right up until miracles became resources.

The first time it had happened, you had been young enough to believe loneliness was a kind of weather, something that lived above you and followed wherever you went. You remembered hiding beneath a collapsed staircase behind an abandoned building, rain leaking through the rotted wood, your knees drawn to your chest while the world moved on without noticing you. You had wanted, with the whole brutal force of a child’s heart, for someone to come. Not to fix everything. Not even to stay forever. Just to sit beside you and say, I believe you. I am here. Things can be better than this.

No one came. A stray cat did, eventually. Thin, filthy, one ear torn, hissing like it had swallowed lightning. It crawled into the same ruined shelter and glared at you as if your grief had inconvenienced it personally. You had laughed despite yourself, a broken little sound, and held out your hand because the cat was shaking and you knew what it meant to shake alone. You had not known you were doing anything impossible. You had only wanted it to feel safe.

The cat had stopped hissing. Then it had crawled into your lap.

Warmth had poured out of you so suddenly it felt like your chest had split open. The cat purred until you cried harder. For one impossible moment, every living thing near you seemed to settle. Birds quieted in the eaves. Rats stopped skittering behind the walls. Somewhere nearby, a man who had been yelling at no one in particular fell silent and began to sob.

You had discovered that night that you could give comfort.

You had also discovered, later and with far less wonder, that you could not give it to yourself. The power did not work inward. It moved from you to others, always outward, always away. It could calm panic, ease grief, soothe violent rage enough for choice to return. It could help animals trust. It could help people remember they were more than the worst thing they had survived or done. It did not erase pain. It did not rewrite minds. It did not force goodness into anyone. It only created room inside the storm, a brief shelter where someone could decide what to do next.

People called that a gift when they found out. You called it a responsibility when you were feeling generous. On worse days, you called it a drain with good PR.

So you hid it. Mostly. You let it slip in small, deniable ways. A hand on a trembling shoulder. A calm voice near a frightened animal. A room that seemed lighter after you entered. The conservatory staff joked that you were the reason the parolees stayed, the kids opened up, and the animals stopped biting. You smiled, shrugged, and blamed patient care models, grounding techniques, and the therapeutic value of photosynthesis. Gotham accepted a lot if you delivered it with enough paperwork.

Then Bruce Wayne started coming around.

At first, it was because of the foundation. Then, because of structural planning. Then, because of “follow-up meetings” that could have been emails if Bruce had been the kind of man who trusted emails with anything human. He appeared at odd hours with rolled-up sleeves and expensive shoes that had clearly not been designed for muddy greenhouse floors. He asked thoughtful questions about intake procedures and staff burnout. He learned the names of the volunteers. He listened when the parolees spoke. He let children show him seedlings with the solemn attention of a king receiving tribute.

He also kept finding you when you were alone.

“You look like you’re losing a fight with that irrigation valve,” he said one evening, appearing at the doorway of the propagation room.

You were crouched beneath a long table, one hand braced against a pipe, water dripping steadily onto your shoulder. “I’m winning morally.”

“That isn’t usually how plumbing works.”

“Rich people lack imagination.”

Bruce leaned against the doorframe, looking absurdly handsome in a dark coat and absolutely useless in a practical sense. “Would you like help?”

You looked at him, then at his coat. “From you?”

“I can be helpful.”

“You own at least three watches that cost more than this entire pipe system.”

“Four,” he said, then winced. “That sounded worse out loud.”

“It really did.”

He removed the coat anyway, rolled up his sleeves, and crouched beside you. You tried very hard not to notice his forearms, because you were a professional, allegedly, and because Gotham already had enough structural weaknesses without adding yours to the list. Bruce studied the valve with the intense concentration of a man defusing a bomb, which was funny in a way you could not explain. Then he reached for the wrench.

“No,” you said immediately.

His hand froze.

“That one strips the bolt,” you said. “Use the smaller one.”

He obeyed without argument. That was the first problem.

The second problem was that he was competent once corrected. Not polished, not performative, but genuinely capable in the quiet way of someone who understood tools and pressure and the consequences of getting either wrong. He worked beside you in silence for several minutes, close enough that your shoulders brushed twice. Your power did not move. No warmth left you. The ease in your chest was entirely your own, which made it far more dangerous.

When the valve finally tightened and the leak slowed to a reluctant drip, you sat back on your heels. “Well. That was moderately impressive.”

Bruce looked at the pipe. “Only moderately?”

“You’re a billionaire fixing plumbing in a greenhouse. The bar is in a weird place.”

He laughed, and the sound hit you somewhere tender.

“You’re hard to impress,” he said.

“I work with abused animals, teenagers, and ex-henchmen. Impressing me requires emotional growth and reliable follow-through.”

Bruce’s smile faltered just slightly.

You saw it. Of course you did. You saw too much in people, even without the power. Pain had taught you its language early.

“Sorry,” you said. “That was—”

“Accurate,” he finished.

You looked at him. For once, Bruce Wayne was not smiling. The charm had slipped from his face, leaving something quieter behind. He looked tired in the dim green light, not physically but soul-deep, as if some part of him had been standing guard for so long it no longer remembered what it was protecting.

“Reliable follow-through,” he said. “I’m told I struggle with that.”

“By who?”

“My family.”

“Smart family.”

“Unfortunately.”

You smiled. He smiled back. It should have been nothing, just a brief exchange in a damp greenhouse with a fixed pipe and rain tapping against the glass. Instead, something opened between you, fragile as a new leaf.

Bruce looked away first. You pretended not to notice.

Your power reveal happened because of a man named Eli Voss and a room full of terrified people who had come to celebrate second chances.

Eli had been one of the conservatory’s earliest success stories. Formerly a low-level enforcer for the False Face Society, he had arrived six months before with a sealed juvenile record, a permanent limp, and a distrust of kindness so intense that even the cactus room seemed too emotionally available for him. You had assigned him to the night-blooming jasmine because it required patience and did its best work in darkness. He had hated the metaphor so much that he kept coming back out of spite.

Then, slowly, he changed.

Not because of your power. Not only. You had used it on him once, the day he nearly punched through a glass wall during a panic attack, but you had asked first, and he had said yes with his teeth clenched and tears standing furious in his eyes. Afterwards, he had sat on the floor beside the jasmine and whispered, “I didn’t know quiet could feel like that.”

You had never forgotten it.

Neither, apparently, had someone else.

The Renewal Gala was Bruce’s idea, though he denied it with the smoothness of a man accustomed to dodging blame in tuxedo form. The plan was simple: bring donors to the conservatory after hours, showcase the programs, raise enough money to finish the roof repairs and expand the animal wing. You hated galas on principle. Too many polished shoes near fragile plants. Too many people using charity as a mirror. But Bruce had promised to keep it small and meaningful, and Alfred had personally overseen the menu, which made refusing feel like kicking a Victorian angel.

For the first hour, everything went well. The conservatory glowed. Lanterns hung from the ironwork. The repaired glass reflected soft gold light. Volunteers gave tours with nervous pride. Children displayed seedlings they had grown themselves. Parolees spoke about work, recovery, and learning how not to run from gentleness. Eli stood near the jasmine, stiff in a borrowed suit, looking like he would rather fight a bear than accept compliments.

Bruce stayed near you more than necessary.

“You’re hovering,” you murmured as he handed you a glass of sparkling water.

“I’m mingling.”

“You’re standing beside me and glaring at a councilman.”

“He stepped on a fern.”

“He apologised to the fern.”

“Not sincerely.”

You bit back a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

His mouth softened. “So I’ve been told.”

He looked unfairly good in a tuxedo beneath the conservatory lights, all dark fabric and tired blue eyes, a prince of a haunted city pretending he did not belong more to the shadows than the chandeliers. You were trying not to think about that when the power went out.

The music cut first. Then the lights. For one suspended second, the conservatory existed in the silver-blue spill of Gotham moonlight through glass.

Then someone screamed. Emergency lights flared red. A figure stumbled from the orchid room wearing a blank white mask. Then another. Then three more. Their movements were jerky, wrong, as if someone had tied strings to their bones. Panic rippled through the gala crowd. Bruce’s hand closed around your wrist—not hard, never hard, but immediate.

“Stay behind me,” he said.

There was no billionaire charm in his voice now.

You looked at him sharply.

Before you could respond, Eli emerged from the darkness near the jasmine. He had a gun in his hand. 

]Your breath stopped.

His face was slick with sweat, eyes wide and unfocused. A small device blinked blue at the base of his neck, half-hidden beneath his collar. Mind control, chemical trigger, implant, something awful and invasive. His arm trembled as he lifted the weapon toward the crowd.

“Everyone down!” Bruce shouted.

People screamed and dropped.

You did not.

Because Eli was crying.

“Don’t,” he choked, though no one knew if he was speaking to the crowd, to himself, or to whoever had put that device on him. “Please, I don’t want— I don’t want—”

Bruce moved in front of you. “Get back.”

You barely heard him. Eli’s terror filled the room like smoke. The masked attackers advanced from the darkness, and somewhere beyond them, a speaker crackled to life with a distorted voice.

“Good evening, Gotham. Let’s see how long second chances last under pressure.”

The Mad Hatter, you thought distantly. Or one of his copycats. Gotham had more themed criminals than functioning bus routes.

Eli’s finger twitched near the trigger.

Bruce shifted, ready to move, but he was too far. Everyone was too far. You could feel the room tipping toward catastrophe. One shot. One body. One ruined life dragged back into the story he had been trying so hard to leave.

So you stepped around Bruce.

His voice snapped behind you. “No.”

You walked toward Eli with your hands open.

The power rose in you before you gave it permission. It filled your ribs with aching gold, hot and familiar, a tide desperate to leave shore. You had hidden it for years in small gestures and deniable moments, but there was no hiding this. Not from Bruce. Not from the donors. Not from the security cameras. Not from Gotham.

Eli saw you through the haze of whatever controlled him. His face crumpled. “I can’t stop.”

“I know,” you said.

“Don’t come closer.”

“I’m going to.”

“He’ll make me shoot.”

“Then look at me.”

The gun shook violently.

You took another step. Bruce said your name behind you, and there was fear in it, naked and sharp. You tucked that away somewhere you could bleed from later.

“Eli,” you said, and let the power unfurl.

The warmth moved through the conservatory like dawn through fog. It touched the panicked crowd first, smoothing the most jagged edges of terror, slowing breaths, loosening fists. It touched the masked attackers next, and several of them faltered as the emotional static of the control devices began to war with something gentler and older. It moved into the soil, through roots, into the restless animals in the back wing, quieting their frantic cries. The whole conservatory seemed to inhale.

Eli sobbed. The gun lowered by an inch.

You kept walking.

Bruce was behind you. You could feel him like a storm restrained by willpower alone.

“That’s it,” you whispered to Eli. “You’re still here. This is your hand. Your choice. Not his. Yours.”

The device at his neck sparked.

Eli screamed and lifted the gun again.

You reached him before Bruce could stop you, closing your hand around the barrel and pressing your other palm to Eli’s cheek.

The power poured out of you.

Not happiness. Never happiness. Joy was too small a word for what people needed in moments like that. What you gave Eli was remembrance. The feel of soil under his fingernails. The scent of jasmine blooming after dusk. The first time a child volunteer asked him for help without fear. The day he realised he had gone a whole afternoon without wanting to run. The quiet that had made him cry. The possibility that he was not doomed to be useful only as a weapon.

Eli dropped the gun.

The device at his neck burned out with a sharp pop. He collapsed against you, shaking so hard you nearly went down with him.

Behind you, Bruce moved. Fast. Too fast. He struck one masked attacker, disarmed another, and had a third on the ground before the emergency lights finished flickering. It was not normal movement. It was not billionaire self-defence learned from expensive trainers. It was precise, brutal, and terrifyingly familiar in a way your exhausted mind refused to name.

Security flooded in seconds later.

The crowd was alive. Eli was sobbing into your shoulder. Your power withdrew from the room, leaving you cold enough to feel hollow.

Bruce reached you just as your knees buckled.

He caught you with both arms. For a moment, all you knew was his chest against your cheek, his hand at the back of your head, his voice saying your name again and again like repetition alone could keep you in the world.

Then you heard a donor whisper, “Metahuman.”

The word moved through the conservatory like a stain.

Your eyes opened.

Bruce heard it too. His arms tightened around you, almost imperceptibly.

You had been so careful. One crisis, one choice, and now everyone knew.

Batman came to your apartment that night.

You were not surprised. The gala had become news before the last ambulance left the conservatory. Footage had leaked within an hour, of course. Gotham loved a miracle almost as much as it loved a spectacle, and by midnight the headlines had begun multiplying like mould: WAYNE FOUNDATION WORKER REVEALED AS META, GOTHAM’S HUMAN COMFORT, MIRACLE AT RENEWAL GALA, CAN JOY POWERS REFORM CRIMINALS? One particularly awful blog called you “a walking rehabilitation machine,” and you had thrown your phone onto the couch so hard it bounced.

Bruce had called seventeen times.

You had not answered. Not because you blamed him. Not exactly. He had shielded you from cameras, ordered security to confiscate footage, rode with you in the ambulance until you refused hospital intake, and looked ready to purchase the entire internet if it meant taking your name off it. But you could not handle his concern. Not yet. Concern became questions. Questions became plans. Plans became rooms you were not allowed to leave “for your own safety.” You had lived long enough to know how quickly protection could grow teeth.

So you went home, locked your door, turned off your phone, and sat on the kitchen floor with your back against the cabinets while the world discovered what you were.

Batman arrived through the fire escape at 2:13 a.m.

You did not look up from your mug of untouched tea. “Window’s locked.”

“It isn’t.”

“That was a moral statement.”

He paused on the other side of the open window, rain sliding off the edges of his cape. “May I come in?”

The question surprised you enough to make you look at him.

Batman stood half-crouched on your fire escape, enormous and impossible against the wet Gotham night. He could have entered without asking. He could have filled your small kitchen with shadow and command and all the authority people gave him because fear looked better in a cape. Instead, he waited in the rain.

You hated that it mattered.

“Fine,” you said.

He stepped inside with the eerie silence of someone who had never once considered entering a room normally. Water dripped onto your floor. You stared at it because staring at him felt too hard.

“If you’re here to ask whether I’m dangerous,” you said, “take a number.”

“I’m not.”

“Whether I can control people?”

“No.”

“Whether I can reform the Joker with the power of friendship?”

His jaw tightened. “No.”

“Good, because absolutely not. I have standards.”

A faint silence followed. It almost felt like Batman did not know what to do with you, which was deeply satisfying considering you did not know what to do with yourself.

He remained near the window. “You saved lives tonight.”

You laughed, but there was no warmth in it. “That’s one headline.”

“It’s the truth.”

“The truth is that tomorrow people will want to test me, hire me, worship me, use me, lock me up, or kill me before someone else does. Probably all before lunch.”

Batman said nothing.

You looked at him then, anger rising because silence was too close to agreement. “Do you know what the worst part is?”

His voice was low. “Tell me.”

You wished he had not said it like that. Like he meant it. Like he would stand there all night and listen if you needed him to. It made you want to throw something. It made you want to cry. Both options felt embarrassing.

“The worst part,” you said, “is that people are going to call it joy. They always do when they find out. Joy powers. Comfort powers. Happiness meta. Like it’s cute. Like I’m some soft little thing that makes everyone feel better and asks for nothing back.”

Batman’s shoulders shifted.

“It isn’t joy,” you continued, voice cracking despite your best efforts. “It’s me taking the moment no one came for me and trying to make sure someone comes for everyone else. It’s not cute. It’s not endless. And it doesn’t work on me.”

The last sentence fell hard.

Batman went very still. You hated that stillness. Hated the feeling that you had just handed a stranger something breakable. Hated that part of you wanted him to be careful with it.

“What happens when you use too much?” he asked.

You smiled without humour. “I get cold. Dizzy. Sometimes I pass out. Sometimes I lose time. Once, I couldn’t feel my hands for two days.”

“And emotionally?”

The question was too precise.

You looked away.

Batman’s voice softened, barely. “What happens emotionally?”

You pressed your fingers against the mug until the ceramic hurt. “I feel empty,” you said. “Like I gave away the last blanket in winter.”

Rain tapped against the window behind him.

For a long time, he did not speak.

Then Batman stepped closer, slowly enough that you could have told him to stop. He crouched in front of you, lowering himself until you were nearly eye level. It was absurd, really. The Batman, crouched on your kitchen floor beside a sad mug of tea and a pile of unopened mail. Gotham would have lost its collective mind.

“You are not a resource,” he said.

Your breath caught. He said it like a vow. Like a law. Like something he intended to enforce personally against the universe.

“You say that now,” you whispered.

“I say it because it’s true.”

“You don’t even know me.”

Batman was quiet for half a second too long. Then he said, “I know enough.”

You frowned. Something in his voice had changed. Something familiar brushed against you, not through your power but through memory. A carefulness. A restraint. A grief held too tightly in the hand.

Before you could catch it, he stood.

“I’ll make sure the footage is buried,” he said. “Wayne’s legal team is already pressuring the outlets.”

You blinked. “How do you know that?”

Batman paused.

It was brief. Too brief, maybe, for anyone else. But you were tired, raw, and suddenly very awake.

“He called me,” Batman said.

“Bruce called Batman.”

“Yes.”

“At two in the morning.”

“Yes.”

“About me.”

“Yes.”

You stared at him. Batman did not move.

The suspicion was ridiculous. Impossible. The sort of thought exhaustion threw at a person when the world had become too strange and needed a punchline. But once it formed, it would not leave. Bruce’s hands catching you at the gala. Bruce moving through masked attackers with impossible precision. Bruce’s voice when he said your name. Batman knowing about the legal team. Batman standing in your kitchen as if he knew exactly how much space to give you.

Your mouth went dry. Batman turned toward the window.

“Wait,” you said.

He stopped.

You rose too quickly. The kitchen tilted, and his hand moved as if to steady you before he forced it back to his side.

That was the moment. Not the voice. Not the timing. Not the impossible shoulders or the familiar restraint.

That little aborted reach. Bruce had done the same thing earlier when you tried to leave the ambulance. He had reached, stopped himself, and waited for permission.

You whispered, “Bruce?”

Batman’s silence answered before he did.

The room seemed to drop out from beneath you.

He turned slowly. For once, the cowl did not make him unreadable. It made the truth crueller. You could not see his whole face, but you could see enough: the tension in his mouth, the grief in his jaw, the way he held himself like a man who had always known this would hurt and had still failed to prevent it.

“Take it off,” you said.

He did not move.

Your voice shook. “Take it off.”

This time, he obeyed.

The cowl came away slowly, revealing damp black hair, bruised skin, and Bruce Wayne’s tired blue eyes.

There he was. The donor in the greenhouse. The man with muddy sleeves fixing a pipe beside you. The billionaire who remembered how the children took their tea. The person who had held you at the gala like losing you would break something vital in him. The shadow in your kitchen. The detective. The lie.

You stepped back until your shoulders hit the counter.

Bruce said your name.

“Don’t.” The word came out smaller than you wanted. You hated that too.

He looked like it hurt him to stop speaking, but he did.

“You knew,” you said.

His face tightened. “Not about your powers. Not until tonight.”

“But you suspected something.”

“Yes.”

“And Batman came here because Bruce couldn’t get me to answer the phone?”

“Yes.”

You laughed once, sharp and wounded. “That is insane. That is actually insane. You know that, right?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t just switch masks when one version of you doesn’t get access to me.”

His eyes closed. Good, some furious part of you thought. 

Then immediately, terribly, your power stirred—not outward, not fully, but instinctively, because Bruce was hurting and your body knew hurt as a call to action. You clamped down on it so hard you nearly swayed.

Bruce noticed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and the words sounded stripped bare. “I came as Batman because I thought you might talk to him when you wouldn’t talk to me. I told myself it was about protecting you.”

“And was it?”

“At first.”

You waited.

Bruce looked at you with all his masks removed and none of his defences gone. “Then I saw you sitting on the floor,” he said. “I heard what it costs you. And I wanted to be someone who could help.”

You swallowed against the tightness in your throat. “You could have been Bruce.”

“I know.”

“You should have trusted me with the choice.”

“I know.”

“You should have told me before I had to figure it out in my kitchen while emotionally nuked and drinking cold tea.”

His mouth twitched with pain, not humour. “Yes.”

You stared at him, furious because he was not arguing, because he was not making this easier by being cruel, because some awful part of you still wanted to cross the room and touch the bruise near his temple.

“You investigated me,” you said.

“Yes.”

“As Batman.”

“Yes.”

“Did you have a file?”

Bruce hesitated. You stared harder.

“Yes,” he admitted.

“Oh, Bruce.”

“I’ll destroy it.”

“That doesn’t undo it.”

“No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”

The anger in you had nowhere clean to go. It moved through your chest in hot, shaking waves, tangling with fear and exhaustion and the worst tenderness you had ever felt. Because you had trusted Bruce. You had trusted Batman too, in a different way. You had let both of them see pieces of you, never knowing you were placing them in the same hands.

“Was any of it real?” you asked.

Bruce looked wounded by the question, but he did not flinch away from it. “Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not saying that because you feel guilty?”

“I do feel guilty,” he said. “But that’s not why I’m saying it.”

You looked at him.

He took one slow breath. “I cared before I knew what you could do. I cared when I watched you help that volunteer fix a planter because you understood that shame can kill growth faster than neglect. I cared when you yelled at me for using the wrong wrench. I cared when you remembered Eli’s jasmine bloomed at night and made sure the gala lights wouldn’t disturb it. I cared when you told a room full of donors that rehabilitation was not charity, it was accountability with room to breathe.”

Your eyes burned.

Bruce’s voice dropped. “I cared when you wouldn’t answer my calls, and I was afraid that every agency, criminal, and desperate person in Gotham was already planning how to take you from your own life. I cared as Bruce. I cared as Batman. I should have trusted you enough to let those be the same person.”

The kitchen was very quiet.

Outside, Gotham muttered in rain and traffic and distant sirens. Inside, Bruce Wayne stood with the Batman’s cowl hanging from one hand, looking like a man who had saved cities and still did not know how to save this moment from what he had done to it.

You wanted to forgive him. That scared you more than the anger. Forgiveness, for you, had too often meant making someone else comfortable with the harm they caused. You were good at that. Too good. You could wrap pain in warmth until the person who hurt you stopped feeling like the villain of the story. But this could not be that. If there was going to be anything after this, it had to begin with him carrying the weight himself.

“I can’t comfort you through this,” you said.

Bruce’s face changed. “I know.”

“No, I need you to really know.” Your voice shook. “I need you to know that I want to. That part of me is looking at you right now and seeing how much you hate yourself, and it wants to make that easier. But I can’t. I won’t. Not this time.”

Bruce set the cowl down on your kitchen table with careful hands. Then he looked back at you. “Good.”

The word knocked you still.

He meant it.

Bruce stepped no closer. “I don’t want your power for this. I don’t want you to make me feel better about hurting you. I want to earn whatever you’re willing to give me after I’ve done the work of being honest.”

Your breath trembled. “That was annoyingly well said.”

“Alfred has been trying to teach me emotional accountability for years.”

“Give him a raise.”

“He already controls the household.”

“Then give him a sword.”

“I suspect he has several.”

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it, small and cracked and terribly inconvenient. Bruce looked at it like a starving man refusing to reach for food that was not his.

You pressed the heel of your hand against your chest. “I’m still angry.”

“You should be.”

“I don’t know what I want.”

“That’s all right.”

“It is absolutely not all right. I prefer knowing things.”

“So do I.”

“And look where that got us.”

His mouth softened in a way that hurt. “Fair.”

You looked at the cowl on your table, then at him. “No more showing up as Batman because Bruce is scared.”

“No.”

“No more files.”

“No.”

“No more deciding what I can handle without asking me.”

Bruce’s answer was immediate. “No.”

You searched his face. It was open in a way you had never seen before, and only then did you realise how much of Bruce Wayne had still been guarded even when he was being sincere. He had let you see warmth, humour, grief, care. But not this. Not the full, frightened truth of him.

“You’re bad at this,” you whispered.

“Yes.”

“So am I.”

“I know.”

You huffed. “Rude.”

“I meant—”

“I know what you meant.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then Bruce said, very softly, “May I stay?”

The question went through you with almost unbearable force. Not because it was dramatic. Because it was not. Because after everything—after the lie, the reveal, the power, the ruined privacy, the cowl on your kitchen table—he asked. He did not assume the right to remain. He did not turn guilt into presence and call it devotion. He placed the choice in your hands and waited.

You looked at the rain-dark window, at the tea gone cold, at the man who had been two men and was now only one, standing in the wreckage of the distance he had built.

“You can sit,” you said finally. “On the floor. Over there.”

Bruce looked at the spot you pointed to beside the refrigerator. Then he nodded solemnly and sat on your kitchen floor in a bat suit. The absurdity of it nearly broke you.

“You look ridiculous,” you said.

“I feel ridiculous.”

“Good.”

He accepted that with a grave little nod.

You slid down the cabinet until you were sitting on the floor again, several feet away from him. The distance mattered. So did the fact that he stayed exactly where you put him. No reaching. No brooding closer. No dramatic shadow nonsense. Just Bruce, damp-haired and bruised, sitting beneath the faint hum of your refrigerator like a man prepared to wait as long as waiting required.

After a while, you said, “My power manifested because I wanted someone to come for me.”

Bruce turned his head toward you, slow and careful.

You stared at your hands. “I was alone. There was this cat. It was hurt. I wanted it to feel safe, and then it did. Everything did. Everything except me.”

His eyes were wet.

He said nothing. Good. You did not need him to fill the room. You needed him to witness it.

“I built my whole life around being what I needed,” you continued. “For animals. For kids. For people like Eli. Even for people who did terrible things, because sometimes if you give someone one second where they don’t feel cornered, they choose not to become worse.” You swallowed. “But I can’t do it for myself. I can make everyone else feel like things can get better. I can’t make myself believe it.”

Bruce’s voice was rough when he finally spoke. “I’m sorry no one came.”

The sentence was simple. It undid you anyway.

You covered your face before the first sob fully escaped, ashamed of how quickly it rose, how violently. Bruce moved, then stopped himself so abruptly you heard his hand hit the floor.

“Can I?” he asked.

You cried harder because he asked.

After a moment, you nodded.

Bruce crossed the kitchen slowly and sat beside you, not pulling you in, not yet. Just close. Just warm. You leaned first. That mattered too. You turned into him with a broken sound, and only then did his arms come around you, careful and solid and shaking slightly at the edges.

Your power did not activate. For once, you did not pour warmth into someone else’s wounds. You did not make Bruce feel forgiven. You did not turn the room golden. You just cried into his shoulder while he held you on your kitchen floor, the cowl sitting on the table like a shed skin, rain tapping softly at the window.

“I’m still mad,” you mumbled eventually.

“I know.”

“I might be mad tomorrow too.”

“I’ll be here if you want me to be.”

“Not as Batman.”

“No,” he said. “As Bruce.”

You closed your eyes.

It was not forgiveness. It was not healing. It was not the neat, shining kind of resolution people liked in stories about soft miracles and hard men.

But Bruce held you, bare-faced and honest at last, and for once the comfort in the room did not come from your power.

It came from staying.

Weeks later, Gotham would still be arguing about you.

The tabloids would give you names you hated. The agencies would make calls Barbara intercepted before they reached your phone. The GCPD would request assistance through formal channels and receive, from Bruce’s legal team, a reply so polite and lethal that even Jason admired it. Wayne Foundation would restructure the conservatory’s privacy protections, install new security, and create a board position for you with full veto power over any use of your name, image, or abilities. Tim would destroy every leaked copy of the gala footage with the feral focus of a sleep-deprived raccoon. Damian would insist the animal wing needed guard protocols. Cass would begin appearing beside you whenever crowds got too close. Duke would walk with you through the city in daylight until being seen felt less like exposure and more like existing. Steph would bring glitter pens and write “NO FREE THERAPY FOR CREEPS” on your planning notebook. Dick would hug you only after asking. Jason would threaten everyone, including several people who deserved it and one printer that jammed at the wrong moment.

And Bruce would tell you the truth. Not perfectly. Never perfectly. He was still Bruce Wayne, a man who could make vulnerability look like dental surgery. Sometimes he went quiet when he should speak. Sometimes he reached for control when he felt afraid. Sometimes you had to look at him and say, “That sounded like Batman making a unilateral decision,” and he would freeze, rethink, and start again.

But he did start again. Choice after choice.

One evening, months after the gala, the repaired conservatory roof caught the sunset in amber panes of light. The jasmine bloomed early in the dusk, filling the air with sweetness. Eli was teaching a new volunteer how to repot a sapling. The lemon tree from the day Bruce met you had new leaves. In the back room, the once-feral cat who had become the conservatory’s unofficial supervisor slept in a patch of warmth with the smugness of a creature who had never paid rent in its life.

Bruce stood beside you near the worktable, sleeves rolled up, soil on his wrist. He was trying to graft a cutting under your instruction and pretending not to be deeply invested in getting it right.

“You’re strangling it,” you said.

“I am not.”

“You’re holding it like it owes you money.”

He loosened his grip immediately.

You smiled. He noticed, because he noticed everything, but he had learned not to look too hungry for your happiness. That was another kind of care. Letting joy exist without grabbing at it.

“You’re better at this,” he said.

“At plants?”

“At broken things.”

You looked down at the cutting in his hands. “Plants aren’t broken because they need help growing.”

Bruce was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “Neither are people.”

You looked at him. The words were yours, almost. Or maybe they had become his, too. That was how healing worked sometimes—not a cure, not a miracle, but a sentence passed carefully from one wounded person to another until both could believe it a little more.

Your power stirred softly in your chest, responding to the tenderness of the moment, ready as ever to move outward.

You let it settle instead.

Bruce saw the effort. His hand turned palm-up on the table between you, an offer, not an expectation.

You placed your hand in his.

No golden warmth. No miracle. No gift given at cost. Just his fingers closing around yours while the conservatory breathed around you, alive with green things and second chances.

Bruce glanced at you, bare-faced in the evening light. “Still mad?”

You considered this with the seriousness it deserved. “Sometimes.”

He nodded. “Fair.”

“But less.”

“That’s something.”

“It is.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles.

Outside, Gotham rumbled on, dark and hungry and endless. There would always be someone who wanted to use a light they did not understand. There would always be fear. There would always be nights when you forgot comfort could belong to you, too. But there would also be this: jasmine blooming in a restored greenhouse, a lemon tree surviving its own breaking, Bruce Wayne holding your hand without hiding, and the quiet, stubborn truth that even a warmth that could not turn inward did not have to stand alone in the cold.

For once, you believed it.

Not because your power made you.

Because someone had stayed long enough to help you learn.

[purplespiritimagines]

the partner you chose - damian wayne

request anon - meta human reader that has like scp 999 powers to spread joy, emotionally comfort and even reformed villains to rehabilitate and their powers manifest back when they feel so alone of wishing someone was there to comfort them and for someone to believe in them that things can be better and so one day their powers got triggered when they wanted to comfort an animal and now they're able to do those things for anyone and anything but sadly can't do so for themselves

content aged up! damian wayne x gn! reader, meta! reader, comfort powers, child assassin upbringing, league of assassins conditioning, children trained as weapons, non-consensual use of emotional/comfort powers in childhood, power used as control, trauma responses, emotional repression, anger suppression, implied childhood neglect/abuse, violence training, death of an adult assassin, psychological conditioning, references to obedience and compliance, old trauma resurfacing, panic/fear responses, power overuse, collapse/near-death scare, injury/blood, attempted execution, partners to lovers, childhood partners to lovers, slow burn excpect im bad at slow burns, hurt/comfort

masterlist

word count 8.1k

Talia al Ghul gave you to Damian as one might give a prince a blade.

Not as a gift. Not exactly. Gifts were soft things, wrapped in silk and sentiment, and the League did not believe in softness unless it could be sharpened into something useful. You were presented as an answer. A safeguard. A living contingency wrapped in a child’s body, standing in the centre of a training hall too large for you, with your hands clasped behind your back and your chin lifted because fear had been corrected out of your posture before it had ever been comforted out of your chest.

Damian was eight. You were near enough to his age that people assumed it mattered.

It did not, not to the League. Children were not children there. Children were potential. Children were weapons still warm from the forge. Children were corrected, honed, praised for obedience and punished for hesitation. Children were told pain was a tutor, fear was a weakness, and love was something other people used to make themselves easier to kill. Damian already knew those lessons. You knew different ones, but they rhymed.

You remembered the first time he looked at you. He stood beside his mother in the training hall, small and severe in black practice clothes, green eyes sharp enough to cut through every adult in the room and still find time to judge the architecture. His hair was damp from training. There was a split near his mouth, already scabbed. He looked at you not like another child, but like a tool he had not requested.

Talia’s hand rested lightly on his shoulder. “This is your new partner.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed.

“I do not require one,” he said. His voice was high with childhood and already heavy with command. You disliked him immediately, which was inconvenient because you had been raised not to dislike assignments.

Talia smiled faintly. “You require many things, my son. You simply do not yet recognise them.”

“I require better opponents.” 

“I agree.” That made his expression sharpen with interest. Then Talia turned to you. Her gaze was beautiful and terrible, like moonlight on a blade. “Show him.”

You did not ask what she meant. Asking would have implied uncertainty. You stepped forward, stopped at the proper distance, and bowed your head. Damian did not bow back. His hands curled at his sides, insulted by your existence.

“Do you intend to fight me?” he asked.

“If commanded.”

His lip curled. “Of course.”

Talia said your name, and the whole room seemed to listen with you. “Calm him.”

Damian’s head snapped toward her. “Mother—”

You reached.

It was not hard then. That was the thing you would later hate remembering. It was easy. Your power moved from you because you had been trained to let it move, because the adults who raised you had understood your gift before you understood yourself. They had taught you that comfort was a weapon with a gentler face. They had taught you that panic could be dulled, rage could be cooled, fear could be softened into compliance. They had never called it kindness. Kindness implied choice.

Warmth left your chest and crossed the distance between you and Damian like breath fogging glass.

He went still. Not docile. Never that. Even at eight, Damian resisted everything on principle, including gravity, sleep, and emotional regulation. But the sharpness in him loosened. His fists uncurled by half a degree. The furious tension in his jaw eased before he could stop it. His eyes widened, not with calm, but with outrage at being made calm.

You felt his anger try to flare and fail.

That was the first time you learned how much Damian hated losing ownership of himself.

It would not be the last.

“What did you do?” he demanded.

You looked to Talia for permission to answer. Damian saw it. His disgust was immediate.

Talia’s smile remained. “They are able to regulate emotional volatility. Fear. Rage. Panic. Distress. The effect is temporary and most useful when paired with discipline.”

“I have discipline,” Damian spat.

“Yes,” Talia said. “And you also have your father’s blood.”

The room changed around that sentence.

You did not know Bruce Wayne then. You did not know Gotham except as the city your handlers spoke of with disdain, as if it were a disease Damian might someday inherit. But you knew, even then, that the mention of his father wounded him in a way he had no language for. You felt the hurt twist under his anger like a hidden blade beneath silk.

Your power moved toward it instinctively.

Damian’s gaze snapped to yours.

“Do not,” he said.

You stopped.

Not because he had asked. Because Talia had lifted one finger.

That distinction would matter later.

At the time, you only lowered your hand and returned to your place.

Talia looked satisfied. “When the time comes for Damian to go to Gotham, you will accompany him.”

Damian’s face darkened. “I will not need a keeper.”

“No,” Talia said softly. “You will need a witness.”

Your assignment was clear. Keep him safe. Keep him focused. Keep him calm when Gotham and blood and Bruce Wayne pulled too hard at the seams of him. You did not understand the shape of that future then. You only understood command.

Damian looked at you like a chain he intended to break. You looked back like a blade meant to hold.

That was how it began: not with affection, not with trust, not with anything resembling softness, but with two children in a hall full of adults who had mistaken usefulness for love and called it training.

You became competent together. 

That was the first kind of intimacy the League allowed. Not friendship. Not tenderness. Not comfort for its own sake. Competence. The clean strike. The silent step. The ability to read the angle of another body mid-fight and know where the next blade would fall. You and Damian learned each other through violence before either of you learned each other through language.

At nine, you knew how he shifted his weight before a left-handed feint. He knew you dropped your right shoulder when preparing to redirect an opponent’s momentum. You knew his anger burned hotter when he was tired, though he would have died before admitting fatigue. He knew your power stuttered if you had not eaten. You knew he hated being corrected in front of others. He knew you hated being praised for making people obedient.

Neither of you said these things aloud. You fought instead.

“Your stance is poor,” Damian told you once after you swept his legs out from under him for the first time.

You stood above him, breathing hard, sweat cooling on your neck. “You are on the floor.”

“Your stance was still poor.”

“You fell to poor technique.”

“I was distracted by its ugliness.”

You kicked his practice blade farther away with the tip of your foot. “Then my ugliness is strategically effective.”

His eyes flashed. Then, to your absolute shock, he smiled.

It was small. Sharp. Gone quickly. But it happened.

You thought about that smile for three days and hated yourself for it.

At ten, he began calling you partner with a sneer.

“Keep up, partner.”

“Do not embarrass me, partner.”

“If you are going to use your ability, do it before the target screams, partner.”

The word was not kind. Not then. It was a designation. A rank. A role assigned by his mother and resented by him with the dedication only Damian could bring to resentment. Still, he used it. Other trainees noticed. Adults noticed. Talia noticed most of all, though she only smiled when she heard it.

You pretended it meant nothing.

Then came the first mission where it mattered.

You were both eleven, sent with a senior assassin to retrieve information from a defector hiding in a border city that smelled of dust, fuel, and oranges rotting in market stalls. The mission should have been simple. Locate. Extract. Return. Instead, the defector had hired mercenaries, and the mercenaries had set the building on fire rather than let the League reclaim what it believed it owned.

Smoke filled the stairwell. The senior assassin went down with a bullet in his throat before either of you had time to process what death looked like when it was not training-room theoretical. Damian lunged toward the shooter with a sound like something torn out of him. You felt it happen before it happened: his rage, sudden and volcanic, grief buried so quickly beneath violence that he would have denied it had ever existed.

You reached for him.

Not because you thought he wanted it. Because that was your purpose.

Your power wrapped around him hard enough to make him stumble.

He turned on you, eyes furious through the smoke. “Release me.”

“You will get us both killed.”

“I gave an order.”

“You are not in command.”

“I am heir to the Demon!”

“You are eleven.”

He looked so offended that, had you not been choking on smoke, you might have laughed.

The shooter fired again. Damian moved. You moved with him. Years later, you would remember the rest in fragments: the heat of the wall against your shoulder, Damian’s hand gripping your sleeve as he pulled you under falling timber, the defector screaming, your power shoved outward to quiet the terror in everyone long enough for Damian to hear the ceiling cracking above you. You both survived. The senior assassin did not.

When you returned, Talia praised Damian for completing the mission. She praised you for keeping him useful.

That night, Damian found you in the training hall long after curfew. You were alone, moving through forms with a practice blade because your hands would not stop shaking and you did not know what else to do with them. You expected him to insult your posture. Instead, he stood in the doorway and watched you for a long time.

“You interfered with me,” he said.

You did not stop moving. “Yes.”

“You used your ability without my consent.”

You did stop then, though at the time the word did not land the way it would years later. Consent was not a concept the League had taught either of you with any sincerity. Orders mattered. Outcomes mattered. Consent was something civilians begged for when they lacked power.

“You were compromised,” you said.

“I was angry.”

“You were reckless.”

“I was grieving.”

The word cracked through the hall.

You looked at him. Damian looked equally startled that he had said it.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then his face hardened. “Do not repeat that.”

“I won’t.”

“If you tell anyone—”

“I won’t.”

His gaze searched your face, suspicious of mercy because no one had taught him what to do with it. Then he gave a stiff nod and turned to leave.

At the doorway, he paused.

“You are still poor in the fourth sequence,” he said.

Your throat tightened with something dangerously close to laughter. “Good night, Damian.”

He left.

You slept better than usual.

Not because your power worked on you. Because, for once, someone had not left the room unchanged.

When Damian went to Gotham, you went with him. By then, you were both thirteen and had become a terrible two-person machine. He was faster. You were steadier. He struck first. You read the room. He carried the bloodline, the name, the terrible expectations of a grandfather who believed legacy was something sharpened against the bones of children. You carried the warmth that kept him from burning too hot when anger clouded the mission. Together, you were efficient enough that adults called it impressive and never once called it sad.

Talia gave you your final orders in a private room before departure.

“Gotham will provoke him,” she said. You stood with your hands behind your back, eyes lowered. Damian was not present. That was intentional. “His father will attempt to change him. The city will soften his discipline. He will feel things he has been trained not to value. You will keep him safe from those feelings until he learns which are useful.”

There was a time you would have accepted that cleanly. By thirteen, something in you had begun to resist. Not openly. Never openly. But Gotham had already started to exist in your imagination as more than a mission site. Damian spoke of it with disdain, but there was always something under the disdain when he mentioned his father. A question he wanted to kill before it could hatch. You had begun to wonder whether feelings were dangerous because they weakened people, or because people who felt too much became harder to command.

You did not say that to Talia. You only bowed your head. “Yes.”

She touched your chin, tilting your face up. Her gaze was cool and assessing. “He trusts you.”

“No,” you said.

Talia smiled. “He trusts your presence. For Damian, that is close.”

You did not know what to do with the warmth that sentence left in your chest.

Then Talia said, “Do not mistake closeness for equality.”

And there it was. The blade beneath the silk.

You arrived in Gotham under a grey sky that looked heavy enough to fall.

Wayne Manor was nothing like the League. That was the first shock. Not because it was less dangerous. In some ways, it felt more dangerous because its softness had no obvious edges. The Manor was vast and old and full of ghosts that did not bother hiding. But it also had warm food. Windows that looked over gardens instead of training yards. A dog that followed Alfred Pennyworth with solemn devotion. A grandfatherly butler who looked at you once and knew too much.

Bruce Wayne looked at Damian like a man trying to identify a wound he had inherited too late. Damian looked at Bruce like a challenge he intended to win. You stood half a step behind Damian because that was where you had always stood: close enough to reach him, not close enough to imply he needed anyone.

Bruce’s eyes flicked to you. He knew immediately that you were not merely a companion. Batman always knew where the hidden weapons were.

“And you are?” he asked.

You gave your name.

Damian answered for you. “My partner.”

Bruce’s gaze sharpened.

Not servant. Not guard. Not handler.

Partner.

Damian seemed to realise what he had said only after he said it. His jaw tightened, daring anyone in the room to challenge the word.

Bruce did not. Alfred, however, looked briefly pleased.

That was how Gotham began teaching both of you treason. Not through rebellion. Not through some dramatic escape from everything you had known. Through small, unbearable corrections.

Alfred asked before touching your shoulder. Dick Grayson crouched to Damian’s eye level after a fight instead of standing over him, which made Damian threaten him with three separate injuries and then follow him around the next day like an offended shadow.

Bruce told you that you were allowed to eat whenever you were hungry, not only at assigned times. You did not believe him.

Then he proved it by leaving food where you and Damian could find it after training.

Tim Drake, exhausted and sharp-eyed, watched you calm Damian after a particularly brutal argument with Bruce and later asked, “Did he say yes?”

You blinked. “What?”

“To whatever you just did.”

You frowned at him.

Tim’s face had been pale in the Batcave light, eyes ringed with sleepless bruises, but his voice was steady. “Your ability. Did Damian agree to it?”

No one had asked you that before.

You looked over at Damian. He stood across the cave, arms folded, fury softened by the faint residue of your power. He was still angry, but less sharp. Easier. Safer for the room.

You had done that. You had always done that.

“He was angry,” you said.

Tim’s expression did not change. “That isn’t consent.”

The sentence lodged in you like glass.

You hated him for it for three days. Then you hated yourself for much longer.

Damian noticed the shift before anyone else. Of course he did.

He found you on the roof of the Manor at dusk, sitting beside a stone gargoyle with your knees drawn up, watching the grounds darken under evening mist. Gotham spread beyond the trees in the distance, all teeth and lights, and for the first time since arriving, you wondered what it would be like to walk into the city without a mission.

Damian climbed onto the roof beside you with the ease of someone who had never respected architecture as a boundary.

“You have been avoiding me,” he said.

You did not look at him. “No.”

“You are lying poorly.”

“I learned from you.”

His eyes narrowed. “I do not lie poorly.”

“You lie loudly.”

“That is not a category.”

“It is when you do it.”

He sat beside you, leaving more space than usual. That was new. Damian had always moved like space belonged to him by right. Now he seemed aware of the distance between your shoulders.

“You no longer use your ability when I am angry,” he said.

Your stomach tightened. “I thought you disliked it.”

“I do.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“Because you have stopped without explanation.”

You looked down at your hands. They were older now than they had been in Talia’s hall. Still young, yes, but no longer the hands of the child who had first reached for Damian on command and thought obedience was the same thing as purpose.

“Tim said something,” you admitted.

Damian’s face darkened on principle. “Drake says many things. Most are tedious.”

“He asked if you consented.”

The word sat between you. Damian went still.

You braced for anger. For pride. For dismissal.

Instead, he looked away.

The silence stretched so long you nearly filled it.

Then Damian said, “In the League, consent was irrelevant.”

“Yes.”

“They used your power as they used my blade.”

The accuracy of that hurt. “Yes.”

His jaw tightened. “That does not mean it should remain irrelevant.”

You looked at him then. Damian’s expression was hard, but not at you. Or not only at you. He stared out over the grounds like he could see every adult who had ever called his obedience strength.

“I did not understand that before,” he said.

“Neither did I.”

“You should have.”

The words struck, but not cruelly. Damian did not say it to wound. He said it because truth, once found, had to be held sharp.

“Yes,” you whispered. “I should have.”

His gaze flicked back to yours.

For the first time, he looked uncertain. That frightened you more than his anger ever had.

“I should have as well,” he said.

You swallowed.

Neither of you apologised then. Not properly. You were both still learning that apology was not weakness performed after failure, but a way of returning choice to the person harmed. Instead, Damian held out his hand between you, palm up, stiff as if he expected the gesture to be mocked by the roof tiles themselves.

You stared at it.

He looked profoundly irritated by his own vulnerability. “Do not make me regret this.”

“I was not doing anything.”

“You were looking.”

“It is a hand, Damian.”

“It is an offer.”

Your breath caught.

He looked away. “If you are uncertain whether you are permitted to use your ability, you will ask.”

“And if you are too angry to answer?”

“Then you will not.”

“What if you hurt someone?”

His jaw tightened. “Then I will be responsible for what I do.”

The sentence chilled you.

Not because he was wrong. Because it was the first time you understood how much responsibility he had been denied by people who claimed to be shaping him for greatness.

You placed your hand in his.

Not to calm him. Just to hold.

Damian’s fingers closed around yours, careful and awkward and very warm.

Your power stirred instinctively. You kept it inside.

His eyes flicked to you.

“I did not feel anything,” he said.

“No.”

“Good.”

But he did not let go.

Years moved strangely after that.

You and Damian grew up in Gotham and against Gotham, which was to say neither of you did it gracefully. He fought with Bruce. You fought with Bruce. Damian fought with you about fighting with Bruce because apparently hypocrisy was genetic. You both learned civilian clothes, public transport, school schedules, movie nights, galas, grief without immediate violence, and the strange humiliation of being asked what you wanted to eat instead of being handed rations.

Damian acquired animals the way other people acquired hobbies. Titus came first, then Alfred the Cat, then a sequence of creatures who were meant to be temporary and absolutely were not. You suspected Damian used animals as emotional intermediaries long before he admitted he had emotions requiring mediation. If you had a bad day, a cat appeared in your lap. If you overused your power helping a frightened civilian after a mission, Titus was commanded to sit on your feet with the solemn weight of a medical prescription. If you cried once, silently, in the barn after failing to calm a rescued horse that had been beaten too badly to trust hands, Damian entered without a word, sat beside you, and placed a baby goat against your side.

You looked at him through tears. “Is this your solution?”

He stood with his arms folded, trying very hard to look like someone who did not care whether the goat began chewing your sleeve. “She is small and warm.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is an accurate assessment.”

“You brought me an emotional support goat.”

“You were distressed.”

“I am still distressed. Now I’m being eaten.”

“The goat finds your clothing comforting.”

You laughed then, unwilling and broken.

Damian looked away, but not before you saw relief move through him.

That was how he loved for years before either of you named it: practical, absurd, slightly imperious, and filtered through animals whenever direct tenderness threatened to kill him on sight.

You remained partners.

The word changed shape as you aged. At fifteen, it meant someone who knew your blind spots in combat and would insult them afterwards. At seventeen, it meant the person beside you on rooftops, shoulder to shoulder, watching Gotham’s lights pulse below like a living thing. At nineteen, it meant the one person Damian would allow to see him after nightmares from the League, though he insisted they were not nightmares but “memory irregularities,” which was such a Tim-adjacent phrase that you threatened to tell him.

At twenty-one, it meant something neither of you had language for because every available word felt too soft, too exposed, too likely to make the other person look away.

You loved Damian by then. You had probably loved him long before. Childhood had been survival, rivalry, shared conditioning, the terrible loyalty of two weapons stored in the same room. But as adults, as both of you became people in the spaces between missions, love arrived quietly and then behaved like it had always owned the place.

You loved the way he frowned when concentrating on delicate animal care, hands that could wield a sword with lethal grace becoming impossibly gentle around a bird’s broken wing. You loved the way he argued with paintings at galas under his breath. You loved that he remembered every tea you liked and still pretended Alfred had selected it. You loved his rare smiles, not because they were rare, but because he had fought so hard to keep anything in himself soft enough to produce them.

Damian, for his part, did not realise he loved you until you almost died.

Which was very dramatic of him. You would later point that out. He would deny it. Poorly.

The mission began with League defectors disappearing from Gotham.

They were not good people. That was important. Some had been children once, like you and Damian, raised into violence before they could name themselves. Others had been adults who chose cruelty and later found it less profitable than regret. All of them had fled something. All of them were vanishing from safehouses that should have been secure, leaving behind bloodless rooms and the faint scent of incense used in old League rites.

Bruce wanted to handle it quietly. Damian wanted to handle it violently. You wanted everyone to stop using “handle” when they meant “control the consequences of trauma before they inconvenience the mission.”

This, naturally, led to an argument in the Cave.

“They are being hunted,” Damian said, standing before the computer with his arms crossed and fury held rigid in every line of him. At twenty-one, he had grown into his height and his father’s silence, but his anger remained entirely his own: sharp, bright, and too honest for the room. “Delay will cost lives.”

“Charging in without knowing who is taking them will cost more,” Bruce said.

“You mean it will cost people you have deemed strategically useful.”

Bruce’s face tightened. “Damian.”

You leaned against the medbay railing, arms folded. “He is not wrong.”

Bruce looked at you. Damian looked at you too, but his expression carried the faint surprise he always had when you agreed with him publicly, as if after years of partnership he still expected betrayal from every corner of every room.

You softened before you could stop yourself. He looked away first.

Tim, from the computer, coughed in a way that sounded suspiciously like amusement.

Damian glared at him. “Do you require medical assistance, Drake?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Then be silent.”

“Great teamwork, everyone.”

The case led to an abandoned monastery north of the city, a place Gotham had not swallowed only because it sat beyond the reach of its worst habits. Snow clung to the stone steps. Black trees surrounded the grounds, their branches thin and clawlike against the moon. The air smelled wrong before you crossed the outer wall: incense, iron, and the cold, bitter residue of old conditioning.

Damian felt it too. He stopped beside you beneath the shadow of a broken archway, one gloved hand near his sword.

“This place is designed to provoke memory,” he said.

You looked at him. “League?”

“Older.”

That meant worse.

You reached out—not with power, only with your hand—and touched his sleeve. “Do you want me close?”

His jaw shifted. There was a time he would have considered the question insulting. Now he only said, “Yes.”

The word warmed you more than your power ever could.

You moved together through the monastery as you had in childhood, but everything was different now. The rhythm remained: Damian forward, you angled behind and to the left, both of you reading each shift of shadow, each breath of stone, each space too quiet to be empty. But where once you had been a tool assigned to his control, now every movement was chosen. You did not enter his emotional field without permission. He did not command your power like a tactical resource. You asked. He answered. The partnership had become honest in the years it took to name the old dishonesty.

Then the chanting started.

It came from below. Not loud. Not dramatic. A low murmur moving through the stone, syllables in an old League dialect you had not heard since childhood. Your body reacted before thought did, spine stiffening, breath narrowing. Beside you, Damian went utterly still.

“Do not listen,” he said.

His voice was flat. Too flat.

“Damian.”

“I am fine.”

“Liar.”

His mouth twitched, but it did not last.

The chanting deepened.

A memory slammed through you—not yours exactly, not his, but the shared architecture of where you had been raised. Training halls. Cold floors. Adults saying again. Blood wiped from children’s mouths. Talia’s voice telling you that closeness was not equality. Damian at eight years old glaring at you because you had calmed him against his will and he had hated the relief almost as much as the violation.

Your power stirred anxiously. You kept it locked down.

Damian’s breathing changed.

“Do you want help?” you asked softly.

“No.”

You nodded once. “Okay.”

He looked at you then, and something flickered across his face. Trust, perhaps. Or fear of what trust made possible.

You continued downward. The chamber beneath the monastery had once been used for prayer. Now it had been turned into something uglier. The missing defectors knelt in a circle around a shallow pit filled with black water. Their eyes were open but unfocused, mouths moving with the chant. At the far end of the chamber stood a woman in League robes, older than either of you but not old enough to have trained Damian directly. Her face was painted with symbols of loyalty and severance.

Damian inhaled sharply. You felt recognition move through him like a blade sliding free.

“Who is she?” you whispered.

“A remnant,” he said. “My grandfather’s loyalist. Safiya.”

Safiya smiled.

“Prince,” she said.

Damian’s face closed.

You hated the title in her mouth. It did not sound like respect. It sounded like ownership dusted off and presented as heritage.

“And the keeper,” Safiya continued, eyes moving to you. “Still at his side. How touching. How predictable.”

Your hand curled.

Damian stepped forward. “Release them.”

Safiya laughed softly. “You sound like your father when you command mercy. It does not suit you.”

Damian’s jaw tightened.

The chanting rose. The defectors began to shake. You felt the emotional field in the room twist, not natural panic but conditioned obedience being pulled open. The words were old triggers. Not one command, but many. Loyalty. Shame. Return. Submit. Bleed. The room was a machine built from memory, and every survivor inside it was being dragged back toward the shape their captors had carved into them.

Then the chant changed.

Your blood went cold. The new phrase was one you knew. So did Damian.

You had heard it in training as children, spoken when Damian’s anger became too unruly and your handlers wanted him brought under control. The phrase did not belong to you, not truly, but it had always preceded your use of power on him. Calm the heir. Still the blade. Preserve the mission.

Safiya’s smile widened.

“They know,” she said to Damian. “They remember what they were made for.”

Damian’s eyes snapped to you.

You shook your head once. “No.”

The chanting struck him. Not magically, not fully, but psychologically, brutally. It found the old pathways. The child trained to obey. The heir trained to endure. The boy whose emotions had been managed by everyone around him until he learned to seal them away before anyone else could touch them.

Damian staggered.

You moved toward him.

He lifted one hand. “Do not.”

You stopped so hard it hurt.

His breathing was ragged. His eyes were bright with fury and memory, but he was still there. Still choosing. Still fighting in the only way that mattered.

Safiya tilted her head. “He will break before he asks.”

You looked at her. The old you would have reached for Damian because someone had commanded it. The frightened you would have reached because you could not bear to watch him suffer. The person you had become stood still and let Damian own his pain.

“Damian,” you said, voice shaking but clear, “I am here. I will not touch it unless you ask.”

His eyes closed.

The chanting battered the chamber. A defector screamed. Safiya’s hand moved toward a blade. Damian’s hand shook around his sword.

Then he opened his eyes.

“Not me,” he said.

You blinked. 

His gaze moved past you to the defectors kneeling around the pit. “Help them.”

Your heart twisted. “Damian—”

“I can endure this,” he said through clenched teeth. “They cannot.”

The old partnership would have obeyed the mission. The new one understood the cost.

You nodded.

Then you opened your power.

Not toward Damian. Toward the circle.

Warmth moved from you in a wide, aching wave, flowing over the kneeling defectors, through the chant, into the conditioned terror and shame clawing at their nervous systems. You asked without words because some of them had no access to language inside the trigger. You offered. You did not command. You made a room inside the compulsion where choice could stand again.

One by one, the defectors stopped chanting. One by one, they began to cry.

Safiya’s expression twisted. “You waste it.”

“No,” you said, cold sweat breaking along your skin. “I return it.”

Damian moved. He hit Safiya like judgment given a body. Not rage unchecked. Not conditioning. Not the League’s perfect blade. Damian, choosing violence with clarity, which was far more frightening. Their fight cut across the chamber in flashes of steel and shadow. You held the emotional field around the defectors as they crawled back from the pit, shaking and sobbing. The power drained you fast. Too fast. The chamber was heavy with old terror, and every life you held steady pulled warmth from your bones.

Damian disarmed Safiya. She fell hard against the stone. He stood above her, sword at her throat.

“Do it,” she hissed. “Prove you are still ours.”

The chamber went silent.

You were on your knees now, one hand braced against the freezing floor, power flickering at the edges. You felt Damian’s anger rise, terrible and clean. You felt the old wound beneath it. You felt the child in him who had been told mercy was weakness and the man who had spent years deciding that did not make it true.

You did not reach for him. You trusted him.

Damian’s blade trembled once. Then he lowered it.

“No,” he said. “I am mine.”

Safiya’s face changed.

Not fear. Defeat.

It should have ended there. Naturally, it did not, because Gotham and its surrounding cursed architecture had no respect for emotional climaxes.

Safiya’s hand slammed against a hidden trigger in the stone.

The pit ignited green. Not Lazarus, not exactly, but something related, something stolen and altered and spiritually rancid. The defectors screamed as the chamber shook. Stone cracked overhead. Damian turned toward you.

You saw the ceiling give before he did.

There was no time for strategy. No time for consent. No time for any ethical shape clean enough to survive impact.

You threw your power wide.

Not at Damian’s emotions. At everything. The room. The defectors. The terror. The stampede that would have crushed half of them. The panic that would have frozen the rest. You gave every piece of warmth you had left to make the chamber survivable for the seconds it needed to be survived. People moved. Breathed. Crawled. Chose.

Damian reached you just as the first stones fell.

“Partner!” he shouted.

It was not a command. It was terror.

You smiled at him, which was rude of you, really. Very inconsiderate. Dramatically timed. He would later be furious about it.

Then the ceiling came down between you.

You woke to arguing. This was not unusual. In your life, waking to arguing usually meant you were alive and surrounded by Waynes, which were closely related conditions.

“You should have extracted them before the chamber destabilised,” Bruce was saying somewhere nearby, voice low and grim.

“I was occupied preventing an execution,” Damian snapped.

“You were triggered.”

“I remained in control.”

“You almost—”

“I did not.”

“Enough,” Alfred said.

The silence that followed was immediate. Powerful man, Alfred Pennyworth.

You opened your eyes.

The medbay ceiling of the Cave stared back at you, bright and unpleasant. Your whole body felt scraped empty, like someone had taken your bones out, filled the spaces with snow, and put everything back slightly wrong. A blanket covered you. An IV ran into your arm. Titus lay beside the cot with his head on your calf, which meant Damian had either ordered medical support or prescribed dog again.

You turned your head.

Damian sat beside you. He looked wrecked. Not visibly, perhaps, to anyone who did not know him. His posture remained straight. His clothes were clean. Someone had bandaged a cut along his temple. But his face had the rigid stillness of a man holding himself together with wire.

When he saw you awake, that wire nearly snapped.

“You are an idiot,” he said.

Your throat was dry. “Good morning to you too.”

“It is evening.”

“Then I’ve been efficient.”

His eyes narrowed. “Do not make jokes.”

“Have we met?”

Titus lifted his head and thumped his tail once.

Damian glared at the dog. “Do not encourage them.”

You smiled faintly, then winced because even that hurt.

Damian’s expression shifted immediately. “Do not move.”

“You’re very commanding for someone who once got emotionally outmanoeuvred by a baby goat.”

“That goat was a menace.”

“She was three weeks old.”

“She had intent.”

A laugh scraped out of you, weak and painful.

Damian looked away.

That was when you noticed his hands. They were shaking.

Barely. But they were.

You looked at them, then at his face. “Damian.”

“No.”

“I haven’t asked anything.”

“You are about to ask if I am all right.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

The answer came so quickly it stole the air from you.

Damian looked equally shocked by it.

Bruce, Alfred, and everyone else had vanished at some point. Or perhaps Alfred had removed them with eyebrow-based authority. Either way, the medbay was quiet now except for the hum of machines and Titus’s breathing.

Damian stared at the floor.

“I thought you were dead,” he said.

The words were flat. Too flat. You had known Damian since childhood. You had watched him bleed, rage, train, fail, learn, unlearn, rebuild. You had seen him face assassins, monsters, family dinners, and therapy-adjacent conversations with equal hostility. But you had rarely heard him sound young.

He sounded young then.

Your chest ached. “I’m not.”

“I am aware.”

“You sound angry about it.”

“I am angry that you made it uncertain.”

You tried to shift closer. Pain sparked through your ribs. Damian’s hand moved toward you, then stopped in midair.

Permission. Even now. Even terrified.

You could have cried.

“You can touch me,” you whispered.

His hand settled around yours with exquisite care.

No power moved between you. Damian looked at your joined hands like he was making sure.

Then he said, “When the ceiling fell, I could not reach you.”

“I know.”

“I have always been able to reach you.”

Your throat tightened.

That was true in ways neither of you had ever named. On training floors. In smoke-filled stairwells. On Gotham rooftops. Across years of anger, obedience, rebellion, and the slow, painful education of becoming people instead of weapons. Damian had always known where you were in a fight. You had always known how close you could stand before his anger became too much or not enough. Even when you argued, even when you hurt each other, even when you had to relearn the ethics of every touch, you had been reachable.

The ceiling falling between you had broken a rule older than either of you understood.

“I’m here now,” you said.

His grip tightened. “Yes.”

Silence.

Then, because you were exhausted and therefore foolishly brave, you said, “You called me partner.”

His eyes snapped to yours. “You are my partner.”

“I know.”

“In combat.”

“I know.”

“In missions.”

“I know.”

“In—” He stopped.

There it was. The thing in the room. The word that had followed you from childhood like a shadow and changed shape while neither of you were looking.

Damian released a slow breath. “When I believed you dead, I did not think of the mission.” You went still. “I did not think of Father. Or the League. Or the defectors. Or whether Safiya had escaped.” His voice lowered. “I thought only that there would be no world in which I could accept your absence.”

Your heart thudded once, hard.

Damian looked furious with himself for every word and determined to say them anyway. It was perhaps the bravest you had ever seen him.

“You have been beside me since before I understood what choice meant,” he said. “At first, because you were placed there. Then, because our training demanded it. Then, because habit made it easier not to question.” His thumb moved, barely, against your knuckles. “But somewhere, without my permission and therefore quite rudely, you became the person I would choose in every life where choice is offered to me.”

Your eyes burned. “Damian.”

“I am not finished.”

Of course not.

You nodded, tears slipping quietly down your face.

“I believed partnership meant efficiency,” he said. “Compatibility in combat. Shared objectives. Mutual reliance. I did not understand why your absence from a room altered its structure. Why your disapproval troubled me more than Father’s. Why I found myself bringing you animals when words failed, or learning your tea preferences, or delaying patrol by thirteen minutes because you once said the sunset from the east gargoyle was tolerable.”

“You counted the minutes?”

“I count many things.”

“Romantic.”

His mouth twitched despite himself.

Then his expression became painfully open.

“I love you,” Damian said.

The words did not arrive soft.

They arrived like a blade laid down. A surrender, not to defeat, but to truth.

You cried harder, which seemed to alarm him.

“I have upset you.”

“No,” you said, laughing through it. “No, you emotionally constipated menace, I love you too.”

His face went very still.

Then all at once, he looked breathless. “You do?”

“I have loved you for years.”

“Years.”

“Yes.”

His brows drew together. “That is an unreasonable amount of time to conceal relevant information.”

You laughed so hard your ribs protested. “Ow. Do not make me laugh.”

“You are the one who withheld intelligence.”

“I was in love with you, Damian, not filing a mission report.”

“One can be both.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet.”

“And yet,” you whispered.

He looked at your mouth then. Not subtle. Damian had never been good at wanting quietly once he realised wanting was allowed.

Your breath caught.

“May I kiss you?” he asked.

You smiled through tears. “You’re asking?”

His expression sobered. “Always.”

That broke something soft and sacred in you.

“Yes,” you whispered. “You may.”

Damian leaned in slowly, as if every inch mattered because every inch was chosen. His free hand rose to your cheek, stopped just before touching, and waited until you nodded. Then his fingers settled against your skin, warm and careful. The kiss itself was softer than anyone would have believed of him, except you. You knew his softness. You had watched him learn it like a forbidden language, awkward syllable by awkward syllable, until it became something he could speak with hands, animals, tea, silence, and now his mouth against yours.

No power moved between you. None was needed.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I did not feel anything,” he murmured.

You smiled. “Rude.”

His eyes opened, alarmed. “I meant your ability.”

“I know.”

His expression flattened. “You are intolerable.”

“You love me.”

“Yes,” he said, with such immediate certainty that your smile trembled. “I do.”

The aftermath took time.

Of course it did. Neither of you had been raised to believe healing could be gentle. The League had taught correction. Gotham taught consequence. Love, you learned, taught repetition. Damian did not become soft in the way poets made softness sound easy. He remained sharp, proud, exacting, occasionally insufferable, and deeply committed to pretending he did not enjoy family game night. You did not become perfectly ethical, perfectly healed, perfectly free of the instinct to comfort first and ask later when fear got too loud. But you both practised.

That was the word neither of you had been given as children.

Practice.

Damian practised asking for help before rage turned his body into a locked room. You practised letting him be angry without reaching for the warmth inside you like a leash made of good intentions. He practised saying, “I am afraid,” with the expression of a man volunteering for execution. You practised saying, “I cannot help tonight,” and believing that refusal did not make you useless.

Sometimes he asked for your power.

Not often. Never casually.

The first time after the monastery, he stood in your doorway after a nightmare, barefoot and furious with himself, Alfred the Cat tucked under one arm like a hostage.

“I do not forgive the League for making this difficult,” he said.

You sat up in bed, instantly awake. “That is very fair.”

“I do not wish to be alone.”

You softened. “Do you want comfort or company?”

His jaw worked.

“Company first,” he said.

So you made space.

He sat beside you with the cat between you like a chaperone from hell. You did not touch his emotions. You did not reach for his fear. You talked until his breathing evened. You sat in silence until silence stopped feeling like abandonment.

Later, when dawn began to grey the windows, he said, “Now.”

You looked at him.

He stared at the floor. “If you are willing.”

Your throat tightened. “Tell me what you want.”

“Not peace,” he said. “Peace would be dishonest.”

You waited.

“Only enough warmth that the memory knows it is not the present.”

You held out your hand. He took it. You let your power move in a careful thread, exactly as asked. Not to erase. Not to correct. Not to make him easier. Only to help the part of him still trapped in old halls remember that he was in Gotham now, in your room, with a cat purring like an engine between you and morning arriving despite everything.

After a few seconds, he said, “Enough.”

You stopped.

Damian’s fingers remained around yours.

“That was acceptable,” he said.

You smiled. “High praise.”

“It was.”

“I know.”

He looked at you then, and there was something almost shy beneath the imperious tilt of his chin. “You may kiss me.”

You laughed. “May I?”

“I am offering.”

“You are very generous.”

“Do not be tiresome.”

You kissed him. He kissed back with a warmth no power had made.

Years ago, Talia had placed you beside Damian as one might give a prince a blade.

She had been wrong. You were not his blade. He was not your mission.

The League had made you weapons and called it destiny. Gotham had made you survivors and called it Tuesday. But somewhere between childhood orders and adult choices, between old violations and new consent, between every time one of you said partner and meant something more than survival, you had become people who could choose each other without command.

One evening months later, you found Damian in the barn with Titus, Alfred the Cat, two recovering pigeons, a three-legged fox, and the baby goat, now larger and somehow more judgmental.

“This is becoming excessive,” you said from the doorway.

Damian looked up from bandaging the fox’s paw. “They require care.”

“You have an army.”

“I have standards.”

“You have a goat eating your shoelace.”

He glanced down. The goat was, indeed, eating his shoelace. “She is expressing affection.”

“She is consuming you.”

“Love requires sacrifice.”

You stared at him. He looked back, perfectly serious for exactly three seconds before the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

Your heart filled so abruptly it hurt.

No power. No mission. No old command curling around your ribs.

Just Damian, older now, still sharp and still healing, sitting among rescued creatures in the warm hay-gold light of evening. Just you, leaning against the doorway, wanted for reasons that had nothing to do with usefulness. Just the word partner between you, no longer a chain or assignment or tactical designation.

A choice.

Damian held out one hand. You crossed the barn and took it.

His thumb brushed your knuckles.

“Are you well?” he asked.

The question was simple. It had taken both of you years to learn how to ask it.

You looked at him, then at the animals, then at the fading light beyond the open doors.

“I think so,” you said.

Damian studied you carefully. Then he nodded, accepting the answer not because it was complete, but because it was yours.

“Good,” he said. “Sit. The goat has missed you.”

“The goat has missed my sleeves.”

“She is complex.”

“She is a menace.”

“She is family.”

You sat beside him, laughing softly, and the goat immediately began chewing the hem of your shirt.

Damian looked smug.

You bumped his shoulder with yours.

He leaned back.

Only slightly. Only enough.

Outside, Gotham waited with all its teeth and shadows. The world was not fixed. Neither were you. Neither was Damian. But the barn was warm, and his hand was in yours, and no one had ordered either of you to stay.

You stayed anyway.

That was the miracle.

[that-bi-bitch-writes]

my tumblr won’t let me hit “show more replies” so i have to wait to get to a computer to see more than 3 comments on one reply chain

[that-bi-bitch-writes]

im never specific with batdad’s age and that’s on purpose. i just want everyone to know that he’s older than america. no other hints

i made changes to his mythos the more i wrote because originally he was supposed to be really rich because he’s old enough to have come to america and rack up a lot of money over the centuries but i didn’t want him to be in this country during slavery or segregation because it’s not in his character to support slavery/racism, but also because readers like me who are poc don’t have to deal with the dilemma of well how would i be able to amass wealth in this country without being white and would i like to imagine myself as passive during the brutal history of this country

so i’ve been vague with what happened in between him leaving his island and the canon. so far all we have is that hephaestus sends [name] to america, and at some point during those 36 years in between his arrival in america and [name]’s confrontation with Diana is when the sons of themyscira were murdered.

i forgot that mt etna was not on a magical islamd like themyscira so i always had [name] say my island…turns out that island is ITALY. and Jason (the triplet) is in GREECE.

i’ve been playing around with the idea of [name] being on a magical journey before he gets to america. like what if for 50 years he’s sailing? it obviously doesn’t take that long to go from italy to america but what if he comes across a bunch of remote islands and starts exploring his demigod abilities beyond what he learned from hephaestus and ares. it could also be when he finds out about his siblings and their destinies. then when he comes to america he’s amassed a whole bunch of knowledge, wisdom, demigod skills, as well as having learned to live off the land. that would be such a cute chapter in his life but i fear no one would want to read it because bruce and the kids aren’t involved.

timeline would go like this: 250+ years ago the triplets were born, split up as babies. they grow up become full adults and live as adults for 200+ years. however many of those years pass, [name] gets on the boat to america, journeys for 50 years, arrives in america. then [name] works for fifteen years, earns his phd at some point during that time, moves to gotham, meets bruce, boom the story starts from chapter one. they date for two years, get married when bruce is 26 they adopt richard when bruce is 28 yadda yadda (i have an actual outline of every arc, every robin run and ages of everybody during major moments in the story)

[purplespiritimagines]

⏤ (⁠✿) in bloom

request hey can I make a request of the batfamily with a magical reader creature, like without having the human appearance. preferably an elf with very long limbs, with only four claws fingers, with the appearance of a flower or tree, very long and extremely tall hair and with eyes of a single color, all that weird combo. Imagine can be as you want.

content tim drake x elf-like!reader, gn!reader, xenophobia, discrimination and dehumanisation based on nonhuman appearance, invasive curiosity and accidental boundary violations, surveillance, medical/scientific testing themes, contingency plans for restraint/incapacitation/death, insomnia, severe sleep deprivation, caffeine dependence, unhealthy work habits, self-neglect, anxiety, obsessive behaviour, controlling behaviour framed through fear/protectiveness, tracking devices, arguments about privacy and autonomy, emotional manipulation through overwork/avoidance, vigilante violence, gunshot injuries, blood, magical injuries, painful healing, mild body horror(?), discussions of death and mortality, lifespan differences, fear of losing or outliving a partner, grief, historical loss, erased cultures and places, emotional repression, abandonment fears, self-worth issues, hurt/comfort

characters bruce wayne, dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake, damian wayne, duke thomas, stephanie brown

masterlist | tim masterlist

tim drake, 8.1k

Tim’s first reaction to seeing you is not fear. It is, unfortunately for you, interest. You would almost prefer fear. Fear is simple. Fear keeps humans at a distance. Fear makes them run, reach for weapons, whisper prayers or decide immediately that you are something better left alone.

Tim Drake sees an eight-foot-tall creature crouched on the edge of a Gotham rooftop, with limbs so long they fold around your body at strange angles, four clawed fingers curled into the stone beneath you and hair spilling down several floors like a flowering waterfall—and his first instinct is to lean closer.

Not physically. He does have some survival instincts. But mentally? Tim is already gone. His brain is moving faster than the rest of him.

Height approximately eight and a half feet while crouched. Unknown maximum extension. Digit structure inconsistent with human evolutionary lineage. Plant material appears integrated rather than decorative. Eyes reflect light differently from known metahumans. Possible connection to the Green? Magic? Extra-dimensional origin?

You turn your solid-coloured eyes towards him. Tim freezes.

You say, “You have been staring at me for forty-three seconds.”

Tim checks the timer on his gauntlet. Forty-four. He looks back at you. “Sorry.” A pause. “Can I ask you something?”

Your ears lower. “No.”

Tim has never been more intrigued in his life.

Tim spends the first several meetings trying very hard not to interrogate you. The emphasis is on trying. He knows he can be intense. He knows that people do not generally enjoy being approached by a sleep-deprived vigilante carrying three scanners and a notebook. So he makes an effort. A terrible one.

“Is your hair technically keratin-based?” You stare at him. Tim immediately grimaces. “Sorry. That sounded invasive.”

“Yes.”

“Right.”

Silence.

Tim waits approximately nine seconds. “Do the flowers share your nervous system?”

You slowly turn your head. “Timothy.”

He brightens. “You remembered my name.”

“You have said it twelve times.”

“Still counts.”

You consider leaving. Tim starts talking again.

You do leave.

The problem is not that Tim sees you as a specimen. At least, not exactly. The problem is that Tim sees the entire world as a puzzle and loves puzzles more than is probably healthy. When the Batcomputer crashes, he wants to know why. When a coffee maker makes a noise it did not make yesterday, Tim takes it apart. When somebody uses a slightly different phrase in conversation, he remembers it for weeks.

So when you arrive—something completely outside every neat category he understands—his curiosity becomes nearly unbearable.

You initially think this means he does not see you as a person. That misunderstanding lasts until you watch Tim spend three hours investigating why one of Alfred’s ovens heats two degrees warmer on the left side.

You stand behind him. “Timothy.”

“Yeah?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“The temperature inconsistency affects baking time.”

“By how much?”

“About thirty seconds.”

You stare. Tim keeps working. Something finally clicks.

“You are like this with everything.”

Tim looks over his shoulder. “Like what?”

“Insufferable.”

“Oh.” He considers that. “Yeah.”

From that point onward, his questions become slightly less offensive. Only slightly.

Tim is the first person to realise that the way your body works does not fit neatly into either biology or magic. Bruce collects information to prepare. Tim collects information because uncertainty makes his skin itch. He expects rules. Everything has rules. Magic insists that it does not, but Tim is convinced magic only says that because nobody has collected enough data yet.

Then there is you. You photosynthesise. But not consistently. You eat ordinary food. But some human plants are toxic to you while others that should be toxic have no effect at all. Your blood resembles sap. Except chemically it is not sap. Your flowers respond to emotions. Except they also respond to weather. Your body temperature changes with environmental conditions. Except sometimes it rises sharply during spellwork.

Tim spends weeks trying to find patterns.

One evening, he is staring at an entire wall covered in notes. You stand beside him. “Have you considered that I am simply inconsistent?”

Tim looks horrified. “No.”

“Perhaps I should.”

“Please don’t.”

He asks permission before running tests. This surprises you. Tim is terrible at personal boundaries when he is investigating a case. He knows this. He has been yelled at about it. Frequently.

But with you, he becomes unexpectedly cautious. Not at first. At first, he casually scans you during a conversation.

You stop speaking. Tim looks up from the device. “What?”

“What are you doing?”

“Running a passive metabolic scan.”

Your hair begins to lift. Several flowers close. Tim immediately lowers the scanner. “Oh.”

“Did you ask?”

“No.”

“Then why are you examining me?”

Tim opens his mouth. Closes it. “I’m sorry.”

There is no joke. No excuse. He puts the scanner away.

After that, he asks. Every time.

“Can I check your pulse?”

“May I take a fallen leaf?”

“Would you be comfortable with a thermal scan?”

“Can I record your voice while you’re using magic?”

Sometimes you say no. Tim nods. And stops.

Tim keeps records of everything he learns about you. Not only scientific information. Practical things too. Your favourite foods. Which flowers are sensitive. How much sunlight helps when you are tired. What kinds of fabrics catch on your claws. The fact that you dislike loud alarms. The exact temperature range where you become uncomfortable.

You discover the file accidentally. The first section is expected. Height. Weight estimate. Magical abilities. Biological inconsistencies. Possible vulnerabilities.

The second section is less expected. Prefers windows open during rain. Do not wake by touching hair or shoulders. Likes bitter tea. White flowers usually indicate embarrassment. Pale blue flowers appear during calm. Will claim not to be tired even when leaves begin drooping. Does not like fluorescent lighting.

You scroll. There are hundreds of notes.

Tim enters. Stops. Looks at the screen. Then looks at you. “How much did you read?”

“Enough.”

“Okay.” He immediately starts talking too fast. “Some of it’s outdated, and I haven’t reorganised the sensory accommodation section yet, and the emotional indicators are mostly observational rather than confirmed, so—”

“You remembered how I take my tea.” Tim stops. You look at the screen again. “That is not research.”

His ears turn pink. “It’s relevant.”

“To what?”

“General preparedness.”

“For tea?”

“Emergencies happen.”

You stare at him. Tim looks away.

Tim is fascinated by your eyes. He tries very hard to be normal about this. He fails.

Your eyes have no pupils. No visible whites. Just a single uninterrupted colour. This destroys several of Tim’s usual methods of reading people.

Pupillary response? Impossible. Eye tracking? Difficult. Microexpressions around the eyes? Different musculature.

He hates not knowing what you are thinking. Unfortunately, this means he stares. Constantly.

One night, you finally ask, “Why do you keep looking at my eyes?”

Tim freezes. “I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Observational bias.”

“Timothy.” 

He sighs. “They’re difficult to read.”

You look away. “Humans often dislike them.”

“I didn’t say that.”

Your attention returns to him. Tim fidgets with his sleeve.

“I like them.” You say nothing. Tim’s ears become pink again. “Aesthetically.”

Flowers bloom behind your ears. Tim looks at them. Then back at you.

“Is that embarrassment?”

The flowers immediately close. “No.”

Tim smiles. “It absolutely is.”

Tim learns your emotional tells through pattern recognition. Other people learn you intuitively. Cass reads your body. Dick understands emotion through familiarity. Tim makes charts.

You discover this when he says, “You’re stressed.”

“I am not.”

“Your left ear has been lowered twelve degrees for the past twenty minutes.”

You stare. “Twelve degrees.”

“Approximately.”

“You measured?”

“Not intentionally.”

“That is worse.”

He also learns that your hair rises when agitated. Leaves curl when anxious. Vines tighten around your arms when overwhelmed. Flowers bloom when pleased. Certain colours correspond to different emotional states.

Tim starts recognising them before you realise they are happening.

“Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Being smug.”

“I’m not smug.”

Three yellow flowers appear in your hair. Tim points. “You think I’m funny.”

“I do not.” Another flower opens. “Traitorous plant.”

Tim laughs.

Your hair becomes the cause of several household disasters. Tim’s apartment is not built for it. Neither is Wayne Manor, really, but the Manor at least has room. Tim’s place does not. Your hair wraps around chair legs. Covers electrical outlets. Knocks things over. Once, Tim spends twenty minutes looking for his phone. It is in your hair. Neither of you knows how it got there.

Another time, you wake from a nap and find Tim sitting beside you with a flashlight. “What are you doing?”

He looks guilty. “Looking for a cable.”

“In my hair.”

“It disappeared.”

“How?”

“You rolled over.”

You stare. “Get out.”

“I need the charger.”

“Timothy.”

“I’m leaving.”

He does not leave. The cable is eventually found wrapped around a flowering branch near your shoulder.

Tim loves your hands. He does not realise this at first. Your hands are strange even by the standards of your body. Four fingers. Extremely long. Dark claws. Bark-like texture along the knuckles. Joints that bend slightly differently from human hands.

During early meetings, Tim watches them because they are dangerous. Later, he watches because he likes them. The transition happens so gradually he does not notice.

One night, he is working. You are sitting beside him. Your hand rests on the desk. Tim absentmindedly takes one finger between both hands.

You look at him. He continues reading.

“Timothy.”

“Hm?”

“You are holding my hand.”

He looks down. “Oh.” There is a pause. “Do you want me to stop?”

You consider him. “No.”

Tim returns to the screen. His thumb continues tracing the ridges along your skin.

After that, he develops a habit of playing with your claws while working. Gently.

He runs a finger around the base of them. Taps them against the desk. Compares the length of your fingers to his own. Sometimes he places his entire hand against your palm. The size difference is ridiculous.

“Your hand is small.”

“Yours is enormous.”

“Mine is normal.”

“Statistically, no.”

You stare. Tim smiles without looking up from his laptop. Eventually, you curl your fingers around his hand completely.

Tim pauses. Then relaxes. He does not let go.

Tim’s favourite way to sleep is with you curled around him. This is an accidental discovery. Tim has insomnia. Severe insomnia. Everyone knows. Tim knows. He simply does not particularly care until the consequences become impossible to ignore. You do.

The first time you find him awake after almost two days without sleep, you stand over his desk. “Go to bed.”

“Can’t.”

“You have not attempted to.”

“I know I won’t sleep.”

“You do not know that.”

“I know my own body.”

You look at the empty coffee cups. “Evidence suggests otherwise.”

Tim glares. You pick him up. Tim makes a noise of genuine outrage.

“Put me down.”

“No.”

“I have work.”

“You have delirium.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“You argued with your own reflection ten minutes ago.”

“It started it.”

You carry him to bed.

At first, Tim lies there stiffly. You are enormous beside him. The bed is not designed for this.

Eventually, you curl around him simply because there is nowhere else for your limbs to go. One arm across his waist. Your legs bent around his. Hair forming a curtain along the edge of the bed. Tim is effectively trapped inside a warm forest cocoon.

He sleeps for fourteen hours. When he wakes, he stares at the ceiling. Then at you. Then at the clock.

“That’s not possible.”

You open one eye. “What?”

“I slept fourteen hours.”

“Yes.”

“Without medication.”

“Yes.”

“Without waking up.”

“Yes.”

Tim looks deeply concerned. “What did you do?”

You stare. “Held you.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

Tim lies back down. “Do it again.”

Tim starts developing increasingly terrible excuses to sleep beside you. “The heating’s broken.”

“It is twenty-two degrees.”

“Feels cold.”

“You are wearing three layers.”

“Exactly. Serious problem.”

Or, “The neighbour’s loud.”

“Your apartment is soundproofed.”

“Not enough.”

“Timothy.”

“Just stay.” 

You always do. Eventually, you stop making him ask.

Tim researches why he sleeps better with you. Obviously. He has theories. Your slower heartbeat. Stable body temperature. The sound of your breathing. The physical pressure of being held. Possible magical effects.

You look over his shoulder at a document titled Potential Causes of Sleep Improvement in Proximity to Them.

“Primitive mammalian nesting instinct.”

Tim looks at you. “That is not scientifically precise.”

“You are a small mammal.”

“I’m not discussing this.”

“You seek shelter beneath a larger creature.”

“Stop.”

“For warmth and protection.”

Tim closes the laptop. “You’re ruining this.”

He designs technology for you almost immediately. Not because you ask. Because Tim sees inconvenience and becomes offended by it. Touchscreens do not respond correctly to your claws. The next week, he gives you a modified tablet.

“What is this?”

“Better interface.”

“You made it?”

“Modified it.”

Your claws glide across the screen. It works perfectly.

You look at him. Tim shrugs. “It wasn’t hard.”

This is a lie. It took him sixteen hours and three broken prototypes.

After that, the inventions multiply. A keyboard designed for your hand structure. Voice recognition trained specifically on your unusual vocal harmonics. Noise-cancelling headphones shaped for your ears. A communication device that can be worn around one of the branches or antler-like structures that emerge seasonally from your head. Special sensors that do not mistake your resting heart rate for cardiac arrest. Lighting systems adjusted for your needs. A custom harness for carrying equipment without restricting the vines growing along your back.

You ask, “Why do you keep making things for me?”

Tim does not look up. “Because existing devices aren’t accessible.”

“You could simply admit affection.”

His screwdriver slips. “I could also not.”

“Coward.”

“Yeah.”

Tim’s love language is absolutely engineering solutions to problems you mentioned once six months ago. You casually complain that winter sunlight in Gotham is terrible. Months later, he installs specialised light panels. You mention that human fabrics catch against your bark. Tim researches materials until he finds something suitable. You complain once about jewellery being uncomfortable around your claw joints. He has custom rings made.

You stare at them. “These are expensive.”

“Not relevant.”

“Timothy.”

“Bruce paid.”

Bruce did not pay. You know this. Tim knows you know this. Neither of you says anything else.

He is startled when you start making things for him in return. Tim is used to providing. Solving. Anticipating. Giving. Receiving makes him awkward. You weave a small charm from living wood, designed to fit beneath his uniform.

“What does it do?” Tim asks immediately.

“Nothing.”

He looks confused. “Nothing?”

“It is a gift.”

“But what’s the function?”

You stare at him. “To remind you of me.”

Tim goes very quiet. You attach it to the inside of his uniform. He wears it every patrol after that.

Tim is fascinated by plants growing from you that should not exist. This becomes one of his favourite mysteries. One morning, you enter the Cave. Tim looks up. Freezes. There is a small pale flower growing behind your ear.

“Don’t move.”

You stop. “Why?”

Tim approaches slowly. “That flower.”

“What about it?”

“It’s extinct.”

You blink. “Is it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

You reach up and pluck it. Tim makes a noise like you have stabbed him. “WHY?”

You stare at the flower in your hand. “It was itchy.”

“That species hasn’t existed naturally for more than two thousand years.”

“It will grow back.”

Tim stops breathing. “What?”

You immediately realise your mistake. Tim steps closer. “What do you mean it will grow back?”

“Nothing.”

“How long?”

“Timothy.”

“Under what conditions?”

“No.”

“Can you control it?”

“No.”

“Can we document—”

“No.”

Tim follows you through three rooms.

You eventually give him one. Not because he annoys you into it. Mostly. You wait until the flower blooms again and carefully remove it. Tim is sitting at his desk when you place it beside his keyboard. He looks down. Then up at you. “Is this—”

“Yes.”

“Can I study it?”

“Yes.”

Tim picks it up as though you have handed him something priceless. Perhaps you have. He looks genuinely happy. Flowers bloom in your hair. 

Tim notices. “Are those because I’m happy?”

“Do not become arrogant.”

“That wasn’t a no.”

Tim frequently forgets how frightening you look to other people. This happens because he becomes too comfortable around you. You walk into the Cave covered in thorns after an argument with someone. Damian reaches for a weapon. Bruce stiffens.

Tim glances over. “Hey.” You growl. “Bad day?” Another growl. Tim pats the chair beside him. “Sit.”

Everyone stares as you lower yourself to the floor near his desk. Tim continues typing. One of your clawed hands rests beside his chair. He places his foot on it.

Jason watches. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Tim looks up. “What?”

“They look like they’re about to eat somebody.”

“They’re upset.”

“They have thorns.”

Tim shrugs. “So?”

You lean closer to him. Tim absently scratches beneath one of the branches near your jaw. The entire family is deeply unsettled.

Tim has absolutely no sense of self-preservation around you once trust is established. You hate this.

“You cannot simply assume I will always control myself.”

Tim looks up. “I don’t.”

“You walk directly towards me when I am angry.”

“Usually because you’re angry at somebody else.”

“That does not mean I cannot hurt you.”

Tim’s expression changes. He understands what you are actually saying. “I know.”

“Then why?”

Tim closes the laptop. “Because being afraid of what you’re capable of isn’t the same as being afraid of you.” You go silent. Tim continues, “I know you could hurt me.” His voice is calm. “I also know you don’t want to.” Flowers open slowly along your shoulders. Tim looks at them. “Good answer?”

“Perhaps.”

Tim does not realise how deeply you trust him until you allow him to care for you after an injury. You are notoriously private about pain. Your body heals in ways humans find disturbing. Bark splitting. Sap-like blood. Roots forming beneath damaged tissue. New growth pushing through old wounds.

Tim has seen strange things. Even he struggles the first time. Not because he is disgusted. Because it clearly hurts. 

You are lying on the Cave floor, one arm badly damaged. Tim kneels beside you. “What do I do?”

“Nothing.”

“Not an option.”

“Timothy.”

“Tell me.”

You look at him. His hands are shaking. Barely. Most people would not notice. You do. “Water.”

Tim moves immediately. “Anything else?”

“Light.”

“Temperature?”

You tell him. Within minutes, the Cave becomes an emergency greenhouse.

Tim stays through the entire healing process. Hours. He takes notes only when you permit it. Mostly, he sits beside you. At some point, your claws curl around his wrist. Tim looks down. “Does that help?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

He does not move for three hours. His arm goes numb. He says nothing.

Later, when you discover this, you are furious. “You should have moved.”

“You were in pain.”

“Your hand was purple.”

“Temporary issue.”

“Timothy.”

“You needed me.”

You go quiet. Tim realises what he said. So do you.

You are equally unbearable when Tim is injured. He hates it.

“It’s a scratch.”

“You have been shot.”

“Grazed.”

“With a bullet.”

“Technically.”

You stare. Tim tries to stand. You place one hand on his chest and push him back onto the bed. “Stay.”

“I have work.”

“Stay.”

“But—” Thorns emerge. Tim stops. “You know intimidation is unhealthy communication.”

“Stay.”

“Okay.”

Tim finds your protectiveness deeply comforting and deeply frustrating. He is used to being the person who notices danger first. The person with the backup plan. The one monitoring everyone else. You ruin this dynamic. You can hear things he cannot. Sense disturbances through roots. Smell certain magic. Notice shifts in weather before technology detects them.

Tim hates how useful this is. Mostly because you start catching him sneaking out. He opens a window at three in the morning.

Your voice comes from the darkness. “Where are you going?”

Tim freezes. “Nowhere.”

Your solid-coloured eyes open from where you are lying across the room. “You are wearing armour.”

“Coincidence.”

“Timothy.”

He sighs. “Patrol.”

“You have not slept.”

“I slept yesterday.”

“You slept for ninety minutes.”

“Still counts.”

Vines slide across the window. Tim stares. “That’s cheating.”

“Sleep.”

You become one of the few beings capable of defeating Tim’s caffeine addiction through physical intervention. Alfred respects you deeply for this. Tim reaches for his fifth cup. Your arm extends across the table. You take it first.

“Give that back.”

“No.” He whines your name, but you keep your voice steady. “No.”

“I need that.”

“You need sleep.”

“I need both.”

“You will receive one.”

Tim tries to climb onto the counter to retrieve the cup from your raised hand. You simply lift it higher. Tim stares up at you. “This is bullying.”

“Yes.”

Alfred walks past. “Quite right.”

Tim looks betrayed.

Tim tries to determine whether your presence has any effect on caffeine metabolism.

You catch him trying to take blood samples from himself. “What are you doing?”

“Research.”

“No.”

“You don’t know what I’m researching.”

“I know enough.”

You remove the equipment. Tim protests. You put it on a shelf he cannot reach.

Tim looks up. Then at you. “That’s low.”

“The shelf is high.”

“You know what I mean.”

Tim introduces you to technology with far more patience than anyone expects. Perhaps because he understands how embarrassing it can feel not knowing something. He never laughs when you misunderstand. Well. Almost never.

You stare at a video call for several seconds. “The human is trapped.” Tim covers his mouth. You look at him. “Do not.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You are shaking.”

“Allergies.”

Flowers begin producing pollen. Tim immediately stops laughing.

“That was evil.”

“Allergies.”

You become frighteningly good at using technology once Tim teaches you. Better than he expects. He gives you a modified computer interface. A month later, you are bypassing one of his security systems.

Tim stands behind you. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re inside my encrypted drive.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“You taught me.”

Tim stares at the screen. “I taught you basic file management.”

“You also complain aloud while working.”

There is a long silence. Tim looks horrified. “You learned hacking through passive exposure?”

“Apparently.”

Tim falls in love a little more.

The two of you can spend entire nights working beside each other. Tim at several monitors. You reading. Caring for plants. Practising magic. There is comfort in parallel existence.

Neither of you needs constant conversation. Tim talks when he thinks. You listen. Sometimes he asks questions without waiting for answers.

“Do you think this pattern is deliberate?”

“Yes.”

“I wasn’t actually asking.”

“Then stop speaking in questions.”

“Fair.”

Hours later, Tim suddenly says, “I like this.”

You look over. “What?”

He gestures vaguely. “This.”

“You must be more specific.”

Tim frowns. “You being here.”

Your flowers open. Tim smiles and goes back to work.

Tim is surprisingly easy to embarrass once you figure out how. Compliment his intelligence? Nothing. He knows he is intelligent. Compliment his detective work? Barely a reaction. Tell him he is pretty? System failure.

One night, he is sitting in front of several screens, blue light reflecting across his face. You look at him. “You are beautiful.”

Tim stops typing. “What?”

“Beautiful.”

“Why?”

You stare. “Why?”

“No, I mean—” Tim rubs the back of his neck. “What brought that up?”

“I was looking at you.” His face becomes red. You lean closer. “Your colour has changed.”

“I’m aware.”

“Fascinating.”

“Don’t make this scientific.”

“You do.”

“That’s different.”

Tim loves complimenting you because your body betrays you. He discovers this accidentally.

“You look nice today.” Several flowers bloom. Tim pauses. You immediately turn away. “Interesting.”

“No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

Tim smiles.

From then on, he becomes merciless. “Your hair looks pretty.” Flowers. “I like this colour on you.” More flowers. “You know you’re beautiful, right?” Entire branches bloom.

You cover his mouth with one hand. Tim laughs against your palm.

Your first kiss is almost certainly overanalysed. By Tim. Not you. The tension has existed for weeks. Possibly months. Everyone else knows. Tim does not. Or claims not to.

One night, you are sitting beside him while he works. You lean closer. Tim stops typing. “What?”

“Nothing.”

You move closer. Tim looks at your face. Then your mouth. Then back at your eyes.

“Are you trying to kiss me?”

You stop. “I was.”

“Oh.”

Silence. You begin moving away. 

Tim grabs your wrist. “Wait.” You look down. “I just wasn’t sure.”

“I was three inches from your face.”

“I thought maybe you were looking at the screen.”

“Behind your own head?”

“Okay, when you say it like that—”

You kiss him before he can continue.

Tim immediately forgets every thought he has ever had. This is rare. Precious.

You pull back. Flowers cover your shoulders.

Tim stares. “Wow.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

You narrow your eyes. “You are analysing.”

“I’m really not.”

“Liar.”

Tim kisses you again. Mainly to avoid answering.

Tim is initially awkward about the physical size difference. Not insecure. Logistically frustrated. Kissing requires planning. Hugging requires adaptation. Furniture is never on your side.

Tim begins positioning stools in strategic locations. You discover one beside the kitchen counter. “Why is this here?”

“Convenience.”

“For what?” Tim steps onto it. You stare. He is now much closer to your face. “Oh.”

Tim crosses his arms. “Don’t.”

“I have said nothing.”

“Your flowers are laughing.” They are.

He absolutely climbs onto your lap while working. Not at first. Initially, he sits beside you. Then he realises your body is warm and your arms create an excellent brace for a laptop. Eventually, you become furniture.

“Timothy.”

“Hm?”

“Why are you on me?”

“Chair was uncomfortable.”

“I am not a chair.”

“You’re better.”

“That does not help.”

He shifts until his back rests against your chest. “Five minutes.”

Three hours later, he is still there.

Tim’s relationship with your magic is complicated. He is fascinated by it. But magic frustrates him. Magic refuses to behave. You sometimes make things happen without understanding how. This drives Tim insane.

“What did you do?”

“I asked the roots to move.”

“How?”

“I asked.”

“In what language?”

“Mine.”

“What mechanism translates intention into physical response?”

You stare. “Magic.”

Tim closes his eyes. “That is not an answer.”

“It is the answer.”

“I hate magic.”

“Magic does not care.”

“That’s the problem.”

Despite all his complaints, Tim is deeply respectful of your magic. Especially when he realises some parts are sacred. There are rituals you perform alone. Songs you do not translate. Places on your body nobody is allowed to touch.

Tim asks once. You say no. He never asks again.

Months later, you invite him to witness one of your seasonal rituals. Tim goes completely quiet. He understands what the invitation means. Trust. Not curiosity. Trust.

He does not take notes. Does not record. Does not scan anything. He simply watches.

Afterwards, you ask, “You have no questions?”

Tim smiles faintly. “About a hundred.”

“And?”

“They can wait.” 

That might be the moment you fall in love with him.

Tim worries constantly about your vulnerabilities. Once he knows something can hurt you, he remembers it forever. Iron. Fire. Certain chemicals. Specific magical frequencies. Whatever applies to you becomes part of every mission plan.

You find this irritating. “I am not fragile.”

“I know.”

“You keep changing plans because of me.”

“I change plans because of everyone.”

“You built an entire secondary route because there was iron in the first.”

“Yes.”

“Timothy.”

“What?”

“That is excessive.”

Tim looks genuinely confused. “It reduces risk by thirty-two percent.”

You stare. “You are impossible.”

“Still alive, though.”

Tim creates contingencies for you. This causes the worst argument of your relationship. You discover the file accidentally. A complete plan. How to restrain you. Separate you from plant life. Disrupt your magic. Contain you. Possibly kill you. You feel something cold settle inside you.

When Tim finds you, your hair is moving. Thorns cover your arms. He calls your name.

“You made plans to destroy me.”

Tim stops. He knows immediately. “It’s not—”

“Do not lie.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

You turn towards him. “Did you believe I would become a monster?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

Tim has no easy answer. Because this is what he does. Because planning makes fear manageable. Because everyone he loves can become compromised. Because he has seen mind control, possession, alternate realities and magic turn good people into weapons. Because contingency feels safer than trust when trust has failed him before.

He explains all of this badly. You remain angry.

The difference between Tim and Bruce is that Tim immediately offers you access to everything. “Read it.”

You stare at him. “What?”

“The whole file.”

“Why?”

Tim’s voice is quiet. “Because you deserve to know what I know.”

You look at him for a long time. “Would you use it?”

Tim does not answer quickly. You appreciate that. “Only if you asked me to stop you.”

“And if I did not?”

Another pause. “Then I’d find another way.”

You do not forgive him immediately. Trust is not repaired by one honest sentence. Tim understands that too. He waits. Changes the file. Gives you veto power over certain methods. Lets you help design safer containment options. Eventually, the contingency becomes something different. Not a plan for destroying you.

A plan for bringing you home.

Tim’s fear of losing you manifests as research. You do not realise this for a long time. Every question about your lifespan. Every medical scan. Every environmental analysis. Tim tells himself it is curiosity. 

Then one night you ask, “Are you trying to discover how long I will live?”

Tim stops typing. “No.” You wait. “Yes.”

“Why?”

He looks at the screen. “Because I don’t know.”

“That is not an answer.”

Tim’s jaw tightens. “Because I need to know how much time there is.” You go quiet. Tim laughs bitterly. “Which is stupid because knowing won’t change it.”

You move closer. “No.”

“But I still want the number.” His voice is softer. “I hate not knowing when things end.”

Tim thinks your long lifespan should comfort him. It does not. Because Tim understands probability. Longevity is not invulnerability. You can still die. Be injured. Disappear. Be taken. Tim knows too many ways a life can end.

He becomes obsessive after one near-death experience. Tracking devices. Check-in schedules. Redundant communication systems. You tolerate it for three days.

Then, “No.”

Tim looks up. “No what?”

You place the tracker on his desk. “This.”

His face tightens. “It’s for safety.”

“It is for your fear.” Tim goes still. You continue gently. “Those are not always the same thing.”

He hates how correct you are.

You become the person most capable of interrupting his spirals. Not because you always know what to say. Sometimes you do not. But you recognise patterns. Tim begins researching something. Research becomes fixation. Fixation becomes twelve open screens. Then thirty. Then no sleep. No food. No awareness of anything beyond the problem.

You stand behind him. “Timothy.”

“One second.”

You wait. Ten minutes pass. “Timothy.”

“Almost done.” You pick him up. “Hey.”

“No.”

“Put me down.”

“No.”

“I’m working.”

“You are spiralling.”

Tim immediately becomes angry. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“How?”

You look at him. “You have been reading the same paragraph for twenty minutes.”

Tim goes silent. You carry him away from the screens.

Sometimes he resents being stopped. Love does not make every intervention easy. Tim can be cruel when cornered. Sharp. Defensive. He says things he regrets.

Once, he snaps, “You don’t understand how human minds work.”

The room goes silent. Tim realises immediately. You do not shout. That is worse.

“No.” Your voice is quiet. “I suppose I do not.”

You leave. Tim sits alone for less than a minute before the guilt becomes unbearable. He apologises properly. No excuses. No explanation disguised as apology. 

“I was angry because you were right, and I wanted to hurt you enough to make you stop.” You look at him. Tim continues, “That was cruel.” He swallows. “I’m sorry.”

You forgive him. Eventually. He never says anything like that again.

Tim is one of the few people who understands that your intelligence is often underestimated because of your unfamiliarity with human systems. You may not understand phones initially. Or traffic laws. Or why humans use credit scores. That does not make you stupid. Tim recognises this immediately. You speak several ancient languages. Understand ecosystems more complex than most scientific models. Can identify magical structures by sight. Remember historical events humans have spent centuries arguing about. But someone hears you misunderstand a vending machine and treats you like an idiot.

Tim’s expression becomes cold. “They’re not stupid.”

You look at him. The person laughs. “I didn’t say—”

“You implied it.” Tim’s voice is calm. “They didn’t know one thing you know. That’s not the same as being less intelligent.”

Later, you tell him, “You were angry.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?” 

Tim shrugs. “People do that to me too.”

“Underestimate you?”

“Assume knowing different things means being smarter.”

You and Tim communicate through parallel forms of obsessive knowledge. Tim knows cities. Networks. Systems. Digital patterns. You know forests. Weather. Roots. Magical currents.  

The two of you begin solving cases together. Tim watches satellite data. You place one hand against the ground. “Movement beneath the east tunnel.”

Tim checks. “How many?”

“Seven.”

Sensors confirm six. Tim looks at you. “You said seven.”

“There are seven.”

Twenty minutes later, they find the seventh hidden behind a magical barrier.

Tim is insufferably pleased. “I knew you were right.”

“Your equipment said otherwise.”

“Equipment can be wrong.”

“You rarely admit that.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

Tim starts integrating magic and technology specifically for you. Not attempting to reduce one into the other. That is important. Early in your relationship, he tries to explain magic scientifically. Eventually, he understands that this approach is limited. Some things can be measured without being fully explained. Some truths coexist. Tim hates this lesson. He learns it anyway.

You watch him adjust a device to work with one of your spells. “You are not trying to prove the magic is technology.”

Tim sighs. “I’m growing as a person.”

“How painful.”

“Excruciating.”

Tim’s sense of humour around you becomes increasingly ridiculous. He sends you plant memes constantly. You do not understand half of them.

“What is ‘touch grass’?”

Tim looks at you. Then at the grass growing from your shoulder. “Actually, never mind.”

He changes your contact name to Local Cryptid. You change his to Small Nocturnal Mammal.

Tim sees it. “That’s inaccurate.”

“You are small.”

“Compared to you.”

“You are nocturnal.”

“Occupationally.”

“You are a mammal.”

Tim sighs. “Fine.”

Tim does not initially know how to handle being loved by someone who can read his exhaustion physically. Humans are easy to trick. Coffee. Concealer. Good posture. Quick answers. You smell stress hormones. Hear irregular breathing. Notice his temperature changes. Feel tremors through surfaces.

Tim hates this. “I’m fine.”

“Your pulse is irregular.”

“Caffeine.”

“You are shaking.”

“Also caffeine.”

“Your skin smells different.”

Tim looks horrified. “That is the most invasive thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“Sleep.”

“I hate dating a forest.”

Secretly, though, there is relief in being impossible to hide from. Tim spends his entire life hoping someone will notice and simultaneously making sure nobody can. You make that contradiction irrelevant.

One night, he says he is fine. You sit beside him. Say nothing. Tim repeats, “I’m fine.”

“I heard you.”

“Then why are you still here?”

“Because you are not.”

Tim looks away. You stay. After several minutes, he leans against you. That is all.

Tim is deeply attached to the idea that you choose him. This becomes more important than either of you expects. You are ancient. Powerful. Strange. You have lived through entire human generations. Tim cannot understand why you choose his apartment, his chaos, his awful sleep schedule.

One night he asks, “Aren’t you bored?”

You look up from your book. “Of what?”

“This.” Tim gestures around. “Me.”

Your expression changes. “Why would I be bored of you?”

He shrugs. “You’ve seen centuries.”

“Yes.”

“And I’m one person.”

You close the book. “Timothy.” He looks at you. “A forest may contain ten thousand trees.” Your hand closes carefully around his. “That does not make each tree meaningless.”

Tim stares. “That was very poetic.”

“You are avoiding the point.”

“Yeah.”

“Stop.”

He squeezes your hand. “Trying.”

Tim’s insecurity is not that he believes you could find someone better. It is that he believes you could find someone more important. Someone magical. Ancient. Powerful. Someone whose life fits yours.

You find this ridiculous. “Do you believe I select partners based on taxonomy?”

Tim looks embarrassed. “No.”

“Age?”

“Not exactly.”

“Height?”

“Okay, now you’re making fun of me.”

“Yes.” You bend closer. “I chose you because you are you.”

Tim looks down. “That simple?”

“No.” You smile. “You are extremely difficult.”

“There it is.”

Tim is fascinated by your memories. Not in the way historians are. He asks small questions.

“What did rain smell like before industrialisation?” You pause. Tim looks up. “What?”

“That is an unusual question.”

“You don’t have to answer.”

You do.

Another night, “Were nights darker?”

“Yes.”

“Did people sleep better?”

“Also yes.” Tim looks personally attacked.

You tell him stories. Not grand historical events. Little things. A bakery that existed five hundred years ago. A child who once put flowers in your hair. A forest that no longer exists. A song whose language died before anyone thought to write it down. Tim listens to all of it. Remembers everything.

He becomes quietly devastated by the things you have lost. Tim understands archival loss. Records destroyed. Data corrupted. Histories erased. But for you, these losses are personal. One day, you mention a place you loved. Tim searches for it. Nothing. No records. No maps. No archaeological references.

“There’s nothing.”

You glance over. “I know.”

Tim looks at the screen. “How can there be nothing?”

“Time.”

His expression tightens. “Tell me about it.”

You do. Tim writes it down. Not because he doubts you. Because he cannot bear the idea of something you loved disappearing twice.

Tim starts documenting your stories with permission. Audio files. Transcriptions. Maps. Drawings. Cross-referenced historical records.

You watch him work. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why preserve these?”

Tim looks at you. “Because they mattered.”

That answer nearly breaks your heart.

Tim does not treat your age as wisdom. This is one of the things you love most. Other people assume being old means being wise. Tim knows better.

“That’s a terrible idea.”

You stare. “I have lived for several centuries.”

“Congratulations.”

“You are twenty-something.”

“And still right.”

“Arrogant mammal.”

“Ancient idiot.”

You argue for forty minutes. Tim wins. He mentions this for months.

He also refuses to let you use age as an excuse for outdated opinions. “That is how my people have always done it.”

Tim looks up. “So?”

You stare. “So?”

“Old doesn’t mean good.”

You bristle. “You are very disrespectful.”

“Yeah.” Silence. “Am I wrong?”

You hate him. Mostly because he is not.

Tim likes that you challenge him in return. He intellectualises emotions. You notice.

“You are sad.”

“I’m experiencing situational emotional fatigue.”

“Sad.”

“That’s reductive.”

“Sad.”

“I hate you.”

“No.”

“Unfortunately.”

You make him speak plainly. He hates it. It helps.

You are one of the only people who can make Tim stop researching something by physically obscuring all available screens. Your hair is extremely useful. Tim is reading. Your hair moves across one monitor.

“Hey.” Then another. He calls your name. Then another. “Seriously?” Eventually, every screen is covered. Tim sits in darkness. “This is censorship.”

“This is bedtime.”

“Authoritarian.”

“Sleep.”

“Oppressive.” You pick him up. “Tyrant.”

“Quiet.”

Eventually, your hair becomes a recognised Tim Recovery Zone. Dick finds him there once.

“Where’s Tim?”

You look down. “Sleeping.”

Dick looks confused. You lift part of your hair. Tim is curled underneath it.

Dick stares. “Is he nesting?”

Tim opens one eye. “Leave.”

Dick takes a picture. Tim threatens murder.

Tim is surprisingly protective of your privacy. Especially after learning how often magical creatures are treated as resources. Researchers want samples. Magicians want information. Governments want classifications.

Tim becomes terrifying. “No.”

“We only need—”

“No.”

“Mr. Drake—”

“They already answered.”

His voice is flat. “Conversation over.” You watch him. Tim notices. “What?”

“You are frightening when angry.”

“Good.” Flowers bloom. Tim points. “Was that attractive?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

He is especially furious when people treat you as technologically or intellectually primitive. Someone once speaks to you slowly. Very slowly. Tim watches for ten seconds.

Then, “They understand you.”

“I was only trying to—”

“They speak six more languages than you.” You look at Tim. The person looks embarrassed. Tim continues, “Possibly seven. We’re still debating whether one counts as a language.”

You touch his shoulder. “Timothy.”

“I’m helping.”

“You are not.”

Your relationship with the Batfamily amuses Tim enormously. Damian admires you and pretends not to. Dick decorates you. Jason insults you affectionately. Cass understands you without words. Bruce watches.

Tim studies the dynamics like a sociologist. “Damian likes you.”

“He threatens me.”

“That’s not contradictory.”

“Your family is strange.”

“You live in our greenhouse.”

“That is different.”

“How?”

“I am supposed to live near plants.”

Tim considers this. “Fair.”

Tim is absolutely the family member most likely to fall asleep on you during a meeting. He denies this happening. There is photographic evidence. You are sitting on the Cave floor. Tim is leaning against your side. Bruce is discussing something serious. Tim’s eyes slowly close. His head drops against your arm.

You look down. Bruce pauses. Dick grins. Jason takes out his phone. You immediately grow a vine across Jason’s camera.

“Hey.”

“No.”

“I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Liar.”

Tim sleeps through all of it.

Tim loves when you accompany him on patrol. Not because you are subtle. You are absolutely not. Tim is moving silently through shadows. You are eight feet tall and glowing faintly.

“Can you dim that?”

“No.”

“At all?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Tim adjusts the entire patrol strategy. You become intimidation. Tim becomes stealth. Criminals see you. They do not see Tim. This works disturbingly well.

People begin spreading rumours about Red Robin’s monster. Tim hates the wording. “You’re not my monster.”

You look at him. “I am aware.”

“I know.” He looks irritated. “It’s just stupid.”

You tilt your head. “Would you prefer ‘forest companion’?”

“No.”

“Magical partner?”

“Sounds like a children’s show.”

“Giant lover?” Tim chokes. You smile. “That one.” 

“Absolutely not.”

Tim is deeply attracted to the parts of you most people find unsettling. He discovers this slowly. The claws. The solid-coloured eyes. Your sharp teeth. The way your limbs move. The strange angle of your joints. The thorns. He likes all of it.

This embarrasses him because Tim is used to understanding himself through analysis. Attraction refuses to cooperate.

One night, you catch him staring at your claws. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You are staring.”

“They’re interesting.”

“You have studied them extensively.” Tim says nothing. You lean closer. “Do you find them attractive?”

“I’m leaving.”

“Timothy.”

He leaves. His ears are red.

He becomes embarrassingly distracted when you are angry. Not because he likes upsetting you. But your body changes. Hair lifting. Thorns emerging. Eyes glowing brighter. Voice deepening. Tim watches. You stop mid-argument.

“Are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“What did I say?” Tim freezes. You stare. “You find this attractive.”

“I absolutely do not.” Flowers bloom across your shoulders from amusement. Tim looks offended. “This is a serious conversation.”

“It was.”

Tim has complicated feelings about your ability to live so long. Sometimes he is fascinated. Sometimes jealous. Sometimes terrified.

One night, he asks, “Will you remember me?”

You turn. “What?”

Tim is looking at his hands. “In a few hundred years.”

Your entire body goes still. “Timothy.”

“It’s a valid question.”

“No.” He looks up sharply. You move closer. “No, it is not.”

“Why?”

“Because you speak as though memory is determined by duration.” Tim says nothing. You take his face carefully between your hands. “I remember people I knew for one afternoon centuries ago.” Your voice softens. “Do you truly believe I could forget you?”

Tim’s eyes close. “Maybe.”

“Foolish mammal.”

He laughs shakily. “Yeah.”

Tim presses your flowers into case files. Accidentally at first. Then intentionally. You discover one between pages. “This is mine.”

Tim looks over. “Probably.”

“You kept it.”

“It was already there.”

“There are seven more.”

“Statistically possible.”

“Timothy.” He refuses to discuss it.

Winter is difficult for both of you. You become tired. Slower. Quieter. Tim becomes deeply anxious. He researches seasonal dormancy obsessively. You wake from a nap. Tim is watching your breathing. “Stop.”

He freezes. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

“You were counting.”

“Habit.”

“I am not dying.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Tim goes quiet. You lift one arm. “Come here.”

Tim hesitates. Then lies beside you. You wrap around him.

“I am sleeping.”

“I know.”

“Not leaving.”

Tim closes his eyes. “I know.”

Spring makes Tim insufferable. Your body blooms. New flowers appear constantly. Tim documents every species. He also suffers terribly from pollen. You wake one morning covered in flowers. Tim sneezes six times.

“Beautiful.” He sneezes again. “Murderous.”

“You could leave.”

“No.”

“Then stop complaining.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Tim’s favourite part of your seasonal cycle is probably the first bloom after winter. He watches for it. Pretends not to. One morning, he notices a tiny flower near your temple. He stops speaking.

You look at him. “What?”

Tim smiles. “Nothing.”

You touch the flower. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Something in his face softens so completely that more flowers begin to open. Tim laughs. “Welcome back.”

Tim is not naturally good at saying what he feels. He expresses love through usefulness. Information. Preparation. Presence. He remembers things. Repairs things. Builds things. Notices things.

You eventually confront him. “You know you may simply say you love me.”

Tim nearly drops his coffee. “I do.”

“Rarely.”

“I say it.”

“You said it last while concussed.”

“Still counts.”

“No.”

Tim looks cornered. “I made you a custom environmental control system.”

You stare. “That is not a sentence.”

“It’s basically the same thing.”

“It is not.”

Tim sighs. Then, quietly, “I love you.” Flowers bloom everywhere. Tim points at them. “See? System response confirms receipt.”

You shove him.

You learn to recognise Tim’s versions of I love you.

Text me when you get there.

I fixed the thing you broke.

I made backups.

Eat something.

Your light levels are low.

I brought tea.

Stay.

Tim’s love is often hidden inside practical language. You become fluent.

Tim learns your versions too. Flowers appearing beside his laptop. Vines covering him when he falls asleep somewhere uncomfortable. Your hand resting on his shoulder during difficult conversations. Ancient stories told only to him. Your body curling protectively around him while he sleeps. The fact that you always return.

Love becomes another language to decode. For once, Tim does not mind that the translation is imperfect.

The deepest part of your relationship is not that Tim understands everything about you. He does not. He never will. You are ancient. Magical. Biologically impossible. Tim can study you for a lifetime and still find things he cannot explain.

At first, this frustrates him. Eventually, it comforts him. There will always be more to learn. More questions. More stories. More versions of you. Tim spent much of his life believing love meant knowing enough to prevent loss. Knowing schedules. Weaknesses. Patterns. Contingencies. Predicting every possible ending.

You teach him something far more frightening. Sometimes love is not knowing. Sometimes it is trusting anyway.

And you, in turn, learn that curiosity does not always mean being dissected. Sometimes curiosity looks like Tim sitting across from you at four in the morning, exhausted but bright-eyed, asking what colour the sky was during a winter three hundred years ago. Sometimes it looks like custom technology built specifically for your claws. A cup of bitter tea prepared exactly right. A flower carefully preserved between the pages of his favourite book. A contingency rewritten into a rescue plan. A small human falling asleep beneath your hair because, against all logic, he has decided you are the safest place in the world.

Tim looks at you and sees a mystery. But not one to solve. One to keep learning. And for someone like Tim Drake, perhaps that is the closest thing to forever he knows how to promise.

[that-bi-bitch-writes]

Idky I thought Reid’s drug problem was bigger than it actually is. I remember seeing an episode about it on tv and idk if I’ve already seen it or if it’ll come up later and validate that he’s still struggling with it.

I also believed Garcia and Morgan were together, so either it’s the slowest slow burn I’ve ever witnessed or maybe I remember the episodes I saw on tv wrong. I have a shit memory so I can’t really remember if I’ve seen them kiss or not. But so far her relationship with Kevin (?) seem steady. Really thought they’d date after her near death experience with the way he talked to her about being cautious with that stranger and the whole "Morgan can’t believe I can be loved" mindset. I thought they’d have a whole conversation/confession but they didn’t and it’s been a while since that episode and nothing dramatic happened again (apart from that episode where she has that guy die right in front of her and Morgan comforted her while Kevin wasn’t here geographically)

One more episode and s5 is over. Still a long way to go.

I loved the kid kidnapping episode with Evan Peter (?) the fact the unsubs did it for so many years and so many kids ended up dying. I love when an unsub has a long "career".

I believe I would’ve been stronger than that scammer guy. Changing names daily is so easy (that’s probably my ego talking)

they made it out to be a big deal but then i think they realized if it was a REALLY big deal they couldn’t have reid on the team anymore and wrote themselves into a small holr. i too thought it was bigger than it was before i watched the show all the way through the first time. it’s not magically cured it’s just…not that big of a deal in the long run? idk it’s weird to explain

garcia and morgan are not a slow burn i didn’t really want to spoil it but i have to tell you this now because if you watch the whole show waiting for them to get together you’re gonna get to the end and be very pissed. they’re just flirty friends and she cares about him a lot and he is one of her best friends but that’s it. (they really could’ve had them get together though it would’ve been buzzy af)

OMG I REMEMBER THE EVAN PETERS ONE RIP to that one boy his parents finding out about his death was heartbreaking. that was such a good episode and i felt so bad for how long they made him an accomplice but i mean at least he took all those pictures

everyone thinks they’re stronger than a serial killer until they get serially killed

[luckicowboy]

REST YOUR HEAD, WEARY RAMBLER

☘︎ Remmick / male reader

☘︎summary ; Remmick just thought he could lead this one on for awhile. get him soft and comfortable with him-- prey always did taste the best when its nerves weren't alive with fright. this was the first time this proved to be wrong. Remmick thought he left that tender part of himself back in the old home country.

☘︎warnings ; Remmick being manipulative till hes not, minor blood + violence, period-typical homophobia briefly mentioned, sugar-sweet moments, yearning, slice-of-life moments, referenced prejudice of irish people , heavy petting , bittersweet moments towards the end , pathetic Remmick , animalistic qualities given to Remmick from time to time. we need more weird little vampire traits guys ! very brief mention of masturbation but its pathetic Remmick sooo... , also skim-reread. if theres any typos look the other way. also fair warning Remmick may be too quick to get lovesick. but i feel like after centuries of no love, feeling nothing, he'd get so hopped up on affection.

☘︎ reader desc ; like all of my future x readers (if i ever make more) i keep readers features, ethnicity, and race completely vague or non-existent. Reader is a farmer alone on his land, described to have no family or any friends. reader has some musical talent. brief twang put to Readers words. referred to/referenced as "the man", "you/your/you're" depending on whether its 2nd pov or Remmicks third person pov. never use of Y/N. some teasing petnames/nicknames, but never descriptive of appearance.

☘︎ A/N; this is my first proper x reader so don't beat me if its wonked out... i just got the idea and knew i had to act on it. i feel like its a bit oddly paced but at this point i cant care to much-- i'm satisfied with it and since its my first proper x reader i'm not gonna beat myself over it. originally was wanting to do a Stack x reader since i have a cute idea for it, but this one struck me more. i have a fancy for things like this. going into a situation planning something cruel and coming out softer.

☘︎ songs mentioned/sang in order of appearance :

-House Carpenter by Sam Shackleton

-Rocky Road to Dublin (field recording) by Sam Shackleton (this one is not mentioned by name, but in the second song sequence its what i imagine being sung/played)

-- .☘︎ ݁˖

  Remmick was always good at calculating how much moonlight he had. He always was. He had been patchy and spotty as a newly-bit, scampering into groves and even fox dens to hide from the sun, sparing the tips of his toes to be burnt. 

  But now, a few centuries old and with more than enough perfectly calculated events and murder sprees under his belt that he conjured up beneath the moon, he still fell into his foolish young vampire ways. He had been sipping on a glass of moonshine. It was stupid and he knew it– being a vampire meant it was hard to get drunk. So when he felt himself getting wobbly just a mile off from the still, he knew he had to snatch up a glass. Blood swirled like a kaleidoscope in the clear liquid, his chin and teeth slick with it after killing the stiller's brother and then the stiller. Stomach full, practically tugging at the buttons of his undershirt, and his head boozy, he hadn’t noticed the sun rising as it swathes purple and orange over the horizon. Not until the first sprig of pine let golden glow filter through and pierce into his skull, leading to him bellowing from his chest, deep beneath his ribs.

  Faster than a hare, he had run, sunlight hot on his heels. Mother nature was a cruel thing, he figured, until he skidded on his knees to hide beneath the shade of a big, ancient tree trunk. It was as wide as a bear’s breadth, and cast a long, wide shadow that smothered the sizzling dead man. He hissed and let out a gargled mewl from his throat, fingers touching the bubbling streak, hot like a whip across his cheek. “Lord above,” Remmick hissed, his Gaeilge slipping from his fangs. He had no need for English now.. “I didn’t figure the shine would get me that good…” and looking around, Remmick felt his shoulders slump and his nose snarl. He had nowhere else to go. Once again, he would be at the fault of himself, stuck beneath a tree to shuffle for hours staying in the shadow of the tree. 

  By hour three, Remmick was ready to smash the jar against the root of the tree and stab himself in the heart. See if glass worked and not just wood– “had someone done that before?” Remmick paused, mouth open, head still boozy and swimming, the jar drunk dry. By hour four, Remmick’s eyes had been locked onto the farm the great tree was by. He noticed it back in hour three, but didn’t figure anything of it. It looked abandoned. 

  But a  man. A man had come out of the house, clad in only an undershirt and overalls. He wore a wide brim hat to keep his face free from the sun, his undershirt’s sleeves rolled up to his elbow to show his lean muscled arms. Veins– lots of them, no doubt from the hot sun already working her cruel work– bulged from the man's forearm and hands. Remmick’s keen eyes could pick it up. Saliva dripped frothy and thick from Remmick’s lip, tongue darting out to taste the sweat dripping from his own cheek. He watched as the man walked to one of the stables, through the gate,  his great hands heaving up the bolt lock and a dozen soft-pelted sheep scampered out. They cried and bellowed with joy, their thick tails waggling as they scampered about to eat at the new growth dandelions and shrubbery. The man bent down to scratch atop a lambs head, the spoiled thing bucking and scrambling off for its mother. The man's hands were gentle as he treated the animals, lips moving hushed like the world didn’t need to know of his words. But Remmick did.  

  And the best of it all— Remmick felt his stomach already lurch and stretch— he was alone. 

  For the entire span of daylight that Remmick sat, following the long shadow as the sun ran its course, nobody had come outside. Nobody had come home. Nobody left. Nobody visited. Often farmers had help, family or friends or paid men to lessen the load. But Remmick watched the whole day through, tongue dry, having drooled his body dry, and nobody else had come to view. He hadn’t even heard any hoofbeats or footsteps or the hissing of car pistons. Nothing. It was perfect. The man had run himself ragged by nine thirty, panting on his porch step with his shirt off. 

  Remmick acted the moment the sun started to creep down. Let himself be ever so lightly pinkened by the dawn light, and dragged his claws lightly over his bottom calf. His flesh splintered and gave way like the soft cap of a mushroom to a blade, no more of a sting to his nerves. Remmick limped out of the shrubs, dragging his ribboned leg behind him like a hurt dog. One hand clutching his thigh for good measure, he started up the trail to the house, shoe dragging in the loose dirt, leaving a winding snake trail. 

  He knocked twice on the door, making his knocks weak. Mousy. It took only four breaths before Remmick heard a creak, something clinking, and heavy footfalls. 

  Remmick played off the breath of air punched from his lungs as him being weak. But really, his lungs wheezed with old breath at the gorgeous slopes and planes of the man's face. The harsh light of the man's lantern sent cuts and cascades of golden to block against deep crevasses of shadow. “Oh, Mister,” Remmick keened out, one hand splaying out. “Mister… please, I-I got caught up with a mean old wolf. Some big old thing. Tore r-right into me,” Remmick stammered out, brows knitted together pitifully. “Please. I just need somewhere to lie the night and patch up. Please, mister… open your heart.” 

  The farmer was silent. His eyes wide, lips opening slightly to gape. Remmick felt a little flutter of hunger in his gullet despite still digesting his last meal of those moonshiners. “Christ, mister,” the man breathed, choking on his words. He opened the door more, beckoning Remmick in. “come in, come on– that thing’ll get infected real fast if we don’t get you patched up. Christ– you’re bleeding like hell,” the man sucked on his teeth as Remmick hobbled in, letting out ooh’s and oh, god!’s to really hammer the nail in his faux pain. But Remmick felt something else, then, as the man hurried across the creaking floor to his top cabinet– when was the last time someone had let Remmick in so quickly? Not even a ‘what happened?’. He had just let Remmick in. he remembered years ago, he had pulled this act and got the muzzle of a shotgun to his nose and two old hound dogs chasing him through the woods. “I didn’t know there were still wolves around these parts, either. Bad luck must be on your side,” the man said, coming back to Remmick with a bottle of whiskey and some needle and thread. 

  “Coulda been someone’s old mutt,” Remmick panted, plopping himself at the man's table, the chair welcoming his bottom comfortably. “Didn’t get a good look at the thing, I didn’t…” 

  “Doesn’t matter. Y’know how to use a needle n’ thread?” the man asked, already uncorking the glass bottle of whiskey. He wet a rag he had gotten with it, before lightly swiping along Remmick’s leg. The vampire made a show of biting his knuckles despite only the light sting. 

  “Yeah. used to have t’ patch up my Da when he’d get a nasty bite out huntin’,” Remmick hissed out, chest heaving as the man finally finished wiping down his wound. “Got a decent hand at it. Y’don’t got a lady to help with it, even?” Remmick asked, picking for details.

  The man stalled. Eyes blinking, before he shook his head. “Naw. no, don’t got a girl of mine,” he said curtly, passing Remmick the needle and thread. 

  “Sorry,” Remmick said lightly, taking the tools graciously. He hooked the thread through the needle's eye, bringing his boot up to the edge of the chair and rolling his pant leg up. He caught the man's eye when the farmer looked at his leg– split flesh by four claws. Remmick also noticed the way the man’s eyes roved over the meat and muscle of his leg, over the hair layering the pale skin, if only for a moment. Remmick didn’t comment on it, knowing if he did, it was a coin toss if he got shot in the head and he had to go find respite before daylight somewhere else or not. “Didn’t mean t’ prod, none. Womanly hands would do a much better job than our’s, ah?” Remmick added lightly. 

  “Sure,” the man replied, voice still holding that curt slide. The man was quiet, watching the thread seam the two sides of flesh together, the thread holding taut. Remmick’s hands were too steady despite the blood loss. “What’re you doing out here, so late?” the man asked, getting bolder. More curious. Remmick’s ear twitched ever so slightly. “It’s not wise to go wandering ‘round these parts alone, so late.” 

  “Man I was with had enough of me, I suppose,” Remmick lied perfectly through his teeth. He placed a solemn look on his face, hands quickening, tying up the suture on the first gash. “Was travellin’ with him, and I suppose he had ‘nough of the trouble I caused him. People aren’t too kindly to Irish folk. They’ll toss you right from the door. They don’t like different folk, opposin’, or with differin’ views. On the jobs we’d get together, I’d get the lesser pay from bein’ Irish. Had ‘nough of it. Big old fight broke out and I went on my way. Here I am now,” Remmick sighed. It wasn't a half lie. How many times had he been looked down upon for his speech? It was an indicator, and he hated that even centuries of life on earth, of finding his nesting grounds in America, he couldn’t rid himself of that accent. He couldn’t blend in just that little bit more. “Don’t know how many jobs I’ve taken on farms and done more work’n anyone else. I worked so hard I sweat pounds offa me. Still paid the peasants salary." By the time Remmick finished speaking, he had stitched up and tied the sutures of his other cuts. The needle and thread lay in his calloused palm. 

  The man was quiet again, nodding. Hands between his knees from where he sat, lips pursed. “I’m… real sorry to hear that. Ain’t no way of treatin’ your fellow man like that. I’m sorry.” 

  “You don’t know how kind it is to hear those words of understandin’,” Remmick sighed, and those words in itself weren't all lies. He leaned against the wood backing of the chair, fingertips on top of his knee, contemplating. Not really, but he made an act of opening and closing his mouth. “I-I don’t mean to say this as encroachin’ and takin’ more of your kindness, not at all… But I see you're lonesome here. That other cabin across the way is dark, too. You got no workers?”

  “No sir.”

  “I’m a good worker. I’ll work anythin’ you want,” Remmick said, making his words lilt with hope. He laced his hands together in a prayer, “anythin’. Just need a few dollars in my pocket and I’ll be on my way. You could use it. Saw your fencin’ on the pastures could need some touchin’ up. Could help with it. Honest, and I’ll be on my way.”

  “How d’you know the fences need fixing?” the man asked, brow furrowed. He sat up straighter now, and Remmick quickly chuckled.

  “Was the only son of a farmer. Guess who got a lot of work put on his shoulders from a young age?” Remmick smiled. “Was a woodworker too when I was just a young man. Made lots’a the furniture and fence posts. I got an eye for it. Could help you with whatever else you think needs fixin’. Once I start somethin’, I need to finish it. You’ll have a strong farm by the time I’m on my way, mister,” Remmick said, lacing his hands again, "I just need the money, mister, and a place to rest my head as I heal up… I won’t be no trouble on your shoulders.” 

  Silence stretched then. The man thought, eyes cast down. When was the last time he had anyone else here? Or regardless, had the help? When was the last time it hadn’t just been him, his animals, and the foliage around him to keep him company? When Remmick gently shook his laced hands, keening a Please, Mister… Did the man finally let up. He always did have too big of a heart. Quietly, he nodded. “Let me go clean the spare bedroom… I’d lay you a pallet, but that wouldn’t be kind on your leg.”

  “I’ll take anything you offer, I’m not one to complain,” Remmick reassured, a smile gracing his face– but it never reached his eyes.“Thank you. Lord, thank you. You're a kind man, I’ll tell you that for free,” he shook a finger in the man's direction. 

  “Don’t need to thank me. I just don’t enjoy seeing someone suffer like that,” the man sighed as he got up, heading to the direction of the hallway. “And I could use the help, regardless.” 

  When the farmer disappeared into the shadow of the cabin, Remmick got up. His footsteps made no sound as he snooped, his limp completely absent. He opened cupboards and cabinets, dead silent, looking for weapons that could be used against him. There was none. Knives in the utensil drawer, and in the measly living room, only a shotgun on a mantle. He took mental note of the garlic hung inside the spice cabinet, wrinkling his nose as it stung and pierced his skull. By the time Remmick could hear footsteps, he whisked silently back to his chair. Slumped his posture, tilted his head back against the wood backing. 

  “Tidied it up. There’s just, ah… boxes, in the closet, but come day I’ll clean them out. You can put your things in there,” the man said, wringing his hands in front of him, standing in the hallway frame. 

  “Don’t got anything on me other than my clothes. Don’t worry,” Remmick smiled tiredly. He got up, one hand braced on the table. Testing  his leg out, his footsteps were heavy as he came over. “I’ll warn you now, mister, I can’t work in the daylight.” 

  The man's brows perked. “Pardon?”   “Can’t work in daylight. Won’t do any good for me– when I was just a boy the village doctor said I had delicate skin. Pah. I know, sounds like a fork of horseshit,” Remmick grinned, all toothy. “Me, delicate. I got mauled by some wolf or mutt or the sort and I’m just wincing! Oh, but the doctor said I had delicate skin. Too fair for the sunlight. I sizzle up like a strip of meat to a pan. But I’ll work anything from dawn till dusk. Sleep through the day and work like that.”

  “You sure your poor pay wasn't from your odd hours?”

  “Maybe. But I still got the work done in the end,” Remmick said, letting himself be led into the cramped spare bedroom. One window lay on the left side, with a fur pelt tossed over the curtain rod. Perfect. It was thick enough to block the sun come morning light. “That won’t be any trouble to you, will it?” Remmick asked, eyes pleading. 

  “No– no, it won't. Don’t worry. I can tell you're an honest man. Got the shoulders to prove it,” the man chuckled and Remmick just nodded with a crooked smile, lowering himself on the small cot. It creaked and groaned beneath his weight. He hadn’t had a proper bed like this in awhile now. “Come… well, come dawn, I can show you the basin. Sometimes I bathe in the creek, but I don’t want that gash of yours to get infected with anything.” 

  Remmick smiled, nodding. “Thank you,” he sighed, hand laced over his unbeaten heart, “this means more than you know. Haven't had someone show me hospitality in what feels like ages. I’ll repay you tenfold.” 

  And Remmick figured the man would leave– men didn’t linger in hallway frames or in bedrooms of other men, Remmick had learnt quickly as a boy. But the man lingered then, eyes taking in Remmick on the cot. Remmick’s big shiny eyes looking back up, blinking. And the man gave him his name– and Remmick latched onto it. Repeated it back dumbly almost, rolling it on his tongue. “Remmick,” the vampire replied. When the man stuck his hand out to shake, Remmick took it with a sturdy, clammy hand. “Pleasure to be workin’ with a man of your kindness.”

  Morning came slowly. You had been staring at your ceiling the entire night, only a hallway separating you and Remmick. Even from that gap, you could hear his breathing almost. Light and airy, murmurs of something in another tongue. Despite it all you didn’t feel threatened. Not when he came up your porch, blood drenching his leg, not when his eyes met yours as you cleaned his calf and saw something glint before it disappeared like an ember beneath a crushing boot. It was an odd thing. 

  Maybe it's because I’ve been so lonesome, you reasoned. Every other hour of the night you told yourself that, lips moving silently. The most human connection you had was when you rode your wagon into town to get your provisions. Herbs and spices and things you didn’t grow at home. A wooden crate of booze. Bullets to protect yourself from those meddlesome coyotes stealing away your sheep. A farmer’s friend of a friend had told you, while you had your arms full of bread loaves to last you the month, that their sheep had two deep, puncture wounds in its neck. It had been left drained of its blood and even when the farmer had sliced its open to hopefully get some meat from it, its bone marrow had been sucked clean from its forelegs. You didn’t refuse when the other farmer had placed a carton of bullets atop your arms, patting the carton like it was a lucky rabbit's foot. You had stored it in your nightstand. 

  You woke up like you always did, with a heaving sigh and swinging your feet over the edge of your bed. You had gone to sleep with your clothing on, just in case something happened with the man across your hallway. Despite your pity for him, still, it was better safe than sorry. All you had to do was pull on your boots at the edge of your single bed, and rub your eyes awake, pulling your curtains open wide. It was a gorgeous summer day. Outside you could hear birds singing and chittering along, gnats buzzing like little sparkles in the sunlight, the trees softly swaying. A perfect day for work. When you opened your door, and saw the spare bedroom–Remmick’s, you reminded yourself now– was closed tight. Silence from within. No doubt sleeping given his nocturnal schedule. You didn’t know how you’d survive like that.

  You went outside, pulling your suspender straps over your shoulders. Today was like any other day, you reminded yourself. Do the chores. Tend the livestock. Go have lunch of some fruits and maybe some bacon, and relax for a while. You’d give Remmick a run-down of the  fence line when the sun crept low enough that long shadows stretched across the purple-pink earth. 

  And you almost did get all those things done. Up until you were hauling the wheelbarrow of sheepshit out of the barn, your sheep baa’ing their thanks to you when you saw the old shack. 

  It hadn’t been maintained in years. Since you were just a small thing. It was only ever a cabin for the farmhands, which you only had one before he passed from some odd disease or another. Your parents hadn’t bothered to fix it up or clean it out before leaving. 

  So you did. You lodged the door open with a big rock, and opened the windows to let the stale air out. Pulled the old curtains back by their ribbons, yanked the bedding off the double bed, and beat the cobwebs from the corners of the shack with a branch full of leaves you found outside. Even swept the floor a bit with it, where squirrels had momentarily dropped their food, or the few mouse droppings. The cabinet doors weren’t very salvageable– years of mice biting at their edges made them threaten to fall from their hinges, along with the cupboards. You couldn’t do much for that, so you had chucked those outside to burn later. 

  But the shack wasn't half bad. It only had one main room while holding the kitchen to the side, and right across to the side, the bed. A small portrait of the Virgin Mary was atop the head of the bed, gazing forlornly down, gently brushing her fingers against her flaming heart. Across from the foot of the bed lay a single roundtable with two chairs. A painting of a pheasant leaping from the underbrush was on the wall there, and two windows directly on the other walls. One overlooking the barns and sprawling field, the other directed at your cabin. Something broiled in your gut– if you let him move in here, he could watch you from that window. Prop the chair up and watch, those keen blue eyes seeing into the direct view of your kitchen window and room window as both faced the shack. You pushed that thought from your mind. Remmick seemed like an honest man, not someone who would spend his daylight hours spying on you. You beat your hat on your head to dim those thoughts and walk out, keeping the windows and door open to let the breeze whistle through, taking the remnants of animal traces with it and far away.  

  By then, the sun was just crawling back behind the treeline. Jesus, you thought. I’ve never cleaned that long in my life…  but your feet carried you back home, up to your cabin. Your arms felt sore with how vigorously you had cleaned that shack. When you crossed the doorframe, you were greeted with the sight of Remmick. Up and out of his room, he was sat at the kitchen table, playing solitaire with your tattered deck of cards. His leg was propped up on the other chair. Where had those cards been, even? You’ve been looking for them for three years. 

  “Oh, Hullo,” Remmick greeted, sparing you a glance as he flipped a card. “Y’got your chores done for the day, did you?” 

  You nodded, wiping your brow with your forearm. The curtains in the window had been drawn, the last filtering light fading. He was perfectly placed where the light didn’t touch as it died out. “Got the shack cleaned up for you and all. Figure you should have some privacy for  yourself when your here,” you said, placing your hat down on the kitchen counter. “That leg of yours any better?”

  “As right as rain as it can be,” Remmick replied.

  “Good. Is it dark enough outside for you?”

  Remmick looked up then, eyes unblinking as he looked from your face to the window. No light was streaming through. “‘Bout so, yeah.”

  “C’mon then. Let me give you a run of the fence. See if you see anythin’ worth fixing.” 

  By the time you had found an old cane in the spare bedroom you had stuffed into the small closet, and had lit your oil lantern, it was dark out. The purples of the sky had flattened to a deep, sorrowful blue. Remmick hobbled along beside you, leaning heavily on the cane, leg wrapped up in an old tea towel you had given him. “You said you fixed a shack for me?” Remmick brought up, as he followed you to the pastures. “Mighty kind of you. Truly. I wouldn’t have minded to stay in that spare room– Hell, you may be the kindest man this side of the country,” he smiled, too wide. The lantern light flickered oddly in his eyes. 

  “Yea– that shack you said looked like nobodys been in it. Pa used to put the farmhand in there when I was a boy, knee-high. Died of some disease. Nobodys been in it in forever– thought you were a good excuse to clean it up. Its not much, but it’ll do for your stay here.” 

  “Thank you. Haven’t had a proper place to myself in awhile now,” Remmick hummed, placing a hand on the pasture fence, giving it a good firm shake. He pursed his lips. “Yup. this is proper molded. If a good ram butts his head well it’ll all crumble. Look, the few are getting corroded,” Remmick hummed, picking a piece of soft splintering wood from a dip in one of the wooden beams.    “This is an old fence, ain’t it?”

  “Been in the family forever.”

  “I can tell. Nobody's taken care of it,” Remmick laughed, before hobbling along before you. He shook and tested the fence like a man determined– something behind his eye glinting. It didn’t seem like he did this for a living, or whatever he had said before. It looked like he was indulging in a long lost passion as he checked the hinge of the gate, even bending to give it a wiggle. “Oh, yeah. This needs some touching up for sure. By the time I’m healed up, this’ll be good as new,” Remmick said, nodding as he stood again now. “It’ll be my repayment for your kindness.”

  “You don’t even need to repay me,” you waved a hand, voice gruff. 

  “Ah, it's the old Irish in me! You give well to who treats you well,” Remmick grinned wide again, and it reached his eyes. Slowly, you let a grin creep on your face too as you nodded.

  “I suppose I can’t refuse it, then.”

  “Yeah— good luck tryin if y’ did!” 

  Remmick had been furious when he heard those words uttered— got that shack cleaned up for you. In any other situation he would have found it kindly—the man even gave him a loaf of bread and butter. and it was kindly— but he had planned to sleep just across the hall from the man for the week or some he spent there. Learn his sleeping patterns— the way he tossed and turned. Did he sleep on his left or right, which side would be easier to puncture? Where was his most vulnerable spot? What time of day would he be easiest at? But now Remmick had brought the pillow and blanket from the spare bedroom to the shack. It was fine, really. It reminded him of his old home back when he was around the mans age, he tried to simmer his anger with those thoughts. They didn’t quite work. 

  Remmick huffed and tossed the pillow and blanket down onto the cot, his cane clattering to the ground with a clack! He sat on the edge of the bed, brows knitted. What the hell would he do now? Actually do work? Put more effort than just making it look like he knows what he's doing, but to actually do it? It was stupid. But he had to do it. Otherwise the man would think he was lazy, or being taken advantage of, and kick Remmick out and the vampire would have to jump him then.

  So Remmick huffed. Picked up the cane. He trudged out with his oil lamp in hand, and off to the barn where the man had shown him where the tools were, and where the wooden poles and panels lay from the time the farmer had considered refurbishing the fence— but had been too tired to do so. It was a hard job, after all. 

  Remmick twitched his ears and listened. Soft, rhythmic snoring. He looked up to the moon, perched high. He had time. Hunting would have to wait until the morning. 

  He left his cane by the barn, hauling some slats of wood over his shoulder, six at a time. He made his way to the pasture gate, wobbled it, tugged on it, checked the hinges. He yanked the gate off whole, before plucking the metal hinges off and settling them neatly in a pile. Taking one glance at the make of the gate, he knelt down with his hammer and nails to make one anew. Before midnight, a new gate was in place, hinges greased and silent as he opened and closed it. “Ha,” Remmick chuffed to himself as he stared at the farmers cabin, “betcha scraggled new folk don’t know a lick about common farmers knowledge like that…” 

Come before dusk, Remmick had fixed the front gate along with greasing the barns hinges, so the roll was easier. The vampire had made quick work of his feeding— scampering off into the night to take his kill on some poor rambler. The car laid upended in the ditch forty miles off, and Remmick laid curled on the small bed of the shack with a full belly, cheek stained copper as dusk light bathed the world outside. 

  You hadn’t seen anything like it. Not even when your dad was around— when you unlocked the barn door, and slid it open, it didn’t fuss. Didn’t squeal or creak or groan. It took you a second to realize it, but when you did, you ran over to the rolling hinge. Wiggled it and rubbed your finger along it— the rust gone and it shone practically. Jesus Christ, is he handy, you thought. 

  Briefly, you thought of him working under the moonlight, sweat soaking his shirt. Cussing in another tongue you very, very briefly heard him speak with. Only hushed whispers to himself. You put away that thought. For now, you rolled the door open once, twice, thrice in excitement before your sheep made themselves noisy with their disdain. Practically taunting them, you were. You murmured a chuckled apology as you opened the back hatch of their stable area, letting them scamper off into the greenery. 

  As you brought their water pail to the water pump, you let your thoughts wander. On the way there, you had to pass the shack Remmick stayed in. you pictured him then– was he sleeping? Was he sitting up, with nothing to do? Was he picking at the bread loaf you had given him? You pushed the lever of the pump up and down as you thought. And when water sloshed over the edge of the pail onto your boots, you came to a conclusion– you’d invite him for supper. It was the godly thing to do. He helped you quite a lot already in just a night– remaking a whole new gate door and greasing the inner workings of the sliding stable door with god knows what. So you did just that.

  Driving into town on your two-horse wagon, you found it pretty sparse like it always was. The trees around the small town wavered and shook with the light summer wind, blowing cool air over your sweat-slick neck. Only a few chuck wagons were in town. But you made it over to the butcher all the same, buying a nice cut of beef wrapped in paper and tied with a string. Beef stew, you told yourself you’d make. A good hearty meal for a farmhand. But he’s not a farm hand, you had to remind yourself curtly. He’s just a fella repaying me. That's all it is. 

  You couldn't help but feel that nag at the back of your head. Even when you had made the soup stock and was letting it broil over the wood stove. Even when you had tossed herbs and such in, even when you had tossed the beef and cut potatoes and carrots and other vegetable bits in. Maybe you shouldn’t have even let him in. the first proper acquaintance you’ve had in awhile and is just a man who happened to stumble on your porch step, bloodied. That's all it was. He was just repaying you for your kindness, you told yourself, once he’s healed he’d be gone and off. Probably five counties over by the next week he’s gone. Working on a bigger farm, using his steady hands. 

  You hadn’t felt this way since you were little. It scared you. You couldn’t be stringing your heart along for a rambling man. You couldn’t be. 

  It was dawn by the time the stew was done cooking. You had busied yourself in the in-betweens of checking it by pulling more wooden slats and poles from the top of the barn. Tossing them over the edge and climbing back down the ladder to lay them up neatly for him. Lessen the load a little. With the stew made, and Remmick’s tools laid out, you made your way up to the shack. Let yourself gather yourself on his porch step, before knocking. A muffled Come on in, could be heard. So you did. 

  Remmick was sat at the little table, leaning back in one of the rickety chairs. A keen hand held onto a blade of a hunting knife, twirling the tip into the already frayed table. Clad in nothing but his trousers, suspender straps hanging at his hips. He looked up at you, giving you a little smile like his whole body wasn't on display. “Hullo. Y’come here to give me hell for makin’ the gate wrong?” he teased.

  “No, of course not,” you assured, stuffing your hands into the pockets of your old work jeans. “It’s a real work of art, though. That gate. Thank you. I think it’d be better than any other woodworker could’ve done.”

  “Yeah… Thank you. It was nice to spruce up my workin’ skills after so long,” Remmick replied softly, and for once he wasn’t lying. It was nice. When he had breathed deep enough, he could still smell the rich soil of Ireland. He leaned his body forward a bit, smiling– the softness of his stomach slightly rolling, stomach hair prominent. “That all you come in here to tell me?”

  “No,” you caught yourself saying rather quickly, “Came in here to tell you I made you some supper. As a thanks,” you said, voice soft. You pointed a thumb over your shoulder, “you can come and get a bowl whenever you like. ‘S beef stew.” 

  “Stew?” he breathed. Like he couldn’t believe it. You furrowed your brow, nodding as you saw his face cycle through a few emotions. Surprise? Horror? Anger? Something softer, before going to confusion. “Y’made me food?” disbelief laced Remmick’s words.

  “Sure. your… Well, least I can do to repay you for making me a whole gate for the pasture.”

  “But that was my repayment to you.”

  “Sure, but you did a better job than you needed to,” you said, and feeling the awkwardness in the room, you put one foot out the door. “Stew’s ready whenever you want it, I’ll be inside. I finished caring for the animals so I'm gonna have my down time. Come in whenever,” you said, quickly, before making your way outside. You left Remmick to sit there, blinking wide and owlishly as he watched you trudge back home through the shacks window. 

  Remmick paced around the room. “Stew,” he breathed to himself as he was tapping his long claws across his collarbones, tangling with his necklace. “The farmer made me stew. Who does that? The last man I did this to had left me to starve. Stew. beef stew. He made me stew” he breathed, Gaelic whispering through his teeth. His ears twitched as he could hear you putting around in your cabin. Ceramic clinking. Remmick pulled his overshirt from his bed, tugging it over his head. It stunk with sweat and iron, but he had washed the blood stain out furiously with a bucket of water and his tough hands. He tugged his pants on properly and pulled his suspender straps over his shoulders. His pants were still ribboned at the calf, and it took everything in Remmick when changing his bandages to not just yank his calf up close to lap and lave at the open wound. It’d heal it quicker– the otherworldly enzymes in his saliva making the wound heal quicker than the average person.

  But he couldn't do that. Instead, he had to grab the cane the farmer had so kindly given him, and trudge up the little path to the cabin. It was the longest walk he had ever taken. Knowing that the farmer had set up a bowl for him to use no doubt. Expecting him. Remmick usually had to coerce himself to be let inside. Now, he was expected. Something broiled beneath his breast bone. He let it simmer there as he knocked twice on the door and the farmer let him in, stepping aside so Remmick could enter. 

  His nose caught spices– thyme and rosemary and the greasy, thick and warm smell of the stew broth. Remmick rested his cane by the table, eyes flicking to where the farmer had placed a bowl out for Remmick to take as much as he wanted. It was ceramic with little blue flowers adorning the rim, from past relatives. Remmick took it with a nod of thanks, the cabin oddly still as they moved in silence. Remmick took his time to sniff over the stew subtly, making sure no garlic had graced it– and somehow, it hadn’t. He settled into the rickety wooden chair, dipping his spoon in to grab a spoonful of broth, carrot and beef– playing the part of a civilized man. 

  “You taking a hares portion?” Remmick asked as the man had only taken two ladlefuls. “Might as well get some more, yeah? Workin’ all day long on that farm,” Remmick coaxed, as if he didn’t just want the man nice and solid for when he eventually sunk his teeth into him come a few days time. Or even tonight. Something in the back of his mind told him this wouldn’t be easy– he might as well abort it. He could tell this man was slowly growing fond of him, if not already. 

  “Made this for you, though. In thanks of making that gate,” the man replied. Remmick hummed. But he let it go when the man took another ladleful before sitting down across from Remmick, blowing on it. Remmick ate it as it was, the heat of it burning down his cold throat, warming him from the inside out. It was a good placebo for blood, he thought. When was the last time he even had stew? Back when his heart was still pumping, and he was little enough to hide beneath his mothers skirt when he hadn’t wanted to do his chores? He let that thought go as he chewed on a piece of beef, brows knitted. “Those pants of yours,” The man began, licking his lips, and Remmick raised his head again. “They won’t hold for long. They’re gonna tear even more from when you got your leg tore… I’ll wash a pair of trousers I don’t wear for you.” 

  Remmick’s pupils rounded from above his bowl of stew. Jesus Christ, he thought quickly. “Your pants?”

  “Yeah– speakin’ of, let me see that leg of yours. Maybe it needs a touch-up,” the man said again, bringing his chair out from the table and boldly patting his knee. Remmick looked at him dumbly. “Come on.” 

  Hesitantly, Remmick raised his leg and let the man pull his shredded pant leg up and peel away the cloth binding his leg. The farmer hadn’t been this straight forward or even touched him, really. Had he put something in the stew? Remmick’s head felt dizzy. He felt the mans hands gently push the stitched wound, testing it to see if it  oozed. Remmick shouldn’t feel his dead gut tighting. He shouldn’t feel his undead heart phantom-thumping at his chest. He shouldn’t feel the thrum of the farmers own heart in his own ears, or feel his hair on his arms prickle. The farmers hands were warm. Alive. One gently held the back of Remmick’s calf, the other tracing his stitched wound just on the raised edges. Remmick had to stifle a mewl as the man rubbed a light, faint circle with his thumb on the back of Remmick’s calf before letting it go. Remmick’s foot went back to the floor, and he felt his cold heart seize with it. 

  “You’re healing fast,” the farmer said, simply. He averted his eyes quickly and continued back on his stew. Remmick sat there, one hand in his lap, the other still holding his spoon. “I’ll get a pair of pants for you tomorrow. I got a few old pairs laying around somewhere.”

  “Mighty kind of you,” Remmick rasped out as he stuffed his face with the last remnants of the stew. He tore off a chunk of bread the farmer had set in a bowl in the center of the table, scooping up the stew bits clinging to the side of his bowl. 

  After that meal, Remmick was over every night for supper. 

  He’d sleep all day or whittle his claws into the old wooden chair at the table of his shack, carving all sorts of knots and details. His cane was a work of celtic knots, come the fifth day of staying there. He’d then have supper, of whatever the farmer cooked, and work on the fence, and come midnight, he’d make his way into the nearby outskirts of town and feed on something to sustain himself. He always shed his shirt and pants then, making sure to not get any blood on them. 

  He wouldn’t dare get blood on the farmers pants. 

 They had smelled like you at first. Of your scrubbing laundry soap and something else you– your sweat, maybe, he had concluded, as he laid curled up in bed, your pants tucked beneath his chin as he rubbed your scent over himself the first few nights. He had missed that. When he was a newly-bit, he had some lovers. They’d curl together and scent each other. across the moors he could smell himself on them. But they had died, and he felt no remorse now for it– it had been centuries past then. He wished you could smell your scent on him– wished you could smell yourself embedded into the sheets of his cot. 

  He knew he was getting attached. He let that fear be squashed as every night when he walked up the trail to the farmers cabin, he would repeat to himself, their blood will be divine tonight. They are comfortable tonight. Their blood will be divine tonight. It was a mantra he tried to repeat throughout the day, even. You were just a meal to him, ripening into something sweet that will fill him for days. He could rest in the farmers cabin, scent himself on your clothes and bask in it before trudging along to the next person. 

  But he couldn't and it angered him. His hands were getting calloused from his hard, honest work on your fence. They rubbed against each other as he held his hand in a fist, his legs making their way to your cabin. It was night. Stars twinkled gayly in the sky as he knocked once on the door, and you had hollered a come in! You had become more cheery lately. And he hated that he looked forward to the nights spent sat together at the little wood table, too rickety for his liking, and ate whatever simple meal you made. He always took one half of the bread loaf, you taking the other, tearing it in two. He always laughed with you. He always smiled, always wide. His laugh actually came from his chest these past nights. He hated it. He was supposed to kill you. Now, he couldn't even think about it. That mantra made him sick. He couldn't kill you. He knew that. 

 And the days were more dreadful than nights, somehow. Soon the old chair at the table was refurbished. A few new quilts adorned his bed– all from you– having insisted upon it, as the colder seasons drew near, where the night turned crisp. They reeked of you. You had found a painting at a market titled Irish Moors and had gifted it to him, studying the way his eyes flashed with something. He hung it above his bed, taking the Mother Mary photo away, tucking it in the cupboard. Your clothes slowly became his. He walked at night, chin held high, smelling of kindness and charity and of being wanted and it made his head swim. He had nailed his hand many a time from it, stifling a yelp. He had quickly lapped at the puncture wound, eyes alight as he could even smell the faint scent of you on the hammers handle. 

  Come the dawn of the first whole month of Remmick staying there, he had stayed past his welcome. He knew that. His leg had healed finally, a gnarled white scar tearing across his calf. He didn’t limp. The carved cane sat by his doorframe. You hadn’t said anything about him leaving, so he didn’t. He stayed right in that shack. The dinner chair with its velvet green  cushion in your home had shaped to his bottom. He had his own bowl, only his, that you always took out for him. He knew his way around your barn with ease. Knew the names of your sheep, and the lambs didn't scare anymore at him– he could gently scratch beneath their chins now. 

  And despite the fact you were telling yourself Remmic had to leave eventually– move on to the next place that would fit him– you found yourself finding him implemented into everything around you. You waited at night, when supper cooked– he always knew when to come now, like he could smell the scent of food being prepared or cooked. In the barn, some of the sheep didn’t care for the scritches you gave their heads– but you saw how they flocked to Remmick, like his fingers were natural combs for them. The new chairs he had made you. Rounding off a knick on the table. His roughly delicate fingers running along the doorframes, checking them after you questioned him on the stability of them. You waited for the touch he gave, a pat on the shoulder when supper was done good. When you went to the market, you even remembered things he briefly mentioned to make food he grew up with and hadn't eaten since then. It was good. You let him come wholly into your life. Feeling lonesome wasn't an occurrence, anymore. 

  Just this morning, you had sucked up the courage to actually get him something. A gift. A whatever– you knew some guys crinkled their nose and called it womanly to give gifts– but you hadn’t cared when you spotted that pristine banjo. You remembered one of Remmick’s musings, cheek full of something or another as he talked of being a musician when he was younger. How young, you didn't know, because he couldn't have been older than thirty-something. But you listened intently. Something called a bouzouki– and you knew you wouldn’t find anything of the sort. Not here in nowhere America. But a banjo was the closest thing to it, you figured. 

  The banjo had been laying untouched in the corner of the country market. Been there for awhile– you remembered it sitting sadly by itself since last October. It was five dollars, expensive for your tastes, but it had been handcrafted or whatnot. You had shilled the coins from your bag, before your attention caught on one of the other farmers. He had cases of bullets piled high in his one arm, all sorts of types. He looked over at you. 

  “Buying a thing of indulgence and not bullets? What, you want those meddlin’ predators to tear your livestock up?” 

  “What?” you asked, brow furrowed. You had  tightened your hand on the coins, the cashier just blinking between you two. 

  “Them coyotes! O-or bears, I don't know nomore. Nobody does,” the farmer gruffed out, but he seemed more worried now. “Whatever it is, it’s goin’ round killin’ everything. Every livestock everyone's got. Old Sally says it got her two boys. So damn young, they were only twenty-two. They got outta the coal mines late. Their clothes were tore up. Like whatever it was played in their damn blood. D’you hear me, boy? Get yourself some goddamn protection! Soon enough you’ll be missin’ too. Even the towns over ain’t safe. Canopies of cars tore open like something jumped right in. tires slashed. You’d think they had red upholstery. Town sheriff said he don’t even think it's an animal anymore.” 

  You listened to the farmers frantic talk, nodding along. “Yeah,” you had said. “Maybe its a cougar.” 

  “It aint no damn cougar, boy!” 

  “Alright, I believe you!” 

  The older man just shook his head, tossing a few coins down for his pay. “God help you,” was all he said before he stumbled out into the muddy street. You watched him go. “Old kook,” you murmured. 

  Now, the stringed gift leaned proud against Remmick’s usual seat. You had tuned it with as much knowledge you knew of them from watching the girls in town play them. You were already sat in place, bowl of  chicken pot pie still steaming as you twisted your fork round the contents to cool it. You let your heart beat from your chest as Remmick’s foot steps sauntered up the steps, slow, not like the quick paces that used to accompany his feet. His rhythmic knock greeted your ears, and you hollered a “come in”, and like always, he did. 

  But he stuck his head in first this time, brows raised, head tilted down a bit. It wasnt from the pie, you knew that, as he’d had it before. Surprise laced his eyes, like he was searching for something before landing on the banjo against his chair. “N’ what’s that?” He asked, voice rasped with something raw. 

  “Got it for you in town. It was a stealin’ price,” you said, wiping your hands with your dish towel that had been laid over your lap. Your hands weren't even dirty– just sweaty from anticipation. “Remembered you talking about playing some stringed thing awhile back… figured this was the closest thing to it.” 

  “F’ me?” Remmick slurred, eyes still big. He came forward, scooping the banjo into his hold. He held it close, touching the strings. You could smell hay and the chilled night air clung to his skin. He passed his fingertips over the strings, experimental, and you both sighed. “Oh, your killin’ me, farmer…” the words slipped from Remmick, no more than a keen. His fingers plucked and picked for a brief few seconds before steadying himself. He didn’t look at you, only staring holes into the banjo before slowly settling into his seat, hands tracing the skin of the instrument, the dry sound making your skin prickle. All you could do was let out a breath as he laid the banjo on his lap, picking up his fork to eat.

  “You’re not gonna play a song?” you had asked, blinking. He briefly looked up to you before taking two quick bites of the pot pie.

 “My pa would’ve tanned my hide if I had done so. No. a good musician’s gotta get some food in him. Food’s the backbone of a man,” Remmick replied simply. You had blinked, and his bowl was clean. Remmick scraped the remnants of the crust and licked the bowl, wiping his hands upon his pant leg and cracking his fingers with ease. “Now,” Remmick started, pushing his chair back to prop his banjo up, “now I'll play. Only for you,” his voice held a lilt you hadn’t heard properly yet. Youthful. He always held this air of respectability of him, but now, his face pulled into a boyish smile, and you could only mirror it as you leaned back in your chair.

  “Well, go on, then,” you coaxed, and he fell into song.

  The storm had rolled in by now, rain pelting the roof, but all you heard was Remmick’s voice. It came from right in the core of him. His accent grew thicker with each word, brow knitting and creasing his forehead more, like the tides upon the Irish beach. His shoulder bounced with each change in tune, his fingertips pressing into the frets with ease, his eyes not even glancing down, eyes closed. His foot bounced upon the floorboards, boot heels hitting right to the tune. It made your skin prickle. You shifted yourself on the chair, palm in your chin, elbow on the chairs arm. 

 “And they say that you're married to the house carpenter, and your heart it will nev’r be mine,” his voice was like silk that spilled from his lips. It made you a little bit ill, if you had to be true, covering your mouth now, looking at him through bewildered eyes. “Will you come with me, my one true love? Oh, come with me, said he. And I’ll take you to where th’ sky is never gray, and the shores of old Amerikay,” his foot grew heavier with its beats, his eyes finally opening to meet yours. He sang and sang till you figured the wood of the floorboards had been beat with his boot, until you wondered if his words could cling to the fabric of your curtains. It was heavenly. It was the first time since such life had been beaten back into the old cabin, since your family had left long ago. 

  When his song came to a close, and his chest heaved with his breaths, brow carrying a sheen, you finally let your breath go. The rain filled in for the silence, Remmick’s fingers ghosting over the hide of the banjo once more before he crossed his arms overtop. Remmick looked sheepish, deep in thought. 

 “You got a gorgeous voice, Remmick,” you finally breathed out. 

  Remmick’s brows raised, briefly. He leaned back in his chair, his dark blue eyes blinking with something beneath. “Yeah?” he asked, incredulous. He was quiet for a moment, thumb plucking a chord, but his eyes never left yours. “I think you’d have a beautiful voice, too,” Remmick said, bolder. He cuffed his boot briefly on the ground. “It jus’ makes sense.”

  “Yeah?” You replied, trying to shoo away the fluster. “Then I reckon I’ll have to play a song for you sometime.” 

  Remmick’s head raised then, eyes widening with surprise. “Oh, that’ll– that’ll make my year. I ain’t had someone to sing with since–” he cut himself off oddly. He swallowed, shaking his head, brows furrowing. “Well, since I was just a boy”

 “You ain’t done a lotta stuff since you were a boy,” you said, crossing your leg over your knee. You were crudely aware of Remmick’s eyes raking over the movement. 

  “Well, the life of a rambler ain’t a kind one to a man who has many follies,” Remmick replied, voice coming from the pit of his chest as he righted his posture. “Jus’ know you’ve given a man a lotta pleasure since a long, long time. This means more than those meals you’ve been makin’ me or the home you’ve let me rest in,” Remmick’s voice was raw now. Like he was fighting something beneath the words, some turmoil. You learnt not to comment on things like that. So you watched his emotions play upon his sculpted face– the crease in his brow and forehead as he thought. He opened his mouth, before closing. He opened it again, "I'm holdin’ that song to you though, farmer. I’ll wanna hear that pretty voice singin’ for me. Or those fingers plucking on the strings, whichever you’d fancy…” his voice trailed off. 

  The oil lamp flickered, making his eyes flick with something. His solid shoulders hunched forward as he leaned his crossed arms on the curve of the banjo. His shirt was unbuttoned enough that the lamplight caught the glint of his gold chain and that old, mottled mound of scar tissue at the juncture of his neck. “You calling me pretty?” you asked. 

  Remmick didn’t reply immediately, instead holding his position. He looked like a wolf peeking its head from the bushes, the way he was leaning so forwards. He seemed to be lost in thought, jaw working. Muscles along his cheek jumped, the cords of his hand and throat twitching. “Would you banish me from your home if I said so?” his words came out thicker, like he was fighting his Gaelic. You wished he hadn’t– everytime he murmured one of those old, old words beneath his breath, your nerves had jumped and turned sluggish in the legs. 

  “Why would I?”

  “Been shunned from a lot of men for stating the obvious,” Remmick replied simply, curtly. His lips barely moved, like he was hiding something. “I’ve been threatened for it, too. Had knives stuck in my gullet for it.”

  “I ain’t gonna do that to you, Remmick. I can promise you that,” you said. Honesty poured from your words, and Remmick held his posture for a few more moments. His fingers brushed the banjo’s strings as he leaned back, his soft chest heaving as he let his jaw relax. You knew the feeling. You knew it too well– anticipating anger and hatred when saying such a loving, raw thing. You had been welcomed with that anger and hatred many a time, and you knew Remmick must have, too, from the way his bones relaxed in the chair. Remmick turned his head from you, looking out the window of your living room. The rain poured down hard, trees whipping their arms in fright when a crack of thunder snapped out somewhere far away. “You can stay in tonight, If you’d like,” your voice rang tender. His jaw jumped again. “I don’t want you gettin’ swept away in the winds. You’ll probably drift off back to Ireland,” you teased lightly. The man across from you let a soft breath from his nose at the mention of Ireland. 

  But he gently shook his head. “I should get to my own quarters,” Remmicks voice rang smooth as he stood. “Thank you for the meal. Thank you for…” he raised the banjo, head nodding. “Would you be so kind as to lend me a coat? So this poor girl doesn’t get washed to the bone?” 

  You stood without a word, moving to the coat rack. Remmick followed, holding the banjo by the neck so gently. The brown leather coat came off the rack with a crinkle, the worn leather catching dust as you handed it to him. Remmick was so close you could feel his breath against your cheek– smelling of the food you had given him, and something metallic. Your fingers brushed his as he took the jacket to wrap the banjo in, settling it against his chest. 

  The two of you didn’t say anything for a while, lingering by the door. His eyes bore into yours before searching your face. “Goodnight… farmer,” Remmick’s voice was like a brand to your heart. Sizzling and searing, twisting the very veins to rewrite his name into the meat. 

  “Goodnight, my Irish rover.” 

  Remmick’s mantra soon had been kicked to the back of his mind. 

  He couldn’t eat you. No, no, he just couldn't, he levelled with himself. Not after that song. Not after he saw the ways your eyes caught his– something deeply rooted in your soul. Whether you heard the song before or hadnt– the way your heart beat faster and your breath hitched sent him flying over the edge. All because of him. Naturally. No sinking his fangs into the tense flesh of your neck, no playing into the way you moved and the things you liked to get on your good side– all he had done is played a kinder part of himself and you had fallen. Hard. 

  The feeling of being wanted and someone looking forward to seeing him sent his nerves ablaze. From his toes to the tips of his ears he felt real. Alive. No, he had to keep you alive now. How could he ever feel like that again? 

  Stolen touches were Remmick’s new favourite thing.

  They surpassed the excitement he got from a kill– they surpassed the feeling of that long, fizzy-veined pull from a person's neck– they surpassed the feeling of seeing someone else's memories, their lies, their loves, their woes, their hardships, their family. 

  And lord, did Remmick steal. He was good at it. He’d been stealing lives away for centuries. This was easier. He remembered it well from when his heart still beat. Lingering touches when you inspected his woodwork on the  gates, the edges of your hand pressing against his cool one. A pat on the back, hand lingering when you said your goodnights. Pressing his body close behind yours when you both had to squeeze into one of the sheep stalls to inspect one of the lambs. 

  And he found that he enjoyed learning about you more than seeing the flashes of people's lives replay behind his eyelids with blood on his chops. He liked seeing the way you’d smile at your livestock, or the way you asked, wholly invested, in Remmick’s life that he lied over and over about. Or when you would stop and smile when you saw your favourite wildlife critter, the way you’d rarely talk of your family, long gone, and the way you’d always answer his questions like they mattered. Indecency soon fueled his days of staying cooped in the shack, hands down his trousers and nose buried in the pillow covers. All he could think of was you. If he wasn't talking to you, looking at you, experiencing you, he had to be thinking of you. 

  And right now, that need was filled to the brim. 

  Remmick’s legs tossed and kicked in a flurry, arms raised and at his sides as he danced. His knees and the pads of his feet burned as your fingers plucked and strummed on the banjo’s strings. The faster the tune picked up, the quicker Remmick’s feet adapted, quicker than a hare. Remmick’s head tossed and flipped in ecstasy, the loud thrums of the tune and the stomps of his feet echoed loud in the house. 

  His shirt was slick to his body. Sweat poured down his brow as he danced, and danced, and danced, and danced…. You found yourself selfishly plucking harder to get him to dance faster. And he did. Perfectly. It was addicting, this man’s ethereal way to pick up the tune before you even adjusted to making it. Your lips sung to the tune, an old Irish thing you learnt from some passerbys in the bar when you were younger. Remmick’s dark curls upon his forehead stuck wet to his brow, nose dripping droplets of sweat as he bent his knee to hop low before bouncing back up, kicking his feet backwards and sideways and jumping. 

  The curve of Remmick’s neck shone in the light, the cord of muscle bouncing and bobbing as he hollered the lyrics among your voice. A fine mottle of scar tissue was at the juncture of shoulder and neck, where his shirt had slipped down from exertion. Your fingers skimmed the strings as you imagined them wisping over Remmick’s sculpted chest.

  Remmick only stumbled, feet catching himself when you closed the song with a pat to the strings. They twanged, the vibrations seeping to the bone as you panted like you had been the one beating the floorboards with your dance. Remmick stood there, head held high as he took deep lungfuls of air. 

  “Jesus,” Remmick heaved, tongue licking along his bottom lip to catch a bead of sweat. His dark blue eyes met yours, shining in the lamplight. “That voice o’ yours, farmer… could charm the devil,” he breathed. 

  “Don’t be a fool,” you only laughed, placing the banjo between your legs as you shook your head. “Your’s has more soul to it.” 

  “No, No,” Remmick said quickly, feet carrying him closer. Drunk off the feeling of your song. Your voice. You. his veins thrummed hot, swallowing drool. “Don’t go speakin’ like that to me, boy, don’t you. D’you hear yourself? Charmed the souls right from the dead and your tellin’ me you ain’t got soul. Ain’t got heart. Like you ain’t more than just a handsome face playin’ this poor old rambler a song of his past.” 

  Remmick’s words sent an electric shock down your spine, making your chest coil tight. Your finger plucked a twinge against the banjo’s string from your white-knuckle grip. Jesus, you thought. What was that? You hadn’t ever felt like that. Like a man's words had such grip over you. “Yeah,” Remmick breathed like he could hear your thoughts in the emptied cabin air. “Sayin’ all that muck like you weren’t just singin’ and playin’ to see me come undone. That’s what you were thinking, farmer, don’t make us both look like fools now.” 

  You sat there, quiet. Because he was right. Tongue running over your teeth, eyes trained on the way his shoes were stood between your wide-legged stance to accommodate the banjo between your knees. “You sure know how to pick at a mans brain, Mickey.” 

  Remmick groaned. A deep, ungodly gravel from his chest. “Don’t go callin’ me that ‘les you want my mind to go blank, now,” Remmick sighed, eyes fluttering slightly. Fighting to roll back to replay old, old memories of tender words spoken from soft lips.

  “What if I want to?” 

  Your words surprised you, even. You blinked, eyes finally meeting his again. The man above you was staring down like you were something precious. Eyes blown wide, jaw slightly hung. “Then I wouldn't be surprised,” Remmick replied, collected and slow before his throat bobbed with a swallow. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before those same fingers took the neck of the banjo from between your legs, leaning it against the leg of the table. “Im a man of many follies, dear farmer, and I think with how many of those you’ve indulged in, it’d be a shame to now not indulge me in this one.” 

  “Yeah,” is all you could get out, licking your bottom lip with a swipe of your tongue that Remmick’s eyes followed. With that affirmation– just that breathy word– Remmick placed his hands upon your shoulders and settled himself down upon your lap. 

  His thighs were warm, thick and solid on either side of your hips as he settled in. moved, eyes forever locked onto yours. Seeing how you’d react, his lips curving up wide, his cheeks dimpling as he saw your breathy sigh. He sat at home, his elbows now on your shoulders, hands laced beind your neck. His blunt fingernails that felt a bit sharper– you reminded yourself to let him borrow your short file tomorrow– played with the soft hairs at your nape. Remmick let out a low hum eventually, leaning forwards agonizingly slow. 

  His nose brushed the meeting of your jaw and neck, over the thick cord of muscle. Remmick took a deep lungful, pulling your scent in close. The freshest he’s ever had of it, straight from the rush of your blood. He groaned low, and your hands came up to hold onto his solid hips. His shirt had come undone during his dance, so you tested the waters and dipped your hands beneath the fabric to clutch at his soft sides, only his undershirt separating flesh from flesh. Your fingers dug in with surprise as you felt him lick a whole stripe with the flat of his tongue, thick saliva coating your neck– he could taste the salt and sweat of a hard days work on you, the scent of hay and foliage from tending the small crops and the taste of your blood, the skin barricading it. Remmick willed himself to keep his teeth in check as he hummed low, pressing his nose back to smell. “Forgive me for bein’ so forwards,” Remmick apologized, but he had no true sorrow in his tone. His lips even curled into a smile against your flesh. “Forgive a man for bein’ so outta the field of lovin’. Haven't had a man to my whims in… oh… lord knows when. And lord knows I’m not a solitary animal.”

  “‘S alright, Remmick,” you murmured low. You let out a pathetic sound as you felt his one hand drag from your neck down to your shoulder, to your collarbone, to your first shirt button… his fingers popped it expertly, before he popped the second and the third. You wore nothing beneath, the sun too hot during the day to even think of wearing a cotton undershirt. Remmick let out a low hum at that like he hadn’t seen you shuck your shirt off a thousand times when the sun bit into your skin too hot. He tugged your shirt open a bit, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your collarbones. You stifled a low sound as his tongue laved out to dip into your clavicle, catching dried sweat and dirt as Remmick himself groaned low, deep in his chest as his hips started to move. Your fingers digging into the soft meat of his hips didn’t even will them to stop their slow dance. 

  When Remmick pulled back, it was with a wild look. One that commanded you without words– your hands flung from his hips to yank your shirt over your head instinctively. Bare to him, your eyes wide as you let your shirt fall from your fingers. But Remmick caught it, bundling it up to toss on the table to take with him later. 

  With your upper body bare now, his hands and eyes roved over your skin. His fingers trailed from the fur peeking from the top of your trousers, following the path up your belly button to between your pecs to your lips. You made no move of retaliation as his pointer hooked into your mouth, pulling your lip down to show your gums and bottom teeth. Remmick gave you no notice before his lips crashed to yours, hands clasping the sides of your head as he kissed with fervor. He tasted like copper and his food from earlier and of the pipe he puffed on that you had let him use. You kissed back just as rough– when had you last kissed a man? Anyone for that matter– if ever? You pushed that thought away as you wrapped your arm around his waist, pulling him impossibly close as Remmick let out a keen. Hands scrabbling against your skin, trying to take everything in– from any blemishes or scars, from any moles or freckles or anything more. Over hard muscle or fat, trying to frantically etch it into his memories. He moved like a rushed hare, hips rolling close time and time again. “Get this off’a you,” you said quickly, yanking on his light overshirt. 

  He didn’t say a word as he ripped his shirt off, not caring for the buttons as he yanked it over his head. His curls lay boyish and soft over this forehead, mouth crashing back onto yours with such force the chair teetered. 

  One hand braced yourself on the table, the other dipping below his trousers to grab a palmful of one buttock. Remmick keened again, something you’d never even heard from dirty picture shows or alleyways. Could anyone even make that sound? But you’ve come to know Remmick as being anything but normal. 

  “So good f’me,” you slurred, drunk off the irishman. Remmick kissed along the corners of your lips as you spoke sweet nothings, “so good. Workin’ the farm for me. So damn kind to me.” 

  “All f’you,” Remmick keened pathetically as he kissed beneath your jaw.

  “Helpin’ me so much. Couldn’t imagine anyone else but you livin’ with me. Can’t imagine dinners alone anymore.”

  “Don’ wanna leave,” Remmick cried pathetically. His lip wobbled as he felt your hands beneath his undershirt, feeling along his sides and stomach. How his ribs didn’t stick out funny anymore, how he had soft padding along his muscle. Your right hand took a handful of chest, and Remmick sunk his teeth a little into your shoulder– not enough to pierce– he wouldn’t dare. “Only yours.” 

  That did something to you. Something deep in your chest cracked and twisted. “Yeah. Only mine, Mickey, only mine. My man,” you revelled in the way Remmick cried something tiny into your shoulder at your words alone. They undid him. Peeled back his charisma he hid behind, only a mere mush of pathetic sounds left of the high man. Your hand cupped the back of his neck, thumb brushing over the back of his neck, over his gold chain. “My man, my dear rambler,” you cooed as you reached a hand between your bodies to begin unbuttoning his trousers. Drool covered your shoulder at this point, thick and sticky from his odd saliva. You got his first button unclasped when you saw it. 

  Your eyes had been too hazy on indulgence to notice the dark coppery stain on the back of Remmick’s undershirt. You paused your movements, and Remmick voiced his disdain in babbles of his mother tongue against your neck. But you pulled your hand from his trousers to pull his undershirt up to inspect the stain. Your other hand kept Remmick’s head down by the neck, tender enough so he didn’t kick. 

  It was blood. You figured so. Blood, small bits of hay stuck in the mix– soft, fine fur of white tucked into the cotton on the side of the stain. You blinked, letting your brain register it. 

  One of the farmers in town’s sheep had been slaughtered. You had heard Remmick’s footsteps trail off that night. You figured it was just for a nightly walk he did a few times a week– always excusing it as ‘checking for any trespassers’. 

  “Remmick,” your voice came stern. Remmick was too hazy in his head to realize, instead letting out a sigh of his name on your tongue again. You yanked him upright by his chain, his bleary eyes meeting yours with confusion. “You got blood on your undershirt,” you said, brows furrowed like you hoped he’d reason with it. He just blinked at you. 

  “Caught myself on the barbwire,” he replied. 

  “Your shirt ain't ripped, Remmick,” you said. “You’re lying to me. The hell is this?” you plucked the fine sheep wool from his  shirt, rubbing it between your fingers infront his face. He stared at it, eyes widening. 

  “Sheep must've rubbed up on me, honest– it ain’t nothin’, come on,” Remmick reasoned, moving forward to start kissing you again. You pulled back, mouth pulled into a tight frown, “c’mon, Mo charae, don’t be a fool.” 

  “I ain’t bein’ a fool. Remmick, you got wool and blood on your shirt,” your voice grew more stern. “Most of the farmers around have had their sheep slaughtered.” 

  Clearance of the haze that fogged Remmick’s senses was clear on his face. Remmick’s eyes blinked, impossibly wide. “You think of me to do something like that?”   “You’re avoidin’ the question, Remmick. You werent here the night the last herd of sheep went slaughtered. You werent… fuck, you weren’t here when sally’s boys got tore up on the highway,” your voice rasped. You watched as Remmick’s eyes slowly went back to their normal size. It was sickening– without words, you knew it. He had done it. With the way he stared at you, brows furrowed not in anger or hunger, but in something more sorrowful. 

  “Dear farmer, please, it aint– aint like that.”

  “You killed those men? Those livestock?” 

Remmick went to open his mouth when you pushed his hips backwards. He was teetering on your knee, hands clasping in the fabric of your pants. “Please. Jus’ lemme explain–” 

  “If those men know it was you, they’ll shoot your brains out, Remmick.”

  “That ain’t it, that doesn’t matter none to me, but– I had to– livin’ off of animal stock only goes for so long before I get shaky,” Remmick cried out. His chest tugged him to run, to get away– he hadn’t ever told someone so quick of his nature. He knew it was the most foolish thing to do. But now, teetering on a man whom he couldn't see himself without, he couldn't care. He could feel the cold water beneath himself now, ready to plunge the precipice of stupidity. 

  “The hell are you? Can’t go out at night, your killin folk, what– suckin’ their blood, sounds like? Are you some sorta animal or a sicko?” you asked, hands shaking. 

  “I ain’t none of that! I’m Remmick!” Remmick barked out, before shrinking in on himself when he saw your flinch. “Ain’t no monster or a sicko, I ain’t none of that. I’m Remmick. Remmick Ó Cearbhaill– your Remmick, like you said,” His voice came out pathetic. His fingers clutched your pant leg, dark blue eyes searching yours. 

  Silence drenched the cabin as you breathed in those words. Breathed in his pleading stare, mouth hung open slightly. You shifted yourself on the chair, muscles jumping in your clenched jaw. “They got good trackers with them, Remmick…” 

  “I’ll know every trick up their sleeve. I’ve had every strategy of huntin’ and trackin’ put on me,” Remmick deflected. 

  “They might know what you are,” you said, and with that Remmick only let out a breath. 

  “Whole world can know of me, so long as you love me. Everyone can have a spear pointed at me and I'd have my chin up high,” Remmick replied like it was the simplest thing ever. “As long as you didn’t. You’re not looking to your shotgun. You don’t mean it– you don’t mean it, y’love me. I’ve been keeping myself together for you. I woulda been on my way months ago if not for falling into your enchantment. You’ve turned me into a true fool. I’ve never felt my heart beat so fast before. It can’t, that's– that's the joke of it all. Phantom-beatin’,” Remmick murmured. His shoulders were hunched now, looking at the hole he had torn into your pant leg. He looked boyish, if he ever could. “You make me feel like I ain't a monster.” 

  “So you’re admitting your one,” you said, voice soft. You watched Remmick’s throat bob with a thick swallow.

  “I can’t ever lie to you,” Remmick sighed. He worked his jaw. “You won’t ever know the lengths I’d go for you. Haven’t felt this much love in centuries.”

  You let those words settle over you. You couldn’t picture Remmick killing those men, or those sheep, but you knew it to be true now. But still, that bout of anger and surprise dwindled out to a strong, harrowing pull to your heart. You looked around your cabin, and Remmick’s sorrowful eyes followed yours. “Those men will catch you, Remmick. They’ll know what you are, and they’ll catch you.”

  “Well, I’ll kill every last one of them. Long as I can be here with you–”

  “Hell, Remmick, I don’t want you killing them!” you said then, voice curt. “They’re my goddamn friends. I don’t want you killing for me. If you loved me so much, you wouldn't do that. Those men have families. Families who you’ve hurt. You’d be killing a man with everything for a man who’s got nothin’.” 

  “You got me,” Remmick said, quietly. Gentle. You let your head nod softly. “You don’t have nothing.” 

  “And if meaning having you will bring kind men death, I don’t know if I can bear that.” 

  “You wish me to leave, then?” Remmick asked pathetically. You didn’t reply as gently pushed him off into his own chair. He fell onto it, hands clasped between his legs, looking up to you. Remmick watched you leave, into your quarters, and the vampire gently reached for your discarded shirt on the table. He took it, unballing it, slipping his arms inside the holes and buttoning the middle buttons. Your scent enveloped him– and he knew this would be the last he would smell of it. 

  His head raised, just barely, as he saw you come out. A heavy wool coat was under your arm as you came forwards, handing the coat over wordlessly. Remmick took it, hands still as he felt his cold heart seize once again. He bundled the coat up. “Could I at least pack up my things from the shack–” Remmick went to say, before his head whipped around to the front of the cabin. Your eyes widened as he saw his ears twitch impossibly. You remembered when you were little, a bat had made its home in the barn. You’d watch it often, giving it space, but you remembered how its little ears twitched. It was so similar your gut lurched. It was cute in a sense, but not with the fact he obviously heard something you hadn’t picked up yet. 

  “Jesus, Remmick, what’s–”

  “There's dogs. Bloodhounds,” Remmick cut you off, eyes impossibly wide. “Men with them. Shotguns. I can hear bullets rattlin’ in the chambers.” he said, coolly. “They know what I am. They got stakes.”

  “You gotta get out of here,” the words came quick off your lips. You yanked Remmick up by his shirt– your shirt– you noticed. “Get out of here ‘fore those dogs catch your new trail. I’ll wait them off.” 

  “Now– no, come on. Come with me. We can run together– nothin’ holding us down, just you and me. Don’t leave me after giving me a taste of life,” Remmick said, fingers clutching into your flesh, but you pushed him back. Pressing a finger into his chest, you said gravely, "I'm sparing you a chance at real life. Get outta here before they knock you down.” When Remmick didn’t move, his feet plastered to the ground, you fisted your hand in the front of his shirt and smacked your lips onto his. Deep, teeth clicking against his slightly pointed ones, tongue slipping into your mouth oh so briefly before you pushed him away. “Go on, now, Mickey.” 

  “Love you,” Remmick’s words came out. “I’m only– only leavin’ cause you wish me too. Just know that,” Remmick said, clutching the jacket before tugging it over himself, the coat heavy and warm, blocking out the cold, damp air outside as he opened the back door. You watched him go, figure retreating into the woods. When the pounding knocks came upon the door, your hung your head, slowly going to the front door. 

  You hoped the small golden wedding band that your mother had told you to save for your future wife didn’t fall from the pocket of Remmick’s jacket. She would have wrung you out for giving it to a creature of the night– a man, no less, but that was your final act of retaliation against her. Lord knows you didn’t care much when your feet went pounding against the earth when you had steered the hunters off Remmick’s track, following the beaten twigs of his path. It was like he wanted you to follow him. 

  Vampires aren’t solitary animals, anyways.

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

why I mostly write one shots 😭 I don’t always remember all the details of the things I wrote in my previous chapters

[nikiexe0]

I don't remember wtf happened in the early chapters except a rough draft of it TT

[that-bi-bitch-writes]

i have so much to read to finish venus as a boy and none of the motivation to read any of it.

i have to finish reading house of hades and the last book and i have to reread venus as a boy bc i forgot some of [name]’s character quirks. someone reminded me the other day he was afraid of tall things and i forgot about that

[funkyfeefee]

The thing about American "leftist" comedians is that they aren't actually leftist, they are the Imperial Court Jesters. They stand on a stage, point directly at the blood-soaked gears of the war machine, make a little tee-hee noise, and the crowd erupts. Not because they are critiquing the machine, but because the laughter is a pressure release valve for the people inside it. Take the video of that stand-up asking the defense contractor if she helped Trump bomb those 160 Iranian school girls, and everyone laughing, including the contractor herself. That laughter is ritual absolution. The contractor laughs because she knows she will never face a tribunal. The audience laughs because they get to feel "self-aware" without having to actually stop anything. The joke doesn't condemn the contractor; it humanizes her, turns her into a lovable scamp who just happens to have a job graphing the velocity of shrapnel through children's bodies. By making it a punchline, the comedian sanitizes the atrocity. The blood is scrubbed off the stage. The audience gets to say "wow, we are so edgy for talking about it" while the person who builds the bombs gets to chuckle and order another drink. It is not satire, it is a team-building exercise for the empire.

Then there is the YouTuber talking about Transformers, casually dropping the "Iraq war aesthetic" like it's a color palette. Desert punk. Military core. A vibe. This is what happens when your country hasn't had a war on its own soil in living memory; the violence becomes media, a backdrop for childhood toys. The explosions are no longer the sound of mothers screaming; they are cool action sequences. They are digesting the visual debris of massacre as a nostalgic fashion choice, scraping the trauma off and compressing it into a genre for their retro-futurist fantasies. The apocalypse becomes a mood board.

And finally, the girl recounting celebrity love triangles from her childhood, flippantly mentioning how the U.S. was "busy with the Iraq war or whatever." Or whatever. That single phrase is the thesis statement of American innocence. Over a million dead, a region destabilized for a century, an endless river of grief; and for her, it was the commercial break between pop culture segments. It didn't raise her rent. It didn't stop her Wi-Fi. The violence is geo-locked to brown skin and distant deserts, just background noise like a refrigerator humming. She has the luxury of forgetting because the machine doesn't eat her children, it eats yours.

Americans don't hate the machine; they love the output. They hate the mess of it. So they turn it into jokes, into aesthetic, into "whatever." Because if they stopped laughing, if they stopped scrolling, if they actually looked at the 4K drone footage of the aftermath instead of the cool explosion CGI in their movies, they would have to realize that the lithium in their phones, the gas in their tanks, and the comfort of their suburban cul-de-sacs are all greased with the fat of foreign children. And they can't handle that. So they laugh. They turn it into a vibe. They call it "the Iraq war or whatever." You can't deconstruct the master's house with the master's jokes, especially when the punchline is the corpses holding up the floorboards.

[quostquartet]

Ilya Kaminsky

We Lived Happily during the War

[that-bi-bitch-writes]

I think you might like the song Absence Makes The Heart Grow by Daffo, at least in relation to [name] and bruce 👀

hold on im gonna listen to it brb

i think you’re absolutely right. the second verse and the chorus really hit hard because the idea of their relationship as a cage is so powerful and it hits you right in the gut

and the chorus of absence making the heart grow hungry and neglectful. absolutely. the more they were apart the more they yearned for each other. [name] got the space and distance to grow outside of the “cage” but part of him yearned for the cage because it was comfortable and safe. the distance helps him process but also remove himself from the hurt enough that his heart kind of forgets itself and doesn’t care that it’s been hurt because it’s hungry for that familiar love

i’d like to think that when they return to their relationship it’s less of a cage and there’s room for them to grow and be individuals as well as a cohesive and competent pair of married parents. or can the cage at least grow bigger and more comfortable?

[that-bi-bitch-writes]

Rossi says at the start of an episode "show me a hero and I will write you a tragedy. from F Scott Fitzgerald." And I thought of Superman. I don’t think it applies to him. Sure his home planet was destroyed when he was a baby and landed on earth, but it didn’t make him Superman. It’s the kindness and heart of his human parents that did.

He’s not a hero with a sad backstory to motivate his hero behavior, it’s love that does

Or maybe I understand the quote wrong.

i think f scott fitzgerald might be approaching the concept of hero in a different way. he’s super old and a little jaded and he died two years after the first superman comic so idk if he would’ve approached superman that way

i also think superman’s whole thing being about love was for him to be someone with all the qualities that we’d admire in a person but have that person be fundamentally good. i don’t know if he’s the first but i know his story was intentional. he has to be a good guy motivated by pure love

unfortunately that gets boring for most people and they have to put superman in situations™️ and a lot of them do have tragic moments. but i think there is a little tragedy in superman even if his thing is love. superman is always going to permanently be affected by the death of his home planet. he got lucky to be raised by kind parents but he will always be an alien and because he’s so good he will always take it upon himself to protect the world from huge threats and i think that takes away from him just getting to be a person. the love is there to sort of combat the tragedy and let us know that it’s not the only thing out there. we can be strong and brave and motivate others if we’re loving and help our neighbors. we can make the world a better place just by being inspired by someone who does it of their own free will regardless if we don’t have powers. but he does have powers and he HAS to use them for good. he learned to be clark kent before superman but he often has to prioritize superman over clark kent and the messiness of that is a little tragic no?

but then think about what superman represents and why he has to be portrayed in the way he is. he represents being an “alien” so someone foreign or outside of america’s norm at the time. he’s a person that fights for anyone and uses his strength to put a huge fist to bigots. he inspires people to love all their neighbors and help out wherever they can. all this good messaging wrapped up in america’s poster boy. white, tall blue eyes. he has to be white or else it wouldn’t be received well. there’s some tragedy in that no? that poor jewish immigrants needed a character that represents refugees and asylum seekers, a hero that represents them and all other discriminated peoples, only to have to make him the perfect white man. and because of that he eventually kind of got assimilated by white supremacy a bit. white people see superman pinching nazis or the kkk and they think it’s out of character and it’s a woke agenda when really it’s always been encoded in his messaging

im not saying you’re wrong because i get what you were saying. like he’s not batman so there wasn’t this tragic/traumatizing moment that led him to be a hero but there’s some tragedy in there. plus tragedy has another meaning in literature. like shakespeares tragedies, (you know macbeth and hamlet etc.) drama that is based on human suffering and usually ends really badly so we can feel some sort of (idk a better word sorry) catharsis.those kind of heroes usually have tragedies that f scott fitzgerald was probably talking about.

even still we sort of treat comic book heroes that way, they just get a happy ending. we sit down we watch them struggle, some kind of struggle that in some way represent human day to day problems we see them suffer for it, we see almost everything slip away and then they end at a point where we’re relieved it’s over but also enjoyed all the suffering.

[feyd-meowtha]

It's a moral imperative that we write more sex scenes which are

Weird

Uncomfortable

Not good for anyone involved

[agitowarrioroftheforest]

[that-bi-bitch-writes]

if the internet gets worse (i mean about privacy and id verification and selling all your data and requiring more than a password to get into your account) im leaving