your husband is a king who knows little else outside of being a warrior. that is the truth you cling to until slowly, month by month, he makes his way into the cavity of your chest and refuses to leave
word count. ❤︎ 18.2k words — i know, i know. but plssss give it a chance plsss
before you read. ❤︎ female princess/queen reader ; crown prince/king mydei ; arranged marriage ; NOT canon universe + NOT canon compliant - royal/historical au ; mentions of war and politics ; slow burn + falling in love ; lots of bickering LOL ; reader has a (king) father and is implied to no longer have a mother ; sexual harassment but mydei saves reader ; reader drinks alcohol + gets drunk in one scene ; jealous mydei ; fingering ; nipple play ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; hand jobs ; cockblocking LOL sorry ; blood and injuries (mydei gets stabbed) ; love confessions and cheesy bantering
commentary. ❤︎ IT IS FINALLY HERE MY GOD. my god. BIG THANK YOU TO @osarina for not only beta reading this fic and fixing WAY too many grammar errors (LOL) but for literally listening and helping me work through every struggle i had with this fic and being 70% of the reason i even finished it. you are my biggest inspo forever ily dearly
You do not remember most of your wedding to Lord Mydeimos.
On the day of your wedding, the beginning of your ceremony goes by like a blur, and you pay little attention. It’s not until Kremnos’s royal advisor steps forward does your reality sink in. You watch wearily as he faces the crowd of people—enough of the Kremnoan commoners have gathered to witness the ceremony, and you feel more like a spectacle than a bride.
“The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!” The Advisor chants.
“The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!” The people of the nation bellow in tow. Men and women—even young children who cannot understand fully what is happening—scream in sync for your union with Lord Mydeimos.
You realize quickly, by just a glance, that your nation of Janusopolis is everything his nation of Castrum Kremnos is not.
Janusopolis is a wealthy land built on the industry of gold. Beneath your fertile soil is the precious metal, and the mines stretch from one side of the border to the other. Trade is easy when you hold such a luxury beneath your soil, and the people of your land have never known what it means to be hungry. But for all its riches, your nation is fragile—small, with a military force that pales in comparison to the other armies of Amphoreus.
Castrum Kremnos is filled with warriors—people who are bred for battle as though they were handpicked by the Gods themselves to fight. There is not one nation in all of Amphoreus that stands a chance against their strength, and yet, the people die of starvation every day. The streets are filled with mothers and fathers who feel the despair of poverty, feeding every small morsel to the hungry mouths of their children before themselves.
It is little surprise to anyone that you form an alliance. Now more than ever, when there are rumors that a war is coming—a war that you cannot fight and Kremnos cannot afford. They linger in the air, thick and heavy, carried through the wind by whispers that slip from court to court. The rumors are not just rumors—you know it by the deepening creases in your father’s brows, in the way his advisors speak in hushed, urgent tones.
Should war come, Janusopolis will not endure on its own for long. And should war come, Castrum Kremnos will not survive on just its strength.
So, when your father offers your hand to Lord Mydeimos for a union, you are not shocked when the crown prince agrees. You have heard rumors of him often, the hushed whispers of a man who is a warrior first and an heir second. A man whose bones are built for battle before his blood runs from a lineage of royalty. He sits beside you now, silent and brooding—in fact, he’s spoken not one sentence to you.
Good, you think to yourself as you glance at him from the corners of your eyes, he does not seem like a man who knows how to speak to a lady.
You’re broken out of your thoughts quickly as a shadow covers your face—the Advisor has returned from facing the crowd, standing over you as you listen to the shouting behind his figure. The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! It’s all you hear. Shouted over and over like a prayer to a God of a land you are unfamiliar with.
Lord Mydeimos’s advisor hands you a blade. The marriage rituals of Kremnos, you find, are as brutal as war itself. You hesitate for a moment before glancing at your father. He stares at you—his precious daughter, whom he loves more than his own life—with eyes filled with sorrow that he does not dare voice. You can practically hear his plea:
If not for Janusopolis, then for me.
Numbly, you take the handle, your fingers tightening around the cold metal. You steal one last glance at your father. The man who has always treated you like a delicate flower, as if you are to be carefully shielded from the harsh storms of winter until spring could smile upon you once more. The man who spoiled you as a princess should be, yet shaped you with the discipline of a future ruler. The man who, until now, has never let the weight of his crown come before his love for you.
But today, he has no choice. Today, he is a king first and a father second.
You carve his face into your memory. You’ll miss it—the days when he was your king, the time when heir to the throne was your title. You are just the Lady of Kremnos now, bound to share the burdens of a new nation alongside a new king. An heir that is not you. You wonder how you will cope with that fact, how you will learn to accept that your birth rights mean little in a new set of borders.
But you give your father a nod, as firm and convincing as you can muster, before gripping the blade tightly and dragging it across your palm.
It stings. You don’t flinch.
Blood wells instantly, deep red against your skin—the same palm that has never known violence, never held a weapon, never bled for anything, now spills heavily on your first night in the strongest nation in Amphoreus.
How ironic, you almost want to say.
Instantly, Lord Mydeimos takes your wrist—he wastes little time. (You’re not sure why you expect it, but a small part of you is disappointed he shows little care for the wound on your palm.) His hands are rough and calloused like you imagined they might be. They feel like the hands of a warrior. You wonder if this blood spilled across your palm is laughable to him. Surely, with a man as strong and fierce and accustomed to battle as he is, he must have felt the warm spill of life across his skin countless times. Whether his own blood or that of others, surely he must know the feeling familiarly enough that this is nothing to him.
He dips his thumb into the dark crimson of your hand and smears a stripe along his forehead. His advisor, slowly, with eyes that do not leave yours, lowers the crown onto your husband’s head. No longer a crowned prince but a king.
The nation cheers. “The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!”
Such a brutal man, you think as you stare at your husband, to have his fate sealed through nothing but bloodshed.
—————
Lord Mydeimos is quiet during your trek to your now-to-be-shared chambers. His first words to you are far from romantic.
“You are not happy with this arrangement,” he says, and for a moment, you think perhaps he is offended by the fact. You realize only a second later that he has little care. He is merely making an observation.
“Unhappy is not exactly the correct term for it,” you mumble, “However, it is no lie that all envision their marriage to be one of love, not political convenience.”
“Then you should have married for love,” Lord Mydeimos responds blandly.
You raise a brow, staring at him as if he has grown two heads. (Surely, the man you just witnessed willingly take your hand in marriage while he becomes king for the sake of his nation could not possibly think you could marry out of love. Surely, he is not so naive when he bears the responsibility of his people entirely on his shoulders.)
“That would not be possible,” you furrow your brows, “I have always prepared myself for a marriage of alliance.”
“Then you should not have such fickle dreams.”
Oh.
Some part of you is more shocked than it is outraged. But then the better part of your emotions takes over completely—how dare he have the gall to tell you what your desires should and should not consist of? You wonder if all warriors are cold-blooded in Kremnos—if they only know their ways around the heart when it is to pierce a blade through the delicate tissue and nothing else. Perhaps to expect Lord Mydeimos to understand the ways around emotions and desires is to lead a blind man into the dark, bare room.
There is nothing for him to grasp his footing and find his way around.
“Forgive me,” you spit bitterly, soured by his dismissiveness, “I did not realize accepting my circumstances meant I could not wish for things to be different.”
“You can,” he says, still infuriatingly detached, “But it would be a waste of energy.”
You have a sharp retort ready on your tongue. Perhaps it’s unwise to speak to a newly crowned king in such a manner, husband or not, but you are too used to the way your father tolerated your every thought. Welcomed them, even. You were never raised to hold your tongue, and the habit will be a hard one to break.
But before you can hiss out your reply, you are interrupted by a maid.
“Your chambers are ready, My Lord,” she tells Lord Mydeimos, bowing slightly before taking her leave. She avoids your eyes entirely, blush dusted across her cheeks as though she has stated a scandalous fact. You realize rather quickly why.
Lord Mydeimos, apart from the stiff nod, seems mostly unbothered—but the tenseness in his neck and shoulders is enough to tell you that even he is not unaffected by everything. You almost want to tease him, but your words die on your tongue as the large doors to what is now your shared chambers are opened by two guards. You follow him inside, and the doors are quick to shut behind you before hurried footsteps echo down the corridor.
There is no one nearby, you realize. You expect as much, of course, but it doesn’t make your skin feel any less hot.
“Well…” you start awkwardly. (You are certain there is a ghost of an amused tug at his lips at that, but before you can properly look, it is gone.)
“Well…?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow.
“I suppose it is customary that we…” You don’t want to say it. What would you say? It is customary that we fuck on the first night of knowing each other so our marriage is properly completed, My Lord? You have little interest in consummating a marriage with him.
But you are not above your duties, and you’re positive that neither is he. Of course, he isn’t, in fact. With an attitude as uncaring and bothersome as his, he sees no issues with doing what is expected of him. He would probably finish with that stupidly straight face of his, too, you think somewhat bitterly.
“Do you not wish to say it?” He finally cracks a small grin as though watching you squirm under his gaze is entertaining to him. You scowl. He has enough tact to go back to looking serious as he continues: “We do not need to do anything.”
“But—”
“Unless that is your wish, of course,” he adds.
You sputter. “I do not care regardless,” you huff, pretending to be as unbothered as he seems to be. (You know, as well as he does, that neither of you are unbothered at all.) “If you wish to complete our marriage, then I will do as you wish.”
“Even if that is not what you wish?” He cocks his head to the side.
“It matters little what I wish,” you say darkly, narrowing your eyes as you pointedly add: “And, I suppose it is a waste of my energy to hope for what I wish, is it not?”
He eyes you for a moment. Something about his gaze makes you feel more bare while being fully clothed than if you were to strip yourself in front of him. He turns abruptly, leaving you to blink in shock before you watch as he begins to pull off his armor, one piece at a time.
Oh. You swallow thickly, realizing what is happening.
“The least you could do,” you start as you walk over to the bed, “is to pretend to be interested in bedding your wife if you are to do so.”
He looks at you, carefully laying his armor on the wooden stand by your bed, before humming, “I will not bed anyone if that is not what they wish. It is distasteful.”
You gasp, offended. “I should have you know many noblemen would not find me distasteful by the slightest—”
“You are not distasteful,” he interrupts. “But taking you against your will would be. We can be husband and wife without such outdated customs.” He pulls back the covers and prepares to settle onto the mattress. “Now, I am off to bed—I have training at sunrise. Which side do you prefer?”
You blink, still processing. He stares expectantly.
“The left,” you murmur.
“Good.” He nods, lying on the right. “I prefer the right. How agreeable.”
With that, he turns and settles under the sheets, leaving you with the privacy of getting ready for the night yourself. You stand there for a moment, utterly shocked, before you collect yourself and despite still being in your wedding robes, slip under the sheets and stay as close to the edge of your side as you can. (There is little need for that, of course—the mattress is large enough that you could fit two more bodies between yours and his, but you spitefully cannot help but leave as much room between you as you can.)
“Goodnight,” he mumbles.
“Goodnight,” you huff in return.
“Do let me know if I hog the blankets—I have never shared the sheets with someone before.”
“No need to fret,” you say matter-of-factly, “If you do, I will simply pull them back.”
He chuckles. You almost wish you could see a proper smile on his face, but you don’t dare turn. “I have no doubts about that.”
────────────────────────
One month into your marriage, you learn that the palace is a lonely place in Kremnos.
At least, it is for you.
You are still learning who your husband is, so he offers little companionship to your lonesome heart. And more often than not, attempting to understand him leaves you with a headache. You still hardly know Lord Mydeimos—in fact, only yesterday, you learned that despite his robes and attire strictly following a red scheme, his preferred color is actually yellow. An absurdly preposterous revelation, you think—you have no understanding of why he would dress the way that he does if he prefers a color so…opposite, but only Lord Mydeimos knows for certain what goes on in his head.
The first person you can consider as proper company is an attendant called Agnes. She is your personal attendant, and her days are reserved strictly to cater to your every need should you require it. Lord Mydeimos has made it very clear that she is to be nearby in case you are in need, and she follows his orders strictly.
Agnes is wonderfully kind. She is skilled in many arts—stitching and embroidery, cooking and baking, and even music. In a few weeks, you have learned the basics of the harp, her best instrument, and she teaches you fondly as she tells you about your husband.
“He is just so stubborn,” you huff, stretching out your sore fingers. “And he has an attitude I cannot even begin to describe—I am certain children must cry at just the sight of him.”
“Actually, they do quite the opposite. Lord Mydeimos enjoys playing tag,” Agnes says as she applies balm along your tender fingers after a lengthy harp lesson, “He does not seem like it, but he does. He is fond of the children who play by the ponds outside of the palace gates.”
“And are they fond of him?” You raise an unconvinced brow, wincing as the blisters on your fingers sting. “He does not seem like someone who knows how to converse well with children.”
“That is partly true,” Agnes chuckles thoughtfully. “He is a tad bit stiff with his words. But the children are indeed fond of him nonetheless, yes. He brings them treats from the palace bakery.”
“Well, at least I can trust that he will not lock me in the dungeons for one wrong move,” you break into a teasing grin. “They say children are a good judge of character. I suppose he has passed that test.”
“What test?” You and Agnes straighten at the sound of Lord Mydeimos’s voice as he enters your chambers, exchanging looks before she clears her throat.
“Nothing, My Lord,” she says evenly, standing up as you follow. “I was simply telling My Lady about what a seasoned warrior you are.”
Your husband does not look particularly convinced, but he nods politely as Agnes excuses herself, leaving you and Lord Mydeimos alone. He walks up to you, glancing quickly at your fingertips as you rub them and wince.
“What has happened to your fingers?” he asks with a frown.
You look at them sheepishly, murmuring quietly, “I have been learning to play the harp from Agnes. My fingers have blistered against the strings.”
“Ah,” he nods, holding up his own gauntlet-clad hands and mumbling, “Perhaps you should consider armory. They are most useful for shielding simple pains. In any case, I have come to speak to you about our trip.”
You blink. Once, then twice, and then finally, you ask hesitantly, “…Our…trip?”
“Yes. We will be departing in two days' time for Styxias to negotiate on military affairs. Should this go successfully, that is one more ally we can tally in case war breaks out. You are to accompany me, of course,” He raises an eyebrow, surprised by your confusion. “Have they not told you?”
“No, they have not…but regardless, you are king,” you point out.
This time, he blinks, unsure exactly what point you are trying to make at all. “Yes…” he says carefully. “And you are queen, which is precisely why you shall accompany me. It is only four nights.”
“I have never had to accompany my father in official matters when I was princess.” You furrow your brows, creases forming in your forehead that he almost instinctively reaches out to smooth. Almost.
“That is because you were a princess,” he muses. “If your father had a queen, it would be customary for her to travel alongside him to the kingdoms of his dealings. It is seen as the polite thing to do, to have both rulers make an appearance.”
“But you will speak on military negotiations. I am of no help in those matters, you know.”
“I am aware,” he says patiently. “That is why you will not accompany me to the negotiations. You will only attend the social gatherings—as I mentioned, it is simply for appearances. However, it would be greatly appreciated if you could glean a piece of intel or two about other nations from the mingling.”
That puts you in a sour mood. Not only will you join him on a four-day trip for no other reason than existing as a sight to bear witness to by the other nobles, but you will be in a nation yet again where you are a stranger to everyone. Lord Mydeimos, the only person you even somewhat know, will be busy with official matters, and that will leave you with nothing to do.
And Agnes has promised to teach you how to sew in the coming days.
Unhappy, you bargain, “Alright, then perhaps Agnes can join us to keep me company while you are busy.”
“That is not necessary.” He waves a hand and denies your request. “Agnes is an attendant, so there is no need for her to join. She shall remain in the palace where she belongs.”
“I’m sure it will be of little difference if the palace is missing just one attendant,” you reason, “And besides, Agnes is my personal attendant, so I’m sure the other nobles will think nothing of it. My father would often be accompanied by his own attendants to make matters simpler for him in regards to—”
“Well, that is the way of Janusopolis,” he interrupts, patience wearing thin. Strictly, Lord Mydeimos adds, “You are in Kremnos now. And in Kremnos, we do not allow our maids and attendants to neglect their duties to join pointless expeditions that they have no concerns with.”
His tone is clipped. Firm. A touch reprimanding like that of a parent scolding a child, and some part of you, underneath the hurt, simmers in rage. One attendant, among hundreds, will make not the slightest dent in the palace’s operation. More frustrating still, Lord Mydeimos leaves you with little say in anything regarding this trip—not whether or not you will go, not what you will do, and now, not even who you will be accompanied by.
Stubbornly, you refuse to accept his terms.
“If you will not allow me the company of Agnes, then I will be most troublesome. Mark my words, Lord Mydeimos,” you warn, “If you do not wish for me to make a fool of this kingdom, then Agnes and I will both join your senseless journey.”
His lips take a dangerous shape, morphing into a hard line that you fear could cut you with how sharp it is. “Is that a threat?” he questions.
“It is but a mere promise of an outcome,” you reply smartly, as though he is dense in the head. (You think he might be, just a tad. To ask a lady that question is to only ask for trouble.)
“Agnes is an attendant,” he says exasperatedly.
“I do not care,” you bite back. “She is also the only one I have befriended in this kingdom, and her position as attendant should mean little compared to the wishes of your wife.”
“She is meant to stay behind palace doors and do her duty. Just as you are to do yours and accompany me as my wife and as Queen. You cannot bend such rules just because you simply wish to do so.”
“And who is the one who set such standards in the first place?” You challenge, “Do not tell me that as king, you do not have the authority to undo the regulations that only a king can put in place? How laughable.”
Lord Mydeimos is becoming impatient. You can tell by the twist of his features and the blazing fire behind his eyes, the light shade of his amber deepening into a dark honey. He is not happy—not with you, not with your attitude, and not with your tendencies to question everything.
And you like it that way. If you do not get your way, you sure as hell will make sure that his way is difficult to enjoy.
“You are your father’s only daughter,” he says through a grumpy snarl, “It is as apparent as the tide’s ebb and flow. Only would a woman who has never known the word no be so maddening.”
“I am simply highly revered where I come from,” you shrug, giving him a purposely haughty smile just to get on his nerves.
It seems to work as he grits, “You are spoiled beyond reason. It is ill-suited for one who carries the burdens of duty.”
And with that, your satisfaction is short-lived—you sputter at his insult, doing a double take while his eyes lighten with amusement at your reaction. He is enjoying this, you realize—enjoying denying you of a simple pleasure all for the sake of his petty, twisted desire for authority. And to question your devotion to your duty, too, is an outrage. You, who married a stranger who knows little outside of bloodshed and brutality, all for the sake of your people, being accused of putting your own pleasure before your duties.
You will have nothing of the sort.
You glare at him, ferocity in your gaze as you huff, “Do not speak to me of duty and obligation when I have left all that I know for the sake of my nation and for the sake of yours. I carry the burden of sacrifice for two lands, not just one. It is not out of line, I believe, to wish my husband would indulge me in a harmless request. But if you must deny me, then so be it. I will pack for our departure—”
He catches your wrist just as you turn to leave. It’s gentle. He’s gentle. You cannot wrap your head around how quickly Lord Mydeimos is able to switch between a stubborn mule and a gentle doe, but carefully, he pulls and spins you to face him, taking a step closer as he studies you thoughtfully for a moment in mild fascination. You do not like it—you feel like an animal under his gaze, cornered in a cage and waiting to see what fate his cruel hands may hold for you.
Except, never do you face a cruel fate. Instead, after a painfully silent moment of being scrutinized under his gaze, he lets out a defeated chuckle—almost a snort, you could even say. Equal parts tired and equal parts amused.
“No need,” he hums. “The attendants will see to it that your belongings for the trip are packed. As for your request…I suppose I could make an exception for my wife. Do not make a habit of thinking you shall always get your way, though.”
You relax in his grip for a moment, staring into his eyes carefully to decipher if he is lying. He is not, you conclude after a moment—and just like that, your anger washes away as fast as it came. You perk up, excitement gracing your features and brightening them.
“Agnes will join me?” You ask to double-check.
“Agnes will join us,” he corrects, exasperated.
“Oh, wonderful,” You bring your free hand up and clap, your other still in his grip. He stares down and watches the motions of your hands, and by extension, his, as it moves with the flow. “I am most grateful, Lord Mydeimos.”
And just to be devious, you lean up, planting a small, mischievous peck to the edge of his jaw before promptly pulling away and brushing past him, excitedly on your way to find Agnes and tell her the good news. Lord Mydeimos stands, paused and tense from shock. After a moment, he shakes his head and rubs his face tiredly, ignoring the heat blooming across the swells of his cheeks and spreading as far as the tips of his ears.
“That woman is a most wicked thing,” he grumbles to himself. “A most wicked thing, indeed.”
—————
Just as Lord Mydeimos had promised, Agnes joins your carriage as you take your leave to Styxias. She is thrilled to leave Kremnos for the first time—it’s abundantly clear by her expression alone, even if she maintains a humble mellowness in both of your presence.
Lord Mydeimos looks tired after all of ten minutes of being stuck listening to the two of you as you converse and giggle endlessly.
“I hear the waters are beautiful in Styxias,” Agnes murmurs. “I am most excited to see if that is true.”
“Oh, they are,” you nod eagerly. “Father had taken me for a ball many years ago. I still remember the water lilies like it was just yesterday that I had witnessed them bloom. They are the most breathtaking sight I have yet to see.”
Lord Mydeimos scoffs. You throw him a withering glare. Agnes sighs as she predicts the argument to come.
“I’d consider them to be mediocre among flowers,” your husband says roughly. “Clearly, you have yet to see the blooming of the flowers that stem from Kremnophilas.”
“Perhaps I have yet to see them because clearly nothing that could make an impression on me has bloomed on the dry soils of Kremnos. There is nothing but cliff and rock here,” you retort.
Lord Mydeimos’s lips press into a firm frown, clearly displeased with your assessment of his homeland. (You are correct, of course. Kremnos is not known for its botanical splendor, and part of the reason for its financial struggles is its dependence on imported crops rather than growing them on its own soil. Something tells you, though, that voicing that particular fact would sour his mood even further.)
“Kremnophila flowers bloom once a year,” he grunts. “They are beautiful. And they were my mother's favorite. There is no sight quite like it.”
“They are rather beautiful,” Agnes nods earnestly. “Lady Gorgo would wear the blooms in her hair during the spring. She was known for being quite a beauty across all the kingdoms.”
You have heard about Lady Gorgo. Lord Mydeimos’s mother was a cherished Queen—your father had spoken highly of her in passing. You know little of the woman who raised your now husband, but the tragedy of her death spread across nations like wildfire.
She was murdered in her own chambers, poisoned by an attendant who had been bribed by a rival kingdom seeking to invade Kremnos. They found her lifeless body on the floor the next morning, and the attendant had vanished without a trace.
(“Truly a shame,” your father had muttered once the news had spread. “Betrayed by her own trusted maid for the sake of another nation. Such an awful way to go. Her son is utterly alone now. May the Gods bless him to be a formidable king some day.”
You don’t even remember the name of the nation that harbored the assassin—it no longer exists. The palace was burned to the ground by Lord Mydeimos’s army, and rumors claim he had been the one to behead the king himself. He was only fifteen at the time. In an act of mercy, he spared the commoners, allowing them to flee to Kremnos. But not a single noble was left alive. Some whisper that he keeps the severed head of the fallen king somewhere in his palace, both as a trophy and a warning: no one is a match for the Kremnoan army.
After his mother’s death, Lord Mydeimos was to take on the nation’s affairs officially. Most believed Kremnos would crumble under a young, inexperienced ruler—that the kingdom would soon fall, an easy target for invasion.
“Perhaps we could acquire Kremnos, Father,” you had said once. “With an unfit future king, surely the kingdom will fall. We would benefit from such a strong army, no?”
“Do not be so quick to gamble on such matters. He is brilliant,” your father had murmured, “Even our best knights were no match in a duel with that boy—he may be young, but he is a godslayer of a warrior. He will make a fine king, I am certain.”)
In the end, your father was right. If not for the raging battle against poverty, Kremnos could easily be the fiercest nation of all.
Godslayer. You still recall the title he’d given your now husband, and you wonder if your father would still call Lord Mydeimos such a title now, or if he regrets handing over his daughter to such a fierce man.
Perhaps not even the Gods know. Not when faced with a man who could slay them in a heartbeat.
“I’ll believe in their beauty when I see them for myself,” you hum. Lord Mydeimos scoffs yet again. Agnes rubs her temples, exasperated by the bickering that seems to follow you both wherever you go.
It is several more hours before you finally arrive in Styxias. You fall asleep midway through the journey, and you’re startled awake by a cool, pointed piece of metal to your ribs. You shriek, flinching away as your eyes fly open.
“We are here,” Lord Mydeimos states in amusement. You realize quickly that the object that assaulted your ribcage was one of his gauntlet-covered fingers—he has enough wit to at least try to hide the smile on his face at your moment of panic.
“You saw no better way to wake me than with such a sharp piece of armor?” you hiss, rubbing your side
He grins, holding out a hand for you as he says through a cocky voice, “No. You are a deep sleeper. Agnes could not wake you after countless attempts—therefore, I took it upon myself.”
“Do not lie to me,” you scold accusingly. “I’m positive you did not even give Agnes the opportunity. Surely, you saw your chance to get under my skin, and you took it.”
“I do not lie,” he hums. “Nor do I need to. The evidence of your deep slumber is written clearly in the drool on your chin.”
You quickly wipe at your chin. There is nothing.
Before you can scowl and scold him further, he chuckles, yanking you by the wrist and tugging you to exit the carriage. You gasp, hardly managing to make sure your clothes are neat and orderly before you are dragged to come face to face with Styxian nobles.
The introductions are boring. Lord Mydeimos holds you delicately by the hand and leads you down an endless line of nobles, their names blurring together as he introduces each one. You smile, bow your head politely, and offer the right words at the right moments—years of royal training make your social skills effortlessly polished. At least this part is not complicated.
It’s not long before your husband escorts you to your shared temporary chambers and murmurs, “I will be back before sunfall to collect you for dinner. The maids have packed your finest robes, and Agnes will know which one to prepare tonight for you to wear. Do not be shy to call for the maids of this palace should you need something—they are accustomed to aiding us when we visit.”
“How long will this dinner last?” you pout.
He fights the urge to roll his eyes, sighing before he murmurs, “Long enough that you should have no trouble making acquaintances with such a dazzling personality. Now, I shall be on my way, wife.”
With that, Lord Mydeimos leaves.
You are bored within the first hour. After sifting through the books and trinkets in your guest chambers, you have little to do—and Agnes, who came with the purpose of keeping you company, is too busy steaming and preparing your robes to pay you proper mind for the moment.
So you do the only thing you can think to do: wander the halls in search of something, anything to keep you entertained.
That was your first mistake. Your second was to wander to the gardens where no one would hear you at this hour if you were to scream.
“Why hello, my lady,” comes a voice. You flinch in surprise, turning quickly to meet the gaze of a young man, clearly a noble of sorts—he’s too old to be a teenager but too young to be a proper man. You can’t help but feel put off by the glint in his eyes.
“Hello,” you blink, “W-who are you? I believe all the nobles are to discuss important matters at the current moment, yes?”
“Ah,” he hums. “That would be correct. But I am not here for such matters—the king of Styxia is my cousin, you see, and it seems I timed an impromptu visit rather poorly. My cousin has banned me from entering the chambers where they hold such important negotiations; thus, I am left bored with nothing to do.”
“I see,” you nod slowly, offering him a small smile. “I suppose we are in the same predicament. Lord Mydeimos has also abandoned me for the moment as he discusses away.”
“You came here with the king of Kremnos?” the young man asks, lips curling into a wider grin—you cannot help but feel unsettled by the way it curls happily at the news. A shiver runs down your spine as he walks closer. And closer. “You must be exceedingly special to have caught his eye.”
“N-no, it is not like that,” you try to explain—
He cuts you off, humming as he murmurs, “I have yet to see a lady who has earned the attention of the great Mydeimos for courting. Tell me, what is it he is fascinated by?”
“We are not courting,” you try to correct. “He is my—”
“Ah, no need to be so shy.” This stranger, who begins to make the hairs stand at the back of your neck, seems hellbent on cutting you off at every sentence. By now, you have stepped backward from him enough times that a cold stone hits your back, and you are left nowhere to go, pinned in place by his body as it hovers over you.
Your hands sweat. Something is not right about him.
“I must go,” you smile shakily. “The attendant who is meant to look after me must be worried, so—”
He cuts you off again.
“What is the rush? Surely, they are aware the palace walls are safe. We’ve only just begun to know each other.” A hand reaches over to trace your jaw, making you stiffen as he hums at the touch of your soft skin. “Well, you’re certainly a sight. I suppose that is what might have caught the attention of The Great Mydeimos,” he muses mockingly. “But I wonder…perhaps there is something…dare I say, more tantalizing about you, My Lady?”
His hand trails from your jaw to your collarbone, wandering lower, lower, lower—
“Enough,” you hiss, shoving his hand away, but he is fast. He catches your wrist and pins it above your head. The glint in his eyes is no longer playful—it is hungry, dangerous. Panic grips you. No one can hear you from here, not when they are all busy preparing the grand feast. Not even Agnes. “Unhand me this instant, or Lord Mydeimos will hear of this, you know!”
“Ah, I wouldn’t bother,” he hums. “You wouldn’t want to tell him you wandered to the gardens alone, would you? He might get the wrong impression of your intentions.”
The meaning is crystal clear—no one will believe you. Not even Lord Mydeimos.
And perhaps he is right. Why would Lord Mydeimos believe you? You, who have done nothing but push against your husband’s will since the moment you arrived? Who forced him to bend the customs of his own kingdom? Who argues with him at every opportunity, simply to watch his lips curl into a frown? Surely, of all people, Lord Mydeimos would be the first to assume you had done this to humiliate him—flirting with the first man you could find, just to make a fool of him before royalty and nobility alike.
A sob breaks through your throat, and you wrestle to free your wrist from his grasp.
“Unhand me,” you spit. “I won’t say it again!”
“You heard her.” The voice is low. Dangerous. “She will not say it again. Unhand my wife.”
You stiffen. So does the wretched man pinning you. His face drains of color as realization dawns on him.
“Wife,” he echoes weakly. Then again, as if he cannot believe it: “His…wife?”
“That would be correct, Albus,” Lord Mydeimos says, his voice eerily calm. “Have you not heard the news? Surely, you could not have been dwelling beneath a boulder for this long—I have wedded the princess of Janusopolis to form an alliance. You do recognize her, don’t you?”
“P-princess…” the man—Albus, repeats, hands trembling as he pulls away from you quickly, recoiling from touching you as if your skin burns him.
“Well, a princess no more,” Lord Mydeimos corrects. “Queen is the title you should use now. Queen of Castrum Kremnos. And I trust you, of all people, understand the proper way to address a queen.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Albus chuckles nervously, turning to face Lord Mydeimos with tense shoulders.
You watch as your husband closes the distance in a single step, gripping Albus by the collar and yanking him close. Lord Mydeimos whispers something—something too low for you to hear. But you do hear the strangled whimper that escapes Albus before he stumbles back, tripping over his own feet in his haste to flee. He does not look at you again.
With that, your knees give out. You are certain you would fall if not for the steady arms that catch you, pulling you against a firm chest.
“Are you alright?” Lord Mydeimos asks quietly. You say nothing, only letting out a soft sniffle. A bare fingertip—one not covered by armor, you note—gently captures a tear from your lash line before it can fall down your cheek. “Agnes nor the other attendants could find you, so they alerted me. I thought perhaps the gardens would capture your attention, so I came to look. Lucky I did, I suppose.”
“Lucky me, indeed.” You give a forced, watery chuckle. “Good thing My Lord knows just where I might be causing trouble.”
He frowns, tightening his grip around your waist. “Do not say such absurd things—the only trouble is that shallow vermin of a man. I shall see to it that he is properly dealt with.”
“No need,” you sniffle, not meeting your husband’s gaze. “He was right about one thing: people might get the wrong impression by my wandering—”
“If my wife were to desire wandering the streets under the moon’s light, then she should be able to do so. I will tolerate none who take advantage of her moments of indulgence. Believe me,” he says fiercely.
You swallow, and something—an odd, warm, and fluttery thing, forms in the pit of your belly at his words. A small smile forms at the edges of your lips as you nod slowly. “I shall hold you to such a vow, My Lord,” you murmur.
“Good,” he nods, satisfied. “Come. I will escort you to Agnes. Do not leave her side until I return, understood? It would seem your stubbornness to bring her paid off in the end.”
By the end of your trip, Lord Mydeimos is able to negotiate an alliance generously in favor of Kremnos—a little too generously in favor, in fact, that you wonder if part of it is so that Styxia can escape the wrath of your husband’s rage. You even run into Albus briefly before your departure, not a long run-in by any means—he hurries off as soon as your eyes meet—but you are happy to find out that he is nursing a broken nose.
Oddly enough, the skin looks torn as though sharp metal dug into it upon impact. You eye Lord Mydeimos’s gauntlets as he carefully holds your hand and helps you into the carriage.
“Ready to return home?” He asks.
You hum, smiling knowingly to yourself. “Yes, Lord Mydeimos,” you say softly.
Agnes, to her surprise, is able to return home the entire journey alongside the both of you without the headache of witnessing a petty back and forth.
────────────────────────
After four months of marriage, you believe it is safe to consider yourself and Lord Mydeimos as companions. You suppose, under the indifferent brutality of a warrior, that he can be quite good-natured. And when you are not feeling especially argumentative, he is easy to get along with. You fall into a comfortable routine of addressing your husband and sharing your life as good friends.
That is how you like to view it. He is a man who you share your life and duties (and perhaps bed—in a literal sense) with, and he is a companion whom you have put your trust in. It’s an easy routine:
Good morning, wife. I am off to official matters—I shall see you in the evening.
You have returned, Lord Mydeimos. The evening is still young—shall I have the maids draw you a bath to ease your aches from training?
I have finished my bath, and the attendants will see to cleaning the bathhouse, wife. Have you eaten? Join me for dinner.
Lord Mydeimos, you must rise before the sun tomorrow. Shall I prepare our chambers for you to rest?
Wife. Lord Mydeimos. It’s what you know each other as. You prefer it this way—you are just that: his wife, and he is just that: Lord Mydeimos of this nation of Castrum Kremnos. You are bound through marriage on parchment by duty and nothing else. For four months, that is the truth you cling to, and you find it comforting this way.
It takes all of four months before he decides otherwise.
“From now on, you are to call me Mydei,” he commands one day in your chambers. He sits in his chair, polishing his armor, while you sit nearby on the bed, practicing the stitching Agnes has recently taught you.
You pause, furrowing your brow in confusion. (And honestly, you are a little bit unhappy with his tone—he should not get used to making his desires be known through such demanding manners. You will not stand for it.) “And why is that?”
“Because I have asked it of you,” he replies plainly. And, as if sensing your irritation (which he has gotten very good at through practice), he adds an earnestly mumbled, “Please.”
It surprises you sometimes—Lord Mydeimos seems brutish by his exterior, but he is unpredictably perceptive at times. And, more importantly, he is shockingly gentle by nature. He is not above a please or a thank you. It is just that he happens to never need to use those phrases, you suppose—but he tries. (For you—your heart suggests. Only because he is cunning when he wants something—your brain counters.)
“But your name is Mydeimos,” you say stubbornly. (In truth, calling him by a nickname feels a touch too intimate than you are willing to admit. You are not yet prepared to accept that you are approaching intimacy in this…well, whatever your circumstance with Lord Mydeimos is considered.)
“Are you now attempting to teach me my own name?” His brow arches, a look of mild amusement flickering across his face.
At this, you crack, unable to resist a playful quip. “If I must educate you on something as fundamental as that, perhaps you are not as suited for the role of king as everyone seems to think, Lord Mydeimos.”
“Mydei,” he corrects gruffly. “Do not be so stubborn all the time.”
“But I quite like Lord Mydeimos,” you insist. “Your title is important, is it not? And besides, it would be strange for me to address you with such familiarity while you continue to call me simply… wife.”
His expression shifts, darkening slightly, his lips pressing into something dangerously close to a sulk. He is pouting, you realize, amused by the notion. Or, at least, as much as someone with such sharp features can pout. He looks more childlike than usual like this, and there is something undeniably endearing about the way it softens his rough features. Oddly enough, you find him almost...charming.
The thought unsettles you deeply, but you bury it quickly.
“Mydei,” he pushes once more. (There is an undeniable, almost spoiled edge to his tone, as though he is unaccustomed to hearing the word no. You find that somewhat ironic, considering he had teased you himself for being spoiled not too long ago.) “I shall call you dear wife.”
“You do call me wife,” you point out blandly.
“Yes, but now I shall call you dear wife,” he corrects. “There is a difference between simply being a wife and being a dear one.”
“And what would that be?”
“You are dear to me,” he says simply. As though it is obvious. (Perhaps it is.)
And you cave.
Not because the curve of his lips as he all but pouts is undeniably charming, not because being called dear causes a strange flutter in your heart, and certainly not because the sight of his frustration is in any way captivating. No, you only concede because you have no desire to deal with a grumpy husband who might make your life far more complicated than it needs to be, all over something trivial. That is the only reason.
“Fine. I suppose Mydei is easier on the tongue,” you huff.
You ignore the way you feel oddly lightheaded when he smiles the tiniest, yet softest, of smiles at your agreement. He is undeniably handsome, you think—and that thought, too, scares you.
—————
It is only a few weeks later when you start to question if you and Mydei are two people who have married and become friends or if there is more beyond your carefully strategic union.
You and Mydei share a bathhouse. It is reserved strictly for the two of you, though Agnes has informed you that before your arrival, it had been Mydei’s alone. (He is quite fond of baths, you come to realize, and is rather particular about them. Only a select few attendants are permitted to prepare the bathhouse before he bathes, solely because they are the few who meet his standards. Some part of you, if you are honest, feels just a bit flattered that he allows you to share a space he holds with such high importance.)
Sharing the quarters has always come with an unspoken routine: you bathe at separate times, preserving the polite distance you have managed to keep yourself from him.
“Lord Mydeimos is finished with his bath,” one of the maids tells you, handing you a large, fresh towel as you smile. “I delivered him freshly laundered robes just a bit ago.”
“Thank you,” you smile.
With that, you undress, wrapping yourself in nothing but the warm towel the maid has handed you before you make your way to the bathhouse. You knock once and wait, just to be sure he has left before you enter.
Silence. Perfect.
Humming to yourself, you step inside, the thick steam curling around you instantly, enveloping you like a warm blanket against your skin. The scent of the lavender and cedar Mydei uses lingers in the air, the water still gently rippling from recent movement. Mydei’s fondness for this space is easy to understand—it is grand, carved from marble and stone, with towering pillars and vines that decorate the delicate interior. It is extravagant, built lavishly for comfort.
But before you can fully take it in, you notice a figure.
You barely manage to stifle a squeal as you snap your eyes shut and immediately turn away, your face burning. Mydei stands near the water’s edge, a towel slung low around his waist that he is still in the process of tying in place, droplets clinging to his skin. His hair is damp, pushed back from his face, and when you dare to glance his way again, he is watching you with a knowing look.
“The attendants had told me you were done,” you squeak, quickly turning away again as he finishes wrapping the towel around his waist.
He looks amused when you finally have the courage to turn and look at him properly, lips curled into the faintest yet most obvious smirk as he runs a hand through his wet hair and brushes it further away from his face.
“I am done,” he agrees. “Just that I did not leave.”
“I knocked! And no one had answered so…so I assumed…”
“I did not hear,” he replies, entirely unbothered by the predicament.
“W-well, my apologies, My Lord—”
“Mydei,” he corrects.
“Mydei,” you huff in exasperation. “I did not mean to intrude on your private moment. I apologize.”
“It is our shared bathhouse,” he points out. “You are allowed to be here as you please.”
“But you are using it,” you all but whine.
“There is plenty of room,” he shrugs, looking at the large, very large bathhouse.
That much is true, but that is not why you are horrified. And he knows it. Mydei, you have learned, has a penchant for casually being a nuisance. He purposely evades the true meaning of your words often, and it is for no other reason than to tease you. You are aware, of course, but still—you cannot help but feel frustrated that he is missing the point.
He is nude, just as you are under the towel. And neither of you have so much as let your lips touch, let alone seen each other so bare and vulnerable. Sure, you pecked his jaw that one time to be teasing. And, of course, for appearances, he spares you a small kiss on your cheek or your knuckles, but neither of you shares affection for the sake of being affectionate.
Seeing him bare just feels like a sin when there is the absence of even the simplest forms of intimacy.
“You are teasing me,” you frown, hugging your arms tighter around your chest as if the towel is slipping.
“I am not,” he says simply. He walks, and your gaze follows him as he makes his way to the neatly folded pile of clothing, freshly washed and dried for him to wear. Without warning, he turns his back to you—then lets his towel drop.
You shriek, whipping around so fast you nearly trip over your own feet, one hand flying to cover your face. But not before you catch the briefest glimpse of his entire backside—of bare, toned skin and the unmistakable curve of his ass. (It is a nice ass, you would think later when you are less horrified by the situation. Round and firm, sculpted in a way that is almost unfair. But for now, you are simply horrified.)
“Mydei!” you hiss, refusing to turn around. He chuckles. You can hear it. And by the name of the Gods, do you want to kill him. “Honestly! Have you no sense of shame? Letting yourself be so immodest in front of—”
“In front of who? My wife?” he snorts, completing your sentence. “Ah, yes, how improper of me.” The bastard, you think—he knows exactly why this is not ideal, wife or not. “But you were the one looking.”
“Wh-what ever do you mean?” You sputter at his nonsensical accusation. You would not look on purpose. “I did not think that you would….that you would….”
“That I would remove the towel and begin to dress myself before I exit the bathhouse? It would be immodest to leave that way, wouldn’t you say?”
“Do not jest at my expense,” you huff, feeling the tips of your ears get hotter by the second. “You could have warned me.”
“You were the one looking,” he reminds you once more. And suddenly, he’s in front of you, leaning so close, you can feel his breath fanning across your lips as he bends eye level to you and stares directly into your face. It’s maddening. You feel sick. You can feel him so close, and it takes all of your efforts not to turn your head and look at him. “But I do not mind if my wife looks.”
“Enough,” you bite weakly, “Are you decent?” You don’t dare to look for fear of….of an entirely different view than just his ass.
And you swear you can hear the smirk in his voice when he speaks and says, “Yes, you may turn now. I am decent.”
You hesitate, suspicious. “Are you certain?”
“I would not lie to you, dear wife.”
You take a breath and look—and just as he had said, he is decent. With a huff, you shove his chest and scold, “Then out! Out! Off you go,” you usher. “You have matters to see to, and I have a bath to finish myself before the water cools. Out!”
He laughs—not his usual soft, low chuckle, but a boyish laugh straight from his belly. It is as charming as a small, young lion cub as it prances about. “As you wish, my dear wife.”
He leaves. Not before he grabs one of your hands clutched to your chest, which makes you gasp and clutch the other tighter to keep the towel from slipping. He does not break his gaze as he brushes his lips against your knuckles before standing to his full height and walking past you.
You exhale shakily as soon as you hear the door close.
“I have married an absolute shameless buffoon,” you shake your head, “Completely mad in the head, that man. Unreasonable beyond comprehension.”
────────────────────────
In the seventh month of your marriage, you meet Mydei’s childhood friend for the first time. It is by accident, of course—he comes to surprise Mydei in the gardens in a short visit while he passes the area, and you just so happen to enter the gardens to read under the sun for a bit at the same time. It is most unfortunate, you think, because had you known that you would meet him, you would dress a bit less comfortably and a bit more exquisitely and have the maids prepare tea and pastries.
But Lord Phainon is charmingly easy to get along with—he insists there is no need for such formalities, and you find yourself happily conversing with him as you wait for Mydei to arrive.
“Ah, such a beautiful garden, isn’t it, My Lady?” Lord Phainon asks, lying on the grass with his arms behind his head. “Very few places in Kremnos are not just rock and soil. It comforts me that you can enjoy the feeling of grass between your toes, at least somewhere.”
“Yes,” you snort. “There is very little to see in Kremnos. Do not let Mydei hear you say that, however—he is still in denial. I’m afraid it puts him in a very sour mood when—” you cut yourself off with a gasp.
“What’s wrong?” Lord Phainon asks in concern, “Do tell me, My Lady—if Mydei were to know you are troubled in my presence, he would surely see to my death himself.”
He moves to sit up, but you quickly hiss, “No! Do not move—there is a bee.”
“Where?” he asks in panic, eyes flashing in alarm. “Where? I do not see it! Where is it?”
“Lord Phainon, you mustn’t move,” you warn in panic, “Otherwise, you will startle the bee, and it will sting.”
“Sting?!” he gasps, quickly sitting up to move away from the small threat as it buzzes nearby. “How can you expect me to be still near such a beast?”
It happens all too quickly—just as you reach a hand forward and take a step toward him, he jerks away, and the startled bee, caught in the sudden movement, changes course. You barely register the sharp, sudden sting before you yelp, instinctively flinching as pain blooms across your palm.
Lord Phainon gasps. “My Lady! You’ve been struck by the bee!”
And, as if perfectly timed, you hear a deep voice call: “Ah, I see the two of you have already been introduced—” Mydei’s voice is behind you in the distance, and before you know it, you turn to find him.
You stumble towards your husband, tripping on your feet, and before you can react, you find yourself falling directly into his arms. Mydei is quick to catch you, of course. He looks at you in confusion, entirely calm and unbothered by the proximity. You are so near hysteria that you hardly register the position you’ve found yourself in: pressed flush against his chest, his strong, armored arm securing your waist with careful authority to keep you balanced.
“What happened?” he asks gruffly. Once upon a time, you’d mistake his tone for coldness. Now, you can hear the underlying concern.
Sniffling and utterly distraught, you lift your palm toward him with wide, teary eyes and a trembling lip. “I have been stung! By a bee,” you say, offering your hand closer in a pitiful attempt to prove your claim. “See?”
He gently takes hold of your wrist, inspecting the large welt on your skin. After a moment of silence, he hums disapprovingly. “Unacceptable,” he mutters, his voice softer now, attempting to soothe you, “I cannot stand idly by while the bees of my own gardens turn their venom upon my dear wife.”
“And it hurts!” you wail miserably as a single delicate rivulet of misfortune—a tear—slips down your cheek. He frowns at the sight. “My dominant hand is stricken! I am useless now!”
“You are not,” he fights back a smile at your borderline theatrical sorrow. You’re past the point of holding onto your composure enough to even notice his amusement, so you say nothing. “I shall have the court’s healers prepare a salve for this at once.”
“It should have been Lord Phainon,” you continue to sniffle, ignoring the offended gasp in the distance, still not keen on moving past such a tragic turn of events, “Not me! Why must the Gods turn their back on me in such a cruel manner?”
This time, he chuckles softly. You pout at the gesture but say nothing else, too exhausted from the whole ordeal to put up a proper fight. He makes up for it, though, and raises the wrist in his hold, bringing your hand up before gently pressing a kiss to your swollen palm.
You blink in surprise.
“Were it possible, I would have every bee in the kingdom executed for such a treacherous offense,” he mumbles quietly.
“But then we’d have no flowers,” you frown. “I favor the flowers, you know.”
“Do you?” he grins. And before you can register what is happening, Mydei has leaned down and pressed his lips under your eye, kissing away the offensive stain of your pain. Your tears on his lips feel like a terrible burden to bear—he does not like the taste of your unhappiness. But you are his wife, and he is your husband. Kissing away your tears is but one of his many duties.
“I do,” you nod, looking away bashfully at his rare act of affection. “The bees are the reason the flowers bloom. But the bees have been unjustly harsh to me today.”
“They have,” he nods, agreeing.
Suddenly, the world is moving, and it’s moving fast. The ground is lower than you remember, and the gentle breeze of moving through the air kisses your face against your will. You let out a small squeal, unsure of why the world seems to be moving in such a sudden motion, and the only thing you can think to do is hold onto Mydei’s shoulders—which are a lot closer than they usually tend to be, given your height difference now that you think about it.
It hits you when you’ve finally stilled that it is because he has you hoisted in his arms, holding you easily as though you weigh nothing. You suppose for a man who trains as tirelessly as he does, very little is difficult for him physically.
“Mydeimos,” you gasp his full name so that he is well aware that you are scolding him. You look around frantically for potential witnesses of such a scene—it seems your husband lacks the sense of tact you tend to hold onto so dearly. “What in the Gods’ names are you doing?”
“I am bringing my dear wife to seek medical attention for her current ailment,” he says simply, “It would be careless of me to allow you to walk under such circumstances.”
“It is a bee sting, not a stab wound!” you scowl. He fights back a smirk at your remark.
“Ah,” he nods slowly, “Forgive me, my lady. Your tears persuaded me to believe it was more grievous than it perhaps truly is.”
“You are amused by my misfortune,” you accuse, pouting once more. You give up on caring who sees you in his arms like this, deflating in his arms as he tightens them around you. You curl into his chest—if he is carrying you regardless, who is to say getting comfortable in the process is a crime?
“I am not,” he insists, “I am offering you care, am I not?”
“Do not think a kiss or two to my injury will distract me from your mischief,” you warn, though your tone holds little conviction. You settle into his arms more willingly, one arm wrapped around his neck while the other rests carefully against your chest to protect your wounded palm from further harm.
“Then, in that case, I shall offer you a kiss or five,” he declares with a devious grin. And with that, he leans and presses a peck to the tip of your nose before straightening and looking ahead once more. Only the slightest tilt to the edges of his lips hints that he heard your breath hitch in your throat. He turns over his shoulder and adds causally, “And I will deal with you later, Phainon.”
Lord Phainon sputters, calling out in a wail, “It was not my fault, you know!”
—————
Despite your horribly tragic injury, you are fond of Lord Phainon. (Just call me Phainon, he tells you sheepishly, gesturing to your hand before he adds, I have caused you as much trouble as I do for Mydei. I am sure we can be familiar enough with each other.)
You enjoy his company at dinner, giggling through wine glass after wine glass as he tells you tales from Mydei’s childhood.
“Did you know Mydei’s robes are only red because his father did not allow them to be pink when we were children?” Phainon chuckles, sipping more of his wine. “He favors pink far more than yellow—he simply won’t admit it. And he cried terribly after he was denied pink clothing, too.”
“What?” You turn to Mydei, raising a brow as you ask through a small giggle, “Is that true?”
“No,” he grumbles. But his ears are turning pinker by the second, letting you know that it is, indeed, the truth.
“Oh, how adorable,” you whine, reaching to pinch Mydei’s cheek. He frowns deeply at the way both you and Phainon chuckle drunkenly at the gesture. “Who knew you could be so fragile, Mydei.”
“I am not fragile,” he clicks his teeth, unhappily nursing a glass of pomegranate juice. (He does not drink wine, which you suppose you understand. Even after placing such strict precautions after his mother’s death on all food and drinks that reach nobility in Kremnos, Mydei is still unable to bring himself to stomach a glass of wine.)
“He is very fragile,” Phainon chuckles, rising as he downs the last bit of his beverage, “Be careful with his little heart. He is a delicate one, you know.” That earns him a glare from your husband, and Phainon skillfully dodges a cup thrown at his head before he laughs and stumbles his way toward the door of the dining hall. “Goodnight, My Lady, and goodnight, Mydei! I’m afraid I am feeling the effects of such a long journey. It is well past the time for me to rest.”
“Goodnight, Phainon!” You wave cheerily, hiccuping through your laughs as you murmur, “Do tell me more stories of Mydei at breakfast, won’t you?”
“No more stories,” Mydei groans. “Now come along. You should start preparing for bed as well.”
“Noooo,” you whine, slumping against his chest as he wraps an arm around you instinctively, keeping you in place as you lean your weight on him. “No bed.”
“It is getting late—”
“Mydei, you are very handsome when you’re shy, did you know?” You hum, leaning up to get a good look at his face. This, of course, makes him just a bit shy as blush dusts over his cheeks. You beam, poking his cheek with a finger as you murmur, “Such precious cheeks that redden at small praise. I could eat you, you know.”
He clears his throat, clearly unused to your behavior being so…well, forward. “You are intoxicated,” he mumbles.
“And you are intoxicating,” you retort, giggling, “And so, so, so, so handsome! Have I ever told you that?”
“I…well, yes—you just have,” he stumbles over his words. (You are easier to deal with when you are stubborn and argumentative. This side of you is far too much of an uncharted territory for him to properly know how to handle.)
“Mmh,” you hum, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw, trailing your lips along his skin until you find his lips—and you kiss him. His breath hitches in his throat at the move. Never, in your seven months of marriage, have you shared a kiss like this with Mydei. Sure, you have afforded him a peck here and there, just as he has with you—but you have never kissed him plain and simple. Lip to lip, mouth on mouth.
He melts for a second, on instinct alone.
And then, as soon as realizing, he stiffens and quickly pulls away. “You are inebriated,” he reminds you, gently pushing you away. “We mustn't—”
“No,” you whine, wrapping your arms around his neck as you whisper huskily. “Come back. Kiss me, Lord Mydeimos—I cannot believe I have wed the most handsome man in all of Amphoreus. What a waste it would be if I did not properly appreciate my husband!”
“You are mad,” he croaks, tiredly eyeing you in alarm. “What has gotten into you?”
You press a litter of kisses everywhere you can reach—his jaw, his neck, even down to his collarbone. Something stirs in him, something that Mydei is ashamed to admit and even more ashamed to even dare to act on.
“Won’t you kiss me, Mydei? In fact, let us do more than kiss! Bring me to our chambers and take me, won’t you? I want you to fuc—”
“Enough,” he says through a cracked voice, pressing a hand to your lips before you can finish being so…vulgar as he closes his eyes and breathes. (Mydei is unsure what is worse: the fact that your words actually have such a…physical effect on him or the fact that he has no choice but to ignore his desires because yours are only built on intoxication.) “You need sleep.”
“But—”
He kisses your pouty lips with a brief peck, silencing you before you can finish. “If you awaken in the morning, and you remember what you wished for, then I will give it to you. Whichever way you want it. Fair?”
“Fine,” you huff, slumping against him unhappily. “Being a warrior has disciplined you too much, Mydei. It is such an unfortunate thing.”
He chuckles, easily lifting you into his arms, murmuring, “I am unsure if you would agree with yourself while sober, my dear wife.”
—————
In the end, you awaken with nothing more than a pounding headache, latched onto Mydei’s figure with your cheek resting on his chest. (You insisted on sleeping this way, and no amount of compromising could sway you on the matter. He gives up soon enough and allows you to have your way when he notices the developing tears in your eyes at your emotionally heightened state.)
You meet his amused gaze, heat blooming on your face as you whisper, “I–I must have rolled over in my sleep. My apologies.”
“No need to apologize,” he hums, pulling you in closer as soon as you try to put a gap between the two of you. “If not your husband, who else will hold you while you sleep?”
“Such a cheeky bastard, aren’t you?” you huff, but you relax into his chest once more. “Are you sure holding me is all you did last night?”
“It is,” he says quietly, rubbing the small of your back. He gives you a knowing look of sorts—you don’t quite understand it.
“Well, good,” you huff, “At least you can be trusted to be quite the honest man.”
(You do not remember your wishes from the previous night, and he does not remind you, keeping the events a close-kept secret in his heart. A small part of him is disappointed, but the larger part of him is more endeared than ever with you.)
────────────────────────
It is ten months into your marriage when the first time you are intimate with Mydei comes, and you realize that he has fallen in love with you.
He does not tell you, but you know. And you are grateful for the fact that he does not utter the words because, in your heart, you wonder if you could truthfully whisper them back.
You care for Mydei. That much is as true as the sun’s promise to rise from the east and set in the west. When he rises from bed beside you with a low groan and moves tiredly to put on his armor, you know you care because tiredness in his face pulls a frown onto yours. And when he looks at you with a fond, exasperated look as he ushers you to fall back to sleep, you know you care simply because the stretch of a smile on his face is enough to soothe you back to slumber.
It has been ten long months since your marriage. You have not seen your father since the day he handed you over to your husband, but you would tell him now not to worry.
He is a good man, father—you think you would say—he drives me mad and is as stubborn as a stone unmoved by the river’s current, but he has never let me want for anything since the day the duty of caring for me became his. You need not worry.
Mydei is a soft man who was molded into the role of a warrior early on. Like the finest of silk, he is delicate to the touch but most durable for the wear and tear of everyday use. He is used to training every day, to putting his needs last and his duties first. He is good at wearing a face of indifference and masquerading through his day as though he cares little for the fact that he is still in his youth, shouldering the burdens of the previous generations and their mistakes. And, as a husband, he is the same. Soft and gentle as he holds you, but firm and unmoving in his principles. He indulges your whims and silly requests with patience and little bickering (apart from the kind that is simply meant to poke fun at you, of course), but he does not let you forget that you are the queen of this land and that your duties come first.
He is the perfect example of discipline and patience—you did not expect it, but he is. He is not the cold warrior you had believed for so long—and sometimes, you are reminded that he is very, very human. It is a rare reminder indeed, but every once in a while, the young boy in him breaks free and makes his emotions troublesomely apparent.
At least, they are troublesome for him. Not for you, however.
“Mydei, do not sulk because I was friendly with other nobles,” you chuckle.
He sulks harder at that, curling a deeper frown on his lips before he stubbornly mutters, “I do not sulk.”
“But you are sulking right now,” you poke at his cheek, earning a huff from him. “Jealousy is unbecoming of a king as mighty as you.”
“Nothing is bothering me,” he says. A lie. “I am perfectly fine.” Another lie. “I do not get upset by these petty matters you accuse me of.” By now, you would say he has mastered the art of fibbing better than wielding his lance.
“It would be impolite of me not to treat our guests with friendliness, you know.”
“Friendliness does not need to consist of laughing at such horrible jokes,” he bites, crossing his arms. “Those were terrible jokes.”
“They were,” you nod along, stifling a giggle as he remains with crossed arms as you boldly seat yourself on his lap. “My poor husband. He is pouting.”
“I am not—”
You kiss his (pouty) lips gently, cupping his cheeks. He stills, pausing before letting out a shuddered breath and letting his arms uncross to hold your hips.
“You live just to drive me mad, don’t you?” He breathes, rubbing up and down your hips as you move up, sitting closer to him as he grunts.
“You do not seem to hate it,” you whisper, glancing down at the bulge in his pants. He does not even try to hide it—has no shame and does not even try to hide the arousal between his legs that stands fully erect, hidden from your view by nothing else but cloth. (Why would I feel shame in finding my wife alluring? you can practically hear him ask. You are almost certain that is what he would say if you teased any further.)
Mydei’s jaw tightens, his hand gripping your waist tighter as he tries to maintain control. “No,” he finally grunts after a few deep, labored breaths. “I do not. I could never hate you.”
“Really?” You hum, pressing a hot, open-mouthed trail of kisses to his neck as he shivers. “Perhaps you should prove it.”
For a moment, his hands grip your hips tighter—almost enough that you believe he’ll give you what you want. But he’s quick to let go of them just as fast, sighing as he whispers, “No. Intimacy simply to ease my bad temper is not what you deserve.”
“And if I want it?” You raise a brow in a challenge, making him study you closely. Mydei, as you have heard, has the eyes of his mother. They are the color of truth dipped in gold honey—his eyes cannot tell lies. They hide nothing, bearing everything to you with sun-soaked flecks that bore into your own gaze.
You tell him your own truth with your own gaze: I want this. I want you.
And he accepts. With a shaky breath, his body presses against yours as he traps you against the wall, filling any and all space that offensively keeps you away from his touch. The heat that radiates off of his skin is palpable even through the cold metal, and when he leans down, lips brushing just barely over yours, the warmth of his breath sets you ablaze—starting from your lips, making its way down to your fingertips.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” he rasps, voice just barely above a whisper.
“Yes. It occurred to me the other day that we have never completed our marriage, you know,” you breathe. “Shall we be husband and wife tonight, Mydei?
Mydei’s hands shake as they rub your hips slowly, his body trembling slightly at your words. In excitement, maybe. Or perhaps impatience. His control crumbles little by little, and when your lips brush against his with a teasing, phantom touch, he lets go of his resolve entirely and lets out a guttural sound—something crossed between a grunt and a moan. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Tonight you will be mine.”
“I have always been yours. So take me,” you goad, “Take your wife and mark me as yours.”
His control snaps at that. Cradling your cheeks in large, cold gauntlets, he angles your head up and kisses you deeply, hungrily, desperately. It’s warm like his touch but burning like his desire. It does not take long before it turns into a needy, impatient kiss, the two of you pressing into the other harder as if trying to melt into each other’s skin.
“Take off that wretched armor,” you huff, “Touch me.”
He groans, quickly slipping off the gauntlets and tossing them to the floor. “As you wish,” he murmurs, and before you can stop him, he tears your robes open from your chest, pulling the fabric away as if unwrapping a present impatiently and catching a glimpse of your bare chest.
“Mydei!” you shriek. “I liked those robes!”
“You act as though I cannot have the seamstresses replicate it as many times as you want,” he snorts. He doesn’t slow down—not in his persistent trail of kisses along your collarbone and not in his wandering hands that feel every inch of you and your curves. “They were in the way. The only thing that suits your skin is my touch.”
You whimper as he quickly moves, tossing you onto the mattress and hovering over you, shedding himself off his own clothing as quickly as he can—nothing left but his underwear, the thin cloth doing little to hide his thick, bulging erection. You eye it, half-lidded gaze falling hungrily over the trail of blonde hair at his navel and the thickness of his hidden cock.
“They will question what happened when you present the torn ones to replicate,” you huff. “Have you no sense of shame?”
“Why does a king need to find shame in desiring his wife?” Delicately, his finger traces along a breast, mapping along your skin until it circles your nipple, making you gasp as you arch into his touch. “Why would I find shame in wanting to rid my wife of what separates her from me? Anyone who tries to shame me for it will come to find a rather undesirable fate.”
“You are impossible,” you breathe, gasping when he leans down, latching his lips onto one breast and rolling his tongue around the pebbled nipple, the other traced by his thumb and pointer finger as he rolls and tugs at the skin. You mewl, grasping at his shoulders as you mewl, “M-Mydei—”
“Yes,” he hums, interrupting you. “That is my name. Say it a few more times, just like that.”
His lips move off of your breast. The string of saliva that connects him still to you is a scene that is utterly vulgar enough to make you shiver as he moves to the other breast, giving it just the same amount of attention. Except his fingers…well, they wander further down your body, trailing over your belly and moving until they find the hem of your panties. You gasp as he tugs them down, exposing your wet, needy cunt to him before he teasingly moves to feel at your entrance, collecting your slick between his pointer and middle fingers.
He pulls away, bringing his hand up to stare at his fingers, separating them so a web of your wet arousal connects the two appendages.
“Mydei,” you whine. “You scoundrel!”
“What?” he chuckles. “Can’t a man appreciate the wonders of his dear wife’s beautiful body?”
“You are filthy and obscene,” you hiss. “Hardly a respectable trait for a king.”
“Then I will be an improper king,” he decides. “If that is what I am considered for appreciating my dear wife.”
His fingers are back in an instant, plunging into your entrance and prodding at your walls as if to find something— “Fuck,” you wail, body spasming as he hits a particularly sensitive spot in your walls.
“Ah,” he grins, “I found it. The place that makes you sing.”
“Horrible,” you sob, whining softly as he thrusts his fingers back and forth, back and forth inside of you over and over and over—until your nails leave crescent-shaped indents into his shoulder where you grasp onto him. “You are horrible!”
“But you do not feel horrible, do you?” he hums, and his thumb moves to roll over your clit, his eyes admiring the sight of the sensitive bundle of nerves as you quiver at the sensations.
You don’t—that much is obvious when, in a sudden crash of waves, your orgasm washes over you, and you gush around his fingers, wet, messy slick coating them as your walls suck him in and spasm around him tightly. Tight—you’re so tight around his fingers, he can’t help but groan from that alone, envisioning the way you’ll squeeze around his cock.
“Gods,” you whimper, clinging to his shoulders as he helps you ride through the waves of pleasure. “Feels…feels—”
“Good, doesn’t it?” he finishes for you, grinning to himself at the way pleasure breaks over your face like light. “It will feel better—I had to prepare you. Cannot risk hurting my precious, delicate little flower, can I?”
You watch it in a trance as it happens: his fingers leave the warmth of your pussy and leave you unbearably empty, but you watch with wide, entranced eyes as he rids himself of the last remaining piece of cloth, bearing his painfully hard erection to you fully. You gasp at the sheer size of him, and he chuckles at your expression.
“We will make it fit,” he hums, leaning to press a kiss to your lips. “Not to worry, my precious lady. You’ll take me, slowly, and soon, we’ll carve this pretty cunt to fit around me like it was made to take me, hm?”
“Yes,” you whisper, nodding like the idea is the only thing you care for. (And in the moment, it is.) “Yes, yes, yes,” you say greedily, pulling him closer and closer until your chests brush and his forehead is against yours. “Fuck me, Mydei. Take me and make me yours—now, please.”
He groans at the words, eyes fluttering shut before he loses all little traces left of his self-control. Instantly, his mouth is on yours, teeth clashing against teeth as he kisses you harshly, hungry nips at your lips and starved tongue on yours, tasting you as much as he can savor. The tip of his cock presses against your entrance, slowly intruding past your folds and sinking into you inch by agonizingly slow inch.
He’s patient. Even when he is on the brink of insanity, Mydei is patient about taking you.
“You are mine,” he says possessively, and a part of you knows he is still speaking from jealousy. “You feel it, don’t you? The way you take me in? The way you squeeze around me? How your body responds and yearns for me—just as I yearn for you. You’ll never yearn for another, will you?”
“No,” you sob, shaking your head, tears of pleasure coating your lashes as you blink up at him. “No—give me more, Mydei. More. Harder.”
And he listens. Because you are spoiled. You came to him spoiled, and against every bone in his body initially, he could not help but indulge your sweet, needy whims. Every argument, every back and forth, every moment of bickering, you never let him win—not truly. And he spoiled you. He continues to spoil you. When you ask for more, he gives you everything.
“Okay,” he grunts, panting as he rolls his hips and slams into you as you suck him in further into your tight little pussy. “But just be warned that you asked for this, dear wife.”
With that, one leg is hoisted over his shoulder, giving him better access to drill his thick girth into you, pistoning his hips as the tip of his cock kisses perfectly against the sweet, spongy spot in the back of your walls. He angles so perfectly inside of you, it’s like he carves himself into your hole and molds the shape of himself into your folds. So that only he fits. So that only he can take you. So that only he can be the one you take.
“Yes,” you whine. “Like that M-Mydei—please. Please.”
“You drive me insane,” he mutters, gritting his jaw as he groans lowly when your walls hug around him tightly, squeezing him as his arms quiver and barely hold him upright over you, “Since the day you came to my world and became half of my soul, you have driven me mad. You must take responsibility for that.”
“You should take responsibility for driving me horribly mad first,” you say stubbornly, still so fierce even as you are split open on his cock. He chuckles, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth.
“You’re right. Let me make up for all the trouble I caused you, hm?”
His thumb latches onto your clit, rolling harsh, quick circles as your body arches up into his touch, responding to every sensation he pulls so easily out of you. One thrust, and then a second and third, and by the fourth, you come undone once more, walls erratically squeezing around him.
“Fuck, Mydei—you…you feel so good.”
“And so do you,” he murmurs, moaning softly as he turns his head and presses a kiss into the skin of your leg where it’s hooked over his shoulder, “So, so good—you were made for me. Made to take me. Made to drive me wild enough so that only you can tame me. You wicked, beautiful thing.”
When you sob his name once more, he comes undone himself, spilling hot, thick ropes of his seed into your abused cunt and painting your sensitive walls white. They welcome him, sucking him in deeper, letting him succumb to his pleasure and fuck his load deep into you.
And when he collapses over you, you’re too numb from pleasure to protest at his weight, wrapping your arms around his sweaty body and holding him tightly. “It only took ten months,” you whisper, “But we are officially husband and wife, according to the customs.”
He chuckles, nipping at your shoulder as he buries his face. “I care little for the customs. You are my wife if I say you are—and you have been mine since the day you agreed to take my hand. It is as simple as that.”
“Go to sleep, you fool,” you groan, rolling your eyes as you fight back a smile.
Sleep comes easier than it ever has—you fall asleep against him, fitted where you most belong.
────────────────────────
The night of your anniversary, Mydei is having a bad day.
You are unable to do much but watch from the sidelines as he enters one chamber after the other, meeting with advisors and council members left and right until even you grow weary of how burdensome his schedule is.
After a year of marriage, you are used to his daily matters not allowing him time until later into his day, and you have never been a stranger to the busy demands of political affairs. Your father is a king himself, after all. You were once a princess, and now you are a queen. Therefore, you know, without doubt, that your husband—who is no less consumed by responsibility than your father—will return to you in a foul mood. And it will be yours to contend with.
“You have returned,” you say quietly as soon as he enters your shared chambers. He drops his armor to the ground, one piece at a time, uncaring where they fall. Any other day, you might scold him for such untidiness (though, really, he is not untidy at all. You would not have to scold him on any other day). Today you choose to bite your tongue and focus on his face instead of the misplacement of his garments.
“I have,” he says plainly. Mydei stands. For a long, agonizing moment filled with deafening silence, he stands, and he does not say one word. It makes your skin pinprick with an uncomfortable feeling, making you want to crawl into yourself and hide. His gaze feels scrutinizing. Always. Something about the piercing, golden amber of his eyes staring into you makes you uncomfortably exposed.
Then, he walks.
As if a moment of clarity has struck him, he sets his shoulders back like he’s made up his mind, and he walks. To you. Before you can react, he collapses himself on top of you, draping his weight like a blanket over your unsuspecting body and pressing you down onto the silken sheets.
“M-mydei,” you gasp, glancing at him in confusion as you shift under him. “What are you—”
“No more words,” he huffs, voice heavy with exhaustion. His arms curl around your waist to keep you still. “I have exchanged enough of them for one day. I request but one simple thing—silence.”
“A most impossible request,” you scoff indignantly. “You know well that you provoke argument from me unlike any other.”
“Mmh,” he hums, whether in agreement or mere acknowledgment, you are unsure. Regardless, you frown petulantly at it and expect more—he is meant to persuade you otherwise. (No, my dear wife. You are as gentle as the breeze through the valley, ever soothing, ever constant. That is what he ought to say to you.) “You say this as if I am to find displeasure in it.”
That only seems to irk you more.
“You take pleasure in getting a rise out of me?” You narrow your eyes, glaring down at him as you watch the way he presses his lips to fight back the oncoming smile.
“You put words in my mouth, dear wife,” he murmurs. “I merely meant your spirit is endearing. The…complications that come about it are tolerable at best.”
“So you find me only tolerable?!” you ask in disbelief.
Fondness, as clear as the warm light of the Kremnos sun, settles onto his face and softens the sharpness of his eyes a hue lighter, the amber now glazed in a honeyed glow. He lets out a low chuckle in amusement, and it is softer than anything you have ever heard. Not just from him—no, you have never heard a gentler sound through the entirety of your life. It is as though the Gods have decreed that the first time you listen to something so tender will come from the man they have handpicked to be bound to you.
“Do you willingly choose to hear only the unsavory parts of what I say? If so, then it is a talent I am most impressed by,” he murmurs. “You do not challenge my tolerance. I am unable to find faults when it comes to you, even when you drive me mad.”
“Such a romantic. Have you been spending time with poets recently? You speak as charmingly as one,” you chuckle teasingly as you shift under him, and your leg brushes accidentally against the innermost part between his legs. It brings him to shiver and let out a low grunt, but you do not realize. Not for a while as you try to get comfortable under his weight.
Not until he stops you with a nearly painfully tight grip on your hips as he grits, “Be still.”
“What?” You tilt your head. “Why? If I am to lay under you like your personal mattress, then at the very least allow me to—”
“You torture me,” he says, voice strained.
You blink in confusion. And then—
Ah. You realize soon enough that there is a hardness poking at you. You only now feel it, but it’s been there for some time. Throbbing against your thigh is his erection, separated from you by the fabric of your robes and pressed as tightly against you as possible, and you have been rubbing against it this whole time. The thought should horrify you, but all you can focus on is the way his cheeks take on a flushed hue.
Pretty, you think. Mydeimos is pretty. Just like his name, just like his throne, just like his nation, everything about Mydeimos is pretty. (Mydei—you can hear his grumpy voice correct you in your own mind—you are to call me Mydei.)
“What is that?” you ask through a cheeky, whispered breath.
He exhales shakily, looking at you unamused. “If I have to answer that, I am unsure if you are old enough to be wedded to me.”
You giggle, rubbing a hand along his back as you murmur, “Indulge me.”
“If I must,” he grumbles tiredly. “It is proof that you are what I desire. Does that satisfy you?”
“Exceedingly,” you nod. “Shall I now offer you the satisfaction of fulfilling your desires in return?”
“You do not need to,” he mumbles quietly. Mydei is an honorable man—he is kind to women and children, and he does not see himself above other men simply because he is king. He is a man of principles, if nothing else. Stripping him of his principles is not a simple task.
“And what if I want to?” you pout. “Will you indulge your dear wife?”
“Devious,” he hisses, stiffening when you flex your leg to press more pressure against his hardened cock. “You are a devious, dangerous thing.”
Your hand slips between your bodies at the same time as his lifts up, held over you by two muscled arms that cage either side of your head. You stare up at him, watching the flickers of his expression as your hand carefully untucks his hot, lengthy erection from the confinements of his pants and gives a small squeeze to the shaft.
“Today is a rather special day,” you murmur, “Wouldn’t you say?”
“Of course,” he chuckles breathlessly, groaning as your thumb strokes along his slit, gathering pre cum and carefully smearing it along his tip. “I have survived the wicked schemes of my wife for an entire year.”
“And I have survived the brutal warrior that is my husband,” you grin. “My father will be relieved to hear I am still alive.”
“You mention him while you have me like this?” He grins wolfishly, shivering as you slowly stroke his cock. His eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, his arms waver as they hold him upright above you. “Fuck,” he whispers, “Do not tease.”
“Tease?” you gasp, stopping at the base of his cock and giving him a small squeeze. He grunts, cracking an eye open, displeased. “I would never.”
“Then don’t,” he says roughly, his voice a gravelly sound that shoots an ache straight to your cunt.
“Only because it is our anniversary,” you murmur, leaning up to kiss him gently between his furrowed brows.
Your hand drags along his thick girth, stroking it quickly as he lets out low groans, burying his face into your neck. You can feel him—pulsing in your hand, hot against your neck, heavy over your weight. His breath fans against your skin as he makes pleasured sounds into your ear, making wetness stain between your own legs. And he knows it, too—you’re certain because otherwise, the bite to your earlobe wouldn’t be so tantalizingly slow.
“Happy Anniversary, my dear wife,” he murmurs. “It has been a year of enduring your madness. Won’t you drive me just a little more insane?”
“Happy Anniversary, my darling husband,” you breathe, stroking him faster as he moans into your ear and shivers. “If you are not already insane, I have yet to properly fulfill my duties.”
He makes a sound at that—a cross between a chuckle and a low groan, and with just a few more careful strokes of his aching cock, he spills into your hand, painting your delicate fingers and the intricate stitching of your robes white with his seed. You feel every twitch of him, every rope he spills of thick, warm cum that spills from his reddened tip, and in a daze, you imagine it to fill you to the brim.
And you’re certain he will, too, by the hungry look in his eyes as soon as his blissed-out expression dies out. He opens them, eyeing you like you are the first meal presented to a starved man—and perhaps he is. He is always starved of you, no matter how often you let him get his fill.
“One year since I have had such a beauty to call my dear wife,” he whispers. “How unfortunate it is that you will never get to see the sight of yourself. But I am too selfish to allow anyone but myself to witness it.”
“You talk most when you are feverish,” you tease, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Are you feeling well, Mydei?”
“Not until I have you,” he responds cheekily, grinning in amusement as he leans in to kiss you hungrily. You gasp against his mouth, hands instantly traveling to his hair. “Won’t you look after your sickened husband?”
“If I must,” you sigh playfully. (The slick wetness between your legs almost screams at you to quit your agonizing schemes and simply give yourself as quickly as he wants to take you.)
His fingers tease along your collarbone, trailing just between your cleavage as you shiver. Just as his hands reach for your robes, ready to expose your breasts, a knock disturbs you as you both stiffen—
“Lord Mydeimos,” calls a guard, “There has been an ambush on our patrolling troops outside of the border. It is urgent.”
Mydei stills. You glance at him worriedly.
“Of all times,” he grunts, cursing under his breath.
“There will be plenty of time later,” you soothe, tracing the angry creases in his forehead, “Duty calls.”
He glances at you miserably before sighing, rising from atop your body. But not before planting a soft, lingering kiss on your lips that he reluctantly pulls away from. “Wait for me. I will take care of it quickly and return to you to finish where I have left off.”
You giggle, poking his cheek as you murmur, “I have no doubts.”
———————
Mydei does, in fact, return to you.
Except, it is not in the condition that he left.
He comes back carried by four men at once, ushered quickly into the healer’s wing, and stripped of his armor quickly. You follow along, stumbling over your feet and heart beating in your throat.
“What hap—” You are carefully tugged to the side before you can even utter the words, moved away from the grotesque scene before you can properly get a look at the stab wound in his chest. The blade has missed his heart by just a hair, you hear one healer mumble. It is a miracle that he has lived long enough to be brought back, another whispers.
You hear him groan unconsciously as they clean at the torn flesh, and your knees buckle at the sound.
“My lady,” murmurs an attendant. “Perhaps it is best if you do not witness such a scene—”
“That scene is my husband,” you cry hysterically. “Who else is to witness it? My husband needs—”
“He needs the healers, and they cannot do their duty with your hovering.” You’re cut off firmly. You blink, and even without the tears in your eyes, you’re certain you would look pitiful as you sniffle.
“He promised he would return to spend the night with me,” you croak. “If he does not live to see through to his promise, I will kill him myself.”
“I am certain he fears such a fate more than anything else,” whispers the attendant, gently tugging you along and supporting half your weight. “Come, I am positive My Lord will appreciate a properly tidied chamber to recover in, wouldn’t you say?”
You let yourself be dragged away, turning to glance at Mydei one more time—just in time, in fact, to catch a glimpse of a bloodied rag tossed to the floor by a healer. More blood than you have ever witnessed spilled from Mydei before—if at all.
———————
It takes hours before there is a knock on your chamber’s door, and before you can even rise from your bed, a handful of guards enter one by one, carefully carrying your husband on a stretcher as he unhappily lays with his arms crossed.
“I could have walked myself,” he grumbles bitterly.
“The healers would have my head if I allowed your stitches to be torn, My Lord.”
“The healers could not do anything if I had ordered—”
“Mydei,” you sob, throwing yourself into his arms as soon as they lay him on your shared bed. Your arms wrap around his neck as he cuts himself off and lets out a low grunt of surprise.
And then, he beams. So smugly that even the guards eye each other warily. “Did you miss me, dear wife?”
One by one, they quickly file out of your chambers as your head shoots up, and you glare at him.
“You leave me on our anniversary night to fight an ambush, promise to return to me only to come back bloodied and half alive, and your first words to me are to ask such an arrogantly tasteless question?”
He chuckles, cupping your cheek as he murmurs, “I am fine. It’s just a small cut—”
“They missed your heart by a hair! I heard the healers myself!”
“You know how they are,” he all but huffs petulantly, rolling his eyes as he complains. “I would have been fine to walk myself back, but they insisted that the guards escort me by stretcher—”
“And a good thing they did,” you spit. “If your injury did not kill you, then your ego surely would have finished the job.”
You have never considered the possibility of losing Mydei. Not once in your marriage. Not when you felt no tug for him in your heart, and not even when your heart began to yearn for him more than anything else. A naive little thing you were, you think to yourself—to think your husband is invincible just because he is as strong as he is. Your father’s words had made you think of your husband as nothing more than a warrior at times—a godslayer, a man not even divinity could stand against.
But he’s painfully human. Painfully just a boy who grew into the body of a man and nothing more. Strength means little in the face of chance—and it occurs to you now, as you eye the bandages wrapped tightly around his chest, that by chance alone did a blade pierce through his skin, and by chance alone did he survive and come back to you.
And you will never risk a chance to lose him again without telling him what your heart knows after a year of marriage.
“Do you not have any faith in m—”
“I love you,” you sniffle, the words wobbly and wet like your tear-stained lips. They cascade down your cheeks and collect pitifully at your chin, but you care little for your appearance as you let out an ugly sob and cradle his cheeks. “I love you, and it is the worst fate you have cursed me with. I despise you.”
“That is a rather contradictory statement,” he says quietly as he processes your words. But the tips of his ears are red as his lips fight to stay still at the corners. “Could you repeat that first part without that latter one?”
“You are insufferable,” you glare, still blinking through tears. He chuckles, pulling you closer as he carefully thumbs away the wetness of your cheeks.
“And I love you, as well,” he says gently, “Even though you have possessed me and changed everything as I know it, I love you.”
“Do not scare me like this again,” you command.
“I won’t,” he agrees. With enough conviction that you believe him. For now. For now, you believe him, and little else matters. You let him pull you against his side, curling an arm around you as you reach over and brush hair from his face.
“Did you know that my father called you a godslayer once?” you hum, tracing his cheek softly and wiping away the sweat that lingers on his skin. “I wonder what he would think now if he were to see you.”
“Did he, now?” he asks in amusement. “Far too high of praise, isn’t it? I’m afraid he’ll only be disappointed—I do not know if I could slay a God.”
“What if my life depended on it?” you pout. “Wouldn’t you at least try?”
He chuckles, grabbing your hand from his face and pulling it to his lips, kissing your fingertips slowly, one by one, before he says thoughtfully, “I suppose your father was not wrong then. For my dear wife, I would slay even the divine.”
“In that case, he will be most pleased to know Kremnos and its king are taking such great care of his daughter,” you finally, finally smile, giggling softly, much to Mydei’s pleasure as you lean up to press a kiss to his cheek. He hums, happily accepting your affection as he relaxes further into the bed.
“After a year spent on this land, what is your favorite part of Kremnos?” he asks. And you know—better than anything, you know what he wants you to say.
“The sun,” you murmur.
He frowns. You bite back a smile. “The sun,” he repeats, dry and in disbelief. “The unchanging sun that is the same no matter what nation you travel to? Why not your husband?”
Chuckling, you cup his cheeks once more, leaning to kiss over his eyelids one by one. He closes his eyes and lets you as he relaxes under your touch. When he opens them, you are reminded that the Kremnos sun is the warmest you have ever felt.
“The sun does not shine the same in other nations, Mydei,” you whisper. “In Kremnos, you can find its warmth in not just the sky.”
“And wherever else, pray tell, would you find the sun’s warmth in Kremnos?” he asks, his voice husky as he leans closer.
You smile, and for a moment, you consider giving in and telling him what he wishes to hear. But you decide to tease him for a bit longer, in retaliation for what he put you through, as you pat his cheek before pulling away. You walk to leave your chambers, but not before you say over your shoulder, “I believe I should fetch more supplies from the healers. Your bandages will need to be replaced soon.”
He gapes, watching your retreating figure in shock before he slumps back and chuckles, sighing before shaking his head as he mutters under his breath, “Utterly wicked. Such a wicked, beautiful thing I have married.”
WOW THIS FIC IS FINALLY DONEEEEE.
It was a 23 day wip to a lot of you guys bc a lot of you guys follow me and saw me posting about this fic during the writing process. So you probably know that royal au’s are very hard for me. I find the dialogue to be difficult to get right and I can’t crack the same jokes I normally would through the character’s lines and I also have no idea how royalty would go about filthy talk LOL. So that’s rough. But also world building and handling the political atmosphere in these sort of settings is just. Complicated to me. But royal au’s are also some of my favorite to envision and think about, so these scenes in this fic have been a COLLECTION of scenes that I’ve had from many, MANY attempts at writing a royal au. I’m talking years worth of attempts and compiled scenes that I abandoned and brought back to get added into this fic.
It may have been a 23 day wip to everyone who followed along with my writing updates on this blog, but this is technically a longgggg 5+ year journey that FINALLY saw the light of day, and went through soooo many characters.
First it was for Miya Atsumu from haikyuu.
Then it became a Bakugou Katsuki fic from bnha.
Then it became a Gojo, then Sukuna, then back to Gojo fic from jjk.
Then I was like no no trust me it’ll make for the PERFECT Alhaitham fic from genshin.
Now, FINALLY, it has seen the light of day after maybe 5 ish years as a Mydei fic from hsr.
Would you believe me if I told you I’m hardly an hsr player and I’ve met him for approximately 2 mins total in game? 💀 LOL. I am not really sure why he managed to make me finally really take all these half written scenes from over the years, polish them up, and finally finish this fic, but I did and I am proud of myself.
For my first proper attempt at a royal au fic, I don’t think it’s the worst thing I’ve written. Are there some parts that I wish were executed better? Yes for sure lol I’m just a failgirl writer who is honestly her own biggest hater. But that being said, I really think that I did not fail at my attempt and I think that’s a really big step for me in my silly hobby that I take a little too seriously sometimes.
Anyway, if you read this note, and you read this fic, thank youuuuu for reading all my words lol I know sometimes I have a lot of them. And thank you to miss Carina—if you don’t know her, that’s tumblr user @osarina and she’s really talented and she probably is 70% of the reason why this fic exists. Thank you for hearing me whine about this, and for literally forcing me to finish it. And also for beta reading it and for helping me polish up my sophisticated royal dialogue. AND for helping me figure out scenes when I was stuck. Aka thanks for being my inspo and museeeee hehehe ily
summary | while the memory of you haunts your family, you haunt yourself. in the meantime, roy just keeps falling deeper and deeper in your web, dragging you with him; a reunion seems to bring everything crashing down.
pairing | platonic batfam x spider!batsis!reader. roy harper x reader. platonic! lian harper x reader
warnings / tags | angst, hurt/comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female. literal death, experimentation, consequences of being brought back to life. reader has severe depression and many scars from what joker and scarecrow did to her. mentions of torture because she has a backstory of how she ended up like that.
reader has fangs, is quite literally half spider while looking completely human. there is an age gap between roy and her.
word count | 4.8k
authors note | hi there!! english is not my first language so there might be some mistakes :) please vote <3
this is NOT a yandere series, but it has dark themes that you already saw on warnings.
bruce is 45. dick is 26. cass is 22. jason is 21. reader is 21. tim and steph are 19. duke is 18. damian is 14. roy is 29
You have your special way of doing it, you always have. Forever a little girl with a huge smile and eyes too playful for your own good; you loved playing pranks on everyone around you, and you loved teasing your siblings, though never to the point of hurting their feelings.
It was as if you had always known a self-imposed limit; a limit he always thought would be your path to greatness.
Your laugh echoed in his mind, in the replay of all the videos he, your brothers, and Alfred himself took all over the years. Back when you were still . . .
He trembles at the mere memory, and he knows it's wrong, because Alfred has been so careful bandaging his broken ribs and treating the scratches you left on his skin. Even so, he knows you refrained from causing worse harm.
It could be worse. God, it could be so much worse that he can't deny the unease in his stomach, even as his heart holds so much longing and love for you that he wants to turn a blind eye to the harm you've caused.
On the Batcave monitor, the fight replays over and over. Your eyes, your fangs, your blood, his—it was the same after all, wasn't it?—. You're not entirely yourself, but you're not a stranger either.
You don't fight like you used to. There's barely a trace of who you were: your bones and muscles feel like rubber, flexible, and something in his heart breaks when you simply seem to slide down your spine, because it's not yours anymore, it's just something Scarecrow implanted in you years ago.
He can do nothing but watch you. Try to inspect his little girl behind those eyes filled with fury and bitterness: the little girl who used to run after him laughing and whistling is gone. In her place is a woman filled with rage and confusion.
He's your father. He could recognize your emotions like the fingers on his hands. He could see the pain and recognize what causes it, and he sees the confusion behind your supposed hatred. Bruce thinks he knows the reason, but thinking about it only hurts him.
You were so young when you came into his arms. Or, rather, when he saw you through that window, sad and small and alone, and knew his heart would be yours for all eternity.
You had loved your wings, and he had never tried to clip them. How could he, when all you had ever wanted was to experience the freedom of being a dragonfly?
You have lost that freedom.
He knows it when he remembers your eyes on his, when he moves and your fist crashes into his face again, when your blood and his mingle, lost in the night. He knows it when he sees your eyes and notices the tears behind the anger.
He can't help but wonder what you feel, what you remember, what's going through your mind. If you're in pain, if you're hungry, if something is keeping you awake at night.
Bruce could never forgive himself if he lets this go.
He doesn't need to turn around to know that the footsteps behind him belong to Dick, that the breath he releases is not one of relaxation but of deep perplexity.
The video continues to play on the screen.
“Jesus Christ,” his son mumbles when you bare your fangs with anger.
Bruce says nothing.
For two years, there had only been blood on concrete and a bullet hole through your skull: one that they only knew of from how much Joker mocked them about.
Dick feels sick.
Your eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, pupils blown too wide, sclera veined with crimson. Your mouth was half-open, revealing elongated fangs slick with blood—his blood. Yet none of those things disturbed them as much as the tears trapped in your lashes.
“You knew before the others.”
His son exhaled shakily and leaned against the console. “Tim thought Crimson Silk was just another violent metahuman protecting the Narrows.” His mouth twitched humorlessly. “I knew the second I saw the stupid flip.”
On-screen, frozen forever in digital clarity, your face no longer resembled the child who used to steal his coffee and replace it with hot chocolate because “you’re too grumpy for caffeine.” Yet the remnants still existed in cruel, unbearable fragments: the tilt of your head when confused, the tiny crease between your brows when angry, the way your eyes always searched Bruce first in every room.
He reached for the keyboard, fingers hovering only briefly before opening the recovered files again.
Dick visibly stiffened. “Bruce—”
“We need to watch them.”
“We already watched them.”
“We need to watch them carefully.”
His face paled with sudden fury. “Carefully?” he repeated incredulously. “Jesus Christ, Bruce, she was strapped to a table screaming while Crane cut her open. What exactly are we missing?”
There were some things the human mind should never witness, and those tapes had crossed every conceivable boundary. Scarecrow had not merely experimented on you; he had dismantled you piece by piece with scientific fascination, documenting every moment with clinical precision. The Joker’s appearances throughout the footage made everything worse. Crane had been detached. Joker had been delighted.
Dick still heard your screams in his sleep.
The camera adjusted focus slowly, revealing the restraints around your wrists and throat. Your face looked thinner than Bruce remembered from those final months before your disappearance.
On-screen, Scarecrow stepped into frame wearing blue surgical gloves soaked dark at the fingertips.
“Subject continues resisting adaptation,” Crane murmured toward the camera. “However, the hybridization process has exceeded expectations.”
“You’re insane.”
“Yes,” Scarecrow agreed calmly. “But history tends to reward men like me.”
Dick stopped the video just when the needle found its way into your neck. “I can’t watch this again,” he had said it angrily, but soon lost all the fire. “Don't make me watch this again. I want to see my sister again, but not like that.”
Jason descended the stairs first, followed closely by Steph and Tim. Cass appeared soundlessly behind them a moment later, her dark eyes immediately lifting toward the frozen image of your face on the monitor.
No one spoke at first. Then Jason looked at Bruce’s bandages and scoffed. “Damn. She really kicked your ass.”
Dick shot him an incredulous glare. “Seriously?”
“What?” Jason snapped. “She’s alive. I’m coping.”
Tim stepped closer to the monitor slowly, exhaustion hollowing the sharp angles of his face. He had dark circles beneath his eyes again—the dangerous kind that appeared whenever he became too obsessed with solving something. “Any leads on where she went after the fight?”
“None,” Bruce answered.
“They worship her down there.” Steph locked her eyes on the screen. “Kids leave food on fire escapes for her.”
“. . . What?”
“They think she watches over the neighborhood,” Tim explained quietly. “Drug dealers disappear. Human traffickers end up webbed to streetlights half-dead. Predators get dragged into alleys screaming.” His mouth tightened slightly. “Crime rates dropped thirty percent in the areas she patrols.”
Bruce stared at the screen silently.
You had always hated injustice with frightening intensity. Even as a child, you reacted violently to cruelty. He remembered one patrol vividly: you had been thirteen, sitting atop a rooftop eating fries while complaining endlessly about math homework, when you spotted a man shoving his girlfriend against a wall three blocks away.
Bruce barely had time to move before you launched yourself off the roof.
Cass finally spoke, soft but certain. “She’s scared.”
Everyone turned toward her.
“Angry. Hurt. But scared most.”
Bruce’s chest tightened.
Tim rubbed his face tiredly. “We need to figure out what Crane actually turned her into.”
“Half spider apparently,” Jason said dryly.
His third son pulled several files onto the secondary monitor. Genetic scans. Medical reports stolen from one of Crane’s abandoned labs. Fragmented research notes covered in equations and observations.
“Crane used modified arachnid DNA combined with regenerative mutagens,” Tim explained. “Most of the notes are damaged, but from what I can piece together, he was trying to create adaptive predators.”
Steph grimaced. “That sounds disgusting.”
“It gets worse.” He enlarged one particular document. “Her nervous system was rewritten to survive catastrophic trauma . . . That’s probably why she survived the gunshot.”
Nobody had ever truly discussed your death in detail. The wound had always been too horrific to imagine clearly. Joker delighted in describing it anyway—the temple shot, the blood loss, the way your body supposedly collapsed at his feet.
Bruce had envisioned it every night for two years regardless.
God help him, you were alive. Not whole. Not safe. Not happy. But alive.
And somewhere in Gotham, you were breathing beneath the same night sky while believing yourself too monstrous to come home.
“So, you fought your brother.”
You sat on the kitchen counter of Roy’s apartment with one knee pulled loosely against your chest while he cleaned blood from your knuckles. He stood between your knees with a first-aid kit open beside him, sleeves pushed carelessly to his elbows while he focused on wrapping gauze around your hand.
“I didn't fight my brother,” you grimaced. “I couldn't hit him back. He is too small.”
The apartment itself was small, warm in a way the Manor never managed to be despite its grandeur. There were tiny shoes abandoned near the couch, colored pencils scattered across the coffee table, and one of Lian’s stuffed animals sitting upside down beneath a chair as though it had been dropped mid-adventure. The scent of pancakes still lingered faintly in the air from earlier that morning, mixed with coffee and antiseptic.
“He isn't so little anymore,” he hummed, not so much in concordance. “I mean, he is what? Fourteen now?”
“I don't even know what month I am, Roy. How could I know how old my baby brother is?”
That earned a soft snort from him. “Fair enough.”
You looked away toward the apartment window afterward, watching water crawl slowly down the glass. The sky beyond Gotham’s skyline remained colorless, thick clouds hanging low enough to swallow the tops of buildings whole.
Your body ached beneath his hoodie. The healing process always hurt now; the mutations accelerated recovery, but not without consequence. Bones shifted strangely when repairing themselves, muscles spasmed unpredictably, your skin felt too tight some days.
Roy noticed when your jaw tightened. “You healing okay?”
“Mm.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“It was enough of one.”
“Nope,” he replied immediately, tightening the bandage around your hand despite your annoyed glare. “Try again, Silk.”
You hated that he used the nickname so casually. Not because you truly minded hearing it from him, but because Roy had this infuriating habit of speaking to you like you were still human enough to tease.
“It hurts,” you admitted finally.
His expression softened instantly, all traces of humor fading from his face. “Where?”
You almost laughed.
Everywhere.
Inside your bones. Beneath your skin. Along your spine where Crane had altered your nervous system until your body no longer understood where humanity ended and something else began. Some mornings your jaw ached from the pressure of retracting fangs. Some nights your vision sharpened so intensely the world became nauseatingly bright.
You shrugged one shoulder instead. “Doesn’t matter.”
Roy tied off the bandage carefully before looking up at you. “You know, for someone who spent years patching up vigilantes, you’re incredibly annoying to take care of.”
“Where’s Lian?”
“At school.”
You blinked immediately. “School?”
“Yes, believe it or not, normal children receive educations.”
“I know that. I went to school too, you asshole. I just forgot it was Tuesday.”
“It’s Friday.”
You huffed, not surprised by your unconsciousness about the days.
Roy resumed cleaning the remaining cuts along your forearm while sunlight slowly brightened the kitchen in muted shades of gray. His fingertips brushed your skin occasionally during the process, warm and steady despite the tremor you sometimes fought to suppress in your limbs. Physical contact still startled you more often than not nowadays.
His expression softened into something unbearably fond. It was dangerous, so dangerous it made your heart beat with fear.
You had spent months convincing yourself you no longer belonged anywhere long enough to be loved safely. You lived in abandoned buildings. You vanished for days. You hunted criminals through Gotham’s underbelly with blood on your teeth.
You had eaten a pigeon raw, for God's sake.
People like you were not meant for soft kitchens and terrible coffee and little girls asking if your webs were biodegradable.
Roy tilted his head slightly. “What’s going on in that spooky little brain?”
“Why aren’t you afraid of me?”
“What is to be afraid of?” He asked. “You are severely underfed, had no sleep in the last, what? Four days? And you are insanely pretty to look at. If anything scares me, it's your unstable way of taking care of yourself.”
“Roy.”
“Okay, okay,” he gave up, a small smile on his lips. “I just . . . remember who you are underneath everything else.”
“What if I’m not her anymore?” you whispered.
Roy didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer again until he stood directly between your knees, close enough that you could feel warmth radiating from his body.
Then he reached up slowly—carefully, always carefully—and brushed damp hair away from your face.
“You know what I think?” he murmured.
Your pulse quickened traitorously.
“I think you survived something horrific.” His fingers lingered briefly near your temple scar. “And I think you had to become dangerous to stay alive afterward.” His voice lowered slightly. “But every single time you think nobody’s looking, you still act exactly like Bruce Wayne’s kid.”
Your breath caught.
“You protect people,” Roy continued softly. “You carry grocery bags for old ladies in the Narrows when you think nobody notices. You leave money in laundromats. You scare abusive men half to death but stop before killing them because somewhere deep down you still hear Batman lecturing you about excessive force.”
“That’s debatable.”
“You webbed a mugger to a billboard last week because he kicked a stray cat.”
“He deserved worse.”
Roy smiled faintly. “See?”
“You make it sound easy,” you whispered.
“I don’t think it’s easy at all.”
“Then why do you keep looking at me like that?”
His brows furrowed slightly. “Like what?”
Your voice came out smaller than intended. “Like I’m still human.”
You had been happy before.
You had been a rich, spoiled girl who donated to every cause she could; who wore designer clothes with names no other human being could pronounce, but which you had painstakingly learned to send letters and emails signed with your name in gratitude.
At some point in your life, you had been a society icon. You would have been, you were sure of it. You had kissed your father's cheek and appeared on magazine covers. You had enjoyed elite balls. You had been free in a society that only sought to exploit you, something unthinkable.
You had been who you longed to be, something of which only broken fragments remained.
You weren't human. You were nothing, in your mind. Too human to be a spider, too spider-like to be a person. In an eternal limbo where your body found no peace. You didn't want to live, but you couldn't find the will to die; not without taking Crane with you first.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
You hated how softly he said it. You hated how your body instinctively leaned toward warmth now after years spent freezing alone.
Roy’s hand settled lightly against the side of your neck—not restraining, not trapping, simply there.
“You are so much more than something,” he said quietly. “You used to laugh all the time.”
You swallowed hard.
“You laughed when you were nervous,” he continued softly. “Or excited. Or angry. Sometimes you laughed so hard at your own jokes nobody else could even understand what you were saying.”
“Stop.”
“You used to dance while baking brownies.”
“Roy.”
“You used to whistle constantly. Bruce threatened to ban ABBA from the tower because of you.”
A broken sound escaped your throat somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Please stop.”
Roy fell silent immediately. The apartment suddenly felt too small again.
You pressed both hands against your eyes roughly. “I can’t remember her correctly anymore. That girl . . . Sometimes she feels like somebody I invented.”
“She was real.”
“She’s dead.”
“No,” he said firmly. “She’s hurt.”
“You didn’t see me that night.”
“I’m seeing you now.”
“You don’t understand.” Your voice cracked violently. “There are days I can’t stand sunlight because my skin feels wrong. Sometimes I hear people’s heartbeats through walls. Sometimes I get hungry and it physically hurts not to bite someone. I don’t sleep because every time I close my eyes I see—”
You stopped abruptly, but didn't take your palms off, as if doing it would kill you. His hand, instead, remained where it was.
“Joker used to laugh when I cried. He thought it was funny.” Your voice sounded distant now, detached from your own body. “Every time Crane did something new, Joker would sit there making jokes. And eventually… Eventually I stopped crying because I knew he liked it.”
You continued anyway because apparently once the memories started leaking out, they refused to stop.
“The day he shot me, he seemed almost disappointed,” you murmured. “Like he got bored.”
One second he was horrified, the next he had his hands cupping your face with startling gentleness. You could smell him, sense him; you could feel his pulse beneath his wrists, warm and alive.
“Roy—”
“I know,” he whispered immediately, thumb brushing beneath your eye. “I know you’re scared.”
“You shouldn’t—”
“I know.”
“I’m not…” Your throat tightened painfully. “Easy.”
“Baby, nobody in this world has ever been easy.”
Your forehead dropped weakly against his a second later, just so you could nuzzle softly against him, as softly as you could. The only gentleness you could allow yourself to let him have at the moment.
“I think something is wrong with me.”
Roy snorted softly.
You glared weakly through tears. “That was rude.”
“You’re literally a traumatized half-spider vigilante hiding from Batman in my apartment,” he informed you. “Something being wrong with you isn’t exactly groundbreaking news.”
A startled laugh escaped you despite everything, and he kissed your cheek with tenderness, cleaning away your tears.
The sound of the door opening was unexpected. Mainly because you'd been distracted enough not to notice the footsteps, which was quite unusual for your perpetually alert state.
Except you weren't alert at all, an experience unfamiliar since your return to life.
Roy didn't turn around in terror. Instead, he did so calmly, as if whatever it was couldn't possibly be that bad. You were hidden by his presence, and you didn't want to peek out, instead, sliding your forehead down until it rested on his shoulder.
“Jesus Christ, Harper, your apartment smells like a daycare and regret.”
The ginger sighed dramatically. “Good morning to you too, Jason.”
Your heart stopped. Not metaphorically, actually stopped for one terrible, suspended second before lurching violently back into rhythm hard enough to hurt.
Your senses sharpened instantly despite the exhaustion weighing your limbs. Two heartbeats. One steady and acrobatically controlled in that way Dick’s always had been, capable of slowing almost unnaturally when he focused. The other heavier, rougher around the edges, carrying the strange inconsistency that had existed ever since Jason came back wrong from death himself.
Bootsteps echoed against the apartment floor.
You hated how quickly panic climbed your spine. You stayed hidden against Roy’s shoulder stubbornly, fingers tightening unconsciously in the fabric of his shirt.
Your breathing became uneven. Roy's hand slid quietly against your back in reassurance.
“Bats sent you?” he asked casually, clearly attempting to keep the atmosphere normal.
“Not officially.”
“That means yes.”
“It means Bruce is losing his mind,” Jason corrected flatly. “And Dick here decided bothering me at eight in the morning was somehow my problem.”
“You were awake.”
“I’m always awake. Doesn’t mean I wanna socialize.”
You squeezed your eyes shut.
God, you had missed them.
Jason stealing food directly from the pan while Alfred threatened murder with a wooden spoon. Dick singing terribly during patrols because he knew it annoyed everyone. The constant noise of the manor when everyone was home at once.
Dick moved closer into the kitchen then, and you could hear the faint rustle of paper bags. “I brought breakfast.”
You could leave.
You should leave.
The window behind you remained unlocked. You could be across Gotham rooftops before either of them reacted properly. Your body practically screamed at you to run, instincts flaring violently beneath your skin.
“Roy, who the fuck you had in here? Stop letting the clothes everywhere,” Jason complained, and your shirt flew through the open doors of the kitchen.
You lifted your head before you could stop yourself.
Dick looked older than the last time you had seen him properly. Not physically—he was still beautiful in that unfair way he had always been, broad-shouldered and graceful even while standing casually in sweatpants—but exhaustion had settled permanently around his eyes now. His hair was slightly longer than before, curling near the nape of his neck.
Jason looked sharper somehow, harder around the edges. His white streak stood out violently against dark hair, and the leather jacket hanging from his broad shoulders smelled faintly of gunpowder, rain, and cigarettes even from across the room. There was still something gloriously reckless about the way he occupied space, like he refused to apologize for existing loudly.
He was the first one to see you. His eyes shifted lazily toward the kitchen counter, prepared to throw another sarcastic remark at Roy, but stopped abruptly. Your scar was exposed, the scarred, red circle caught morning light with terrible clarity.
“…No fucking way.”
And he whispered your name, stopping Dick in his tracks as well.
You should have moved. You should. You would.
Your leg partially pushed Roy away, but his hand tightened slightly against your back.
“Easy,” he whispered, as if he knew exactly what your plan was.
You heard the sharp pivot of boots against tile before instinct forced your head upward automatically, eyes locking onto his across the kitchen. His shock twisted immediately into something incredulous and almost offended as his gaze snapped between you and Roy.
“You’re kidding me.”
Roy winced. “Jay—”
“You are absolutely kidding me.” Jason pointed directly at the two of you. “While Bruce is down there having the world’s most dramatic midlife crisis, you’ve been hiding here?”
“It wasn’t exactly planned—”
“And why,” Jason continued louder, “do you look domestic?”
Dick didn't have time to get offended. His coffee slipped from his numb fingers, bursting on the kitchen floor. All while staring at you like he physically could not process what he was seeing.
You suddenly became hyperaware of yourself beneath that stare. Roy’s oversized hoodie hanging off one shoulder. Healing bruises dark against your throat. Your swollen eyes from crying minutes earlier.
There was too much familiarity in the room. Too much history. It pressed against your ribs painfully, threatening to crack something open inside you that had remained sealed shut for survival.
Your fingers tightened against Roy’s shoulder hard enough to bend fabric.
Your older brother's expression shifted with visible heartbreak, blue eyes darting across your face desperately as though trying to reconcile memory with reality. You watched him recognize every difference one by one: the sharpened canines visible when your breathing hitched, the strange tension in your posture, the faint red veining near your eyes, the scar through your temple.
But beneath all of it, you watched him recognize you too.
“You’re really here,” he whispered.
Not another hallucination grief invented for him.
“You’re—” His voice broke completely. “Jesus Christ.”
Roy shifted slightly. “Okay, maybe everybody should breathe before this gets dramatic.”
“Too late,” Jason muttered automatically.
Dick finally blinked hard enough to move again. “You’re staying here?”
You stiffened immediately. Roy, meanwhile, looked profoundly unimpressed by the tension suddenly infecting his kitchen. “Sometimes.”
Jason barked out a humorless laugh. “Sometimes,” he repeated. “Right.”
Your muscles remained wound tight beneath your skin, instincts still shrieking despite the familiarity surrounding you. Part of you desperately wanted to stay in this kitchen forever listening to your brothers argue over coffee. The other part wanted to disappear before they detected what you had become.
Dick seemed to notice the shift immediately. “You don’t have to run,” he said, desperate not to lose you once again.
Jason dragged a hand down his face aggressively. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Roy squinted at him. “What?”
“You.”
“What about me?”
Jason pointed violently between you both. “This! You knew about her and didn't dare say a thing? How pussywhipped are you, you fucker?”
He tried to throw a punch, but stopped at last moment, seeing you flinch behind him. His expression changed instantly. His face crumpled almost imperceptibly, and your stomach twisted violently. “You could’ve called.”
A bitter laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “And said what exactly? ‘Hey Jason, sorry I died weird?’”
His jaw tightened.
“That wasn’t funny.”
“It kind of was.”
“No,” Dick whispered suddenly. “It really wasn’t.”
The grief in his voice made your chest ache.
You looked away immediately; a bad idea, because your enhanced hearing caught it anyway—the subtle irregularity in Dick’s breathing. Like he was trying very hard not to fall apart in front of you.
Roy quietly grabbed paper towels to clean the broken coffee cup, clearly deciding everybody needed a second before emotions became catastrophic.
Jason watched you the entire time. “You look sick,” he said eventually.
“That’s because she barely sleeps,” Roy muttered from the floor.
“Shut up, you traitor,” you mumbled, evading your brothers' eyes.
Dick looked seconds away from either laughing hysterically or having a complete emotional collapse. You recognized the expression immediately because he had always looked like that right before overwhelming feelings tipped him over the edge into motion. Nightwing had never been built for stillness. Not physically. Not emotionally. Grief especially sat wrong inside him, too large and loud for a man who had spent most of his life turning pain into movement.
Now he stood frozen in Roy’s kitchen staring at you like he feared blinking might make you disappear again.
“You’re really alive,” he said again quietly, like the sentence still made no sense in his mouth.
Your throat tightened painfully.
Roy noticed instantly. His hand brushed lightly against your knee in silent reassurance before he moved toward the coffee machine again, apparently deciding caffeine remained essential under catastrophic emotional circumstances.
“Nobody freak out,” he announced. “I’m making another pot.”
Jason blinked at him incredulously. “Harper, I just found out my dead sister is apparently living in your apartment and you think coffee is the priority?”
“Yes,” Roy answered without hesitation. “Because all of you get dramatic on low blood sugar.”
“That is medically inaccurate.”
Dick finally moved then, stepping cautiously into the kitchen like approaching a frightened animal. You stiffened instinctively despite yourself, muscles tightening beneath your skin hard enough that Roy shot you a quick glance over his shoulder.
You remembered another kitchen. Another morning years ago. Dick dancing terribly while making pancakes because you kept laughing too hard to breathe. Bruce pretending to read the newspaper while secretly smiling behind it. Damian declaring everyone incompetent because nobody cooked eggs correctly except Alfred.
Home.
The memory hit so hard that you nearly stopped breathing.
Jason leaned against the counter beside him, studying you carefully now that the initial shock had faded enough for observation to settle in. Unlike Dick, who looked at you with open grief and overwhelming relief, Jason’s attention felt sharper. He recognized broken things intimately because he had once crawled out of death half-destroyed himself.
And he saw too much.
“You’re twitching,” he said suddenly.
You blinked. “What?”
“Your left hand.” He nodded toward it. “You keep flexing it like you’re trying not to stab somebody.”
You immediately stopped moving your fingers.
“Still getting phantom pain?”
Dick looked confused. “Phantom pain?”
Jason didn’t look away from your face. “After the Lazarus Pit, my nerves were fucked for months. Felt like somebody lit my bones on fire every time I stopped moving.” His voice remained casual, but only superficially. “You’re doing the same thing I used to.”
“It’s different,” you muttered.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “How different?”
You hesitated. Roy quietly handed Dick a mug of coffee before speaking gently. “You don’t have to answer that.”
“Yes, she does,” Jason replied immediately. “Because nobody’s telling us anything and apparently everybody decided secrets are fun again.”
Dick shot him a warning glance. “Jay—”
“No, screw that.” Jason gestured toward you sharply. “Bruce has been tearing Gotham apart for forty-eight straight hours because she showed up half-dead and vanished again. Tim hasn’t slept. Damian threatened three separate informants with a sword. Alfred keeps pretending everything’s fine while stress-baking enough scones to feed a small country.” His gaze snapped back toward you. “Meanwhile you’re hiding in Roy’s apartment looking like you’re about three seconds from collapsing.”
The Lazarus Pit had dragged him back wrong too. Different wrong. But wrong enough to recognize pieces of himself in you.
“I suppose now we both know about hiding from each other,” you mumbled back, as venom dripping from your mouth.
The only thing you got from him was a long glance, almost cold if it weren't for his frowned brows. From Dick, instead, you got immediate tears, a broken sound in the back of his throat.
He moved abruptly, making your instincts flare instantly, but instead of attacking or demanding explanations or dragging you back to the manor, he simply crossed the kitchen in three quick steps and wrapped his arms around you.
You were too cold to the touch, too dead to be alive, and you looked so sad for a girl who was once so full of life.
And still, you were his sister. His little sister, still as young as you were when he first saw you, still so small and unhappy.
But he didn't say anything about that. He just kissed your head, ignoring how your hand started trembling again, and just held you as tight as he could.
pairing: current boyfriend!wally west x afab!reader, ex!dick grayson
summary: dick is pretty sure he's in hell. your new relationship with wally is public, and dick is confronted with the reality of his own making; you moving on and being happy, in the arms of his best friend.
content: you and wally are dating, happy, and in love! yay! dick is miserable, and his thoughts focus primarily on you and the new relationship. dick is probably ooc, kori is out on mission and isn't around when everything is going down (i forgot until i was writing tags), dick is always watching, wally is our sweetheart!, implied sexual content, breakup conversations
wc: 7.8k read part 1 here
Dick is almost sure he’s in a version of hell.
It’s not dramatic, not in the way people usually mean it. There’s no fire, no chaos, no immediate danger. Everything around him functions exactly as it should. Missions run smoothly. The team laughs. The city keeps moving.
But everywhere he goes, you’re there, you and Wally, and it’s unbearable.
There was a time when seeing the two of you together would have made him smile. Wally had always been easy to be around. Loud, bright, relentless in a way that balanced out the darker parts of the job. And you… you had always fit into the spaces Dick didn’t even realize were empty.
Back then, the idea of you and Wally spending time together felt natural. Now it feels like punishment. Because it’s not just that you’re together. It’s that everyone knows.
Dick can’t escape it. He’s tried, he really has. But the city itself seems determined to shove it in his face at every opportunity. Screens in shop windows replay the same clip. Headlines cycle through endless variations of the same story. Social media feeds are flooded with it, teammates scrolling past it with amused commentary, strangers talking about it like it’s entertainment.
He’s seen it enough times that he doesn’t need to look anymore.
But he still does. Every time. The footage is burned into him.
The mission had been chaotic, messy in that way where everything goes just slightly off-plan. There had been a moment, a stretch of seconds too long, where you disappeared from comms. No response. No visual. Nothing.
Dick remembers the way his chest had tightened at that. He remembers starting to move toward your last known position. And he vividly remembers being a second too late.
Because Wally got there first. The footage catches it perfectly. The moment you come back into view, stepping out of debris and smoke, before anyone else can even react, Wally is already moving. A red streak across the screen, frantic in a way that speedsters rarely allow themselves to be.
He doesn’t slow down properly, and he doesn’t stop at a distance. He doesn’t check his surroundings, and he goes straight to you. Grabs you, pulls you into him like he needs to confirm you’re real, like he needs to feel it to believe it.
And then he kisses you.
Not subtle or hidden. Not something that could be explained away later as friends or teammates.
It’s immediate. Desperate for half a second, and then grounding into something deeper, something certain. His hands frame your face, then slide to your waist, holding you there like the rest of the world has ceased to matter.
And you—
You kiss him back. Just as fully, and just as openly. There was no hesitation, or glance around. No instinct to pull away.
The cameras caught everything, and the world ran with it.
Dick had watched it the first time in silence. The second time, he’d told himself it didn’t mean anything. By the fifth, he’d stopped lying. By now, he knows every frame. Knows the exact moment your hands clutch at Wally’s suit. The way your body leans into him instead of away. The way he tilts his head, the way you follow without thinking.
The frame he stares at the longeset is the one when you both have pulled back and your eyes open to look at Wally. The earnest, loving look in your eye took his breath away everytime. He remembers that look, has seen it every night in his dreams for the past week. You use to look at him like that.
When he would come back after being over in Gotham and dealing with his family, there you would be, waiting for him in his room, joy and love clear as day on your face. It would warm him up, bring up his own smile unconsiously as he would feel all the tension and stress leave his body, because inbetween those walls with you? He was allowed to be him, whichever version of him that may be that day. A kind of love and care that he was rarely shown or felt like he was allowed to do.
Wally, of course, doesn’t help.
He never has been the type to shy away from affection, but this is different, deliberate. He takes pictures, casual and candid ones, and somehow they always feel intimate. A quick shot of you laughing over coffee. A blurry image from a rooftop, your silhouette against the skyline. Your hand in his, your head tipped toward him, the two of you caught mid-conversation like the world outside of it doesn’t exist.
He posts them selectively, carefully, curating a series of moments that he loves and is willing to share with the public. Wally is beyond thrilled that the public love you two together, and has his own fan account that he can use to like edits that people makes. Some edits, Roy swears that it’s Wally that makes them, but the man in question hasn’t fessed up to it.
Dick tells himself he doesn’t look. He’s lying.
The worst part, though, isn’t the screens or the headlines or the way the city seems to celebrate something he lost.
It’s the normal moments, the ones that aren’t meant for anyone else, but that he gets the chance to see because they all live in this unconvential superhero roomate situation.
Like the kitchen.
Dick hadn’t meant to walk in. He wasn’t looking for you, not consciously. He just needed water, or space, or something that wasn’t the constant hum of everything pressing in on him. He pushes the door open and steps inside, and stops.
You’re at the counter, back partially turned, focused on something in a pan. The kitchen lights cast everything in a warm, soft glow, the kind that makes things feel quieter than they are.
Wally is behind you. Close, too close some might say.
His arms are braced on either side of you, effectively caging you in against the counter, his body pressed lightly along your back. Not trapping, just surrounding, like it’s the most natural position in the world. Like he belongs there.
You don’t react like someone cornered, instead, you lean into it. Your shoulders relax back against him, your head tilting just slightly as you stir whatever you’re making.
“Careful,” you murmur, though there’s no real warning in it. “You’re going to make me mess this up.”
Wally hums behind you, unconcerned. “Doubt it. You’re too good for that.”
His voice is softer than Dick is used to hearing it. Less performative, and meant only for you.
Dick stays where he is, just inside the doorway, unseen for the moment. He watches as Wally dips his head, pressing a kiss just below your ear. Slow. Unhurried.
You inhale softly, your hand pausing mid-motion before resuming like you’re used to this; like this happens all the time. Dick does his best to ignore the fire that starts in his chest when he thinks of this happening all the time, after all it’s no longer his personal business to worry about. But still—
“How lucky am I,” Wally murmurs against your skin, voice low and warm, “to have my girl making me a meal?”
The words land like a blow. My girl. Said easily, openly and without hesitation.
You laugh under your breath, shaking your head slightly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Mm, yeah,” he agrees, not sounding sorry in the slightest.
His lips move again, pressing another kiss, this time along your neck, then higher, trailing slowly upward. Your grip on the utensil tightens just slightly before loosening again, your body reacting before your mind catches up.
Dick notices everything.
The way your posture shifts. The way your back arches just a fraction into him and your breathing changes, shallow for a second before evening out. He catalogues it automatically, and he hates that he notices.
Wally’s hand slides from the counter to your waist, fingers curling there, steady and sure. He draws you back just enough that you’re fully flush against him, eliminating even the small space that had existed between you.
You let him. More than that, you lean into it, your free hand coming up to rest over his where it sits at your waist, anchoring him there. Not pushing away, but holding him closer. Wally’s mouth reaches your jaw, then your cheek, each kiss deliberate, unhurried, like he has nowhere else to be.
Like this moment is enough.
When he finally reaches your lips, he doesn’t rush it. He pauses, just for a second, close enough that your breath mingles, giving you the space to pull away if you want to.
You don’t, you turn into him instead. The kiss lands fully, deep, and certain, and Dick feels something in his chest cave in quietly.
You melt into Wally like it’s instinct, like your body already knows the shape of his. Your hand shifts from his to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as he pulls you tighter against him, one arm wrapping fully around you now.
There’s nothing restrained about it, nothing careful. This isn’t something being hidden, and why would it? This is something being lived in and happily.
When you finally pull back, it’s not far. Your forehead brushes his, your breath uneven in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion. Wally looks at you like he’s just won something. Not smug in a cruel way, just… satisfied. Certain, like he knows exactly what he has.
Dick steps back before either of you can notice him, the door closes as quietly as it opened. He doesn’t stay long enough to hear what you say next, he doesn’t need to. Because for the first time, the realization doesn’t come slowly. It doesn’t creep in or build over time. It lands all at once.
He hadn’t just lost you. He’d lost the version of you that used to be his.
⚡︎𓅩
Weeks later and Dick tells himself he isn’t following you.
It’s a weak lie, one he doesn’t even bother reinforcing anymore. If anyone asked, he could justify it—same patrol route, same tower, same shared spaces. Proximity happens, and overlap is inevitable.
But this isn’t coincidence. Not when he slows his steps outside your hallway. Not when he recognizes your voice before he even registers why he’s stopped.
The door to your room isn’t fully closed. Just slightly ajar, enough for your voice to slip through, soft and unguarded in a way that immediately roots him in place.
Raven is with you, something Dick can tell from the cadence, measured, calm, observant.
“You’ve rearranged things,” Raven says, her tone neutral, but not detached. Curious, in her own way.
There’s a soft rustle, like fabric shifting. Dick pictures you moving around your room, maybe adjusting something on your desk or the edge of your bed.
“I didn’t rearrange,” you reply after a second, quieter. “Not really.”
A pause. Then, softer—
“He just… added to it.”
Dick’s chest tightens.
Raven hums lightly, considering. “There are new objects. Patterns. Clothes.” Another pause. “He spends a significant amount of time here.”
It’s not a question. You let out a small breath, something halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “Yeah. He does.”
There’s no embarrassment or defensiveness in your voice. Just truth. Dick’s fingers curl slightly at his sides.
Raven shifts again. “You don’t seem uncomfortable with that.”
You don’t answer right away.
Dick leans, just slightly, his shoulder brushing the wall beside the door. Close enough to hear, far enough to stay unseen. When you do speak, your voice is quieter than before.
“I’m not.”
Another pause. Then, more honestly—
“I like it.”
That lands harder than anything else. Dick exhales slowly through his nose, controlled, silent, but his chest feels too tight. Inside, something soft hits a surface, a drawer sliding shut, maybe. Then your voice again, lighter now, like you’re trying to move past the weight of what you just admitted.
“He leaves things everywhere,” you add, a faint smile threading through your words. “I keep finding his stuff and it’s in the weirdest of places sometimes.”
Raven’s tone shifts, just slightly. Not amused, exactly, but… aware. You don’t live with someone for so long and not be aware of some of their loving behaviors.
“And you return them? Tell him to be more mindful?”
You hesitate.
“Sometimes,” you admit. “Sometimes I just… leave them.”
“Why?”
Another beat.
“Because I know he’s coming back for them. And I like going about my day and seeing little tokens of him to remind me of him.”
Dick closes his eyes briefly. That certainty in your voice—
It’s quiet, but it’s absolute.
Raven is silent for a moment, processing. Then, simply, “You trust that he will., return that is.”
“Yeah,” you say, without hesitation. “Of course he will. He’s Wally.”
You say it like it’s a fact; the sky is blue, the grass is green, Wally will always come back to you, Wally is the one who you trust, who you lo—
Dick’s jaw tightens as he changes his line of thoughts. Instead he remembers late nights and missed calls. Messages left on read longer than they should have been.
“I’ll be there,” he’d said once.
You’d waited and he hadn’t come. Something that a part of you had known, as something you were told to be cautious of plenty of times from others, but you kept denying them, sure that this time would be different. And fuck, why wasn’t he different?
Inside the room, there’s a shift in energy, something lighter creeping back in.
Raven moves again, likely turning toward something else in your space. “There are also… his clothes.”
You groan softly. “Don’t start.”
“I am not starting anything,” Raven replies, entirely unbothered, but a smug tone creeping in. “I am observing.”
Dick can picture it too clearly. A hoodie draped over your chair, a acket tossed carelessly over the back of something. Not hidden, not tucked away. Present and lived-in.
“Okay, yeah,” you admit after a second. “He leaves clothes here.”
“And you wear them.”
It’s not a guess. Were you wearing some now? Like the way you would try and wear some of his clothes?
You huff out a quiet laugh. “Sometimes.”
Raven hums again, satisfied.
Dick’s stomach twists. He remembers offering you nothing like that. Remembers the one time—
No.
He cuts the thought off before it can fully form. Before it can hurt more than it already does. He hears footsteps down that hall and has just enough time to turn the cornet to get out of sight. He hears a sudden knock against the doorframe before the sound of it swinging fully open.
“Well, this is interesting.”
Roy’s voice cuts cleanly into the space, loud, casual, and completely uninvited.
Dick stiffens instinctively, shifting more just enough to stay out of immediate sight, though he knows Roy is perceptive enough that it might not matter if he looks too closely.
Inside, you let out a startled noise. “Roy— what are you doing? We’ve talked about this.”
“Checking in,” he says easily, stepping fully into the room. “And now I’m observing. Being a friend. A pal.”
Raven doesn’t acknowledge him verbally, but Dick can feel the slight shift in the air, her awareness sharpening.
Roy continues, completely undeterred. “So,” he says, glancing around, “this is where all of West’s stuff has been disappearing to.”
“It’s not disappearing,” you protest, though there’s no real bite to it. “It’s just temporarily relocated.”
“Yeah,” Roy replies, amused. “That’s what I said.”
There’s movement—probably him picking something up.
“Oh, wow. Is this his? Can’t believe he’d move it out of his room.” Roy asks, the sound of materials touching signifying something heavy.
“Don’t touch that,” you say quickly, protective.
“Relax, I’m not stealing it,” he shoots back. Then, after a beat, teasingly “You know your influence is all over his place too, right?”
You pause. Dick leans in just slightly again.
“What do you mean?” you ask.
Roy snorts. “I mean, it looks like you live there half the time. Your snacks, your books, that weird tea you drink—”
“It’s not weird—”
“—your blanket,” he continues over you. “Pretty sure I saw your shoes by the door too.”
Silence. Not awkward, just… still.
Raven speaks into it, quiet and precise. “Sounds serious.”
Roy grins. “Thank you, Raven. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
You let out a breath, something caught between exasperation and something softer Dick can’t quite name.
“We’re not—” you start, then stop.
Roy raises a brow. “Not what?”
You don’t answer immediately. And that hesitation—
Dick feels it like a shift in gravity.
Roy starts talking again. “I’m just saying,” he continues, tone lighter but pointed, “you two are basically halfway there already.”
“Halfway where?” you ask, though your voice is quieter now.
Roy’s grin widens. “Moving in together.”
The words hang in the air. Dick feels his pulse spike. Inside the room, there’s a beat of silence.
Then—
You laugh. But it’s not immediate. Not dismissive, and it comes a second too late.
“That’s—” you start, shaking your head. “That’s not— we’re not—”
You trail off.
Roy watches you, unimpressed. “Yeah, okay.”
Raven doesn’t speak, because she doesn’t need to.
Dick doesn’t breathe. Because he’s witnissing something shift. Even without seeing your face fully, he can hear it.
That pause. That almost.
Roy’s voice gets closer as he talks, “I mean, hey, makes sense,” he adds casually. “You guys are co-living either here or there. At some point you’re just gonna stop pretending it’s temporary.”
You don’t argue that. Not really. There’s another pause, softer this time. And then—
“Maybe,” you say.
Quiet and thoughtful, but not joking or dismissing it at all. Moving in together? That’s a big step. To be even considering that signifies that this relationship is a lot more serious and looking to be permanent than he thought.
Dick’s stomach drops.
Roy lets out a low whistle. “Oh, wow. That’s where we’re at, huh?”
“Shut up,” you mutter, but there’s no real heat behind it.
Raven finally speaks again, her voice calm, grounded. “You do not sound opposed.”
“I’m not,” you admit, almost under your breath.
Inside the room, Roy laughs. “Damn. West moves fast.”
“He doesn’t,” you say immediately, sharper now. “He’s just—”
You stop and Dick waits, eager to see what you’ll say.
“…consistent,” you finish.
The word lands heavier than he would like, but he understands that it wasn’t a dig at him. Not really, since neither Roy nor Raven knows anything about your relationship you share with one another. But he knows that you’re talking about the pain that he’s caused you due to his unwillingness to make you a priority in the way that you need.
Roy goes quiet for a second at that, something like understanding flickering through his tone when he speaks again.
“Yeah,” he says. “He is.”
Raven hums once, soft and final. “That seems to matter to you.”
“It does,” you say, sounding stronger and more sure.
Dick steps back from the door, being careful and quiet as he leaves to go back to his. He doesn’t want to hear anything else, and frankly, doesn’t need to. Because now these aren’t just a handful of moments, or getting swept up in the hype of a new relationship. This is serious, a stepping stone towards a future together. You aren’t just with Wally, you’re building a life with him.
And no matter how closely Dick watches, there isn’t a place for him in it anymore.
⚡︎𓅩
Dick doesn’t mean to stop and stare while he’s mid patrol. He was moving across roodtops with the same efficiency he’s always had. The city was streched out beneath him in familiar patterns of light and movement, noise bleeding upward in distand waves that he’s long since learned how to filter out.
It should be routine. It is routine. Until it isn’t.
The rooftop catches his attention because it’s lit. Not brightly, not enough to draw attention from the street, but deliberately. Warm light, contained, intentional. It doesn’t belong to the city. It stands apart from it.
Dick slows. Just slightly at first, a shift in pace more than a full stop. His gaze flicks toward it, cataloguing without thinking.
Table. Two chairs. Set close. Not accidental.
His feet land on the adjacent building before he fully registers the decision to change direction. He crouches low out of habit, instinct guiding him into shadow even though no one is looking for him.
And then he sees you.
You step out onto the rooftop like you weren’t expecting anything.
That’s the first thing he notices. The way your shoulders are relaxed, your posture loose, like this is just another stop in the night. No anticipation, no performance.
Then you stop completely.
Dick watches the moment it hits you.
Your eyes take in the space, slowly at first, then all at once. The table, the lights, the food. Wally.
He’s already there, standing on the other side of it, watching you in a way Dick has never quite seen him look at anyone before. Attentive, and, in love.
“You did all this?” you ask, your voice carrying just enough across the space for Dick to catch pieces of it.
There’s something soft in it. Surprised, but not overwhelmed. Like you’re trying to process it without making it bigger than it is.
Wally shrugs, one hand rubbing the back of his neck in a way that almost looks shy. “Yeah. I mean—” he gestures vaguely toward the table. “Figured you deserved something that wasn’t protein bars and vending machine garbage. Show you I have layers and am capable of a wide range of romantic notions.”
You laugh under your breath, the sound quieter than usual, like it’s being held close instead of thrown out into the world. “This is… a lot.”
“It’s not,” he says easily, but there’s something careful in the way he says it. “It’s just dinner. More importantly, it’s just us enjoying a nice night, something you more than deserve.”
Dick’s jaw tightens. Just dinner. He watches you step closer, slowly, like you don’t want to rush it.
Your fingers brush the edge of the table, grounding yourself in something physical as your eyes move over everything again. Dick follows your gaze automatically.
Your favorite drink, something limited not available everywhere. It’s a habit he’s yet to break since you guys were together. Whenever he stopped anywhere that sold food he automatically began looking for the drink. When Donna asked him what he was looking for last week, he had to pretend like he couldn’t see the ginger ale for a false upset stomach.
“You remembered,” you say, softer now.
Wally looks at you like that was never a question. “Yeah,” he replies simply. “I pay attention.”
You look at Wally then, really look at him., and something in your expression shifts open, something that doesn’t try to hide itself the way it used to.
“Thank you,” you say.
Wally’s mouth tilts into a small smile. “You’re welcome.”
He doesn’t move right away, and he doesn’t rush to pull out your chair or touch you or turn the moment into something bigger than it is.
He lets it sit, lets you feel it. Feel comforted, supported and cared for.
Eventually, Wally gestures lightly. “Sit before I start overthinking everything I cooked.”
You huff out a quiet laugh and take the seat he indicates. He moves around the table then, pulling out the other chair, but not before glancing at you again—quick, checking.
You nod slightly.
The conversation starts easily. Not forced or careful.
Real.
“You made this?” you ask, lifting a fork, eyeing the food with suspicion and curiosity in equal measure.
Wally grins. “Wow, okay. That’s rude. You damn well know I can cook.”
“I’m just saying,” you reply, amused. “I’ve seen what you consider cooking.”
“That was one time,” he defends. “And in my defense, the microwave was being aggressive.”
You laugh again, fuller this time, and Dick feels something in his chest tighten.
Wally watches you when you take your first bite, clearly eager to see your reaction to the food.
You pause, then your eyes widen slightly. “This is actually good.”
“‘Actually’?” he repeats, offended. “You wound me.”
“No, seriously,” you say, pointing your fork at him. “This is—this is really good.”
Wally leans back slightly, clearly pleased despite himself. “Yeah, well. I had help.”
You tilt your head. “From who?”
He shrugs. “Google. A very aggressive YouTube chef who yelled at me for ten minutes.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “And why didn’t you just switch to a different chef?”
“If he was that passionate about the food to yell, it was bound to taste good. Clearly, you agree.”
Dick shifts slightly on the ledge, adjusting his position without realizing it, his focus never leaves you.
The way you relax as the conversation continues. The way your shoulders drop. The way you lean forward when you talk, fully engaged.
He remembers that, even more, remembers you doing that with him.
At some point, the conversation softens and the energy shifts. You set your fork down, your fingers brushing lightly against the edge of your glass as you look out over the city.
“It’s nice up here,” you say.
Wally follows your gaze. “Yeah. Figured it’d be quieter.”
“It is.”
A pause. Then, quieter—
“I needed that.”
Wally’s expression changes slightly. Less playful, and more grounded.
“Yeah,” he says. “I figured.”
Dick’s throat feels tight. He knows that he’s intruding on a private moment, but he can’t force himself to look away.
You glance back at Wally. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
“I wanted to.”
Simple and immediate, no hesitation or doubt.
You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary, and Dick sees it. Registers the exact moment something settles between you two. Another layer of trust and comfort built right before his eyes.
Wally stands eventually, moving around the table, and Dick’s body tenses slightly without his permission.
Wally stops beside you, holding out his hand.
“Come here,” he says, softer now.
You look at it, then at him. From Dick’s position he can see that there’s no uncertainty in your expression.
You take it.
Wally pulls you up gently, steady, his other hand coming to your waist to balance you as you step closer.
You don’t pull away, and your body angles toward his like it belongs there.
“You trust me?” Wally asks quietly.
The question is light, but it isn’t. It’s clear that there’s another layer, previous conversations that Dick wasn’t privy to that explains the tone and energy shift between you two.
You smile, small and certain. “Yeah.”
Wally exhales like that answer means more than it should, then he pulls you just a little closer. His hand shifts at your waist, firmer now, grounding, your free hand comes up, resting against his chest.
Wally leans in slowly, not rushing, giving you time and space, choice so clearly implicit in his every action.
You close the distance and meet him halfway. The kiss is soft at first, then deeper. Not desperate, but certain and relaxed as if you have all the time in the world to loose yourselves in this moment.
Dick’s fingers press into the concrete beneath him as he watches the kiss intensify and your body melts into Wally like it’s instinct, like you’re not holding anything back.
When Wally pulls back, he doesn’t go far.
His forehead rests lightly against yours, his thumb brushing against your side in a slow, absent motion.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
You nod, breath uneven but steady. “Yeah.”
A small pause before you continue. “I’m really glad it’s you.”
Wally stills, just for a second, then he smiles; not wide, not teasing, but omething softer, almost disbelieving.
“Yeah?” he asks.
You nod again. “Yeah.”
Dick looks away. He doesn’t mean to, he just… can’t keep watching that part. He continues on his patrol route desparetely trying to forget the new images of you and Wally together that are now haunting him.
⚡︎𓅩
Dick doesn’t go looking for Wally, at least that’s what he tells himself.
He goes about his days like nothing has changed, even though things have, and he can’t put his finger on it. There’s a restlessness under his skin now, something sharp and unrelenting that refuses to settle. Every room feels too small. Every conversation too loud or too meaningless.
A flash of red down the hallway catches Dick’s eye and makes him stop for just a second. Before he thinks it through too much, the word is already out of his mouth.
“Wally.”
It comes out sharper than he intends.
Wally slows, turning over his shoulder. “Yeah?”
He doesn’t look surprised, and that alone irritates Dick more than it should. Was he expecting a conversation to come from Dick? Was he never planning on addressing it himself?
“Got a minute?” Dick asks.
Wally studies him for half a second, something unreadable flickering across his expression. Then he nods once. “Yeah. Sure.”
They don’t go far, just down the hall, into one of the quieter training rooms. The door slides shut behind them with a soft hiss that feels louder than it should.
For a moment, neither of them speaks.
Wally leans back against the wall, arms crossing loosely over his chest. Casual and relaxed, but Dick knows better. He’s grown up with the man and together they found out more about themselves and each other than they would want to admit.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Dick says.
Wally exhales through his nose, almost amused. “That how you see it?”
“That’s how it looks.”
Wally tilts his head slightly. “Funny, I was gonna say the same thing about you.”
Dick’s jaw tightens. “I’ve been busy.”
“Yeah,” Wally replies easily. “You said that already.”
There’s a beat. Dick pushes forward anyway. “You and I haven’t talked. Not really, not since—”
He stops and doesn’t finish the thought, but he doesn’t need to.
Wally watches him, eyes sharper now. “Since I started dating her?”
Dick’s gaze snaps to his and waits a second before continuing.
“So, you’re really doing this,” Dick says.
Wally’s brows lift, and sounds slighly amused at Dick’s childish phrasing. “Doing what?”
“This,” Dick gestures vaguely between them, frustration bleeding through despite his control. “You and her.”
Wally lets out a short breath, shaking his head slightly. “Okay. We’re not doing this,” he gestures between him and Dick a few times with his finger, “like that.”
“Like what?” Dick presses.
“Like you don’t know what you’re asking,” Wally says, pushing off the wall now, standing straighter. “Just say it.”
Dick steps forward without thinking, closing some of the distance. “You think this is a good idea?”
There it is.
Wally goes still, though he’s not really surprised. Still, to question Wally and his intentions after all the bullshit he put you through? Hell that he’s obviously still trying to put you through? Any thoughts of handling this calmly is surely going out the window the longer the conversation goes on.
“Why the fuck do you care, Dick?” And there went Wally’s patience that he was under the belief he still had.
The words hit harder than Dick expects. There’s no yelling in it, o immediate explosion. Just blunt, sharp honesty that cuts straight through everything Dick was trying to keep controlled.
Dick’s shoulders tense instantly. “Because I—”
He stops. Because he doesn’t have an answer that makes sense. Why does he care? Cause he’s your ex? He’s your friend? Your team lead?
Wally lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
Dick’s jaw tightens. “Don’t twist this.”
“I’m not twisting anything,” Wally shoots back, sharper now. “I’m asking you a real question. Why do you care?”
Dick exhales hard, running a hand through his hair. “Cause you’re my best friend.”
“Don’t act like you’re questioning this because you care about me. This is about her. And she’s—what?” Wally cuts in immediately. “What is she to you now that makes you think you have any right to question any relationship of hers?”
The question hangs heavy but poignette.
Dick doesn’t answer, because he doesn’t know how.
Wally nods once, slow. “Exactly.”
Dick’s frustration spikes. “That doesn’t make this any less complicated.”
Wally’s expression shifts, something harder settling in. “No, you made it complicated.”
Dick’s head snaps up, in disbelief. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” Wally says. “You made it complicated.”
Dick takes another step forward, tension snapping tighter between them. “Oh, so dating someone you know I was involved with isn’t making it complicated?”
Wally lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “Yeah, sure. It is.”
A beat, then his expression sharpens, something real breaking through. “But you know what’s worse?”
He steps closer now, not aggressive, but not backing down.
“Having someone who loved you,” Wally continues, voice lower, more controlled, “and choosing not to show up for them. Consistently.”
Dick flinches, barely, but Wally still sees it.
“You didn’t want to make it official,” Wally goes on, the words gaining weight, gaining heat. “You kept her quiet, kept her hidden. Like she was something you could just… compartmentalize whenever it was convenient for you.”
“That’s not what I was doing,” Dick snaps.
“Then what were you doing?” Wally fires back immediately. “Because from where I was standing, it looked like you were scared of being seen with her.”
Dick’s voice drops. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Wally’s eyes narrow slightly. “No?”
There’s a pause, then, quieter, more dangerous—
“I remember you telling me about the move she taught you. How impressed you were, how proud.”
Dick’s stomach drops, but Wally doesn’t let up.
“And then I watched you take credit for it like it was yours. Another brilliant move by the incredible Nightwing.”
Silence slams into the room. Dick doesn’t have a defense ready for that. There really was no defense for it.
Wally shakes his head slightly, a bitter edge creeping in. “You didn’t just fumble the relationship, Dick. You made her feel like she didn’t matter.”
“That’s not—”
“It is,” Wally cuts him off, sharper now. “And now you’re standing here acting like this is some kind of betrayal?”
Dick’s hands curl into fists. “You think this isn’t weird?”
Wally exhales sharply. “Yeah, I do think it’s weird. I think it’s weird that you’re suddenly acting like you lost something you never bothered to hold onto. Acting like a kid who’s favorite toy got taken away by another kid. Guess what, she’s not a toy or something you can own Dick. She’s a person who has feelings, and you hurt her. You don’t have a leg to stand on about betrayal, and honesty, or any kind of code.”
And while the words land and hit Dick, he focuses on the anger and tension building between him and Wally as he steps closer again, the space between them nearly gone now. “You don’t get to act like you’re better than me.”
“I’m not better than you,” Wally says immediately.
A beat.
“I just didn’t waste my chance.”
The words settle like a final blow, and Dick’s breath catches. Wally watches him for a second, something shifting behind his eyes. The anger doesn’t disappear, but it sharpens, focuses.
“I know you’ve been watching,” Wally adds, quieter now.
Dick freezes.
That—
That he wasn’t expecting.
Wally lets out a small, almost self-aware huff. “I get it. I’m not gonna pretend I don’t. I stared too, when I shouldn’t have back then.”
Dick’s mind spins at the new revelation. “When—”
Wally shakes his head, cutting him off. “Doesn’t matter.”
Then he steps in just slightly closer, enough that there’s no space left for avoidance.
“But that’s all it’ll ever be for you now, Dick,” he says, voice steady, unwavering. “Watching.”
Dick’s jaw tightens, something sharp and restless clawing at his chest, but Wally holds his gaze, never wavering.
“And that’s because she decided,” he continues, each word deliberate, “that she doesn’t want to give a fuck about what you’re doing anymore.”
Dick’s mind flashes, unbidden images stacking over each other. You not looking at him. You walking away. You choosing Wally without hesitation.
He didn’t mean to watch, didn’t mean to be seen. And now Wally knows.
Wally steps back then, just enough to break the tension without dissolving it.
“Dick,” he says, and there’s something different in his tone now, almost affectionate. “You’re my best friend.”
The words don’t comfort, but they ground.
“And I’m not saying this to hurt you,” Wally continues. “I’m saying it because you need to hear it.”
Dick doesn’t move or speak, because he knows what’s coming.
“Grow the fuck up emotionally,” Wally says.
It’s not loud, but it doesn’t need to be.
“Apologize to her,” he adds. “Not because it’s gonna fix anything, because it won’t, but because she deserved better than what you gave her.”
Dick’s throat feels tight as Wally holds his gaze for one last second.
“And then let her go.”
Silence, heavy and final. Wally turns and walks toward the door, not hesitating or looking back. The door slides open, then shut behind him with a quiet finality that echoes louder than any slammed exit ever could.
Dick stays where he is, alone in the center of the room. The words don’t fade or soften, but they do settle over him as the time goes by. And Dick realizes that he doesn’t have a way to argue with any of it.
⚡︎𓅩
Dick doesn’t ask you to meet, because he doesn’t think you’d say yes if he did. Instead, he waits for you on the roof.
It’s late, later than most of the tower stays active. The common areas are dim, quiet, the kind of still that settles in when everyone has either gone to bed or found somewhere else to be. Dick stands near the large windows overlooking the city, hands resting loosely at his sides, posture deceptively relaxed.
He’s been here for a while. Long enough to memorize the rhythm of the lights below, and definitely long enough to rehearse what he’s going to say, and discard it all just as quickly.
Footsteps approach and he knows it’s you before he turns. He always has.
You pause a few feet away, not close enough to be familiar, not far enough to be distant. There’s a quiet awareness in the space between you, something that used to feel like connection, now settled into something more careful.
“You wanted to talk?” you ask.
Your voice is even, not cold or warm. Just steady as if he was a random stranger or civilian you were talking to.
Dick turns then, fully facing you. For a second, he just looks at you, really looks. Like he’s trying to reconcile the version of you in front of him with the one that still exists in his memory.
“Yeah,” he says. It comes out quieter than he expected.
There’s a pause, but neither of you rush to fill it. This was the longest that either of you spent with one another since the split, and while neither wants to admit it, there’s something nice about being in familiar company like that. When the wind dies down, Dick exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair before letting it fall back to his side. “I—” he starts, then stops.
You wait, not pushing him but not trying to help him either. And somehow, that makes it harder.
“I didn’t handle things well,” he says finally.
It’s not rehearsed or polished, just spoken in a hushed tone of truth. Your expression doesn’t change much, but something in your posture shifts slightly, attention sharpening, not softening.
“No,” you agree, the honesty lands without hesitation.
Dick nods once, like he expected that, like he needed to hear it said out loud anyway.
“I didn’t realize—” he continues, then pauses again, jaw tightening slightly. “I didn’t realize how much I was… holding back.”
You tilt your head just slightly. “From me?”
The question is gentle, but precise. Clear that you had spent the necessary time to heal from the relationship, but still had questions of your own that you needed answered.
Dick swallows. “Yeah.”
A beat.
“And from everyone,” he adds quickly, like that might soften it, like it might make it less personal.
It doesn’t.
You nod slowly, absorbing that, but not letting it shift the weight of what it meant for you.
“I thought I was protecting things,” he says. “Keeping them separate, keeping…us…separate from everything else.”
Your gaze stays on him, steady and unflinching as the wind kicks up again slightly.
“I know you did,” you say, your voice soft and filled with understanding.
The words catch him off guard, as there’s no accusation in them. And somehow, that hurts more.
Dick lets out a small, almost disbelieving breath that was practically swallowed up in the wind. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you reply. “I never thought you didn’t care.”
The air shifts, and Dick’s chest tightens. “Then why does it feel like—”
“Because you didn’t care enough,” you finish for him.
Soft and even, clearly final. He goes still and you don’t look away. There’s a pause as a gust of wind blows, shifting his and your hair slightly as you stare at one another waiting until it passes. In that moment, you both saw the younger versions of the other in front of them, young, happy and clearly in love with the other.
“You cared,” you continue once the wind stopped, your voice calm but unwavering. “Just not in a way that made me feel like I was part of your life. Not in a way that made me feel chosen.”
Dick’s throat feels tight. “I did choose you,” he says, quieter now but no less honest.
You shake your head slightly.
“No,” you say. “You chose me in private. In rooms where no one else could see and in moments that didn’t ask anything of you outside of us,” you continue. “But the second it extended beyond that—”
You stop, but you don’t need to finish. Dick already knows, but growing shame and a pit in his stomach what he did was wrong.
“I thought that was enough,” he admits.
You nod once. “I know.”
A pause before you continued.
“It wasn’t.”
Silence settles between you again, heavier this time. Dick looks away briefly, dragging a hand down his face before forcing himself to meet your gaze again.
“Did you ever love me?” he asks.
The question is raw and unfiltered, and so clearly the young boy in him that always feared that he would never be enough for anyone to stay. For him, you don’t hesitate when you answer.
“Yes.”
The answer comes immediately, and it hits harder than anything else. Dick’s breath catches.
“That’s why it hurt,” you add, your voice soft as tears welled in your eyes, much to your frustration. You didn’t want to cry, or to let him see you emotional again. But standing here face to face with the man that you trusted, cared for, and loved, talking over your heartbreak that you thought you would never get over— You’ve softened, not in a way that invites him back in, but in a way that acknowledges what it was. What the relationship meant and what it cost.
He nods slowly, like he understands that. Like he’s finally letting himself.
“And now?” he asks.
There’s a pause this time, not long, but long enough to matter. You hold his gaze when you answer.
“I don’t anymore.”
No cruelty or hesitation, just truth.
Dick exhales, the sound unsteady despite his effort to keep it controlled. For a moment, neither of you speaks, letting the sounds of the wind cutting through the city fill the quiet. The city hums beyond that, distant and indifferent.
“I saw you,” he says after a beat.
You don’t ask what he means, you already know.
“With him,” he clarifies anyway. “On the rooftop.”
Your expression doesn’t shift much, but something in your eyes flickers; acknowledgment, not guilt.
“Okay,” you say, just that.
Dick lets out a quiet, almost hollow laugh. “You seemed… happy.”
“I am,” you reply, simple and certain, with a smile creeping up on your lips at the thought of Wally.
Fuck that hurt. He nods once, like he expected that too, even if it still stings. There’s another pause.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
The words are quiet, but they carry weight, since they’re not rushed or defensive.
“I should’ve—” he starts, then stops, shaking his head slightly. “I should’ve done a lot of things differently.”
You study him for a moment, then you nod. “I know.”
You step a little closer, not into his space, but not as far away as before. Enough to make the moment feel intentional.
“I didn’t need perfect,” you say. “I just needed to feel like you weren’t afraid to have me in your life.”
Dick’s chest tightens as you hold his gaze.
“I asked to wear your jacket once,” you add.
His breath stills as the memory hits instantly. “Oh,” he says quietly.
You nod. “You told me no,” you continue. “Said you didn’t want it to get ruined.”
Dick closes his eyes briefly, but you don’t stop. “And now you let her wear it like it means something,” you say.
Not accusatory, just observed. He exhales slowly, the weight of it settling in fully now, of how he continued to hurt you with his actions even after the relationship was over. How his new one was pushed into your face all the time and he barely recognized.
“I didn’t realize—” he starts.
“I know,” you say again, gently. That’s what ends it, not anger or blame, just understanding and distance.
You take a small step back.
“Wally doesn’t make me feel like something he has to hide,” you say.
Dick’s jaw tightens slightly, but tou don’t soften it, because you don’t need to.
“And I deserve that,” you add.
There’s nothing left to argue, nothing left to fix. Just truth.
Dick nods slowly. “Yeah,” he says.
It’s quiet, but it’s real. “I guess you do.”
A final pause settles between you, that’s not tense or unresolved. It’s finally feels finished, like a weight has been lifted from your shoulders.
You give him a small nod. “Goodnight, Dick.”
He swallows. “Goodnight.”
You turn first, and walk away without hesitation, without looking back.
And this time, he doesn’t call after you, he doesn’t try to stop you. He just stands there, watching until you disappear from view.
And when you’re gone, the space you leave behind doesn’t feel like something temporary. It feels like something that’s finally, completely over.
a/n: finally, here's part two that everyone has been waiting for! i hope you all enjoy it and that it lives up to the expectations that you guys had! i wrote this one from dick's point of view, to emulate him being in the position you were in part one; seeing you and wally move on and everyone be happy about it.
oh wally, how i love you! he's such a sweetheart and i hoped you enjoyed the nuggets of relationship bliss and growth between you and wally! as to the timeline between last and this, i'd give it about a month and a week exactly before the mission incident where your relationship was broadcasted to everyone.
also, yes, i am a firm believer that the superheroes live in a bnha hero model where they have social media and personas that are more publicized, but more on that later!
i’m thinking if i write a third part, it’d be from wally’s point of view, showing how he viewed your relationship with dick, to the breakup, to now. but idk y’all lemme know!
okay, i think that's it for now! as always, comments, likes, and reblogs are always appreciated! hugs and kisses from me to you, i love you!😘💕
My bedsheets are ablaze
I've screamed his name
Building up like waves
Crashing over my grave
You can't stop thinking about Steve Harrington when having sex with your boyfriend.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
words: 7k
contains: (18+ smut!! minors dni) porn with a plot, female masturbation, oral (fem receiving), p in v, protected penetrative sex, dirty talk, pet names, reader being a bit of a perv and listens to steve having sex, lots of fantasying about steve, best friend/roommate!steve, use of y/n, female reader, she/her pronouns for reader, emotional cheating (i guess??), inclusion of ronance because why not!! eddie is also alive and well and also bi!!
author's note: it is finally here!! i've been banging on about this fic a lot and i'm glad that part one is here. you guys have been just as excited about this fic as me so i’m so happy that i’m finally sharing it as i thought of this idea in january!! full transparency, this was meant to be just one part fic but then i realised that i wanted much more of a story and sooooo here we are!
rec account: @moonstone-recommends
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“Oh—fuck—I’m so close, babe. Tell me you’re close, tell me you’re—”
You wished you could say you were. You wished your moans falling from your lips were genuine—that you were right there with your boyfriend but you’d be lying. You weren’t even close.
“Yeah, super close,” you tell him in a not so breathless voice.
James was too busy chasing his release to even notice.
You felt his cock twitch inside of you and you knew it was over before it had even begun for you.
Your boyfriend spills into the condom, with a loud grunt of your name—pressing his face right into the crook of your neck as his hips stuttered against yours.
You keep your hands on his shoulders, trying to keep the disappointed look off your face as James pulls his softening cock out of you.
James was—well, he was objectively a perfect boyfriend. He was kind, attentive, always there when you needed him. He loved your family and in return, your family loved him. But in the bedroom? He left you pretty high and dry.
He never took his time—seemed to look at foreplay as an obligation rather than something to be enjoyed. He never spent more than a few minutes with his mouth between your legs. He never let you set the pace, never made sex about you. It was always about him. And after care? Well, that was a foreign concept to James. He tended to fall asleep less than five minutes after finishing.
It wasn’t that he didn’t care about your pleasure because he did—for all of ten seconds before his own needs started to outweigh yours. He’d press his fingers inside you and the moment it started to feel good for you—when you would let out a few soft moans or start to move your hips, he’d take it as a job well done. Or worse—instead he would start pumping his fingers too quickly, pistoning them in and out of you as fast as he could. As if it did anything for you.
You had tried to tell him this—gently, of course. Trying to let him know what felt good for you but he just wouldn’t retain the information. Or perhaps, when it came to your pleasure over his, he didn’t want to listen. You had tried to convince yourself that it wasn’t the latter.
As James rolled over in bed—you felt that familiar sense of guilt build. The one that reminded you of the date he had taken you on tonight. How much money the fancy dinner had cost and how he had refused to let you pay for it. The guilt was a reminder how lucky you were to have a guy like James. In the past, guys weren't so great to you. In fact, you had dated some downright assholes. Guys who weren’t kind. Guys who didn’t respect you. Hell, some guys you were sure didn’t even really like you. And James was great. Really—he was. You were sure you loved him—sure that he was the kind of man you could marry. The kind of man who was a smart, sensible choice.
But as you looked over at the man you should love unconditionally—already falling asleep with the condom still on—you were beginning to question whether smart and sensible was the right choice.
A year ago, you had been in dire need of a roommate. Your previous roommate, Rachel, had moved out after landing her dream job in a different city. You had been happy for her but it had left you with a two bed apartment that you could not afford on your own.
James hadn’t wanted to move in at that point—you had only been together for a few months back then and neither of you were ready to take that big step yet. And so, you were without a roommate and a monthly rent that was haemorrhaging money from you.
That was until your co-worker Robin Buckley told you about Steve Harrington.
“Wait, Steve as in Steve?” You had asked her, a skeptical look on your face. “As in your girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend—that Steve?”
Robin had rolled her eyes, turning her attention back to the mug of coffee she had been in the middle of making. The sound of Every Breath You Take by The Police drifting into the radio station kitchen from the booth. You still had two minutes and a couple of ad breaks before you needed to be back inside for the remainder of the Rockin’ Robin breakfast show. You were tired from the early morning but mostly, you were stressed out about your current living situation and Robin could tell.
“Yes—that Steve,” she says, stirring in an unholy amount of sugar. “C’mon, it’s not weird. We’re like best friends. I can vouch for him. I’m like ninety eight percent sure he isn’t a murderer.”
You grimace a little, tired eyes flickering over to Robin. “Ninety eight percent isn’t enough for me.”
Robin huffs, turning to face you fully now with her hands on her hips. “C’mon (y/n)—you trust me right? You can trust him.”
You think about it, bouncing nervously on the balls of your feet.
“But he’s a guy, Robs,” you say finally. “I don’t want to live with a guy.”
Robin lets out a snort of laughter despite herself.
“Point taken,” she says before looking at you again carefully. “Just—just think about it, yeah? His parents just kicked him out and he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. He’s been sleeping on my couch for the past week and I gotta say, I don’t think it’s good for mine and Nance’s sex life if her ex-boyfriend is snoring in the other room every night.”
You falter—make the mistake of looking at her face—at her big blue eyes that looked just the right amount of pleading to make you reconsider.
“I’ll think about it,” you told her.
Steve had moved in that Friday.
The first week had been a little awkward—tiptoeing around each other in the hallway and trying to keep out of each other’s space. But after Steve had returned from picking up the last few bits from his parents house—coming back empty handed with red rimmed eyes—you had wordlessly handed him a bowl of homemade macaroni and cheese and suggested watching a movie together.
After that, you stopped tiptoeing.
And living with him? It was pretty great. He was surprisingly neat and an excellent cook. He always took the initiative to go out and do the food shopping when you were running low on the necessities. He didn’t mind that you had way too many houseplants, that the refrigerator had too many magnets on it or that the couch was baby pink—Steve was just happy to be living with you.
Somewhere between making coffees for each other in the morning and watching old movies together on the couch—you had formed a friendship that was built out of a genuine connection to each other rather than out of convenience like it had with Rachel. You had even finally accepted Robin’s offer of going out with her friends now that you lived with Steve. You had met her girlfriend Nancy in the past but Jonathan Byers and Eddie Munson had been complete mysteries to you. They turned out to be just as Robin had described—Jonathan a little quiet but once you got to know him wouldn’t shut up about his short films when you asked how they were going. And Eddie was—well, Eddie was the kind of person who people noticed when he walked into a room.
In time, they had met James. You had a feeling that they didn’t think much of him. The way Eddie rolled his eyes when James started talking about sports. How Robin would yawn when he bought up his job as a stock broker. How Nancy would bristle when James tried to explain the stock market to her as though she was stupid. How Jonathan would go quiet around him. How Steve glared at James when he would talk over you and would interject to say “actually, (y/n) was talking”.
And so, you had never told your friends about your borderline terrible sex life. Never told them that James had only made you come once. Never told them you had to get yourself off in the bathroom after he had gone to sleep. And you probably never would tell them.
“You know what I love?” Eddie asks the group one Friday night at your and Steve’s local bar. It was grimy, located only a few yards from your apartment—hence why it was your local haunt—but it was yours. Warts and all.
“Weed?” suggests Jonathan.
Eddie clicks his fingers, smiling at Jonathan.
“You know me, Byers,” Eddie says but shakes his head. “But no—that’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Something Eddie Munson loves,” Robin muses, tapping the table gently as she considers the question.
“D&D?” Steve puts forward.
“Nancy’s mom?” You say with a wry smile—Nancy shooting you a glare as Steve tries to hide his laughter.
“That deli shop by the record store that is totally going to get shut down for health violations?” Robin offers.
Eddie groans, looking pained as he looks over at Robin.
“Why do you have to remind me?”
“Eddie, that place has given you food poisoning like five times,” Nancy points out.
“And it was worth it. Every damn time.”
You laugh, smiling at Eddie’s dramatics. Sometimes you wondered why he had never considered theatre.
“So what is it you love Eddie?” Steve asks, leaning back in the booth beside you. His arm resting behind your head—comfortable, easy, just like it always was between you two.
“Oral sex,” Eddie says simply.
You choke on your drink while your friends laugh at Eddie’s admission.
“Giving or receiving?” Steve asks while you try to regain composure, face warm and looking anywhere but at your friends. Any talk about sex you tended to not engage in—not wanting to admit to your friends that you rarely enjoyed sex with your own boyfriend.
“Both,” Eddie says, smiling.
You tried your best to keep a neutral expression—to not involve yourself too much with the conversation. Trying not to recall the last time James had gone down on you—how it had lasted barely two minutes. How you had been thankful it was over. How you had ‘returned’ the favour with all the enthusiasm that James didn’t possess.
“What about you, (y/n)?” Eddie asks suddenly, brows wiggling as you look up at him.
“About me, what?” you ask, because you hadn’t been paying attention to the conversation for the past two minutes, too busy thinking of anything beside how terrible your boyfriend was at giving head.
Eddie laughs—loud and without much care who heard. “Oral—do you prefer giving or receiving?”
Your face warms—you’re sure that your friends can all tell how flustered you were by the question.
“You don’t have to answer that,” Steve tells you, glaring at Eddie as he pats your shoulder gently. “Eddie’s just being intrusive—”
“Oh, come on,” Eddie groans and nudges your knee under the table with his. “We never hear about your sex life, (y/n).”
“Not everyone is as open as you, Munson,” Nancy says.
Eddie huffs—grabbing his beer and taking a swig. “I’m just curious to know which she prefers,” Eddie says innocently, hands up in surrender.
Your leg bounces beneath the table as you consider giving Eddie an answer or not. Generally, you didn’t discuss your sex life with James with anyone. You were too scared to give away your dissatisfaction with it. It made you feel shameful for even thinking of complaining. To actually voice those complaints? Well—that felt like opening Pandora’s Box. But there was a large part of you that couldn’t help but feel left out.
“Giving,” you say finally without looking up. It was the honest truth. You don’t tell them that the reason for this was because you hated when James tried going down on you. Hated to pretend he was good at it. Hated how much he clearly disliked doing it. “I-I prefer giving.”
You were not sure why you felt the need to answer anyway. Maybe it was how left out you felt during these conversations. How much you wished you were having as good sex as all your friends were. Maybe because you just wanted to be included for once. You feel your face warm but you try not to shy away as you look up at your friends—all looking at you in slight disbelief.
“What?” You ask, eyes flickering between each of your friends before landing finally on Steve.
“Nothing,” Steve says, blinking in apparent shock at your admission. “It’s just—”
“I’ve never known a girl who would choose giving head over receiving it,” Eddie interjects before glancing at Robin and Nancy. “Not a straight one anyway.”
Your face warms, taking a long swig of your drink and wishing you could blend into the furniture.
“I just—prefer doing it, I guess,” you say quietly with a small shrug.
“Well,” Eddie begins with a small smile and a wink sent your way. “Either you’re incredibly giving or James isn’t doing a good enough job.”
Everyone laughs and you know you should stand up for James—for your boyfriend, the man you supposedly loved—but instead, you go quiet. Your face somehow feeling even hotter than before. You seem to shrink back further in the booth. No one seems to notice how you don’t defend your boyfriend—Eddie was too busy already recounting the tales from his latest hookup with a bartender. But Steve’s eyes linger on you for a moment. Noticing the way your jaw tenses, your fingers flexing as though wishing to grip onto the table.
He doesn’t comment on it. Not just yet anyway.
At one in the morning, you walk back with Steve to the apartment as you always did. Both a little bit tipsy and laughing at things that weren’t that funny—the fact Steve had been wearing his shirt inside out the entire evening, how you had tripped over the curb outside the bar.
“Careful,” Steve warns you, laughing as his hands gently steer you away from the curb for a third time. “What would you do without me, huh?”
“Be miserable,” you reply with a tipsy giggle. Steve smiles, hooking an arm around your shoulders as you approach your apartment building. Being the slightly more sober one—Steve is the one to fish out the key from his pocket and open the door. He’s the one to drag you away from the front desk before you could get too distracted by the notice board (“but Steve apartment 9A is selling their microwave!”). He’s the one to manoeuvre you into the elevator and to stop you from pressing all the buttons.
“Okay—next week, I’m the one who is getting drunk and you can take care of me,” Steve huffs as he guides you down the hallway towards your apartment. One arm around your shoulders so you don’t try to escape.
“M’kay,” you murmur as you watch Steve unlock the door.
Once you’re in the safety of your apartment, Steve breathes a sigh of relief. He watches as you wonder over to that damn pink couch—flop down onto it and kick off your shoes.
“I’m going to get you some water,” Steve announces, taking off his own shoes and leaving them carefully by the front door before heading into the kitchen.
You simply hum in acknowledgement, head titled back and staring up at the ceiling.
Steve returns with two glasses of water a few moments later. He sets them down on the coffee table before leaning down to pick up your discarded shoes. You bite back a smile as you watch him place them neatly down beside his own shoes near the front door.
“I was going to put them back eventually,” you tell him as he sits down on the couch beside you, the couch dipping a little under his weight.
Steve shrugs, as though it wasn’t a big deal before he picks up your glass of water and hands it to you.
“Drink,” he tells you gently. You send a small, grateful smile before you take the glass from him and take a generous gulp of water. Steve watches, amused before he sips from his own glass.
It’s quiet then between the pair of you—you tilting your head back up to glance at the ceiling while Steve thoughtfully taps his fingers against the glass in his hands.
“Hey, (y/n)?”
“Yeah?” You ask, turning your head to look at Steve.
He looks back at you, a slightly apprehensive look on his face—one that indicated that he was carefully considering his next words.
“I just—I noticed that you—that you didn’t say anything back to Eddie earlier.”
Even though you were still a little tipsy, still feeling the alcohol hum through your veins—Steve’s words cut through you. Instantly, you knew what he was referring to. That little comment Eddie had made about why you had said you preferred giving oral over opposed to receiving it. You swallow—you knew you had to play dumb. The truth was too embarrassing. It made that guilt take residence in your chest again.
“When?” You ask finally. “Eddie talks so much shit that it all kind of…blurs into one.”
Steve chuckles, leaning back against the sofa—his elbow knocking against yours. “Yeah, no—you got that right,” he says with a quick nod and another glance at you. “I just—it was that dig at James he made. You didn’t—you didn’t say anything. You didn’t—I dunno, stick up for him, I guess.”
You don’t say anything, you just stare wordlessly down at your lap as you try not to react.
When you say nothing, Steve hesitates for a split second before he presses on, “I just—I wanted to check if—you know, if everything was okay between the two of you?”
“Yeah,” you say, a beat too quickly as you look down at the glass of water in your hands. “We’re good. Why wouldn’t we be?”
Steve doesn’t look convinced. He looks back at you with an expression that plainly told you that he did not believe a damn word you were saying.
“Because you just let Eddie say…what he said,” Steve says. “That James isn’t good in bed.”
Again—you say nothing. Not for any other reason than because you suddenly had the overwhelming urge to be honest. To tell Steve everything. How James couldn’t make you come. How he no longer seemed to care if you finished. How his pleasure was always placed above yours.
Steve seems to understand something in your silence—his eyes on you, watching you with careful consideration, as though he was choosing his next words carefully.
“You know you deserve better, right?”
The words pull at something deep in your chest. The alcohol makes it difficult to control the cocktail of guilt, shame and embarrassment swirling in your gut.
“I don’t,” you murmur finally—the words that deep down, you didn’t really believe. Because you didn’t truly feel as though you deserved James. He was good—not like the assholes you had dated in the past and you felt immensely guilty that you were doubting him all because he couldn’t make you come.
Steve looks at you in utter disbelief, opening his mouth as if he was ready to argue but you silence him by unsteadily getting to your feet.
“M’going bed,” you tell him, clumsily making your way into the kitchen with your glass of half-drunk water. Steve follows—just to make sure that you didn’t break anything (whether that be the glass in your hand or even an arm or a leg).
He watches you tip the last of the water into the sink and he continues to watch as you leave the empty glass on the drying rack.
“You know you can talk to me if something’s wrong,” Steve suddenly says, making you turn to look at him—eyes unfocused due to the alcohol and your world just a little bit wobbly. “Like seriously. Even if it’s about—you know.”
Your face warms, you avert your eyes.
“Just drop it, yeah?” You murmur back, not meeting his eye. “It’s fine—I’m fine, Steve.”
Despite how tipsy you were—the words were final and Steve understood that. He looked at you for a long moment before finally nodding. “Okay,” he says simply before he forces a smile. “Get some rest, yeah? I’ll make sure to have a hangover breakfast ready for you.”
You manage a smile—a genuine smile—because Steve always did thoughtful things like this. Even if you were drawing a clear line in the sand on the conversation.
“Thank you,” you say, finally looking at Steve’s face and seeing the concern in his eyes which did not help the guilt you felt deep in your gut. Because now you felt awful for not being honest with Steve. And so—before you head to your room, you give Steve a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
You slip away before you see how Steve’s face flushes.
The thing about living with Steve Harrington meant that you heard him have sex. Like, a lot.
The moment you heard loud moans coming from his bedroom, you would grab your walk-man, some headphones and drown out whatever unholy sounds were coming from the other side of the wall.
Tonight was no different. It was a week after that evening at the bar and after a long day at work, you were in your room when the moaning started. You knew he had been out on a date and you also knew—judging by the giggling that you had heard when Steve had returned ten minutes ago—that him and his date had retreated to his room. And so, what you heard next was inevitable. Your hands reached for your walk-man and—
“That’s it, pretty girl,” you hear Steve say in a low voice. “Soak my fingers—just like that. Do you hear how fucking wet you are for me?”
The words shock you. Hearing Steve say such filthy words makes your breath hitch and then—
To your absolute horror—the words go straight to your core.
Your thighs squeeze together without permission.
Holy fuck.
This is wrong. This was so fucking wrong—
“That’s it. God—keep squeezing my fingers just like that, baby. You’re going to feel incredible around my cock.”
You bite the inside of your mouth. Your fingers closing around the walkman, eyes on the headphones and—
“You want my mouth?”
“Yes, Steve—please—oh, oh god—oh—”
The moans coming from behind the wall had become obscene. High pitched, mixed with Steve’s own muffled groans.
You closed your eyes, imagining Steve’s thick head of hair between your thighs as he sucked on your clit, your slick dripping down his chin—
Oh god, no. You couldn’t fantasise about that, about him—it was wrong, it was—
“You taste so fucking good.”
Your eyes fluttered shut as you felt warmth spread through you at those words. Hot—like lava seeping through your veins.
You felt an ache between your legs you hadn’t felt in a long time. As you squeezed your thighs together to try and ease the feeling, you let out a small gasp when you realised you were wet. Like really fucking wet.
Your fingers seem to have a mind of their own—dancing down your thighs until you feel your own slick coating your inner thigh from where it had trickled down from your cunt.
The urge to move your fingers higher was overwhelming. To plunge your fingers into your aching cunt and get off like you desperately needed to. The moans coming from the woman who was being eaten out by Steve Harrington was all you could hear.
And that mental image of Steve—your roommate, your friend, the guy who was most certainly not your boyfriend—lapping at your soaked cunt was too much.
Your fingertips danced over the delicate lace of your panties before you knew what you were doing. That tiny bit of pressure was enough to make your hips buck up instinctively, stopping the whimper that threatened to fall out. You repeated the action, moving your finger around the damp spot in your panties and focusing only on Steve’s muffled groans. You have to bite down on your free hand to stop yourself from moaning as your fingers begin to circle your sensitive bud over the lace.
The nameless woman’s moans were only getting louder and louder.
And that’s when you gave in.
Your fingers slipped beneath the lace material of your panties. The first contact with your bare, wet pussy sent shock waves of pleasure through your body. You try not to think about how James never made you this wet as you slide your index and middle finger through your wetness.
You try to imagine James—your sweet, caring boyfriend between your legs. How his big blue-green eyes would look up at you sweetly. You wished it was enough to get you off. You wished he was good. As good as—
“Steve! Oh—fuck—don’t stop!”
And that was it—all thoughts of your boyfriend gone. The image of James replaced by Steve. And the thought of Steve using his mouth on you was enough to make your head fall back in ecstasy as your fingers worked faster—using your wet slick to coat your clit. The sensation sent a surge of white hot pleasure through you. You bit back a moan—your first orgasm in weeks right there. You were so close, you just need a little more—
“That’s it, pretty girl,” Steve’s voice rumbles through the wall. “Come for me.”
That voice—that fucking voice—is what pushes you over the edge. The wave of pleasure was so intense, so sudden that you almost failed to muffle your moan with your hand. You feel it in every nerve in your body. Your legs shake and you feel your release dripping onto the sheets beneath you.
You lay there, chest heaving, the bliss you felt moments before slowly slipping away as the sounds of Steve and the nameless women were drowned out by the shame that had started to creep through your body. You felt it in your very bones—you had just gotten off (for the first time in a long, long time) by thinking of someone other than your boyfriend. And it wasn’t just someone, it was Steve. Your roommate. Your friend. Sweet, kind and caring Steve.
You shouldn’t have done it—you know you shouldn’t have. And yet—you already want to do it again. Especially when you could hear the sound of skin slapping against each other in the next room. It made that feeling in your gut return. Hot, aching where your fingers had just been.
No. You couldn’t. It was wrong. So very wrong.
One time. You told yourself. Just one time.
The next time James went down on you, you were determined to come.
You had decided that the morning after you had been listening to Steve and that woman.
James’ roommates were out and that meant you weren’t confined to his room as you usually were.
He had laid you down on the couch—his shirt half off and belt unbuckled. You could tell he just wanted to fuck you. But you just wanted to see if he could—
“Eat me out,” you murmur against the skin of his neck. “James—please.”
James wasn’t one for talking dirty. Not because he disliked it but because it seemed to affect him too much. At your words he groaned and his hand that had been massaging one of your breasts stilled. You could feel his hardened cock through his jeans pressed against your thigh—swear you felt it twitch at your words alone. Admittedly, it turned you on. That was a start.
“Okay,” James says, leaning back to look at your face. “Okay—I can do that.”
You try not to think that he sounds like he’s talking business. As though going down on you was a meeting—an afternoon meeting? ‘Sure, I can do that’. Need that report by Monday? ‘Sure, I can do that’.
James didn’t take his time—you knew he was aching painfully from how hard he was—and so he just pushed up the skirt of your dress, hastily tugged down your panties before his mouth met your barely soaked folds. You felt his tongue slide between them and you let out a breathy moan. It was nice—not unpleasant just…nice.
His mouth is working overtime, altering between kitten licks and slow, languid licks at your entrance. Again, it’s nice but you get this feeling that he isn’t as into it as you want him to be. It takes you out of the experience entirely. You know he’s just doing it because you asked—that he’d rather be fucking with you with his cock rather than his tongue. He’s not moaning and groaning between your legs like Steve had been with that woman. The memory of your roommates’ groans was still hot in your mind and you were trying not to think about it, trying not to—
But when you look down, you find yourself imagining that James’ shaggy blonde hair was a mop of thick brown locks.
No, no, no—you shouldn’t be thinking about Steve right now. You should be focusing on your lovely, caring boyfriend who has his head between your legs. Not Steve—not Steve.
But your mind went there anyway. Thinking of Steve’s moans, those filthy words you had heard him whisper. The way the woman he was with had reacted—
And suddenly, your hips were moving. Chasing friction, needing more. Bucking up to meet James’ mouth. Your fingers sunk into James’ hair and he groaned against you—sending a vibration through you that made you feel a spark of something. It was all the encouragement you needed, you moved his head slightly so that his nose would brush against your clit and the effect was instant.
You moaned out, unabashed and barely recognisable from your lips. Not exaggerated for once.
Again, you moved his head so his nose nuzzled your clit as his tongue continued to work in and out of you at a torturous pace. It worked—oh, god it was starting to work. Your head tilted back and moans fell from your lips without your say so. Hips following the movement of his tongue. Heat building in your gut, James’ own groans vibrating in a way that only added to the white hot pleasure that was building, building and—
James lets out a strangled moan against you that could only mean one thing. You blink as he pulls his mouth away from you. A hot look of embarrassment on his face as he glances down at his lap—a damp spot beginning to spread on his jeans.
“It’s okay,” you tell him quickly, breathless as you try to take his hand. “James, it’s—”
But he’s already pulling away from you entirely, face warm and determinedly not looking at you.
You don’t try to stop him as he gets up and heads in the direction of the bathroom.
You should go after him. Reassure him it was okay. But part of you—the part that had been so desperate to finish—was tired of pretending it was okay.
And so, for the second time in a week, your fingers slip down between your folds—soaked from a mix of your wetness and your boyfriend’s saliva and think of Steve Harrington. You came right there on James’ sofa in less than three minutes.
Never again, you told yourself. Never again.
But it happens. More than you care to admit.
The next time it happened, it had been while James was inside you.
Your legs were thrown over his shoulders as his cock thrust in and out of you in a polite manner. He was holding back on his groans—his roommates were in the living room watching some ice hockey game. You wished that he didn’t give a fuck when his roommates were home. Wished he was proud to fuck you.
You tried not to notice how quiet it was in the room. The only sound being the squelching between your bodies—not due to your wetness but due to the lube you had needed to use. The sounds of his roommates jeering at the TV in the living room was distracting. And the fact James was making next to no noise while fucking you left you feeling a type of way. It wasn’t that he was doing anything wrong—the angle should be enough to make you feel good. But it was everything else.
And it was enough for your mind to wander into dangerous territory. Back to the guy you lived with who you shouldn’t be thinking about—shouldn’t be—
But of course, you do. You think of Steve as your boyfriend fucks you. It shouldn’t turn you on but it does. Shouldn’t make your walls clench around James’ cock. Shouldn’t make you moan out and claw at your boyfriend’s back.
“Oh fuck,” James groans out quietly, still mindful of his roommates as you lost your ability to keep quiet. “Sweetheart, you need to be quiet—”
But you don’t hear him over the moans you were now letting out. Too in your own head as you imagined Steve slamming his cock in and out of you—imagining him calling you pretty girl and telling you how fucking good you felt.
You should stop, you knew it was wrong. But as you felt that white hot pleasure build and build in a way it had never with James, you didn’t have it in you to stop.
And when it was over and James was looking at you in awe, you felt good. Confident. Sexy. Things you hadn’t felt before. James had even managed to fuck you a second time that night.
You’re aware you shouldn’t be thinking of someone else when you’re being intimate with your boyfriend. But it was the only way you could finish with James. It made you feel guilty after—immensely so. But it was the only thing that worked.
You were also painfully aware that you were fantasying about your roommate—of all people. But things between you and Steve remained normal. He still made you coffee every morning, still sat beside you on the couch while eating dinner and brushing his teeth by your side, completely unaware that you were fantasying about him during sex in order to get off.
You didn’t even feel awkward about it—not really. Not when your sex life was finally good. Not when you finally had your own fun sex stories to tell your friends.
And so, you didn’t stop. Weeks passed and you kept thinking about Steve as your boyfriend fucked you. Kept choosing not to put the headphones on when Steve had a girl over—your fingers pumping in and out of you as you listened to his moans and occasional whimpers. Your juices soaking your sheets and your body practically thrumming with pleasure. And then—the next morning you would accept a hot mug of coffee from your roommate.
And he had no idea what you had been doing the night before.
Steve was out—you think he was at baseball practice—and you had decided to make the most of it.
You invited James over and it didn’t take long before clothes were shed. You were on top for once, moving yourself up and down on his cock at a rhythm that had your head thrown back and listening to James’ muffled groans—his lips busy with your breasts that he couldn’t seem to pull himself away from as they bounced in his face.
Your hands were in his hair, his cock was inside you and yet—your mind was on Steve. Again. You found yourself wondering how big Steve was. You remember Nancy once being so drunk that she had told you just how big Steve was. “Monster cock,” Nancy had giggled to you as she poured herself another shot. Had told you how during her first time with him she had briefly wondered if he was going to split her in half with his cock.
The knowledge was coming back to you now—imagining Steve’s cock filling you so well that you would feel it in your stomach. Even imagined the stomach bulge it was cause—the outline of his cock nearly visible as he fucked up into you.
The mental image had your walls squeezing James’ not-so monster cock—a shameless, wanton moan falling from your lips as you grew closer and closer—
“I’m gonna come,” you gasp out, fingers gripping onto James’ shoulder as you try to keep yourself tethered to the image of Steve—of his cock splitting you open as he whispers the dirtiest words imaginable into your ear. “Steve, I’m gonna come.”
Your orgasm hits you hard. It hits you so hard in fact that you don’t feel how James’ thrusts cease entirely. How his hands fall from your hips. You don’t notice as your head falls into the crook of his neck, your body thrumming, legs shaking.
But you certainly notice how quick he was to pull out. How he didn’t finish.
You blink—heart still hammering, still a little blissed out from your orgasm—as you let him lift you off him a little more hastily than you were used to. You watch James, confused, as he hastily grabs his boxers and begins to tug them up his legs.
“Do you want me to—”
“No,” He snapped suddenly. “No, (y/n). I don’t want you to do anything.”
Bewildered, you began to grab your own items of clothing from the floor and started to dress. James had never snapped at you before and you were utterly confused at the sudden change of tone.
“What—what did I do? Is something wrong—”
“Gee, I don’t know, (y/n),” James resorts, a derisive laugh falling from his lips as he pulls up his jeans. “Does moaning out your male roommate's name while I’m inside of you count as something wrong?”
“I don’t—”
“Cut the bullshit ignorant act,” James interjects harshly as he looks at your face. “You just moaned out Steve’s name. Not my name. Steve’s.”
For a moment, there’s utter confusion. You don’t remember what you had said while you were mid orgasm. You want to deny it, laugh even but you can’t. You knew exactly what you had been thinking about, about Steve and you knew it was entirely possible you had accidentally moaned out Steve’s name in your moment of ecstasy.
“James, I’m sorry. It was an accident. It didn’t mean anything. It was—”
“Bullshit!” James cuts across you, his voice slightly raised. His face was flushed in anger—you could see that he was still hard through his jeans. You could practically feel the embarrassment radiating from him and you couldn’t really blame him. You feel awful—truly awful, feeling as though you wanted to be sick. “You don’t just accidentally say someone else’s name during sex. Especially Steve’s.”
You swallow, your face hot with embarrassment, shame and a growing sense of panic that you couldn’t control. You try to conceal it by pulling on your t-shirt over your head before you look at James again.
“James, I—”
“Save it,” James mutters, pulling on his shirt and not even bothering to button it up before grabbing his jacket and shoes by the front door. “I’m not going to embarrass myself a moment longer. We’re done.”
“James—”
But your boyfriend—or ex-boyfriend now, rather—was already slamming the door to your apartment behind him.
What shocked you most was that you didn’t cry. You had the overwhelming urge to but not because James had left, not because he had just dumped you but because felt so embarrassed by the situation—by the fact you had moaned out Steve’s name instead of James’. Too deep in fantasies about your roommate. And so—when you began to cry you told yourself it was because you were sad. That it was because you had just been dumped by your boyfriend of nearly two years and you were heartbroken. But you were far from it—in fact, there was a part of you that felt relieved.
The tears of embarrassment—now mixed with a sick feeling of shame—had only just started falling when the apartment door opened again. You turned around, a small part of you hoping it was James who was returning to tell you it was all some stupid joke—but of course, it wasn’t.
Steve stood in the doorway, his eyes wide at the sight of you crying on the couch—only in a t-shirt and panties, your jeans slung over a nearby chair, your bra hanging over a lamp. But your state of undress doesn’t even seem to cross Steve’s mind as he rushes over to you—the bag he took with him to baseball practice falling to the floor beside him in his haste to reach you.
“Hey, hey—I saw James storming out—he looked—oh honey, what happened?”
The shock of Steve walking in at precisely this moment had left you lost for words. Tears flowed down your cheeks, your face still felt hot from embarrassment but you couldn’t speak. And Steve, seemingly taking your lack of being able to talk as heartbreak, gathers you into his arm and shushes you gently while you cry into his chest.
“It’s okay,” he tells you, his hand cupping the back of your head in an effort to soothe you. “You’re okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”
And because you felt too much shame and guilt to be honest with Steve, you simply nodded. Clinging to Steve as though your heart was shattered into a million pieces—as though James leaving have devastated you. When in actuality, you were making a silent promise to yourself. A promise to never—never ever tell a soul about what had just transpired between you and James. To never reveal the name you had subconsciously moaned out during your moment of bliss.
Summary: Damian gets in a fight at school, and his favorite teacher has to set up a meeting with a parent or guardian. Bruce Wayne is away on a mission and Alfred isn’t picking up the phone, so Damian’s eldest brother has to attend a parent teacher conference. Only to find out that he has history with his little brother’s English Lit teacher.
Pairing: Dick Grayson/Teacher Fem!Reader & (PLATONIC) Damian Wayne/Fem!Reader
Content Warning: No use of Y/N, Second Person, cursing, second chance romance, yearner dick, angst, fluff, mentions of bullying and boys saying inappropriate things, Dick’s day job is being a P.E. teacher (I don’t believe in cop!dick propaganda, no matter how fine he looked)
Word Count: 11k
A/N: DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME!!! Please never get back with an ex, I have been there, done that, and got the t-shirt. Let me tell you it was NOT worth it. This is only acceptable because it is Dick Grayson. I usually hate second-chance romance, but it came to me while I was writing this and felt like it fit. Anyway, enjoy my lovelies <3
“Can anyone tell me the significance of the crew changing how they refer to Charlotte from her name to Ms. Doy-”
Some chalk had dusted over your hand where you had been writing the question on the board when you hear someone landing a punch behind you. Whipping your head around you see quite the scene laid out in your classroom.
Damian Wayne is standing over Jordan Hawthorne.
The classroom had gone silent collectively holding their breath at the sight. Jordan Hawthorne was, from your understanding, the grade bully. You had called home weekly, practically being on a first name basis with his mother. The school never did anything about him, frustrating you to your wits end. His parents were huge donors for the school, essentially allowing him to do whatever he pleased. He was bigger than most of his classmates along with an insufferably large attitude, and Damian was… small. He was probably the smallest boy in your class and Jordan loved that. He had a knack of picking on the kids who wouldn’t stand up for themselves, the quiet ones. You watched him like a hawk in your classroom when you noticed how he chose his prey. You didn’t want anyone to feel uncomfortable in your classroom, this was school not a war zone. No one should feel unsafe here.
While Damian didn’t get along with most of the kids in his grade he had never outright acted on that dislike. He would sit quietly in his chair, raising his hand when he knew the answer or had a question. On all of his assignments there were impressive sketches of different animals in the margins, you would always write an “amazing” or “beautiful” next to the drawings while grading. Despite his eloquent perspective of life, he was still a little boy who wanted some praise for his skill. It was your job as his teacher to harbor and stimulate creativity. A quick glance at him after handing back assignments confirmed your suspicion, there was a rare genuine smile at the fact that someone had noticed him. While being relatively quiet and unassuming, everything he said and did was done with purpose. Which meant something had happened here. Damian never acted without a cause.
You still had the chalk in hand when you recovered from the shock, and Jordan Hawthorne was glaring at Damian from where he had landed on the floor.
“You’re dead meat kid.” He growled and Damian only put his fists up.
When he props himself up with his hand, you finally snap back into reality and rush to where they are in the center of the classroom. The class has circled around them, and some pulled out their phones to record as though this is primetime TV.
You push past the congregation of children and unfortunately, neither of the boys saw you coming. They were in their own little world of battle and just as you stepped in between them, Jordan had swung as hard as he could. Punching you right in the stomach.
You were not getting paid enough for this.
It hurt more than you let on. All the wind had been knocked out of you, but you were able to disguise the impact from pain to exasperation. You took a deep breath and see the wide eyes of all your students and order the boys,
“Hallway, both of you. Now.” You lift your gaze around the classroom at the stunned expressions of your remaining students, “The rest of you, sit down and start on the homework.”
And for the first time in your three years of teaching, there was no pushback. No complaints or groaning from students. There was just the quick shuffle of footsteps and chairs squeaking from being dragged across the floor then, silence. Peace and Quiet.
The boys follow out of the classroom, flanking you from each side. You walk to the social studies classroom across the hallway, where there’s a teacher’s aid. She’s an undergrad student trying to get some teaching hours with Mr. Horn, but she helps out around the school too. You open the door and pop your head in with a cautious smile.
Mr. Horn wasn’t particularly kind when his lessons were interrupted. He was super old and believed you should only speak when spoken to, so you wait until he finishes his question to the class and turns to look at you. He has an eyebrow raised prompting you to talk.
“Hi, sorry to interrupt.” The apology was useless, but he still appreciates the sentiment. “Could I borrow Sophie for a moment? I have to walk two students down to the office and need someone to watch my class while I step away.”
“Ah yes, of course.” He doesn’t seem too upset about the interruption, realizing that it was something that couldn’t wait. He looks at Sophie from her spot at the back of the classroom and cocks his head in your direction. She nods with a gentle smile on her face and makes her way out the door.
A bashful smile is on your face while thanking her for the help. She laughs it off with an “Of course!” then walks into your classroom. Sighing you look back at the perpetrators of your quickly bruising stomach.
“Come on you two.” Is all you offer them before you turn around and start the trek to the front office. There’s an echo of two sets of steps following your path and you finally drop the mask. Noticing that there are no eyes that can see your face, it contorts in pain. And as tempted as you are, you don’t bring your hand to your stomach, not wanting to give away how much it actually hurt. The bruise is already forming under the white button down you wore today. You just continue taking deep breaths until you make it to the office.
It takes about five minutes to make it all the way across the Academy. Within the first couple of days here, you learned that it’s not difficult to get lost here. It’s all the same gothic architecture that they refuse to put signs on. The only exceptions to that were the classroom numbers on the doors, which makes it too easy to miss the office in your opinion. It took you about three weeks of working here to finally learn your way around.
You pull open the door of the office, and the boys walk in single file. The secretary greets you with a smile, about to ask why you’re in the office and then sees the boys in front of you. Jordan was a regular here, so she picked up on the unsaid by his presence alone.
“Dawn’s not in a meeting right now so you can walk ‘em right in.” She informs you.
“Thank you, Nancy.” You say with a smile.
On your first day, Horn told you to make sure to get on Nancy’s good side. She knew everything about everyone at this school. Having her on your good side meant protection from the Dean, Dawn. Since everyone knew that Nancy knows everything, Dawn would trust her on her opinions on faculty. Which meant you always smiled a little wider and sometimes would get an extra pastry from your favorite cafe, when you knew you would run into Nancy that day.
You walk to the end of the skinny hallway to where the door to Dawn’s office is cracked open. You stand at the entrance and knock on the wooden door frame, and she looks up from her desktop with a calculated smile. She had long red hair and was in her mid-40s. She always wore pantsuits, she had the same one in four different colors and would rotate them. You avoided interacting with her as much as possible because she had a weird vibe to her, she always looks at you like you were a puzzle she hadn’t figured out yet.
“Good morning, Miss,” She addresses you. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this lovely visit!”
“Good morning, to you too! Unfortunately, I don’t come bearing the best news.” You tell her with an embarrassed half-smile. “I have a Mr. Hawthorne and Mr. Wayne out here with me, they um… got in a fight in my classroom.”
She closes her eyes and throws her head back in the same breath. This was the worst part of the job, and you don’t envy her for having to sit through it. “Yes, of course, send Mr. Hawthorne in first. Just make sure to pick up the witness report from Nancy on the way back.”
You nod and step out of the office. Hearing what the Dean said, Jordan walks into the classroom with a smug look on his face. The face of a kid who knows mommy and daddy will get him out of trouble. The door shuts behind him, and you look down at an anxious Damian Wayne sitting in the hallway. His feet don’t quite reach the floor from the chair, and his legs are swinging back and forth, betraying his carefully neutral exterior. You stand next to him in silence just looking at him while he has a staring contest with the patterned office carpet.
“It was unnecessary for you to take the punch for me. I could handle the brunt of it.” He says without looking at you.
“I know,” You try to think of how to word this to him, not wanting to damage the fragile ego he claims is indestructible. “But I don’t like fighting in my classroom.” You place a hand on his shoulder, and he finally tears his eyes from the floor and looks up at you.
“What happened?” You ask him with a gentleness you usually reserved for the children at the orphanage you volunteered at on Sundays.
“Hawthorne said some inappropriate words to Sarah, and you know how she is.” He gestures with his hands, motioning that her personality should be obvious. “She lacks the ability to stand up for herself. What he said was vile and she was uncomfortable. She asked him to stop and he continued. He kept taunting her and she looked on the verge of tears. So, I…”
“Hit him.” You finish the story for him.
“Yes.” He confirms unapologetically.
You exhale while processing the story. You’re trying to figure out your next words to him. In all honesty, you are secretly proud of him. You hated when boys get nasty in your class. It happened more often than you’d like and you tried your best to catch it and put a stop to it, but you couldn’t catch them every single time.
However, you can’t tell your student that you’re proud of him for laying out another one of your students without risking a write-up from your supervisor, despite how much he deserved it. Your only concern now was that you would have to drag poor Sarah into this. She was very shy and would rather swallow a knife than open up. You would have to approach her carefully.
“I’m not sorry.” He cuts into your thought process.
“I wasn’t expecting you to be.” You hold his gaze. He doesn’t look apologetic at the fact that he hit the Hawthorne boy, but there’s a glimpse of worry lingering in his eyes. You’re not entirely sure where it’s from and you don’t get the chance to find out when Dawn opens the door and motions for Damien to join them inside.
“Go on.” You tell him lifting your hand from his shoulder. He nods and gets up, walking around you to go inside. He sits down and right before Dawn closes the door, he looks at you once more with that same flicker of anxiety and then the door closes.
Walking back to Nancy’s desk to pick up the report and regret not calling out sick this morning. This was only the beginning to a very long day.
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Sighing to yourself during your free period you start to fill out the witness report. You’ll have to submit it to the headmaster and call a parent or guardian to set up some form of a parent-teacher conference. Along with your stomach, your head’s been aching all day. For some odd reason, the divorced couple that lived next to you seemed to think that a Sunday night was the perfect time to have reconciliation sex. Safe to say that the headboard slamming into your shared wall at three in the morning was not the alarm you were expecting to wake up to.
Your eyes keep coming in and out of focus and you decide after filling out the date and time of the report, to place the pen back in the cup at the top of your desk. There was no point in filling out the form if you could barely concentrate. Elbows propped on the desk you drop your head in your hands and feel your fingers drag along your face. Peeking through your hand to check the time on the desktop, you bite back a groan seeing that it’s not even noon. It’s been the longest day of the year so far and it’s only 11:52.
You move to pull open the bottom filling cabinet. You might as well try to get in contact with the parents to set up the conference. Looking through the letter dividers, you find Damian’s first and flip it open. You read through some pages before finding the contacts. Scanning through them you notice there’s a father, a legal guardian, some brothers, but no mother. Damian had told you some stories of his mom, and you assumed she was still present in his life, but that didn’t seem to be the case anymore. You had never read through the school ordered file before, you usually never did. There was more to a student than what Gotham Academy records had to say, but this did help piece a fraction of the Damian Wayne puzzle together. You start going down the line of contacts for Damian, to make the first call.
You pull the office phone that lies on your desk closer to you and dial nine to get an outside line. The first number you dial is the phone number that belongs to his father, Bruce Wayne. You’re hunched over your desk on the phone praying he doesn’t pick up. You’ve had the luxury of speaking to him once before when Damian won an award for his essay on animal rights and it was nothing short of awkward. Whether they realize it or not, Bruce and Damian are very similar. The press liked to paint Bruce Wayne as a reckless, playboy, billionaire, and maybe it was because you are his son’s teacher, but he was nothing like that.
Speaking to him felt like pulling teeth, it was so uncomfortable. He stood tall and remained quiet the whole night. Barely saying more than three-word sentences. You’re sure that once you can have a good conversation with him that he’s good company, but this wasn’t going to be the type of conversation you were hoping for.
By some miracle, it seems that someone was listening to your prayers today and Mr. Wayne did not pick up the phone, you let out a breath of relief when the voicemail recording begun playing in your ear. So, you moved to the next contact, Alfred Pennyworth.
He was one of Damian’s other legal guardians, but you’d never met him or heard of him. And apparently, the universe wanted to keep it that way because Mr. Pennyworth doesn’t pick up his phone either.
Does anyone in this family answer the phone?
You try to call the third contact listed on Damian’s information sheet and freeze, staring at the name of his eldest brother.
There’s no way.
It couldn’t be.
Richard’s a pretty common name, right? And so is Grayson.
Because there’s no fucking way that your Richard Grayson is Damian’s older brother.
He can’t be.
You immediately regret cashing in your prayer for the day, you would have a million conversations with Bruce Wayne if it meant you didn’t have to make this phone call. You weren’t sure how many Richard Graysons there were in the tristate area, but you knew one, and with your luck he would be the one on the other end of the line. You avoided thinking about the way your brain was engraving the phone number to memory; while your fingers cautiously pressed the numbers that created a portal into the years of your life you tried to scrub away in the shower.
Of course, he had to be the person in the family to pick up the phone. Tears well up in your eyes instantly recognizing his voice. How could you not? You used to drift off into sleep while it whispered sweet nothings in your ear every night.
“Hello, this is Richard Grayson correct?” You slap your forehead, fuming that fate has decided to drag this man back into your life after it cost you everything to remove him.
“Yes,” He confirms and you fight every urge in your body to hang up on him. “And who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?”
“Hi, I’m Damian’s English Literature teacher at Gotham Academy.” You do everything to avoid saying your name. “I am trying to contact one of his guardians and neither of the others listed have answered. Do you have a moment?”
He pauses for a brief moment, and you wish the ground would swallow you whole at your desk. Holding the office phone against your ear, you drop your forehead to the cold surface of the worn desk and close your eyes. During the short silence you begin to contemplate what you’re doing with your life.
“Yeah, I do, just give me a second.” There’s muffled speaking while he excuses himself from a conversation. “Um- out of curiosity.” The color drains from your face at those words, begging to any god or star in the sky listening that he doesn’t recognize you. “Who are the other contacts listed?”
“Oh yes-” You sit up catching your breath, this was a question you would answer gladly. Looking back at the paper to list off, “I have a Bruce Wayne and an Alfred Pennyworth as his father and legal guardian.”
“Ahhh, yeah. That checks out. They’re… away at the moment. I’ve been taking care of the rascal by myself.” He sighs in a way that indicates taking care of Damian Wayne was a full-time job. “Anyway, what did the little monster do now?” He sounds so casual almost as if he’s kicked back on a desk chair pushed back to the point it’s about to tip over.
You squeeze your eyes shut as tight as they physically can, grateful no one else is in the room. This conversation, his voice, him- it’s bringing too many memories back. Flashbacks of a life you tried to forget. Flashbacks of a life you buried when you left Blüdhaven.
“Damian got into a physical altercation with another student today in my class” there’s a slight pause in between each word while you choose your words carefully, since it technically wasn’t a fight. “It’s Academy policy that I have to meet with the student responsible for beginning the physical altercation’s guardian to discuss his behavior. Since Mr. Wayne and Mr. Pennyworth were not available at the moment, I would have to set up a time to meet with you.” The speech comes out robotic, making this call more than enough times in your career here to last you a lifetime. “Unless you can get in touch with Mr. Wayne or Mr. Pennyworth, we can set up a time with them instead?”
You bite your fist struggling to not sound too hopeful with your pathetic attempt of finding an out. This would be a really big fat “fuck you” from the universe, having to hold this meeting with him. You could have been struck with any other typical Gotham luck: you could’ve gotten robbed, kidnapped by Poison Ivy, held at gun point, but no. You had to have a conversation with the man you moved cities to get away from.
“No, I can come to the meeting!” He sounds way too enthusiastic about this, especially considering you just told him that his little brother decked someone. “I can be there around three-thirty today if that works? That’s when school usually gets out right?”
“Yup!” You sounded too perky for your liking. “That works for me, I’ll jot it down in my calendar.”
“Perfect see you then!”
“See you then Mr. Grayson.”
You hang up the phone rougher than the headmaster would probably like, but screw that. It’s his policy that’s making you meet with the man who taught you that heartbreak could make you physically ill.
You spend the rest of your free period dreading this meeting that you forget to fill out the witness report and talk to Sarah. You usually left Jordan’s parents to the Dean or Headmaster because they were such important donors. It was also his fifth strike in the month which meant they would have to deal with it anyway. You end up handling everything during your lunch, one of the firsts you’ve spent alone. The boys were both in lunch detention which meant the little Wayne would not be joining you today.
Damian usually spent his lunches with you because he didn’t like any of the kids in his classes. He was reserved, never spoke much with anyone. Over the course of the year, he slowly started speaking to you more, opening up. You let him tell you what he was comfortable sharing, making sure to not pry with him. On days he didn’t feel like speaking during lunch, you would pull the screen down and put on a nature documentary that you knew he would enjoy. It was a little thing you would do to let him relax, and he’d never tell you how that made your classroom feel more like home than the manor did some days.
After deciding you would talk to Sarah tomorrow to ask her about what happened, and walking to the office to submit the witness report to Nancy, you make it back to the quiet corner of school where your classroom lies. When the door shuts behind you, you slide down to the cold floor and stare at the tile lined ceiling.
You’re sure that somewhere the hands of fate are laughing at you, puppeteering this cruel plot. That just when you had barred Richard Grayson from your mind, he had to make an infamous comeback.
The bell rings which brings the lunch period to a close, along with your pity party. You stand and brush off your clothes with a deep breath and plaster the wide teacher smile you mastered in all those volunteer hours during undergrad.
When the students start filing into your classroom, you throw yourself into your lesson about the girl who left everyone she loved and knew behind to start the life she wanted for herself. Your students would never know that you chose this book every year because you saw more of yourself in her than you cared to admit.
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03:27 p.m.
This is the only time it would’ve been convenient for you to have a villain roaming around destroying Gotham, and of course it doesn’t happen. The Joker must have some sick sense of humor, because not even the devil could construct this type of Hell you found yourself in.
Damian is sitting at desk in front of you, in the scary statue-like way he does when you know he’s had a bad day. You keep bouncing your foot and your heels are clinking on the floor while staring out the window.
Why did it have to be Dick?
“I’m sorry that you had to stay after hours for me.” Damian whispers into the void of the classroom.
“What?” You turn to look at the boy genuinely confused. He’s looking at the desk purposefully avoiding your gaze.
“I told you earlier that I wasn’t sorry for hitting Jordan and I’m not. But you are tapping your leg impatiently on the floor, indicating that you want this to be over, and that is my fault. It is my fault that you are here this late.” He pauses and looks up to meet your eyes, and you see a slight crease in between his brows, and it hits you.
He thinks you’re upset with him.
“For that, I am sorry.” He confirms.
“Oh Damian,” You stand from your desk and make your way to crouch in front of his. “I’m not upset with you.”
“You’re not?” He looks cautious, as if he’s being lured into a trap. The doubtful look on his face pulls at your heartstrings.
“No, what Jordan said and did was wrong and while I can’t condone physical violence as your teacher,” you pause with a wicked glint in your eye. “I can tell you that he had it coming.”
When he internalizes your words and the hidden message in it, he smirks. This poor boy had spent all day thinking you were upset with him, that’s why he looked nervous in the office. Behind that mature attitude he had, he was still just a ten-year-old boy at the end of the day. So, when he smirks at you, you made sure to smile back. You smile back letting him know your room would always be open for lunch.
You stand back up letting the unsaid hang in the air and turn to walk back to your desk and before you can sit down, the door to your classroom swings wide open and there he is.
Your ex-boyfriend.
With a bouquet of flowers in hand.
The same bouquet he bought you the first time he took you to dinner.
The breath traveling out of your nose gets caught in your nostrils when your eyes land on him. He’s as devastatingly handsome as the day you left him. You tried to tell yourself his beauty would fade with time, the way every guy does when you break up with them. But no, like some cruel twist of luck, he was beautiful. The unkept raven black hair with the lightening blue eyes you spent hours staring into, took you right back to all the nights you tried to forget from college.
“Why did you bring flowers Grayson?” The catalyst for this meeting asks disgusted from his spot at the desk.
“I always bring flowers on a first date!” He responds with the boyish charm that made you fall in love with him at nineteen.
“This isn’t our first date.” You look at him through the narrow slits of your eyes.
You were going to have to start giving yourself more credit. On the inside you were nothing but an anxious bundle of nerves, but you were doing pretty good at not revealing it. You had his attitude to thank for that. Being annoyed at Dick was easy, almost as easy as loving him.
“Well, I know that sweetheart,” You flinch at the old pet name. “But it’s our first date in a while.”
“Dick, this isn’t a date.” You snap at him.
He doesn’t get to do that. Not now. Not after everything.
“Whatever you say Teach.” He gives you a playful look that almost undoes you on the spot. Trying to keep your cool, you glance down at the shell-shocked little boy that followed both of you with the same intensity that some would watch a Wimbledon match. Hie eyebrows looked just about ready to fly off his face while his left nostril was scrunched up, connecting the dots that there may be some history here.
“Damian sweetie,” you try to regain control of the situation. “Can you wait outside while I talk to your brother for moment? I’ll call you back inside in a couple minutes.”
“Only a couple?” He asks with only one eyebrow raised now.
“Yes, only a couple.” You confirm.
“Okay.” He nods and walks slowly, still glancing suspiciously between you and Dick while stepping out.
When the door shuts behind him you let out a breath and shift your eyes to Dick. Looking at him was almost the same as looking at the sun, it was a sweet temptation that once satisfied, burned within seconds. You move your gaze to the flowers shifting your position to lean against your desk. It felt safer than looking right at him.
“When did you realize it was me?” You ask him, addressing the elephant in the room. The faster you got this over with, the faster you could continue with the conference and go home.
“Come on,” He scoffs, “You can’t really think I didn’t recognize your voice from the second you said my name.”
You meet his eyes abashed, ignoring the thunderous ache in your chest that his striking blue irises brought upon you. “Dick that was like the first thing I said!”
“Yeah, I know.” He shrugs his shoulders in a way that expresses it should’ve been obvious he knew it was you. That it would be crazy if he didn’t recognize you from a phone call where you didn’t even say your name.
You pinch the bridge of your nose trying to ground yourself with the quick burst of pain, coming to the conclusion that Dick Grayson was going to haunt you for the rest of your life.
“So, when did you get this gig?” He looks around waving the flowers. “I thought you were still in Blüdhaven-”
“No.” You cut him off so simply that he stops dead in his tracks. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to ask me about my life. You don’t get to know anything anymore. Not after everything.”
He looks taken aback and a sprinkle of defensiveness pools in his posture when he straightens, “Do I need to remind you that you were the one that ended it?”
You square your shoulders pushing off the desk and narrow your eyes again, “Do I need to remind you why?”
He sighs your name in a broken plea. And just like that, you’re taken back to the run-down college apartment all those years ago where your heart shattered into a million pieces.
° ❀ ⋆ . ೃ࿔ * : ･ ° ❀ ⋆ . ೃ࿔ * : ･
It was your two-year anniversary with Dick. Money was a little tight, so you agreed to have a small dinner at his place. You usually hung out at your apartment and preferred to cook there, but he had just fostered Haley. He hadn’t spent a night away from her yet and was nervous about leaving her alone for too long.
The little diva was making figure eights between your legs while you cooked dinner and prepped the key lime pie you were going to make for desert. She had almost tripped you three times already, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to scold her when she looked at you. She had mastered those puppy eyes that turned you into mush. She looked so happy when you shifted your attention to her, that you forgot to reprimand her and tossed some food into her mouth instead.
Turning back to the electric stove you turn the knob of the back left burner to high. There’s a rustling of keys and a smile creeps on your face that he’s finally home. Haley stops pacing in between your legs and dashes toward the door clawing at his door frame. Since moving in, Haley seemed to be on a personal mission in securing that your boyfriend does not get his security deposit back. You’d warned him about getting a dog in the apartment, but he brushed it off.
Dick finally manages to open the front door and Haley leaps at him, knocking the breath out of his lungs. He squats down to her level while she barks and licks his face. In the breaks of his laugh, he manages to get out an “I missed you too” and “easy girl” in an attempt to calm down the energetic puppy. After a minute of him petting her fur, she seems to be more relaxed while rolling over on the floor and he finally shifts his gaze to look up at you. He swears he fell in love all over again.
Your hair was pulled back into a bun that was falling apart around the hair tie, there were patches of flour on your cheek and forehead, you had an apron that he bought you for Christmas last year that had stains everywhere, and he doesn’t think he had ever seen a more gorgeous sight. There was something so magical in the domesticity of coming home to you and Haley. It was a type of love he never thought he’d get to experience again after his parents passed. A type of love he’d never had living with Bruce and Alfred.
He never considered himself a selfish person, until he met you. You were his full moon on a dark night. The elixir that brought him back to life every night when he lost his will on the streets. The princess he thought only existed in fairytales. He never wanted to share with anyone.
He had a habit of staring at you drinking in all your beauty at once, like it would be the last time he’d be lucky enough to lay his eyes on you. He soaked up everything you said, everything you did, every part of you, and he stored it deep in his heart. He worshipped you like you were the only god that mattered in this universe.
Dick truly believed the warmth in your eyes could melt all of the snow January brought to Blüdhaven. Stood in his kitchen with your arms crossed leaning against the counter, you had a smile he was convinced could bring world peace. He was a goner before you’d even said hi.
If you weren’t in college and he wasn’t lying to you about being a vigilante, he would’ve gotten down on one knee that night. He would’ve asked you to marry him. He would’ve made a fool of himself by writing you a sonnet declaring his love. He’d tell you how you restored his faith in the world, how you gave him something to fight for in the nights he put his life on the line, how you gave him something worth living for. He was so drunk in love he’d considered yelling how much he loved you form every rooftop in Blüdhaven.
He hadn’t told you about the double life he hid in the shadows. It ate at him every time you looked at him with narrowed eyes, knowing he was leaving something out of the stories he’d rehearsed. He never wanted to bring you into it. If you found out about him, you would never be safe again. He couldn’t do that to someone he loved, not after Jason. He prayed that you would give him more time, so he could figure out how to explain it all to you without outing Bruce. When you asked about the bruises and cuts, he’d brush it off and say he was clumsy or he pushed himself to hard at the gym. You weren’t convinced but you let it go, and he’d thank the stars for giving him an ounce of mercy.
“Hello, my love” his eyes were sparkling. “Dinner smells amazing.” He stood to his full length and walked over to you, while Haley was jumping and clawing at his jeans.
“Only the best for you.” It came out more sultry than you planned, but Dick seemed into it. He crossed the short space from the door to the kitchen and made his way toward you. He trapped you against the counter with his arms encaging you. Haley was still barking at both of your legs, but you tuned her out getting lost in each other’s presence. Dick always looked at you like it was the first time he had seen you. There was so much adoration in his eyes that you weren’t convinced you deserved.
A flush creeps onto your cheeks when he leans into you and stops a hair from your lips. You feel his breath on your face, and you can smell the cinnamon gum he had definitely been chewing on the drive over. The spark in the air is electric as the favorite part of your day approached. It was the same routine every night Dick came home, you had gotten used to it, but he had an addicting air to him you could never quit. There’s a mischievous glint in his eyes, and you know it’s because he’s testing you. To see if you’ll break first and lean in, you always do.
After counting to fifteen you scoff and push off the counter into him. When your lips meet, you get your first breath of fresh air all day. Blüdhaven’s pollution evaporated when you shared a breath with Dick Grayson. The world melted away and you would die happy if the world came crashing down then. You’d never been kissed the way he had. He was soft and gentle, but desperate. He kissed you in a way that made you feel loved not lusted after. The spark lit on fire every time he touched you, the world had drenched you in gasoline and Dick was the match.
He pulls away too soon for your liking and his breath comes out heavy. He’s giving you that Dick Grayson grin that lights up the sky, and you notice his pupils are blown.
“I missed you today.” He tells you in a low voice that sends a shiver up your spine.
“I missed you too, Grayson.” His arms wrap around you and every threat the world had was nonexistent in his arms. He made you feel safe, at home, at peace with life. Nothing would hurt you in his arms.
He opens his mouth to say something, but you hear the water bubbling from the pot on the stove. You turn your head to see the water boiling and wordlessly break free from your favorite place on Earth. You grab the pasta you’d made from scratch on the counter and slowly drop it into the pot. You’re about halfway done with placing the pasta in the pot when you feel strong arms around your waist.
Apparently, Dick wasn’t satisfied with the kiss and was greedy for more. He hummed quietly in your ear when you told him you’d made crab ravioli for your anniversary. He littered kisses on your neck and shoulders. He held his lips against your skin for a second too long while taking you in. Your favorite place in the world was in his arms, and his was in the crook of your neck. His chin fits perfectly on your shoulder almost as if it was made for him. You felt the smile on your neck when you realized he finally felt like he belonged somewhere.
There had to be a god somewhere that knew the world was going to rip the carpet from your feet and gifted you this last bit of peace. When you finish with the pasta you wipe your hands on your apron and lean against him, your head falling on his chest. He flinches when your head falls back and lets go of you, sucking in a painful breath through his teeth.
Whipping your head around your eyes swim in worry. “What happened? Are you okay? Did I do something?”
He starts shaking his head trying to mask the pain with a smile while dropping his hand that clenched his shirt. “No, no, I’m fine. Sorry” He extended his arms out to you so he could hold you again.
You swat them away and your fingers hover over the wrinkles on his shirt where his hand previously was. “Take it off.”
“Jeez, take me to dinner first.” He tries to lighten the mood with a joke.
Your eyes were as hard as a diamond, and your jaw clenched. “Dick, I’m not playing. Take off the shirt.”
His hands hesitate at the hem of it. A flicker of anxiety he tries to hide behind another smile, but you know him too well for that to work.
“Darling, really. I’m oka-”
“Do I have to take it off for you?” He hears the seriousness when you cut him off and freezes. “Dick, you have all of three seconds to take the damn shirt off.”
Your eyes meet his and it couldn’t be more obvious how much he really doesn’t want to do this, but you’re tired. He comes back multiple times a week with bruises that are black and blue. He’s so sore that he can barely move. You tried asking questions, but he would always brush it off and say he got hurt at practice. He was a P.E. teacher at the high school nearby and the gymnastics coach. You knew there was more to the story, but you let it go, trusting that he’d tell you someday. But you couldn’t wait anymore, if he wasn’t ready after two years he’d never be. Your patience was stretched thin and your worry clouded your judgement.
He sees the relentlessness in your body language and sighs in defeat. His arms cross at the bottom of his shirt and pulls it off in one fluid motion. You could tell by the slight crease in his eyebrows; it was harder for him than he let off.
Your hand flies to your mouth in horror at the sight in front of you. There was a huge gash lining his chest from his left shoulder to the bottom of his right ribcage. He’s already gotten it checked out because it’s been cleaned out and there’s butterfly stitches all around it. You knew this was recent because he didn’t have this last night in bed and the bruises were still pink, not having enough time to fade to the inevitable purple.
“Dick…”
“It looks worse than it is, baby. I promise.”
“Worse than it is?!” He winces at the sudden raise of your voice. “Richard Grayson, you look like someone tried slicing you in half.”
His mouth is opening to make some pathetic excuse when you beat him to it.
“When- How did this happen?”
Behind his eyes you can see he’s fighting a battle with himself, debating what he should tell you. You stare at him, eyes wide waiting for an explanation on why he has gash the size of your arm across his chest.
“Sweetheart I-” he cuts himself short, just looking at you, helpless.
“Dick, tell me the truth.” Your voice is deadly. “All of it: the scars, the bruises, the pain, this- Where do they come from?”
He swallows a lump in his throat and looks around the empty apartment in hopes of a ghost coming to save him. The defeated expression you know too well from your previous fights is etched on his face when he meets your eyes.
“I- I can’t”
“What do you mean you can’t?” Your response is instant.
“I can’t tell you where I got them.”
“Why?” Betrayal flashes across your features and your shoulder square, defensive. “I’m your girlfriend, I’m not going to judge you. I’m here for you. I’ve always been. But I can’t be here for you if you don’t let me.”
He looks so distraught and for the first time in your life, you see tears lining Dick Grayson’s eyelids in frustration. Frustration you don’t know the source of. His mouth parts and shuts multiple times in the same minute, not being able to find an explanation that is both believable and will keep you safe.
“Dick, I need the truth.” There’s a finality in your voice that you hope doesn’t have to come into fruition. “You have to be honest with me, or-” you take a deep breath steadying yourself for what you hope is an empty threat. “Or I leave.”
“No- Please no. Don’t do this.” He crosses over to you in one step and grabs your biceps looking at you with nothing but pain reeking off his figure.
“Then don’t make me make that choice. I don’t want to, but I will.” You’re both crying now, a river of tears pooling at the floor beneath you that you would rather drown in than leave. You couldn’t imagine living a life without Dick Grayson, but you wouldn’t settle for less than the truth. You wouldn’t stay with half of a man.
“I can’t tell you.” It comes out in a whisper. He rests his forehead against yours, as if it’ll transfer the information he can’t spill from his lips. His eyes are shut, not being able to meet the inevitably of yours.
“Then, I can’t stay.” You close your eyes for one last moment against his forehead. Absorbing every last piece of the man you thought you’d marry.
It took everything in you to break free from him. You didn’t look at him when you turned back to the stove and turned it off. You didn’t turn to him when you took your apron off and hung it over the barstool under the counter. You didn’t turn to him when you grabbed your purse from the coffee table.
You pet Haley one last time with tears flowing freely form your eyes and kissed between her eyes. She licked your chin, happy that you had turned back to her, not knowing you weren’t coming back.
You stand back up and look at him one last time. Your heart crumbles when you meet his eyes and he makes one last pathetic attempt with an “I love you” from across the room.
“I love you too,” it comes out more pained than endearing. “But I love me more.”
And you opened the door to a life you’d never wanted to believe could exist. A life without Dick Grayson. You sobbed the whole way home, hating yourself for your standards.
° ❀ ⋆ . ೃ࿔ * : ･ ° ❀ ⋆ . ೃ࿔ * : ･
You shake your head at the memory and look back at him with eyes blazing. “No Dick. You lied to me. You lied to me for years.” The sentence comes out heavy, all those years of weekly therapy went to shit the moment he walked into this classroom, and you hate him for it. You hate that he still has this level of control over you. “I didn’t even know you had a brother, or that you were related to Bruce Wayne of all people?!” You throw your hands up in the air laughing to yourself. “You told me you were an orphan.”
“Well, if we are getting into the nitty gritty, I am technically still an orphan. I was never adopted. I’m still just Bruce’s ward.”
It takes all the self-restraint you have to not rip those flowers out of his hand and beat him over the head with them. You just stare at him, no words, no expression, just an empty stare. For the years you spent together it was one of the few things you’d learn that would unsettle him. Dick Grayson could not sit in silence.
Leaning into it, you begin to drown in each other’s existence. Everything you never said, everything he kept from you. Coming to the surface about to break free when he sighs and looks beyond you at your desk. He sees the book that you’re reading with the class and there’s a cautious smile on his face.
“The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle? Again?”
“Yeah, it’s a good book for the kids. I read it with all my classes.” There’s a twinge of insecurity in your tone. You sometimes forgot that he also kept those memories from your relationship, that you weren’t the only one burdened with reminders.
When you and Dick dated you read this book at least twice a year. It was your favorite book when you were younger. Your mom used to read a chapter every night before tucking you into bed. He had read it with you a couple of times when he realized how important this book was to you. And deep in your closet buried with your skeletons, there’s a shoe box full of memories that kept the annotated copy he wrote for you. It was the best present you had ever gotten and when you started throwing everything out, you couldn’t bring yourself to toss it.
“I guess some things never change.” He looks at you with the smile still painted on his face and no judgement in his tone.
He was dressed completely normal, but there were still remnants of your relationship in his clothing. He was wearing relaxed fit jeans which he only started buying when you two were dating because you told him you liked how they fit his ass. He wore a grey T-shirt that clung to his biceps a little tighter than you knew he considered comfortable because you told him once as a joke, you liked having his arm on display. And lastly, there was a silver chain that hung from his neck. He had both gold and silver, and preferred gold, but you told him one day that you thought the silver brought out the blue in his eyes and he never went back.
There was a lump in your throat you couldn’t swallow no matter how hard you tried. He looks frozen in a time where you truly believed that Dick Grayson would have done anything for you. Anything but tell you the truth.
I guess he was right, some things never change.
“Mhm.” Was the only sound you could manage when you look back at him.
“Listen, about everything that happe-” His eyes soften.
“Dick not right now. We’re at a parent-teacher conference and if I keep your brother outside any longer, he’s going to break down my door.” You see Damien’s eyes peeking through the skinny window of your classroom door and attempt to get this conversation back on track.
“Then when?” His eyes have a deep desire in them that roots you to the stone floor. You didn’t realize it but over the course of the conversation he had gotten closer to you, his fingers had made their way to your wrist. He wasn’t holding on tight, but you found yourself incapable of breaking free from his grasp. Your skin was ablaze at the light touch near your hand and you leaned into it, into him.
“I’m busy tonight but-” You faltered. You were not busy tonight. You had no plans, but this was too much for you today. This was as much of Richard Grayson you were willing to put yourself through at the moment.
“Tomorrow then?” He was on the verge of begging, you’re sure if you told him to get on his knees and ask, he would. “We can meet at the park. Around five?”
“Dick,” you sigh, “I’m not sure abo-”
“I’ll tell you everything- I’ll bring Haley.” He stumbles on his words that you almost didn’t understand him. It took you a second to remember that Haley is his pitbull and not some random girl he brought up for no reason.
Unfortunately, just like you knew everything that would undo Dick Grayson, he knew everything that undid you.
“Okay,” You resign “five it is.” You lie to yourself by claiming the only reason you agreed to this was for Haley, you missed going on walks with her and playing with her.
And Dick, for the first time in a couple of minutes let himself breathe. He was breathing as if his head had broken the surface after jumping face first into the deep end. His hand falls away to his side, hope radiating off his body.
Glancing back at the door you see a tuft of black hair that’s beginning to get restless. You move past your ex-boyfriend toward the door without another word of your plans, ignoring the way your wrist goes cold at the absence of his fingers. Your hand hesitates over the doorknob before letting Damien back inside.
What the hell did you just agree to?
° ❀ ⋆ . ೃ࿔ * : ･ ° ❀ ⋆ . ೃ࿔ * : ･
You glance down at your wrist while sitting on the bench.
04:58 p.m.
You got to the park ten minutes ago after sitting restlessly on your couch for an hour. You’d been anxious the whole day while at school and in your apartment. You couldn’t think of anything else. You couldn’t even get through the lesson today and just gave the kids a free day to work on anything they’d like. Your best friend had called you yesterday after work for a “catch up” call and you conveniently left out that you were meeting up with your ex-boyfriend.
After the breakup, his name was forbidden to speak around your friends and family. They hated him. Your mom flew up from where she retired in Florida to Blüdhaven the first weekend after the breakup, since you hadn’t left your bed in three days. Your best friend did the road trip from where she went to university in Central City the weekend after that.
If they found out that you had agreed to meet with the man who destroyed your whole outlook on life, they’d slap you into another dimension.
You stand up moving your purse to your shoulder getting ready to leave after concluding that this is an awful idea and you shouldn’t have agreed to this, when a familiar grey pitbull jumps at your hip with more force than you anticipated. She knocks you onto the dirt path of the park. You land in a side plank on your left forearm, so you can avoid hitting your head.
“Haley No-” The familiar voice comes a little too late.
You sit on the floor while she laps at your face and barks so loud you think you’re going to suffer from temporary hearing loss. She’s running circles around you and jumping over you in such a happy way that the innocence of the scene brings a smile to your face. She’d doubled in size since you last saw her as a baby. Your heart strings are being plucked like a guitar while she catches her breath, looking at you with those big blue eyes you’d missed.
You finally pull your eyes away from her and see… Nightwing?
You shake your head and stand up so fast you get a head rush. You stumble while balancing yourself, and the vigilante reaches out to help you stabilize.
“Hi, um, I’m sorry- I’m waiting for someone.” You rush out. You don’t know what you’re apologizing for, but you want him gone. If he was near, trouble was bound to find his way to him. You were already going to have to deal with Dick, you didn’t want to handle this too.
After living in Blüdhaven, you had become quite familiar with the vigilante. He had saved you a couple times on your late night walks back from the library. You’d almost gotten mugged like seven times in the years you lived there and he had shown up every time. He never stayed long but made sure you were safe before sending you on your way. You weren’t sure what he was doing in Gotham, but you didn’t really care.
“Darling,” he says quietly and your body freezes in recognition. “it’s me.”
Your jaw drops to hell.
You were going to kill him.
Dick Grayson was Nightwing.
You’re not sure how long you were standing there just staring at him when he laughs nervously.
“Please say something, I’m starting to freak out.” He scratches the back of neck, a nervous tick he hadn’t managed to outgrow, even after all the years you were separated.
You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. In through your nose and out through your mouth, just like your mom taught you. Then you did the only thing that made sense to you.
You back handed him as hard as you could.
“Okay” he groans rubbing his cheek. “I deserved that.”
“Oh, you most certainly did Richard. What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Um-” Through the domino mask you can see his eyebrows rising to his hairline. His hand still cradling his cheek from the slight sting.
“What was so difficult of telling me about this all those years ago? Hm?” You feel the rage about bubbling over the cauldron you’d been stirring all day. You had tried to keep your emotions in check, taking deep breaths when they anxiety threatened to take over.
This being his big secret pissed you all the way off.
He slowly reaches for your arms after they started flailing while yelling at him. He holds them so gently, it doesn’t seem to fit the crime fighting persona in front of you. He looks scared that you’re going to strike him again, and you want to, but don’t. He guides you to the bench you were just on and takes a seat next to you. Haley jumps on your lap and you take the distraction for your hands, petting her back.
“Let me explain.” He says softly.
“Oh, I will, don’t worry. And this better be all off it, Grayson. The whole truth.”
He seems to find your exasperation at him funny, and he lets out a laugh. For a second, you think he’s genuinely laughing at this, at the pain that fucking suit caused you for years and then you see it in the way he cracks his knuckles.
He’s nervous. A nervous Dick was not a common sight, and you take another deep breath trying to calm down. Not only for your sake, but for his.
You look around and see that the park is deserted, and you realize you should probably stop referring to him by his full name. You had just revealed his secret identity multiple times in the past minute. Thankfully for both of you, you were positive the trees and flowers would keep his secret if you asked nicely.
You take yet another deep breath while it was his turn to look around at the park making sure no one else was listening in. And against your better judgement, you grab his hand. He stops looking around and turns to you. You keep your gaze on Haley petting her softly.
It was a small attempt at grounding him, a small comfort you would allow yourself. From the corner of your eye, you see him sit up little straighter, bracing himself. Then he starts talking.
Once he had started, he couldn’t stop. It all came pouring out. Some of it you knew, The circus, his family, the Flying Graysons. Then he got into how Bruce Wayne took him under his wing, literally, when his parents were killed. How he grew up as Robin, how Bruce was Batman. Spending his whole life hiding his secret identity. When he finally broke free from Bruce’s shadow, wanting to make a name for himself with the Titans and then in Blüdhaven. How he fought with Bruce over the years and was replaced as Robin by his adoptive brother, Jason Todd. How Jason died and why they never forgave themselves. How it scared him from ever potentially putting someone in that kind of danger.
“When you and I were together, I wasn’t talking to Bruce.” The earnest look in his eyes is almost too heavy for you to hold. “I didn’t know how to tell you without throwing him under the bus too. I couldn’t do that to him, no matter how upset I was with him. I also didn’t want to do that to you.”
He pauses and takes a couple of breaths. You hadn’t said anything to him while he laid himself bare for you. Just nodding and the occasional squeeze of his hand.
“I didn’t want to put you in a position of constant danger. You would be leveraged against me if any of my or Bruce’s enemies found out about you. I wanted to keep you a secret, to keep you safe. I know that’s not my choice to make for you, but I was scared, scared you’d get hurt, scared you’d leave me once you found out and-”
“Dick honey. You’re rambling.” You cut him off.
He sighs and drops his head to your shoulder. The smell of his shampoo almost suffocates you and your eyes well up. You had been biting back tears through the whole tragedy of his childhood, but the shampoo you used to wash your hair with on nights you ran out of yours is what pushed you to tears.
He feels the shake of your shoulder from crying and lifts his head and wipes the tears instantly. Haley had long fallen asleep on your lap, so you two hadn’t been interrupted by her barking for attention.
“Don’t cry, please. I promise I’m okay.” He tells you while his gloved fingers swipe tears from your cheeks.
You give him an incredulous look, “Dick you are many things, but okay is not one of them.”
He laughs, actually laughs. “I know, but I just don’t know what else to say.”
“You could apologize?” You suggest with a slight humor and slight truth in your tone.
He sighs and drops to the floor in front of you. He props himself up in between your legs, on his knees. The sun has long been set, and you’re thankful for it. If someone walked by and saw Nightwing kneeling in front of you at a park, you weren’t sure you could explain it. He takes both of your hands in his and holds them against his chest.
“I am sorry for lying to you. I am sorry for not telling you sooner. I am sorry for causing you all this heart ache. I don’t want you to think that my suffering takes away from yours. I have spent every moment in the wake of this relationship mourning you. I will always love you and that will never change. I thought about you every day and every night. If you’d give me the chance to prove myself, I’d like to try again.”
Your brain shuts down. You try to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. Dick doesn’t let you get a word in regardless of what you wanted to say.
“I’ll be honest, I’ll go to therapy, I’ll introduce you to my family, I’ll take you on first dates. We can take it slow, start over, do it from scratch. I’ll do it all again, better this time. I’d do it all in every lifetime if it meant I got to spend this one with you.”
You’re still speechless but you try to focus on his words, repeating them felt easier than making up your own sentence.
“We can take it slow? Start over?” You ask hesitantly.
“Yes, whatever you want, however you want.” He nods his head, confirming he’d do anything for you.
You sit on the bench and contemplate what this will do. What it would mean to get tangled up with Richard Grayson again. Your therapist would kill you for one, but it might be worth it. A part of you hated how weak you were against him, how he could turn up and you’d give everything up for him. Even when he broke your heart, he still managed to be the reason it was still beating. After years being tortured with the ghost of him, this was a very bad idea. But sometimes, all a girl needed was a really bad idea.
“Okay.” You exhale. “We can try again,” His eyes widen under the mask. “But you get one chance. That’s it. If you screw this one up, there’s not another one.”
Dick starts crying and drops his head onto Haley’s back in relief. He couldn’t believe his efforts weren’t in vain. That you would be willing to try again with him. He knew you weren’t lying, that this was his last chance to get it right. He wouldn’t mess it up this time, he wouldn’t let himself even entertain the idea of fucking up. He knew life with you and without you and he would do everything in his power not to relive those pain ridden years again.
So, when he looks up at you, he sees the girl he fell in love with all those years ago for the first time. Her guard was still up, and her eyes weren’t trusting yet, but it was something along the lines of it. Hope that they could eventually make it work. Hope that their paths crossed for the final time and they’d walk the rest of this life together.
You brought your forehead against his and his hands found their place in your hair. He steals the breath straight from your lungs and you wouldn’t admit it, but you’d suffocate on the spot if it meant your dying moments were with Dick. You sit in that position leaning against him for a couple minutes with tears flowing, repeating sweet nothings to each other.
And when he kisses you in that devastating way that only Dick Grayson does, you can finally breathe again.
It's almost 1 a.m. in the crappy bar Roy always chooses for Saturday hang outs. You are tipsy, he is tipsy and you two just spend fifteen minutes making out a corner after going out for a smoke. The rest of your friends are focused on their own conversations, already used to your behavior when you are slightly drunk and together.
"Babe, look," Roy calls, wrapping one of his big arms around your waist. "There's darts."
"Mmh, yes, Roy. Darts," you answer, paying attention to taking a sip of your lemon vodka.
"D'you wanna play?" He pulls you tighter against him, his nose brushing the top of your head.
"I don't know how," you say with a little pout, looking up at him.
"Babeee, I teach you every night we go out," Roy groans, dropping his cheeks in the top of your head.
You giggle, turning in his arms so you're facing him. He takes your drink from your hand so you can rest your arms on his shoulders, your chest brushing his and your nails tickling the hair on his neck.
Roy’s grin goes lopsided and lazy, the kind that means he’s already half-gone on you more than on the beer. He ducks his head so his mouth is right against your ear, voice low from too many cigarettes and too much wanting.
“Then let me remind you, yeah? Proper lesson tonight, no cheating with the house rules.”
You snort, tipping your head back just enough to meet his eyes. “You’re the one who cheats.”
“Only when you’re distracting me.” His free hand slides down to palm the small of your back, fingers splaying wide.
He doesn’t really give you a choice. He nudges you toward the dartboard with his body, keeping you tucked against his front the whole way. The board’s already got a sad scattering of someone else’s missed throws. Roy sweeps them out with one big hand without breaking contact, then spins you so your back is to his chest.
“Alright, professor,” you tease, leaning into the solid wall of him. “Teach me.”
He hums and reaches around you to pluck three darts from the little plastic holder. Instead of handing them over, he wraps your fingers around the first one, caging your hand with his larger one. His other arm stays locked around your middle, chin hooked over your shoulder so every word brushes your skin.
“First rule,” he murmurs, breath hot against the shell of your ear, “stand like this.”
He shifts your hips with a slow nudge of his own, pressing himself flush behind you until you can feel exactly how much he’s enjoying this lesson. You bite your lip to keep from laughing... or moaning, honestly, it’s a toss-up right now.
“Roy.”
“What?” Innocent as anything even as his thumb strokes the inside of your wrist. “Gotta get your stance right, babe. Balance.”
“You’re not helping my balance.”
“Shhh. Focus.” He’s grinning so hard you can feel it against your cheek. “Now. Elbow up… like that… good girl.”
The praise hits like it always does and your giggle comes out breathy. He makes a pleased little sound in his throat, nose dragging along the side of your neck.
“See? You’re a natural already.”
“Liar.”
“Am not. Look how pretty you hold it.” He guides your arm back, bodies moving together like you’re slow-dancing instead of playing pub darts at 1 a.m. “Now… aim for the board. Not my dick, yeah? That’s later.”
You choke on another laugh and nearly drop the dart. “You’re the worst teacher.”
“Best,” he corrects, kissing the spot just under your ear. “Because when you miss—and you will miss, love—I get to do this.”
He pulls your throwing arm back a little farther than necessary, chest to your back, hips rocking forward just enough to make your knees threaten mutiny. Then he lets go of your hand but doesn’t move away, just stays draped over you like a human weighted blanket while you throw.
The dart sails wide and thunks into the wood three inches left of the board.
You groan dramatically. “See? Terrible.”
Roy’s already turning you around in his arms before you can even pout properly. “Nah. Perfect. Means I get to fix your form again.”
He takes the next dart, presses it into your palm, then slides both hands down to grip your hips and tug you back against him, guiding you into an exaggerated “stance” that has nothing to do with darts and everything to do with how much he likes feeling you squirm.
“Again,” he says, voice all smoke and smirk. “And this time… try not to think about how good my mouth would feel if you actually hit the bullseye.”
You elbow him lightly in the ribs. “You’re impossible.”
“Horny,” he corrects cheerfully, nuzzling into your hair. “There’s a difference.”
Another throw. Another miss. Another delighted groan from Roy like missing is the sexiest thing you’ve ever done.
By the third dart he’s barely pretending to teach anymore. He’s just swaying with you, arms locked around your waist, lips brushing your temple every few seconds while he murmurs filthy little encouragements against your skin.
“Last one, baby. Make it count.”
You’re giggling so hard you can barely breathe, cheeks hot, heart racing from the combination of alcohol and him. You throw without really looking, more to shut him up than anything and this time it actually sticks. Not the bullseye. Not even close to it. But it’s on the board.
Roy lets out an exaggerated whoop, loud enough that a couple heads turn from the other side of the bar. Then he spins you to face him, big hands cupping your face, thumbs stroking your cheekbones.
“That’s my girl,” he says, eyes bright and a little drunk and a lot in love. “Knew you had it in you.”
Before you can answer he’s kissing you again like the bar and the darts and the time don’t exist. Just his mouth, his hands and the way he sighs into you.
When he finally pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead pressed to yours, he’s smiling like an idiot.
“Next round’s on me,” he murmurs. “Winner’s choice.”
You raise an eyebrow, still catching your breath. “And what does the winner want?”
Hes impossible but sexy, a dangerous combo, and the way you write every little action of him?? Gorgeous, i can almost feel him teaching me how to play darts
Imagine, Kyle being incapable of forgetting the eyes of the woman he knows no other features of.
Every time he closes his own eyes, he sees hers, peeking between the swaying strands of her hair. The rest of her visage is always hidden; by her mask, a shadow or a blur created in his mind. Debris and blood, green constructs, and slashing daggers always prevented Kyle from discovering the rest of her face.
Every time he picks up a pencil, a pen, or a brush, his hands craft her eyes on instinct. Her eyes on the face of another woman, a man or a child. No matter who or what he is drawing, he somehow always ends up staring at her eyes.
However, it's just eyes without a face. Always. He could rack his brain for hours, and not a single other feature would come to mind. Just her skilled hands, trained feet, and her eyes. Her haunting eyes.
One fortunate day, he was on his way to get a coffee. Something to keep his eyes open. Dark circles had become more prominent ever since he took the ring. As he stepped around the corner, he bumped into a woman.
"Oh–" He extended his arms out to catch her. "—I'm so sorry!" He apologised.
His hands rested on the curves of her waist, holding her up as she readjusted to be stable on her feet.
"I'm sorry, I really should've been looking." He spotted the paper cup laying on the pavement with coffee dribbling out. "Uh let—let me buy you a new coffee!"
The woman lifted her head up from watching the flowing liquid. Your hair swept out of your face, and his eyes blew wide. Those beautiful, haunting eyes gazed at him. Finally, the rest of the image was complete; your nose, cheeks, brows, and lips. His hand twitch with movement, making a ghost sketch of your face.
"Oh—you don't have to—" You smiled and shuffled out of his grasp.
"Please," He begged. "I insist."
"I suppose I have a few minutes to spare." You felt blood rush to your face.
The eyes that haunted him day and night were no longer eyes without a face.
A/N: tumblr won't let me put my banner at the top of this for some reason. It keeps telling me it doesn't support this type of media?? Is this happening to anyone else? I gave me the same message when I was reblogging some stuff.
you are the only licensed female private investigator in the city. men underestimate you. police mocks you. clients hesitate before saying your name. you solve the cases anyway. during one of your most dangerous investigations, you cross paths with a dockside urban legend—they call him red arrow.
cw: it's 1940s,, drug abuse mentioned,, themes of a female professional fighting for a right to work
masterlist
starling city doesn’t know what to do with you.
it pretends not to look. that’s its favorite trick. pretend the skyline isn’t built on bribes. pretend the docks don’t breathe in crates and breathe out sin. pretend a woman with a detective’s license is a novelty that’ll wear off by winter.
your name is etched into a brass plaque on frosted glass, the letters still sharp enough to cut a man’s pride.
private investigator.
the word female isn’t there.
it doesn’t have to be.
the tailor downstairs says the plaque shines like a challenge. you polish it every monday morning. not because it needs it. because you do.
your office sits above his shop on dabney street, where the streetcars rattle past like tired old men clearing their throats. venetian blinds slice the afternoon light into narrow bars that fall across your mahogany desk. makes the place look like a holding cell, depending on how you tilt your head.
you don’t tilt.
the desk is polished but chipped at the corners—like you. filing cabinets line the wall behind you, labeled in a hand so precise it could pass for holy scripture. every case accounted for. every invoice stacked in a folder that grows thinner by the week.
your typewriter rests at the center like artillery.
when it fires, it means business.
today it’s quiet.
there’s a vase of fresh carnations on the corner of your desk. pink. soft. out of place in a room built on suspicion. you keep them there because the world already smells like stale cigarettes and regret. you refuse to let your office follow suit.
sharp mind. soft touch. no apologies.
the knock on your door is gentle.
“come in.”
your secretary, an older woman with crinlkes by her eyes, steps through the frosted glass with the careful posture of someone who’s been told her whole life not to take up too much room. gloves folded in her hands. hat pinned just right.
she smiles at you.
you’ve always liked that about her—the smile comes first, even on bad days.
today it falters.
you don’t waste time. you never do.
“i won’t insult you with excuses,” you say, folding your hands on the desk. “the city isn’t bringing in enough work.”
she nods before you finish. she already knows. secretaries always know first.
“you’ve been more than capable,” you add. “more than this place deserves.”
she laughs softly. it tries to sound brave. it doesn’t quite make it.
“it’s not forever,” she says.
that’s the worst part.
she’s pretending it’s temporary so you don’t have to.
you slide her final envelope across the desk. the sound it makes against the polished wood feels louder than it should.
a closing statement.
her smile cracks for half a second. just long enough for you to hate yourself.
“starling’s not ready for you yet,” she says.
starling isn’t ready for a lot of things.
you stand. so does she. you shake hands like businessmen sealing a deal neither of you wanted.
when she leaves, the office feels larger. too large.
the silence settles in like unpaid rent.
you sit back down at your desk. the blinds still carve the light into neat little prison bars. outside, someone laughs on the street. somewhere else, a car backfires.
your phone sits at the edge of the desk.
black. heavy. silent.
you stare at it long enough to imagine it blinking first.
the truth is simple: men don’t trust a woman with answers. they’d rather ask a fool in a fedora than a lady with a ledger and a license.
you’ve solved cases they couldn’t untangle. found missing sons. exposed crooked bookkeepers. returned stolen heirlooms with less fuss than a sunday sermon.
and still they hesitate at your door.
still they say things like: “is your boss in?” “is there a gentleman i could speak to?” “do you handle… serious matters?”
you handle them all. you don’t fold. folding is for letters and cheap suits.
you lean back in your chair and cross your legs, studying the empty space where your secretary’s desk used to hum with activity. the carnations catch the light, stubbornly alive.
“anything,” you murmur to the quiet room.
anything that pays.
the city owes you at least one good case.
your fingers hover over the typewriter keys, but there’s nothing to write yet. no missing person. no blackmail note. no grieving widow with trembling hands and a story that doesn’t quite add up.
just you.
and the phone.
you tap the receiver once with your fingernail.
it doesn’t respond.
starling city is a place that swallows ambition whole and spits out compromise.
the carnations shift in a draft from the window. outside, a siren wails somewhere in the distance. long and low, like the city clearing its throat before saying something unpleasant.
you straighten the papers on your desk. adjust the angle of the lamp. check your lipstick in the reflection of the filing cabinet.
prepared and ready. desperate enough to admit it.
suddenly, the phone rings like it’s got a conscience.
not loud. not frantic. just certain.
you let it sound twice before you lift the receiver. gives a caller time to reconsider. the desperate ones hang up on the second ring.
this one doesn’t.
“private investigator.”
silence answers first. then a man’s voice—low, sanded smooth, the kind that doesn’t waste syllables.
“no names,” he says. “no pleasantries.”
“that makes two of us.”
a faint exhale, not quite a laugh.
“i’ve got information,” he continues. “heroin shipment. coming through the docks. big enough to choke this city twice over.”
the word heroin sits heavy between you. ugly. modern. poison dressed up as relief.
“you could take that to the police,” you say.
“i could,” he agrees. “if i had a fondness for burying evidence.”
you lean back in your chair. venetian blinds stripe the wall like tally marks.
“badges bought and sold?” you ask.
“like cattle.”
his tone doesn’t rise. doesn’t dramatize. just states it plain. that’s how you know he believes it.
“and you need someone independent,” you say.
“i need someone who doesn’t owe this city a favor.”
you glance at the empty secretary’s desk. at the carnations. at the bills in your bottom drawer that don’t care about civic virtue.
“why me?”
there’s a pause long enough to measure.
you can almost hear the smirk when he answers.
“because some people in this rotten city are ready for a change.”
it’s a line that could be rehearsed. could be bait.
you’ve always had a weakness for bait you can see.
“where?” you ask.
“cafe mapin. tonight. come alone.”
“and if i don’t?”
“then the shipment comes in untouched.”
the line clicks dead before you can press him further. you sit there a moment, receiver still warm against your ear.
starling city has a way of offering opportunity with one hand and holding a knife in the other.
you hang up.
look at the clock.
dusk will fall in an hour.
you lock your filing cabinets. slip a small revolver into your handbag—not because you’re expecting trouble, but because you’re not naive enough not to.
outside, the air smells like rain thinking about happening.
cafe mapin sits right at the edge of the city core, on the street that was never meant for cheap shoes to walk on it. the street is impeccable on the first sight yet once you corner it, the alleway gore consumes you whole. that is where you are meant to meet your client.
you spot him before he speaks.
he stands near a lamppost that’s doing a poor job of lighting anything. fedora brim low. collar turned up. hands gloved.
he never steps fully into the glow.
“you came alone,” he says.
“i was promised a conversation, not a parade.”
up close, you can’t place his age. his voice could belong to a man in his thirties or one who’s lived hard enough to skip ahead several decades.
“you’re either brave,” he says, “or short on options.”
“tonight,” you reply, “i’m both.”
he reaches inside his coat.
you don’t flinch.
he pulls out a file. thick and heavy. the kind that suggests someone’s been watching for a while.
he hands it to you without ceremony.
you open it there under the weak lamplight.
shipping manifests stamped with legitimate company seals.
warehouse numbers along the harbor.
dates circled.
names marked in red pencil—dock foremen, freight handlers, one city council aide you recognize from the society pages.
“you’re sure?” you ask.
“i don’t deal in guesses.”
“you could be setting me up.”
“i could,” he agrees easily. “but then i’d have to find someone else stubborn enough to see it through.”
you close the file.
“why not handle it yourself?”
a flicker of something passes beneath the brim of his hat. not fear. not exactly.
“because i wasn’t invited into this conversation,” he says. “and this city someone who can barge in without one.”
it’s not an answer. not at all.
but it’s enough.
“who are you?” you ask.
he steps back, just slightly, enough that the shadows swallow more of him.
“someone who wants the docks clean.”
“that’s not a name.”
“it’ll have to do.”
a truck backfires somewhere down the street. when you glance toward the sound and look back again, he’s already moving.
he doesn’t run.
he just… fades.
by the time you reach the edge of the lamplight, he’s gone.
no retreating footsteps.
you stand there a moment longer than you should.
the file weighs against your ribs where you’ve tucked it under your arm.
you didn’t see his face.
didn’t catch his eyes.
but as you walk back toward the street, heels clicking steady against wet pavement, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re still being watched.
“the case begins at the docks,” you murmur to yourself.
starling doesn’t change easy.
but tonight?
it just invited you to try.
the docks hum at night.
not loud. not proud. just low and steady, like a city grinding its teeth in its sleep.
you hear it before you see anything unusual—a tune carried in pieces, hummed between teeth, muttered over card games, whistled by a man pretending not to whistle.
a dockside rhyme.
it drifts through the fog like it belongs there.
when green goes missing and the night runs narrow,
watch the docks for the red-tipped arrow.
if crates lie heavy and ledgers lie straight,
count your sins before it’s too late.
for when the harbor fog turns marrow,
pray you don’t hear the red-fletched arrow.
a stevedore hums it while lighting his cigarette.
a boy sweeping the pier taps the rhythm with his broom.
everyone sings it like they don’t believe it.
everyone sings it like they do.
you keep your collar turned up and your eyes sharper than the wind. pier nineteen stretches ahead, cranes like skeleton fingers against the moon, ships hulking and silent in their berths.
the file the mystery man gave you sits memorized in your head.
warehouse 4c.
manifest discrepancies.
a foreman named hatcher who signs too neatly for a man with dirty hands.
you find him near a stack of marked crates, barking orders at two dockworkers moving slower than he’d like.
you wait until he’s alone.
“evening,” you say.
he looks you up and down, decides you’re either lost or trouble.
“pier’s closed to sightseers.”
“good thing i’m not sightseeing.” you pull a folded manifest from your coat pocket. “care to explain why these shipments double their weight between ports?”
his jaw tightens.
“you some kind of accountant?”
“worse.”
and then.. you ask the wrong question.
you know it the second it leaves your mouth.
“who’s moving the heroin through 4c?”
hatcher’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“don’t know what you’re talking about.”
he gestures lazily with two fingers.
you don’t see where the henchmen come from—only that suddenly there are too many boots on the planks and not enough room to breathe.
you step back.
they step forward.
by nightfall, you’re running between stacked crates and rusted chains that sway like nooses in the wind.
you’re no wilting violet.
you draw your revolver and fire once—not to kill, just to remind them it’s not decorative. the shot cracks across the water like a whip.
you kick a knee. feel cartilage give.
you grab a bottle from a crate and smash it against a man’s cheek. he howls, clutching at red that isn’t paint.
but they keep coming.
too many shadows. too many fists.
you duck into another warehouse and slam the side door shut behind you.
dark inside. thick with dust and rope and something sour beneath it all.
footsteps pound outside.
then inside.
you back toward a stack of crates, heart hammering like a typewriter gone mad.
a shape lunges.
then—
thwip!
an arrow splits the air and pins a thug’s sleeve clean through to a wooden beam. he yelps, suspended like laundry.
another arrow drops a second man flat, catching him square in the shoulder.
red-fletched.
the room stills.
even the dust seems to hang midair.
you move toward a window, careful, peering out at the harbor where the fog curls thick and pale.
under your breath, you whisper the rhyme with the others.
“when green goes missing and the night runs narrow, watch the docks for the red-tipped arrow…”
it steadies you.
urban legends are easier to face than men.
you step toward the door.
an arrow lands inches from your hand, blocking your exit.
the wood still vibrates from the impact.
the room goes quiet again—not with fear this time, but anticipation.
he drops from the rafters like gravity owes him money. red mask. broad shoulders carved from shadow and bad decisions.
red arrow.
he lands without a sound.
you straighten, revolver still in hand.
he looks at you the way a chess player looks at a piece he didn’t expect to see on the board.
“you’re in the wrong part of town, doll.”
his voice is low. even. cold enough to frost glass.
you steady your breathing.
“i don’t recall claiming your turf.”
his head tilts slightly. evaluating.
“this isn’t a debating society.”
“shame. you look like you could use practice.”
for a second, something almost like amusement flickers behind the mask.
then it’s gone.
“you shouldn’t be here,” he says.
“and yet.”
he steps closer. not threatening. just present. the air shifts around him like it knows who’s in charge.
“you ask the wrong question down here,” he says. “you don’t get a second one.”
“i’m aware.”
“then act like it.”
you meet his gaze through the slits of the mask.
you step closer. close enough to see the faint rise and fall of his chest beneath the red leather.
“there’s heroin moving through these docks,” you say. “it’s poisoning starling. i’m not leaving until i get to the bottom of it.”
“you won’t make it to the bottom.”
“then i’ll settle for the middle.”
a muscle tightens along his jaw beneath the mask.
“you don’t know what you’re walking into.”
“and you don’t know what i’ve already walked through.”
the wind slips through broken panes overhead, stirring dust between you.
for a moment, neither of you moves.
he studies you like you’re a problem he hasn’t decided how to solve.
“you’re trouble,” he says.
“you’re welcome.”
his eyes—dark through the mask—flicker. for a second, you wonder who he was before he became a rhyme.
before the red-tipped arrows.
before the shadow of green.
then, without another word, he fires an arrow into a distant light, shattering the bulb. darkness swallows the space where he stood.
when your eyes adjust—
he’s gone.
only the arrow in the door remains.
and the echo of his voice, low and certain.
outside, the rhyme is drifting once more across the pier like a benediction. you step back into the fog, pulse still quick, lips almost smiling.
when green goes missing and the night runs narrow…
starling city just introduced you to its scarlet secret.
watch the docks for the red-tipped arrow…
and you have a feeling he’s not done arguing with you yet.
a completely new genre and tone for me but here it comes!! long awaited noir au—yes, au because i couldn't fit it all into a one shot. i'm still not too sure about it because it's much less "oooh roy harper is so swooney" and much more "oh, there's actually plot here" and it's scary
this might be one of the coolest things ive ever read!!! your writing is always incredible but Roy + Noir? that absolutely takes the cake
your use of language here and the different comparisons you make and how they all tie into the 40s noir theme just adds to the ambience 🥺you make me feel like i AM the PI
Summary: Reader is Dick's new neighbor who keeps accidentally almost discovering he's Nightwing. He's climbing in through windows, she brings over cookies at the worst times, she hears weird noises, at night while she hacks away (FBI or Interpol). Dick is losing his mind trying to keep his secret while also being very attracted to her. BUT what he doesn't know is that both of them are vigilantes, and she falls in love with Nightwing while patrolling, and he is falling in love with the real her.
requests are open
dividers by @cafekitsune
Dick Grayson was having a very bad night.
The drug bust had gone sideways, he'd taken a knife to the ribs (shallow, but painful), and now he was bleeding on his fire escape at 3 AM, trying to remember if he'd locked his window or if he'd have to break into his own apartment.
That's when he heard it.
Humming.
Someone was humming on the fire escape next door, the apartment that had been empty for months but apparently now had a tenant.
Dick froze, pressing himself against the wall, trying to become one with the shadows. Through the window of the neighboring apartment, he could see her.
You were sitting at a desk, multiple monitors glowing, typing away with the kind of focused intensity he recognized. Your hair was pulled back, you were wearing an oversized hoodie and glasses, and you were... beautiful. Distractingly beautiful.
Also, those looked like law enforcement databases on your screens.
Before Dick could process this information, you stood up, stretched, and walked directly toward your window.
Dick did the only thing he could think of: he dropped off the fire escape entirely, catching himself on the level below and swinging into his own window with perhaps less grace than usual due to the whole "bleeding from the ribs" situation.
He landed in a heap on his living room floor.
"Smooth, Grayson," he muttered to himself. "Very smooth."
The next morning, Dick ran into you in the hallway.
Literally ran into you. You were carrying a box of what smelled like fresh cookies, he was running late for work, and the collision resulted in cookies everywhere.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" You immediately crouched down to help pick up the scattered cookies.
"No, no, that was totally my fault. I wasn't watching where I was going." Dick knelt down too, and that's when he got a good look at you.
It was definitely the girl from last night. Same face, same hair, but without the glasses and somehow even prettier in natural light.
"I'm your new neighbor," you said with a warm smile, extending your hand. "Apartment 4B. I was actually bringing these over to introduce myself. Guess that plan is literally crumbling."
Dick laughed and shook your hand. "Dick Grayson, 4A. And these cookies look salvageable. Five-second rule?"
"I like your optimism." You grinned. "What do you do, Dick Grayson from 4A?"
"I'm a cop. Blüdhaven PD." The cover story rolled easily off his tongue. "You?"
"Data analyst for a consulting firm. Lots of late nights staring at computer screens. Very boring."
Dick thought about the law enforcement databases he'd seen. "I'm sure it's more interesting than you're making it sound."
Something flickered in your eyes, amusement? Recognition? "Maybe. What about you? Do you like being a cop?"
"It has its moments. Lots of night shifts, though. If you ever hear weird noises coming from my apartment at odd hours, I'm probably just getting home from work."
"Good to know. Same here, I keep weird hours. We'll be the problem neighbors who make noise at 3 AM."
"As long as we're only bothering each other, I think we'll be fine."
You smiled, and Dick felt something warm in his chest that had nothing to do with his still-healing stab wound.
"Well, Dick Grayson, since the cookies are ruined, can I buy you coffee sometime? As an apology for the collision I'm definitely going to claim was your fault?"
"I'd like that," Dick said, probably smiling too much. "How about tomorrow morning?"
"It's a date. Well, not a date-date. A neighbor-coffee-thing."
"A neighbor-coffee-thing. Got it."
You headed back to your apartment, and Dick watched you go, wondering why his new neighbor had law enforcement databases on her screens at 3 AM and why the universe had decided to give him a crush on someone who lived directly next to his secret identity.
This was going to be complicated.
Nightwing was tracking a human trafficking ring when he literally crashed into her.
Well, she crashed into him, technically. He was about to drop down on the warehouse when a figure in purple and black swung past him, planted both boots in his chest, and sent him sprawling across the rooftop.
"What the—" He rolled to his feet, escrima sticks already in hand.
Huntress stood across from him, crossbow trained on his chest. "Nightwing. Didn't expect to see you here."
"Clearly, since you just kicked me in the chest." Dick took in her appearance... the costume, the weapon, the confident stance. Huntress. He'd heard of her, but they'd never worked together. "I'm guessing we're after the same shipment?"
"If by shipment you mean the fifteen girls being held in that warehouse, then yes." She lowered her crossbow slightly. "I've been tracking this ring for three weeks. This is the hub."
"I know. I've been tracking them for two months." Dick moved to stand beside her, looking down at the warehouse. "Want to work together? Or are you going to kick me again?"
He could hear the smile in her voice. "Depends. Can you keep up?"
"I think I can manage."
Working with Huntress was... intense.
She was skilled, efficient, and absolutely ruthless with the traffickers in a way that made Dick a little nervous. Not killing them, but definitely not holding back either.
"You're pretty good," Dick said as they zip-tied the last trafficker for the police.
"Pretty good?" Huntress turned to him, and even through the mask he could tell she was raising an eyebrow. "I just took down six guys while you were handling four."
"I was being gentle with them."
"Gentle. Right." She holstered her crossbow. "You're not bad yourself, Nightwing. For someone who plays by the rules."
"I don't always play by the rules."
"Could've fooled me." She moved closer, and Dick was suddenly very aware of how tall she was, how her costume fit, how her voice had a teasing quality that made his pulse quicken. "Maybe I'll have to teach you how to loosen up sometime."
"I can be loose. I'm very loose."
"That sounded better in your head, didn't it?"
"So much better."
Huntress laughed, a real laugh, warm and genuine, and Dick felt that same flutter he'd felt with his neighbor. Which was ridiculous. They were completely different people in completely different contexts.
"Same time next week?" Huntress asked. "I've got intel on a weapons shipment."
"It's a date," Dick said, then quickly added, "A vigilante team-up date. Not a date-date."
"Smooth, Nightwing. Very smooth." But she was smiling as she grappled away into the night.
Dick watched her go and wondered why he was suddenly attracted to two women who were both completely unavailable for entirely different reasons.
Dick was beginning to think the universe hated him.
In the past week alone:
Incident 1: You'd knocked on his door at 2 AM because you'd heard "concerning noises" (him limping home from patrol with bruised ribs). He'd answered shirtless, still sweaty, and had to convince you he'd just been doing a really intense home workout.
"At 2 AM?" you'd asked skeptically.
"I keep weird hours. Cop schedule, remember?"
You'd looked at him, really looked at him, your eyes tracking over his chest and the bruises he couldn't hide, and something had shifted in your expression. "Right. Of course. Just... try to keep it down? I'm working on a big case."
Incident 2: He'd been climbing back into his window after patrol, and you'd been on your fire escape with a cup of tea, laptop open, working on something that looked suspiciously like surveillance footage.
You'd looked up just as he was halfway through his window.
"Late night at work?" you'd called over.
Dick had frozen, halfway through the window in his Nightwing suit, and thank god it was dark and you couldn't see details. "Yeah! Just getting home. You?"
"Can't sleep. Thought I'd get some work done." You'd squinted at him through the darkness. "Are you okay? You're moving kind of stiff."
"Just sore from the gym!"
"You go to the gym a lot."
"I'm very dedicated to fitness!"
"Clearly!"
Incident 3: You'd brought over cookies again (you were always bringing over cookies, and Dick was starting to associate the smell of chocolate chip with minor panic attacks about his secret identity). He'd answered the door with a black eye he'd forgotten to cover up.
"Dick! What happened to your face?"
"Uh... walked into a door?"
"A door."
"A very aggressive door. In a doorway. That I didn't see."
You'd reached up and gently touched his cheek, and Dick had nearly forgotten his own name. "You should be more careful. For a cop, you're surprisingly accident-prone."
"I'm working on it."
Now, Dick was trying to get into his apartment quietly at 4 AM when he heard your door open.
You stepped out in pajama pants and an oversized t-shirt, garbage bag in hand, and stopped when you saw him.
"Oh! Dick. Hi. Late shift?"
Dick looked down at himself, civilian clothes, thank god, but definitely disheveled and possibly bleeding through his jacket from the cut on his arm. "Yeah. Really late shift. Lots of paperwork."
"Paperwork that fights back?" You nodded at his jacket where blood was definitely starting to show.
"I... cut myself on a filing cabinet?"
"A filing cabinet."
"They're very dangerous. OSHA nightmare, really."
You set down your garbage bag and walked over to him, all pretense of buying his story gone. "Dick. I'm not an idiot."
His heart stopped. "I don't—"
"You're either the clumsiest cop in Blüdhaven, or you're into some kind of underground fight club, or..." You paused, studying him. "Or you're going to keep lying to me, and we're going to keep doing this awkward dance where we both pretend I believe you."
Dick didn't know what to say. You were looking at him with those sharp, intelligent eyes, and he realized you'd probably never believed his excuses. Not even once.
"I can't tell you," he said finally, honestly. "I want to. But I can't."
You nodded slowly. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay. Everyone has secrets, Dick. I'm not going to push." You picked up your garbage bag again. "But maybe let me at least look at that arm? I've got a pretty well-stocked first aid kit. Data analysis can be surprisingly hazardous."
It was a terrible idea. He should say no. Should keep the distance between Dick Grayson and his nighttime activities.
"I'd like that," he heard himself say instead.
Your apartment was exactly what he'd expected: organized chaos, multiple monitors on a custom desk setup, books everywhere, and yes, a suspiciously well-stocked first aid kit that looked more suited to field trauma than paper cuts.
"Sit," you ordered, pointing at your couch.
Dick sat.
You cleaned and bandaged his arm with the efficiency of someone who'd done this before. Many times before.
"You're good at this," Dick observed.
"I told you. Data analysis is dangerous work." You met his eyes, and there was something there, a shared understanding, maybe. A mutual recognition of secrets kept. "There. Try not to fight any more filing cabinets."
"I'll do my best."
You walked him to your door, and Dick paused in the doorway. "Thank you. For not... asking questions."
"Thank you for not asking why a data analyst has medical supplies and works at weird hours staring at what definitely looks like surveillance footage."
Dick's eyes widened slightly. So you knew he'd noticed. Of course you had.
"We're both terrible liars," he said.
"The worst," you agreed. "Coffee tomorrow? Our actual neighbor-coffee-thing that we keep rescheduling?"
"I'd really like that."
"Good. It's a date. Not a date-date—"
"A neighbor-coffee-thing. I remember." Dick smiled. "See you tomorrow."
As he walked back to his apartment, Dick realized he was in so much trouble. Because he was falling for his neighbor who was clearly hiding something, while also developing feelings for his vigilante partner who he only knew through masks and banter.
The universe definitely hated him.
"You're distracted," Huntress observed as they staked out a drug shipment from a rooftop.
"I'm not distracted."
"You've been staring at that same window for five minutes. The bad guys are in the other building."
Dick snapped his attention back to the correct warehouse. "Sorry. Just thinking."
"About?"
"Complicated stuff."
Huntress laughed. "Let me guess. Girl trouble?"
"How did you—"
"You have that look. Kind of mopey. It's cute." She nudged him with her shoulder. "Want to talk about it?"
This was surreal. Getting relationship advice from Huntress while on a stakeout.
"There's this woman," Dick started. "She's smart, funny, beautiful. We have coffee sometimes. She lives next door to me."
"Sounds perfect. What's the problem?"
"I can't tell her about... this." He gestured at his costume. "And I don't know if I can have a relationship built on lies."
Huntress was quiet for a moment. "You know, I have the same problem."
"Yeah?"
"There's this guy. He's... he makes me laugh. Makes me feel normal, like I'm not just the vigilante, you know? Like I could actually have a life outside of all this." She sighed. "But he doesn't know the real me. And I don't know how to tell him without ruining everything."
"Maybe he'd understand."
"Maybe. Or maybe he'd run screaming." She turned to look at him. "What about your neighbor? You think she'd accept the vigilante thing?"
Dick thought about your well-stocked first aid kit, your late nights, your databases, the way you'd never once actually believed his excuses.
"I think she might have secrets of her own," he said slowly.
"Then maybe you both need to take a leap of faith."
Before Dick could respond, the warehouse doors opened, and the shipment arrived. They sprang into action, moving in synchronized harmony that came from weeks of working together.
Huntress was incredible in action, graceful, lethal, and efficient. And the way she moved, the way she fought, there was something familiar about it that Dick couldn't quite place.
After they'd wrapped up the bust and were sitting on the rooftop again, Huntress pulled off her glove and held out her hand.
"Friends?" she asked. "Real friends, not just work partners?"
Dick took her hand, and even through his glove he could feel...
Wait.
There was a small scar on her thumb. A distinctive scar in the shape of a crescent moon.
Dick's brain stuttered to a halt because he'd seen that scar before. This morning. When you'd handed him his coffee and he'd noticed the unusual mark and you'd told him you'd cut yourself on a broken mug in college.
Huntress had the same scar.
Huntress, who talked about having a normal life with a guy who didn't know about her vigilante activities.
Huntress, who lived in Blüdhaven and worked weird hours.
Huntress, whose voice, now that he was paying attention, sounded remarkably similar to...
"Oh my god," Dick said.
Huntress, you tilted your head. "What?"
Dick started laughing. He couldn't help it. The universe wasn't cruel. The universe was hilarious.
"What's so funny?"
"Nothing. Everything. I just..." He pulled off his own mask and watched your eyes go wide. "Hi, neighbor."
Your jaw dropped. "Dick?"
"Surprise?"
"You're Nightwing. You're... all those injuries, the weird hours, the 'filing cabinets'..." You smacked his arm. "You let me feel bad about not believing your excuses!"
"You're Huntress! You've been kicking my ass in the field and bringing me cookies in real life!"
"I have not been kicking your ass—"
"You literally kicked me in the chest the first time we met!"
"That was tactical!"
You were both laughing now, the absurdity of it all hitting you simultaneously.
"So," Dick said, catching his breath. "When you said you had a guy you couldn't tell about the vigilante thing..."
"I was talking about you, you idiot."
"And when I said I had a neighbor I was falling for..."
"Also me." You shook your head. "We're both terrible at this."
"The worst." Dick reached out and took your hand, the one with the scar that had given you away. "But I think we can figure it out now. No more secrets?"
"No more secrets," you agreed. "Although I have to say, this explains so much. I thought I was going crazy with the noises from your apartment."
"I thought you were going to figure me out when I came home bleeding that one time."
"Dick, I figured you out the second week. You're not as sneaky as you think."
"What! When did you—"
"You left your escrima stick on the fire escape. I saw it when I was having tea."
Dick groaned. "And you didn't say anything?"
"I have secrets too! Speaking of which..." You pulled out your phone and showed him your screen; it was full of files on the trafficking ring you'd both been investigating. "I'm not actually a data analyst."
"Shocking revelation."
"I work for Interpol. Undercover. I've been tracking these rings internationally."
"That's actually really impressive."
"I know." You smiled at him. "So. Now that we both know everything... want to get coffee tomorrow? As a real date this time?"
"Not a neighbor-coffee-thing?"
"Definitely a date-date."
Dick pulled you closer, and kissed you right there on the rooftop overlooking Blüdhaven, and it was perfect. No masks, no lies, just him and you and the truth finally out in the open.
"I've wanted to do that for weeks," he admitted when you broke apart.
"Which version of me? The neighbor or the vigilante?"
"Both. All of you. Every version." He kissed you again. "Though I have to say, the cookies really sealed the deal."
You laughed against his lips. "Good to know the way to Nightwing's heart is through baked goods."
"Among other things."
Six Months Later
Dick woke up to the smell of coffee and the sound of you talking to someone in the living room.
"—so then he tried to tell me he got the black eye from walking into a door," you were saying, clearly on the phone. "A door! And I'm supposed to just accept that?"
Dick smiled and got out of bed, padding into the living room where you were sitting on the couch, his couch, in his apartment that you'd basically moved into three months ago.
"Who are you talking to?" he asked, dropping a kiss on your head.
"Oracle. We're comparing notes on how oblivious our respective Batboys are."
"I resent that. I figured you out eventually."
"You figured me out because of a scar, not through actual detective work."
"Detective work is noticing details. The scar was a detail!"
You pulled him down for a proper kiss. "Good morning to you too."
"Morning." He grabbed his coffee cup. "What's on the agenda today?"
"Well, I have a meeting with Interpol at ten, we have that team-up with Batman and Oracle tonight to take down that arms dealer, and I promised I'd bring cookies to the Titans tomorrow for their meeting."
"You're going to spoil them."
"They love my cookies. Especially Gar."
"Everyone loves your cookies." Dick settled onto the couch next to you. "I still can't believe we're actually doing this. Living together, working together, fighting crime together."
"Having a completely normal, healthy relationship?"
"I was going to say 'tempting fate' but your version is better."
You laughed and curled into his side. "You know what the best part is?"
"What?"
"No more sneaking around. No more lies. No more pretending the weird noises at 3 AM are from a filing cabinet."
"I maintain that filing cabinets can be very dangerous."
"Dick."
"Fine. Yes. This is much better." He kissed the top of your head. "I love you. Both versions of you. The Interpol agent and the vigilante and the neighbor who brings me cookies."
"I love you too. The cop and the vigilante and the guy who is genuinely terrible at lying about his injuries."
"I'm working on it."
"Please don't. It's endearing."
Dick's phone buzzed with a message from the Titans group chat. Gar was asking if you were really bringing cookies tomorrow, and could you make the chocolate chip ones again?
"See?" Dick showed you the message. "Spoiled."
"They're heroes. They deserve cookies." You grabbed his phone and typed back a response. "Besides, someone has to balance out all your protein shakes and kale smoothies."
"Those are healthy!"
"Those are crimes against taste buds."
"You're terrible."
"You love me."
"I really do," Dick agreed, pulling you closer. "Even if you did kick me in the chest the first time we met."
"That was tactical!"
"Sure it was, neighbor."
You kissed him to shut him up, and Dick decided that having a vigilante girlfriend who lived next door and brought him cookies was actually the perfect ending to the weird, complicated, wonderful story of how you'd found each other.
No more secrets. No more close calls.
Just the two of you, fighting crime and falling in love, exactly as it should be.
Bonus Scene - The Group Chat:
Nightwing: So funny story about my new neighbor
Oracle: This is going to be good
Red Hood: Is this the one you wouldn't shut up about?
Red Robin: The one who brings cookies?
Robin: I fail to see what is amusing about baked goods
Nightwing: She's Huntress
Oracle: WHAT
Red Hood: YOU'RE KIDDING
Red Robin: That's actually hilarious
Robin: I do not understand the humor
Nightwing: I've been patrolling with her for weeks, and she's ALSO the neighbor I've been falling for
Oracle: Dick. Only you.
Red Hood: Did you literally fall for the same person twice?
Nightwing: ...yes
Red Robin: That's the most Dick Grayson thing I've ever heard
Nightwing: I hate all of you
Oracle: No, you don't
Nightwing: No, I don't
Red Hood: So did you tell her?
Nightwing: I figured it out from a scar on her hand
Oracle: A SCAR
Red Robin: Not even through detective work
Nightwing: DETECTIVE WORK IS NOTICING DETAILS
Robin: This is pathetic
Nightwing: You know what? I'm leaving this chat
Oracle: No, you're not
Nightwing: No, I'm not
Red Hood: Bring her to the next family dinner. I want to meet the woman who kicked you in the chest
Nightwing: How do you know about that???
Red Hood: She told me. We're friends now.
Nightwing: WHEN DID YOU TALK TO HER
Red Hood: She has a sense of humor unlike SOME people
Nightwing: I'm blocking all of you
Oracle: You've said that before
Nightwing: THIS TIME I MEAN IT
Nightwing has left the chat
Oracle has added Nightwing to the chat
Oracle: Nice try
Huntress has been added to the chat
Huntress: Hi, everyone! Dick's told me so much about you!
Red Hood: OH THIS IS GONNA BE GOOD
Oracle: Welcome to the family!
Huntress: Thanks! I brought cookies
Robin: ...acceptable
Red Hood: I like her already
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ You get kidnapped and branded by the joker on christmas. The bat-family sees Jason unravel.
word cnt. 14.6k
cw ›››› torture, branding, suicidal language, violence, blood, gore
Something is wrong.
Jason feels it like a pressure change—subtle, almost polite—but it crawls under his helmet and settles behind his eyes. It hasn’t clicked, not cleanly. Not yet. He hasn’t asked. Hasn’t said a word through the harbor sweep, through the cold iron stink of saltwater and oil and Christmas rot. A small job. The kind that should feel easy. The kind that still manages to choke the air out of his lungs anyway.
Everyone’s moving like the night might shatter if they stop.
Tim keeps choosing his words too carefully, syllables slowed and smoothed like he’s sanding down sharp edges. Dick’s doing that thing where he smiles first and speaks second—but the timing’s off, the warmth a fraction too late, like a recording lagging behind the video. Damian watches Jason more than the perimeter, eyes sharp, calculating, guarded. Stephanie hasn’t joked once. Not even a cheap jab to him, not even under her breath. That alone feels wrong enough to tilt the world sideways.
Bruce didn’t come.
That absence is loud. A hollow where a presence should be, echoing through comms and instinct alike. The Cave, he’d said. As if that explained anything. As if Bruce ever sits things out without a reason that claws.
Cassandra says nothing—but she’s closer. Close enough that Jason can feel her awareness like static along his spine. When the group splits, she falls into step beside him without discussion, without a glance. Just there. Solid. Protective in a way that feels less like trust and more like vigilance. As if she’s guarding him.
That’s when unease really sinks its teeth in.
Bruce didn’t need all of them.
Didn’t need six sets of boots scraping concrete, six heartbeats crowding the same dark. Dick alone could’ve dismantled this whole thing with half the effort. Hell, Jason himself could’ve wrapped it up fast and bloody and been home already. Instead, they’re stacked together, overlapping, slowing each other down like they’re afraid to let him out of their sight.
He agreed because no one argued about his presence. Because no one questioned whether he was needed. Because the silence around that decision felt intentional.
That should’ve been his first real warning.
Between two groups of thugs, he had ducked behind a row of shipping containers, Gotham’s lights bleeding gold across the black water. He had pulled out his phone and called you, already rehearsing the apology in his head. Late for presents. Again. You’d tease him, pretend to scold, maybe force him to wrap some gifts for your co-workers.
You didn't answer.
Probably a bath, he told himself. You’d mentioned one. Candles. The fancy bath salts you bought. Something soft to push the cold out of your bones. The thought settles him, briefly. He sends a text instead—short, careful. An apology. An I love you so much that he doesn’t overthink, because with you, he never has to.
You always know what he means.
The phone stays quiet in his pocket.
No buzz. No vibration brushing against his thigh like it usually does, grounding him, tethering him back to something warm and real. He told himself it’s nothing. That you’re relaxed, distracted, asleep. That the night is just heavy, that Gotham is doing what Gotham always does—making ghosts out of shadows and dread out of coincidence.
Still.
When he looks back at the others, he notices the way Dick avoids his eyes now. The way Tim’s gaze flicks to Jason’s pocket and away again. The way Damian’s jaw tightens when Jason shifts his weight, like he’s bracing for impact. Cassandra meets his eyes once—just once—and there’s something there that twists low and sharp in his chest. Not fear. Not exactly.
Knowing. Jason doesn’t ask. He doesn’t press.
But the harbor feels too quiet, the night stretched thin and listening, and for the first time since he sent that text, a cold, irrational thought curls in his gut—
That whatever is wrong didn’t start here.
And that somewhere far from the water, far from the mission, something precious has already slipped out of reach.
“That was the last of them,” Jason says, voice rough through the helmet, as Tim finishes cinching zip-ties around the final goon and anchors him to a rust-flaked shipping container. The plastic bites down with a sharp click that echoes too loudly across the concrete. The man mumbled insanities through spit.
The harbor exhales around them—cold wind off the water, carrying brine and diesel and something rotten that’s been sitting too long. Sodium lights flicker overhead, casting everything in jaundiced gold and long, distorted shadows that stretch and tangle at their feet. The concrete is damp beneath Jason’s boots, slick with mist and old oil, the kind of surface that never really dries no matter how many ‘sunny’ days Gotham pretends to have.
“We should do another check around the harbor,” Dick says.
He’s already kneeling, already breaking the man's phone in half with practiced efficiency, grinding it into the concrete with his heel until the screen spider webs and dies. He doesn’t look up when he says it. Doesn’t grin. Doesn’t even sound casual about it.
Jason lifts an eyebrow, slow, deliberate. His gaze slides to Damian automatically—because Damian is usually the first to shoot an idea like that down, sharp and impatient and blunt as a blade.
Instead, Damian just mutters, “Tim could be wrong.”
Mumbles it. Like he’s afraid the words might carry.
That alone sends a small, unpleasant chill up Jason’s spine.
Tim doesn’t argue. Doesn’t bristle. He straightens from the goon and dusts his gloves together, eyes flicking—not to Jason—but to Stephanie. The movement is quick, practiced, like muscle memory.
“Do you want to take the gates with me?” Tim says, too smooth. Too rehearsed. “Jason and Dick could go along the—”
“What?” Jason cuts in before he can finish, blinking once. “You two were perched on the gates the entire op. What’re you talking about?”
The wind gusts harder, rattling loose chains and setting a tarp snapping somewhere down the dock. Water slaps against concrete pylons in a slow, hollow rhythm.
Jason suddenly feels like the sound is counting something down.
“It wouldn’t hurt to double-check,” Tim says, rising to his feet.
He still won’t meet Jason’s eyes.
Jason’s jaw tightens. He shifts his weight, the concrete cold and unforgiving through the thinning soles of his boots, and for a split second his mind drifts—unbidden—to you. To the warmth of your kitchen lights. To the way you’d probably be halfway through setting out plates by now, humming something low and off-key, waiting for him in that way that makes him want to claw his soul out and hand it over to you.
The thought lands soft, intimate, grounding—and then slips through his fingers when he remembers his phone, silent and heavy in his pocket.
“…You guys don’t need me for that,” Jason says, firmer now. There’s an edge to it, something protective and stubborn. He already has plans. A timeline. A promise he intends to keep. “Seriously. If you want to sweep again, even one person could—”
Dick finally looks up.
It’s just a glance, quick and loaded, the kind Jason’s learned to read over a lifetime of almosts and unsaids. Cassandra shifts closer at the same moment, her shoulder nearly brushing his, her presence steady and deliberate. Jason doesn't think she's ever willingly touched him in his life. Stephanie opens her mouth like she’s about to say something—anything—then closes it again.
The harbor feels tighter suddenly. Smaller. Like the stacks of containers have leaned in, hemming them closer, their corrugated sides looming like silent witnesses. The wind cuts sharper off the water, needling through the seams of Jason’s jacket, and somewhere deep in his chest, that pressure builds again.
Jason turns fully to Damian.
“Kid, I swear to God, tell me what—”
Damian snaps at the exact same moment Cassandra moves. Her hand closes around Jason’s shoulder, firm and sudden, fingers digging in through armor like she’s trying to anchor him to the concrete before he does something irreversible. The contact is intimate in a way that feels wrong, alarmed.
“How the hell should I know? They didn't tell me—” Damian bites back, voice sharp, flaring too fast, too hot.
“Damian!” Dick hisses, the sound cutting through the night like a blade dragged too quickly from its sheath. He’s already moving, stepping between them without quite committing to either side, hands up in a placating gesture that lands closer to panic than calm. He turns to Jason almost immediately, words tumbling over each other. “Come on, dude, let’s just go check the security towers and—”
“That’s going to take another hour,” Jason cuts in.
The words come out flat, but there’s steel underneath. He shrugs Cassandra’s hand off—not rough, but final—and reaches into his pocket. The harbor lights blur for a second as his fingers close around his phone, the familiar shape of something that connects him to you grounding him. It’s 10:20. He knows that without looking but checks anyway. He’s been counting the minutes since the mission dragged past its supposed end.
“I had plans,” he says, quieter now, but more dangerous for it. “Let me at least—”
The batarang whistles through the air.
Jason barely has time to register the movement—Damian’s arm snapping forward, wrist precise, expression tight and furious—before metal slams into his hand. The impact jars up his arm, sharp and biting, and the phone slips free, spinning once before it hits the concrete.
Crack.
The screen fractures instantly, a spiderweb of dead glass blooming beneath the sodium lights before the device skids to a stop near Jason’s boot. The harbor seems to hold its breath. Even the wind falters, the water’s slap against the pylons momentarily muted, as if the night itself is listening.
Jason stares down at it.
At the dark screen. On the way his reflection breaks apart in the shattered glass.
Jason’s gaze lifts slowly from the ruin at his feet.
It settles on Dick.
“Call Bruce.”
The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They cut anyway—clean, controlled, edged with something that’s starting to slip. Dick falters under it, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but Jason’s face. The harbor lights stutter overhead, one of them buzzing like it’s about to give out, bathing Dick in a sickly gold that makes him look younger.
Guilty.
“What, you gonna tattle?” Dick says, trying for levity and missing it by miles. His laugh lands wrong, brittle against the cold. “C’mon, Damian's just in a mood. I was going to surprise you with burgers but I thought the kid would spill. I’ll buy you a new phone, okay? Just—”
“Call Bruce,” Jason repeats.
This time it’s a hiss, dragged out through clenched teeth, something feral and fraying around the edges. The wind picks up again, slicing between the containers, rattling loose metal and carrying the sharp tang of rain that never quite falls in Gotham. Jason turns his head, slow and deliberate, until his eyes find Cassandra.
She hasn’t moved. She’s watching him like she’s afraid he might break.
“…He’s busy,” Cass says.
Her voice is barely there. Smaller than usual. Soft enough that Tim, standing a good ten feet away, doesn’t hear it at all. The words dissolve into the night almost as soon as they leave her mouth, swallowed by wind and water and distance—but Jason hears them. Every syllable.
Busy.
Something inside him tightens, winding down to a thin, dangerous thread.
His hand comes up to his comm without conscious thought. He adjusts it once, fingers steady despite the way his pulse thuds too hard, too fast. The harbor seems to lean in again—the stacked containers looming like watchful giants, the river below churning black and endless.
Gotham breathes around him, damp and unforgiving.
“B,” Jason says.
Sharp. Precise. A single syllable fired into the dark like a flare.
Static answers him. Wind whistling through steel corridors. The distant cry of something alive and miserable echoing off the water. No voice. No correction. No irritation crackling back through the line.
Just silence. It stretches. Pulls thin. Grows teeth.
Jason exhales through his nose, a humorless breath that fogs faintly in the cold air. He thinks of you again—too vividly now. The way your voice softens when you say his name. The way you always pick up, even when he thinks you shouldn’t. The way silence has never belonged between the two of you.
His jaw locks. Fuck this shit, I should be at home with her.
Jason moves before anyone can stop him—before anyone even realizes he’s decided something.
He’s across the concrete in three long strides, boots splashing through shallow puddles that mirror Gotham’s jaundiced lights in broken pieces. Damian doesn’t flinch when Jason grabs his comm. Doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t protest. That, more than anything, makes Jason’s teeth grind.
He clicks the emergency signal to the Batcomputer—once, twice, a break, two clicks hard enough that it hurts his thumb—then rips the comm free. His helmet follows, clattering against the concrete with a hollow, echoing crack that ricochets between the shipping containers. The sound feels too loud, too exposed. Jason presses the comm to his bare ear, cold metal biting into skin.
No one stops him.
Not Dick. Not Tim. Not Stephanie. Cassandra watches with that same quiet intensity, hands flexing like she’s bracing for impact. They stand there and let it happen, like this is how it was always meant to go—like they’ve already accepted that Jason finding out is inevitable, but telling him would be worse. Like this is some twisted test, or penance, or family tradition he never agreed to.
The harbor hums low and restless. Wind slides through steel corridors, rattling chains, carrying the stink of oil and brine and rain-soaked concrete. Gotham feels awake in that way it only does when something bad is already in motion.
“Robin?” Bruce’s voice cuts through the static, sharp and immediate. Too immediate. There’s an edge to it Jason hasn’t heard in years—tight, almost nervous, parental. “Robin, what’s wrong?”
Jason almost laughs.
Instead, his mouth twists.
“I’m going home, old man,” he hisses, already turning away from Damian. “What was this? Ya trying to tire me out, or did you get mind-controlled again? ‘Cause everyone here apparently likes you enough to not tell me the truth.”
“Jason—”
“Red Hood,” Jason snaps, the correction coming fast and mean. He bends, scoops his helmet up by the chin guard, and starts walking toward the exit between the containers where the harbor opens up to the road. “What happened to keeping hero names on comms? Or are you the only one allowed to break rules tonight?”
“Red Hood, just give me—”
“It’s a lousy gang!” Jason shouts, voice tearing loose now, bouncing off steel and concrete and dark water. “They don’t even crack the top twenty. Damian could’ve done this shit by himself.”
He doesn’t look back, but he knows they’re following him. He can feel it—the weight of their footsteps, the way they trail just close enough to intervene if he breaks. Later, it’ll hit him why Tim made sure every single goon was double zip-tied, wrists biting white beneath plastic. Insurance.
Tim knew Jason would find out.
Knew none of them would be coming back to clean this up.
“Red Hood—”
“Merry Christmas, B,” Jason cuts in, bitter and sharp as broken glass. “Please don’t call.”
“JASON—”
Bruce’s voice snaps through the comm like a gunshot, dragging Jason straight back into another life, another night, another version of himself that answered to that tone. “She’s in danger. And if you want any chance of seeing her again, get to the Batcave—”
The line goes dead.
Not static. Not interference.
Bruce cut it himself.
Jason stops, because there's only one person he could be talking about to send all five of them with him.
The harbor seems to lurch, the world tilting just enough to make his balance feel theoretical. The wind howls between the containers, louder now, like Gotham exhaling something foul and satisfied. Water slaps hard against concrete pylons below, relentless, counting seconds Jason no longer owns.
Slowly—too slowly—he turns.
He looks at them. At Dick’s pale face. At Tim’s clenched jaw. At Damian’s rigid stillness. At Stephanie, eyes bright with unshed panic. At Cassandra, whose gaze is already on him, steady and mournful, like she’s watching something crack.
They look at him like he’s glass.
Like he’s a bomb they’re waiting to defuse—or clean up after.
Jason doesn’t give them the chance.
“Fuck all of you,” he spits, the words coming out broken and small despite his best efforts.
Then he runs.
Out of the harbor. Out of the sodium lights and rust and the weight of too many eyes. Jason runs like Gotham itself is on his heels, boots striking concrete in a brutal rhythm that drowns out thought—or tries to. The city stretches around him in jagged silhouettes and wet stone, skyscrapers looming like blackened ribs against a low, churning sky. Clouds hang heavy and swollen, bruised purple and gray, threatening rain they never quite release. Gotham loves the anticipation of pain more than the act itself.
His blood is loud in his ears. Too loud. Every heartbeat punches through his ribs, frantic and unforgiving, as if his body already knows something his mind refuses to accept.
Toward the manor. Toward answers.
Toward the awful, creeping certainty settling into his bones that whatever Gotham has taken this time, it didn’t take lightly—and it didn’t take something he can afford to replace.
He takes the shorter way.
Fire escapes. Rooftops slick with mist. Narrow alleys that smell like old rain and older sins. He vaults gaps without slowing, coat snapping behind him like a torn banner, the city blurring into streaks of shadow and light. This route cuts close to your place. Too close. He doesn’t consciously choose it; his body does, muscle memory dragging him along a path his heart has memorized better than any map.
And then—
Mid-leap, suspended between one rooftop and the next, he sees it.
Your building sits quiet against the skyline, dark in a way it never is. Your lights are off. All of them. The windows—your windows—are shattered, glass glittering weakly under the city’s glow like fallen stars. The balcony rail is smeared with something darker than shadow.
Blood.
The word doesn’t form. Not fully. His brain skids around it, refuses to give it weight. At most, he tells himself, you’re hurt. Something small. A cut. A scrape. A stupid accident that looks worse than it is. You’ll laugh it off when he gets there, scold him for worrying, tell him he’s being dramatic again.
Because you’re untouchable.
That’s the rule his mind has always clung to. Gotham can drown him in filth and violence and rot, but you—you—are clean. Untarnished. Something soft the city hasn’t learned how to bruise yet. You exist outside its reach, outside its hunger. Gotham takes things like Jason. It breaks people like him. It doesn’t get to put its hands on you.
It can’t have you.
Because if you’re hurt—if you’re really hurt—then everything Jason has built inside himself caves in at once. Every fragile structure, every careful compromise, every promise he’s made to stay standing for you. There’s no version of the world where you’re broken and he survives it intact.
He lands hard, barely absorbing the impact before he’s running again, lungs burning, throat raw. The manor rises ahead of him through the trees like a dark monument, windows glowing warm and oblivious against the night. Too slow. The gates are too slow. The doors are too slow.
Jason doesn’t bother.
He barrels straight for a ground-floor window and drives his elbow through it without hesitation. Glass explodes inward, sharp and screaming, biting into skin. He doesn’t feel it—not really—until he’s inside, boots skidding onto the polished floor, breath tearing out of him in harsh, uneven pulls.
Blood runs freely down his forearm, drips onto the pale carpet in dark, blooming stains.
It looks wrong there. Violent. Out of place, just like the blood on your balcony.
Jason stares at it for half a second too long, chest heaving, and something in him splinters quietly—because now he knows. The city has already touched you and it has never, not once, let go without breaking something in return.
Jason doesn’t slow down in the Cave.
The platform is still lowering when he’s already moving, boots striking metal too hard, too fast, the sound ricocheting off stone and steel. The Batcave yawns around them—vast and echoing, all cold water and colder rock, computer screens throwing pale blue light across jagged walls. The waterfall roars like it’s trying to drown the night itself, a constant, punishing noise that usually steadies him.
Tonight it only sharpens the edges.
Bruce turns at the last possible second. His eyes flick first to Jason’s face, then to the blood smeared down his arm, dripping steadily onto the pristine metal floor. Bruce’s mouth tightens. Not in anger. In calculation. In fear he refuses to name.
Jason shoves him.
Hard.
Bruce’s back slams into the Batcomputer console, screens rattling, data stuttering for half a heartbeat. A lesser man would’ve been airborne. Bruce Wayne could have thrown Jason across the Cave without effort—could have ended this in a clean, controlled second.
He doesn’t.
Jason knows he won’t.
“Where is she,” Jason spits, the words tearing out of him raw and shaking. His hands fist in Bruce’s cape, knuckles white, trembling despite the strength coiled beneath them. The fabric bunches beneath his grip like it might rip if he pulls any harder. “Where is she?”
Bruce lifts his hands slowly, carefully—not in surrender, but in containment. Like approaching a live wire. His voice, when he speaks, is measured to the point of pain.
“…Jason.”
The name alone is an attempt. An anchor. Bruce is already running scenarios, already gauging angles and exits and how much damage Jason could do if this slips another inch. He knows Jason’s tells. Knows the way his breathing has gone uneven, the way his eyes are too bright, too fixed. Knows this isn’t rage yet.
This is terror.
“Don’t,” Bruce says quietly. Not commanding. Pleading, buried deep beneath control. “Just—listen to me.”
Jason laughs once, short and broken, the sound scraping his throat raw. “No. You don’t get to slow this down. You don’t get to prepare me.”
Bruce swallows. “…Joker—” he begins.
And the world fractures.
The word lands heavy and obscene between them, fouling the air of the cave like poison gas. Joker. The name crawls under Jason’s armor, past muscle and bone, straight into the place where you live inside him.
Suddenly, you’re not untouchable.
You’re not the one clean thing Gotham never got its hands on. Not the soft place Jason runs to when the city claws at him too hard. Not the warmth in his bed, the light in his kitchen, the voice that says his name like it belongs to something human.
You’re not safe.
You’re not distant.
You’re not protected by the simple, impossible belief that the worst things in the world know better than to touch you.
You’re real.
You’re fragile.
You’re reachable.
Jason’s grip tightens without him meaning to, breath hitching violently in his chest. His mind fills with images he refuses to finish forming—broken glass, blood on pale surfaces, your windows shattered open to the night the same way his chest feels split open now. He thinks of your hands. Your laugh. The way you look at him like he’s something worth keeping.
And now—
Now you’re the blood he’s already wearing.
The blood he’s going to feel soaking into his gloves tonight.
Bruce sees it happen. Sees the moment Jason slips past anger and into something far more dangerous. His own heart lurches, sharp and traitorous. This—this is what he’s been afraid of since the second he knew Joker was involved. Not Jason lashing out blindly.
Jason focused.
Emotional.
Unanchored.
“Jason,” Bruce says again, softer now, steady as bedrock despite the fear tightening his chest. “I need you to stay with me. I need you here. Because if you go out there like this—”
Jason’s eyes snap back to him, glassy and feral and devastatingly alive.
“If I don’t go,” Jason says hoarsely, “she dies.”
“If you go,” Bruce says, low and sharp, the words cutting through the roar of the Cave, “you die—and you could lose her at the same time.”
The Batcave hums around them, fluorescent light washing the rock walls in cold blue, computer screens flickering with restless data. The waterfall crashes endlessly behind Bruce, mist clinging to the air, dampening everything it touches. It feels like the Cave is breathing—slow, heavy, watchful.
Bruce moves closer and grips Jason’s jacket with both hands, fingers clutching the leather like it’s the last solid thing in the world. He holds on the way a man holds a ledge he’s already slipping from, hoping friction alone might be enough to keep someone from falling.
It isn’t.
“Where is she,” Jason says.
His voice is flat. Too controlled. His eyes have already left Bruce, already slid to the Batcomputer, to the glowing map littered with red and yellow pings like open wounds across Gotham’s body. Each marker pulses faintly, alive and accusing.
He doesn’t notice his siblings closing in—Dick’s careful steps, Tim’s rigid stillness, Damian hovering sharp and coiled like a drawn blade.
“She’s alive,” Bruce says quickly, desperately. “She wasn’t the only one—at least four other children and three women—”
Jason turns his head.
The look he gives Bruce is devastating in its emptiness. Eyes glassed over, jaw set too tight, brows drawn together like the world has narrowed to a single, unbearable point.
“Do you honestly think I give a damn about them right now?”
The words aren’t shouted. They don’t need to be. They land heavy, obscene in their honesty, and Bruce’s grip tightens reflexively, knuckles whitening against Jason’s jacket.
“I know you don’t,” Bruce snaps back, frustration bleeding through control. “Which is why I didn’t tell you she was taken. Because we need a plan that keeps everyone who was captured safe—”
“At the risk she dies in the process?” Jason cuts in.
Then—he stills.
Something shifts. His hands loosen, falling away from Bruce’s cape as if the fabric has suddenly burned him. His gaze slides, sharp and intentional, and locks onto Tim.
“How long,” Jason says.
The question is steady. Solid. Frighteningly calm.
Tim swallows and flicks a glance at Bruce—a silent check, a plea, a habit Jason has seen a thousand times. Jason shoves Bruce’s hand aside and crosses the distance in two strides, grabbing Tim by the shoulders, fingers digging in through armor.
“Don’t,” Jason hisses, thumbs pressing hard, grounding, painful. “Don’t look at him.”
The words aren’t just for Tim. They’re for Jason too.
He vaguely registers Dick saying his name, Stephanie’s voice tight with panic somewhere behind him, but it all dissolves into a dull ringing as he stares down at Tim. Tim doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. He meets Jason’s gaze head-on.
“How long,” Jason repeats. “Where.”
Tim exhales, slow and controlled, the way he does when delivering bad news. “Two hours,” he says quietly. “Warehouse two blocks from Crime Alley. Behind that busted playground.”
Crime Alley.
The name echoes through the Cave like a curse, sinking into Jason’s chest and blooming outward, cold and malignant. Of course it’s there. Of course Joker chose that place—layers of history piled atop rot, a shrine built from other people’s pain.
Jason releases Tim slowly, hands trembling now, control finally beginning to crack.
Two hours.
Two hours of you alone with the man who taught Gotham how to laugh while it kills.
The Batcomputer hums on, indifferent. Gotham’s skyline glows faintly on the monitors—jagged towers under a bruised sky, rain finally starting to smear the camera feeds, streaking the city in gray. Somewhere out there, windows are broken. Somewhere out there, that cashmere scarf he wrapped and placed under your tree stays un-wrapped.
Jason understands then—with a clarity so sharp it almost feels merciful—that plans are a luxury meant for people who still believe time is something they own.
Time has never belonged to him.
Because you—you—aren’t alone. You’re trapped with seven other people. Four of them children, Bruce had said, like that word didn’t rearrange Jason’s insides completely. His mind does something traitorous then, something he hates himself for even acknowledging: it calculates. It knows how these things go. It knows Joker’s sense of theater, his appetite for cruelty, his fondness for leaving one survivor behind as punctuation.
And the last one standing is never the strongest.
It’s the smallest.
You would be dying before those kids.
Jason’s breath stutters, just once.
“Jason,” Bruce says from the Batcomputer, voice tight, forced into calm the way it always is when he’s terrified. The blue glow paints him hollow, all sharp angles and restraint. “Don’t make me stop you. The cops are on their way. Joker just wants cash.”
For the first time since the harbor, the noise in Jason’s head goes quiet.
Not peaceful—focused.
Everything narrows down to Bruce. To the way his shoulders are squared like a barricade. To the way his hands hover, uncertain, like he’s trying to decide whether to reach out or brace for impact. Jason’s heart hammers so hard it hurts, louder than the waterfall, louder than any threat Batman could ever make.
“If you even try, Bruce,” Jason says.
He doesn’t look at him when he says it. He can’t. The name comes out wrong in his mouth—too raw, too intimate, scraped down to bone. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Tim, standing rigid in front of him, small in a way Jason suddenly can’t stop seeing. He hopes—distantly, uselessly—that he isn’t glaring at his little brother. Hopes Tim understands this isn’t anger.
Just pure desperation. His last attempt, his last shot.
“Ill fucking shoot myself. I’ll make sure you know it’s your fault,” Jason continues, voice low and shaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “I’ll use my gun. And if you tie me up today, I’ll wait until next week. If you lock me down for a week, I’ll wait a month. I’ll do it.”
He swallows.
Because that’s the only thing that’s ever worked. The only language Bruce Wayne never ignores.
Dick moves fast—too fast—grabbing Jason’s arm where it’s still braced near Tim, fingers digging in hard. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he shouts, panic cracking straight through his anger.
Jason turns on him then, eyes blazing, voice breaking loose at last.
“Would you be this still?” Jason yells back. “If that was me with Joker again? If it was me instead of her—would you have left me there for the police to find? Again?”
The word hangs between them, heavy and damning.
Again.
Jason knows Dick well enough to see it land. To watch his brother’s grip falter, fingers loosening like they’ve forgotten what they were holding onto in the first place. Dick’s face goes pale, mouth parting uselessly, and Jason twists the knife—not because he wants to hurt him, but because he needs them to understand.
“This,” Jason snaps. “This is why none of you fucking knew about her.”
He looks at all of them now—really looks. At Bruce, frozen behind the console like a man staring down a live bomb. At Dick, wrecked with guilt.
“If you can’t even see me beyond a mistake you made,” Jason says, voice hoarse, “there was no way you wouldn’t have seen her as that too. And I love her too much for that.”
The words leave him hollowed out.
Then he’s gone.
The Cave swallows the echo of his footsteps, leaving only the roar of the waterfall and the hum of machines that suddenly feel pointless. No one moves to stop him. No one even tries.
It takes Tim a full minute to cross the platform and reach the Batcomputer, fingers hovering uselessly over keys he knows by heart.
It takes Cassandra four times as long to find a part of Bruce that still moves—some small, human place in his arm or shoulder that isn’t locked rigid like a man bracing for an explosion he knows is already ticking down.
Dick follows Jason’s trail almost immediately. And Damian follows Dick.
You don’t remember the last five hours.
They’re gone—hollowed out—like someone reached into your head and scooped the time away with a careless hand. The last thing you have is small and warm and ordinary: the coffee table between the couch and the window, set for two. Plates aligned just so. The new glasses you bought with Jason on that stupidly perfect thrift-store date, thin and elegant and impractical. You’d laughed about them, about how easy they’d be to break. Jason had pretended to scold you, fingers warm around yours as he tugged you toward the bookshelves, already stacking paperbacks in his arms like treasure.
You’d bought homeware. A vintage mirror with a gold edge, slightly warped, the kind that makes everything look softer than it is.
Jason always said you needed better locks. You realize it numbly.
He always said it gently, like a suggestion instead of a warning. Like he was talking about replacing a lightbulb or buying better coffee. You brushed him off every time, smiling, pressing a kiss into his shoulder, telling him Gotham wasn’t that bad. That you were fine. That you were safe.
And you were right. You always are.
Because an extra lock wouldn’t have stopped the man with the red smile.
It wouldn’t have stopped hands tangling in your hair, fingers tight and merciless as he dragged you across your rug, skin burning where it scraped against the fibers. It wouldn’t have stopped the way your mirror shattered when he slammed you against it, glass singing as it broke, your own reflection splintering into a hundred terrified pieces that stared back at you with wide, unbelieving eyes.
It wouldn’t have stopped the way he looked at you.
He crouched in front of you like this was intimate. Like this was a secret. His smile stretched too far, paint cracked and smeared, eyes bright with something wrong and delighted and ancient.
Joker tilted his head, studying you the way a child studies an insect pinned to cork.
“Here’s the other lovebird,” he murmured, voice lilting, almost fond. “Ohhh… how cute you are.”
You remember thinking—absurdly, desperately—that Jason would hate that word. That he’d bristle at it, roll his eyes, pull you closer just to prove a point. You remember the ache of missing him hitting harder than the pain at first, your mind reaching for him the way it always does when the world goes wrong.
Jason would know what to do.
Jason would make this stop.
The thought is a comfort even now, curled tight in your chest, fragile but stubborn. You cling to it as the man stands, as one of the shadows behind him passes up an old, rusted crowbar. The metal is pitted and dark, flaking with age and something older still. It smells like iron and damp and rot.
It doesn’t take a lock to stop that.
It doesn’t take a security system to stop the sound your bones make when he brings it down.
The pain comes in blinding flashes—white-hot, nauseating, wrong. Your legs scream before you do, nerves lighting up in protest, your body trying to fold in on itself, trying to protect something already broken. You taste blood, copper and thick, your teeth chattering even as your throat burns raw from crying out.
Through it all, you think of Jason.
Of his hands—gentle despite their strength. Of the way he says your name like it’s something precious, something he’s afraid to drop. You think of his laugh, low and surprised, the way he softens when it’s just the two of you and Gotham can’t see him. You think of the books still stacked on the table, waiting to be read, of the glasses that shattered just like the mirror did.
Of how he warned you.
Of how he would be here already if he knew.
The room feels wrong—tilted, smeared with shadow, the air thick and sour. Blood pools where it shouldn’t, dark against your floor, soaking into the rug you picked out together. The city hums outside your broken windows, indifferent and vast, neon bleeding into the night like nothing is wrong at all.
You breathe when you can. You hold onto Jason’s name like a prayer you’re afraid to say out loud.
Because if he comes—when he comes—you need to believe there will still be something left of you for him to find.
Your consciousness returns in fragments, drifting in and out the same way you remember nights with him. Not clean breaks. Not mercy. Just gaps.
A void of sleep.
Jason easing your window open like the city might hear him, hands raised in mock surrender, voice low and careful. I didn’t mean to wake you… shh… go back to bed. The mattress dips, familiar weight settling beside you, warmth bleeding into your back.
A void of sleep.
Jason in your bathroom, the light too bright, the mirror fogged. Gotham’s blood and grime rinsed down the drain while he rubs his hair dry with one of your soft, ridiculous pink towels. He smiles at you through the doorway, sheepish and fond, promises he’ll be there in a second. He always is.
A void of sleep.
Jason shifting beside you, breath warm against the delicate skin beneath your ear. His arm tightens in his sleep, possessive without knowing it, like even unconscious he’s afraid the world might take you if he lets go. He murmurs your name—broken, reverent.
A void of sleep.
White hands. Cracked paint. Fingers threading through your hair, slick and tangled with blood. The touch is intimate in the worst way, scalp burning as he hums—no, sings—a childish tune about robins, voice lilting and wrong, laughter bubbling beneath it like rot under sugar.
A void of sleep.
Concrete tearing at your skin as you’re dragged, knees bouncing, spine jolting with every crack in the ground. A van door yawns open, metal teeth waiting. A child sobs near your ear, small and hiccuping. A woman screams at the child to shut up—panic sharp and desperate—until a gunshot rings out like punctuation. The woman goes silent. The child doesn’t. The word mommy repeats, thin and broken, drilling into your skull.
A void of sleep.
You wake choking on pain.
Your body is bound to a chair, wrists cinched tight, ankles screaming. Barbed wire coils around you like something alive, biting deep with every involuntary twitch. The metal is rusted, flaking, cruel—tearing skin open in ragged kisses that burn and throb and never quite stop bleeding. Your legs are numb in places, screaming in others. You can feel blood soaking into fabric, sticky and cooling as it trails downward.
He’s in front of you.
Smiling.
Head cocked, eyes bright with interest, like you’re a puzzle he’s just started enjoying. He steps closer, crouches until he’s eye-level with you, hands clasped together as if in prayer.
“You do love your sleep, don’t you?” he says, voice almost gentle.
Your vision swims. The room smells like iron and oil and damp concrete. Somewhere nearby, something drips steadily—water, or blood, or both. The walls feel too close, the shadows stretching and curling like they’re listening.
“The other birdy,” he continues, grinning wider, “wouldn’t even sleep if I cracked his skull. Such a shame.” He sighs theatrically, tapping the barbed wire with one gloved finger, delighted by the way you flinch. “I suppose I’ll have to find a way to keep you awake.”
Through the haze, through the pain, one thought stays stubbornly intact.
Jason is coming.
And you cling to that like a lifeline, even as the horror closes in, even as the night tries to peel you apart—because if you let go of that belief, if you let the void take everything—There will be nothing left for him to save.
You can’t see farther than four feet in front of you.
Anything beyond that dissolves into smears of color and motion, the edges of the room bleeding into one another. When you try to focus, your vision tilts violently, the world pitching sideways as warm blood slips down from your temple, sticky and insistent. It drips into your eye, blurring everything further, each blink making it worse. The ceiling swims. The walls breathe.
He notices.
Of course he does.
He steps into what little clarity you have left, face snapping into focus like a nightmare finally deciding to be seen. His hand comes up fast, fingers prying your jaw open with impatient familiarity. Something chalky presses against your tongue.
You gag immediately.
Your throat spasms around his fingers, saliva thick and useless as panic claws up your chest. Your head jerks instinctively, barbed wire biting deeper in protest, fresh pain flaring white-hot along your wrists and ankles. He doesn’t pull away. He shoves the pill back, past your tongue, past your resistance, until your body betrays you and swallows.
You choke.
Tears spill from your eyes, hot and humiliating, streaking through the grime on your cheeks. Your lungs burn as you suck in air in sharp, broken pulls.
Jason, you think, distantly, desperately. The name is a reflex now. A prayer you don’t dare say out loud.
His hand withdraws at last.
Then—
Smack.
Your head snaps to the side, vision exploding into sparks. Before you can react—
Smack.
The second strike lands harder, ringing through your skull, teeth clacking together as pain blooms anew. The world steadies just enough to be cruel about it.
“That’ll keep you awake, birdy,” he croons, pleased.
Your heart slams against your ribs, frantic and trapped. Already you can feel it—the way the haze pulls back just a little too much, the way your thoughts sharpen against your will. Your eyelids burn, heavy but refusing to close, nerves screaming as the drug seeps in and denies you even the mercy of darkness.
“Now.”
He leans back into his own chair like this is a rehearsal, like he’s bored of waiting for his cue. The legs scrape loudly against the concrete, the sound sharp enough to hurt. He reaches forward and adjusts the camera in front of you with careful precision. A small red light blinks every few seconds—steady, patient. Watching.
“We’re going to make a deal, okay?”
You don’t answer.
Your eyes refuse to cooperate, swimming uselessly as you blink through blood and tears. Every attempt to focus sends a wave of nausea through you, the room tilting, your pulse roaring in your ears louder than his voice. Your jaw trembles. Your tongue feels thick, wrong in your mouth.
“Okay?”
Nothing comes out.
The barbed wire strung cruelly across your throat digs in deeper with every breath you take, a quiet reminder that sound would cost you skin. Air hisses past your teeth in shallow pulls. You can feel your heartbeat there, fluttering and frantic against metal.
His smile thins.
He stands.
The rusty crowbar tightens in his grip as he rises from a stupid, bright orange folding chair—out of place, obscene against the filth of the warehouse. He steps into frame, then closer, until the camera, until you, are all that exist. He hooks two fingers under your chin and lifts your face, forcing your eyes up.
“Answer.”
You try.
Your mouth opens. Nothing happens.
All you can see is him—cracked white makeup creasing around his eyes, green hair greasy and limp, age showing in the lines around his mouth where smiles have lived too long. He smells like oil and metal and something sour beneath it all. The warehouse stinks of rust, damp concrete, old fuel. It crawls into your lungs.
And then—
You hear it.
A sound that doesn’t belong to him.
Crying.
Your head turns slowly, painfully, vertebrae protesting as the wire shifts against your throat. The movement costs you another sharp breath. Your vision blurs again—but this time, shapes resolve.
A cluster of bodies huddled together against a dented equipment container. Two teenage girls with their knees pulled tight to their chests, faces streaked with dirt and tears. Four little boys wedged between them, shaking, hands bound too tight, mouths open in silent sobs like they’ve already learned screaming doesn’t help.
Something in your chest caves in.
You don’t even see the crowbar move.
The impact comes out of nowhere—white-hot, brutal. The hooked end of the bar slams into your shoulder with a wet, tearing sound, metal biting deep as it pierces flesh. Pain detonates through you, ripping the air from your lungs. He yells as he does it, manic and delighted, like the violence startled even him.
Your body jerks against the restraints.
Barbed wire bites deeper. Blood spills warm and fast down your arm, soaking into your sleeve, dripping to the floor in thick, uneven drops. Your vision fractures, stars bursting behind your eyes.
You clamp your teeth down hard on your lip to keep from screaming.
You taste iron immediately—sharp and overwhelming—as skin breaks beneath your bite. Tears spill freely now, blurring everything, mixing with the blood already clinging to your lashes. It burns. It hurts. Your whole body shakes with the effort of staying quiet.
Behind you, the crying gets worse—fractured, panicked.
“Okay,” you choke out.
The word scrapes your throat raw on the way out, barely more than a breath. It tastes like blood and rust and surrender.
Immediately, the pressure is gone.
The crowbar pulls free with a wet sound that makes your vision white out, pain screaming down your arm as the hooked metal tears away from muscle and skin. You shudder hard, a broken gasp ripping out of you despite your best effort to swallow it down.
He steps back like a magician deciding on the next trick.
Then he leans in again—careful, deliberate—and pats at the wound where the bar pierced you. Not gentle. Never gentle. His palm presses just enough to make you flinch, fingers smearing warm blood across your torn clothes.
“See?” he says brightly, turning slightly so the camera gets a better angle. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Your breath comes shallow and fast, chest stuttering against the wire. Every inhale sends a fresh bloom of pain through your shoulder, the edges of it pulsing in time with your heart.
His hands come up next.
Dry. Cracked. Too warm.
He grabs your face, fingers digging into your cheeks, thumbs pressing at your jaw as he tilts your head from side to side. The movement drags the skin of your neck against the barbed wire, a searing, intimate pain that makes your eyes flood instantly.
“What a dumb dumb birdy you are,” he croons, affectionate in the way predators are. “It’s okay. Joker can teach you.”
Your body trembles uncontrollably now. Your fingers spasm uselessly against the wooden arms of the chair, nails scraping shallow grooves into the surface. You can feel blood slicking your palm and you don't even want to think about how you got hurt there too.
He releases your face.
Pats your head once.
The gesture is almost worse than the violence.
“Now,” he says softly, pleasantly, “say thank you.”
Your vision swims. The room feels too loud, too close. Somewhere behind you, one of the children sobs so hard it turns into hiccupping gasps. You swallow around the wire, throat burning.
You look up at him with shaking eyes, lashes heavy with tears and blood. Your mouth opens. Your lips quiver.
“Thank—” Your voice breaks completely. You force it back together, dragging the word out of yourself like it’s being pulled through glass. “Thank you.”
His smile spreads slow and satisfied, stretching the cracks in his makeup wider.
“Good birdy,” he coos, pleased. “So much more compliant than your love bird already!”
“Now—” Joker announces, voice lifting into a theatrical lilt, like he’s stepped beneath a spotlight instead of flickering warehouse fluorescents. He turns toward the camera, gives it a jaunty little nod, then looks back at you, grin splitting wider. “I was gonna let you go for some cash. Thought your little boy bird might get scared shitless—just a fun little bonus, really—buttt—”
He drifts away from you, footsteps light, almost playful. You can’t turn your head far enough to see what he’s doing. The wire bites when you try. Your vision pulses, dark at the edges.
Then—
A scream.
Sharp. High. A girl’s voice.
It cuts off halfway through, collapsing into a thin, broken cry that echoes far too long in the hollow space of the warehouse.
Something in you fractures.
Joker reappears at your side, breath brushing your ear, laughter bubbling out of him like it’s a private joke the two of you share. “Got lucky with a rich bitch on the road,” he cackles, delighted. “Gotham really does keep on givin’.”
Your stomach twists violently. You taste bile. The crying behind you swells again, panicked and animal, and you can feel your own body trying to fold in on itself despite the restraints, like if you curl inward hard enough you might disappear.
His hands slide to your throat and at the same time your eyes land onto his hands. Diamond earrings.
He ripped her earrings out of her ears.
Before you can flinch at the sight of pieces of skin in his open hand, he yanks.
The chain snaps free with a sharp tug, metal biting into your skin as the necklace tears away. You gasp, the wire at your neck punishing you for it, and the sudden cold where the chain used to rest feels obscene—too exposed. You feel lucky that you took off your earrings when you were doing your hair.
He dangles it in front of the camera, letting it glint under the harsh light, gemstones smeared faintly red from your blood. “This could go for a couple hundred too!” he sings. “Ohhh, how delightful!”
He leans closer, eyes alight, savoring every tremor that runs through you. “At least one of the birdies knows how to decorate their nest. Found a few rings at your place as well.”
Joker pockets the necklace with a satisfied hum.
“Well, now that I don’t need the money,” he croons, voice lilting, playful, like he’s deciding which joke to tell next, “what should I do with you?”
His fingers drag along your cheek again, slower this time, the pad of his thumb pressing just hard enough to bruise. His touch leaves heat behind, a crawling sensation that makes your stomach revolt. You feel contaminated where he’s touched you, like your skin is remembering something it shouldn’t.
“…I’ll give you more,” you whisper. Your voice fractures around the word, splintering into something pitiful and thin. “However much you want—just—”
“Oh, I don’t need money.”
The change is instant. His tone drops, sharp and venomous, and when he leans in his eyes are blown wide and empty, pupils swallowing the green like oil slicks. A hawk spotting movement. A blade finding flesh.
“I was looking for some fun, love bird,” he hisses. “You can’t give me that?”
You whimper around the grip on your jaw as his fingers tighten, nails biting into your skin. The wire at your throat digs deeper when you gasp, its teeth kissing something vital. Pain blooms hot and bright, stars bursting behind your eyes.
“Jason— Jason will—”
He doesn’t even flinch at the name.
Maybe that’s mercy.
His fingers move higher, rough and invasive, smearing through the makeup you’d put on hours ago with careful hands. The eyeshadow burns as it’s ground into your skin, sweat and blood turning it into a dark, ugly paste. His thumb drags through the faint blush on your cheeks, erasing it like it was a mistake.
“How pretty you are,” he murmurs, almost tender. “I do makeup on myself too, you know.”
Then his hands leave you entirely.
He grabs his own face, fingers digging into the cracked greasepaint, stretching the red grin wider, tearing at the corners until the white creases and flakes. For a second you think you see real skin underneath—white, lined, angry. Horrid.
“Do you like mine?” he asks brightly. “Do you think I’m pretty?”
Your mind blanks.
Your eyes flick helplessly to the camera instead—the blinking red light pulsing steadily, patiently. Recording. Waiting. You try to speak, to say yes or no or anything that might stop what’s coming, but your throat locks around the wire and all that comes out is a wet, useless sound.
Then—
“Very pretty!”
The voice is behind you.
Too young.
A teenage girl, no older than seventeen. Her voice trembles, thin and frantic, the words tumbling over each other. “So—so pretty—”
You feel something inside you tear open.
She’s trying to survive. You can feel that hope radiate off of her. The hope of throwing words into the dark and praying it lands somewhere safe.
Joker’s head snaps toward her.
His eyes narrow, sharp and wrong, smile freezing into something predatory. “You think so?”
There’s a frantic nod you can hear more than see—the quick intake of breath, the shuddering little sob that follows.
Joker bends down.
The crowbar scrapes loudly as he lifts it, metal screaming against concrete. You catch a glimpse of it as he moves past you—rusted, pitted, darkened in places where it’s already been used tonight.
Then he’s gone from your line of sight.
The scream that follows is immediate and unbearable.
It’s not just pain—it’s shock, terror, the sound of someone realizing too late that they were wrong. The metal wall amplifies it, throws it back at itself until it feels like the warehouse is screaming with her.
There’s a wet, sickening crack.
A sound like meat hitting concrete.
“Why don’t we match?” Joker coos from behind you, voice light and delighted. “I did one side, now the other!”
The crowbar hits again.
You hear bone give this time—feel it in your teeth, in your chest. Her scream fractures into something animal, then into choking sobs, then into a raw, bubbling sound that makes bile rush up your throat.
Your own crying breaks free, ugly and uncontrollable. Your body jerks against the restraints, fingers cramping, nails tearing uselessly into the wood of the chair. Hot tears spill down your face, mixing with blood, dripping off your chin in thick, dark drops.
The camera’s red light blinks again.
Once.
Twice.
It taunts you by matching every sound that breaks out of you.
Every gasped sob, every wet, hitching breath. The camera’s red light blinks in time with your chest, like it’s learned your rhythm, like it’s decided to breathe with you instead of for you.
And then the Joker comes back.
You smell him before you see him—iron-thick blood, old rust, sweat gone sour. His hands are slick, red to the wrist, fingers shining under the warehouse lights. The crowbar hangs loose in his grip, darker now, clotted, strands of hair caught cruelly in its curve.
He crouches in front of you, bringing himself eye-level, like he’s talking to a child.
“Well,” he hums thoughtfully. “I can’t give you her look, can I?”
Your vision swims. You can’t stop shaking. Tears slide down your face in hot, unstoppable streams, carving clean paths through blood and grime. Your mouth opens, but nothing coherent comes out—just a broken, animal sound that folds back in on itself.
His smile twitches.
“What should I do with you?” he asks softly. “Hm?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. You just cry harder, chest stuttering against the wire, throat raw and burning.
That seems to irritate him.
He clicks his tongue, disappointed, and lifts the crowbar. The cold metal taps against your cheek once—tap—just enough to make you flinch violently. He pauses, head tilting.
“Oh—”
His eyes light up.
“Oh yes, that’s wonderful! Oh—” He erupts into laughter, sudden and explosive, clutching his stomach as if the joke is too much to bear. Spit flies from his mouth, warm and disgusting as it lands in your hair, streaking through blood-matted strands. “Oh, isn’t my brain just splendid?”
He straightens, still laughing, wiping his eyes like he’s genuinely amused. “You bats are all poetry, I say—pure poetry!”
Then he turns.
Walks away.
His footsteps fade, echoing hollowly through the warehouse, until there’s only the hum of the lights, the distant crying behind you—and the camera.
You’re alone.
One last sob claws its way out of your throat, wet and choking. Blood follows it, dribbling down your chin, splashing darkly against your chest. You force your eyes open, drag them upward, lock them onto the camera.
You don’t know who’s watching. You don’t know if anyone is.
Your voice comes out steadier than it has any right to be.
“How—”
“Shut up!” someone whisper-yells behind you, frantic and terrified. “There’s other men!”
Your mouth snaps shut.
And the red light keeps blinking.
The metal door slams open with a shriek of abused hinges, the impact shuddering through the warehouse floor and straight up your spine. Dust rains down from the rafters in a thin, dirty veil, catching in your hair and sticking to the blood already drying there.
He’s laughing before you even see him.
Not distant laughter—close. Moving. Each step accompanied by a wet, dragging sound, like something heavy being pulled across concrete. His cackle ricochets off the shipping containers, off the steel beams, off the low ceiling that traps the sound and forces it back into your skull.
A little boy cries out behind you as Joker passes him. A sharp, panicked sound that fractures into a sob and then cuts off abruptly, like someone clamped a hand over his mouth.
The air grows hotter.
Through the warped reflection in the camera lens, you see it clearly now: a long metal bar burning red-hot, so bright it hurts to look at directly. Heat ripples distort the image around it, the glow painting the walls in feverish streaks of crimson. The smell hits you next—burning iron, scorched metal, something faintly organic beneath it that makes bile crawl up your throat.
Joker taps the brand against the concrete behind you.
It doesn’t clang.
It hisses.
The sound is sharp and alive, like meat on a skillet. Tiny sparks spit outward where it kisses the floor, leaving blackened scars in the cement. The red glow doesn’t dull. Doesn’t cool. It stays furious and bright, as if fed by something endless.
Whatever fragile hope you were clutching evaporates in that moment, leaving you hollowed out, lungs burning as you exhale something that feels like your last prayer.
He’s behind you in the next second.
Joker’s hand comes out of nowhere, clamping over your mouth, palm slick and hot. The copper taste floods you as his fingers press into your cheeks, nails digging in just enough to hurt—just enough to remind you that restraint is a choice he’s making. Your head is forced back, neck screaming as the wire saws deeper, the barbs biting into tender skin.
“Would you like to match your birdy?” he murmurs.
His voice is serene. Gentle. Almost affectionate.
He angles the brand around the arm of the chair so you can see it clearly. The letter is unmistakable now, its edges glowing white-hot, heat radiating off it in suffocating waves.
A ‘𝙹’.
Your body reacts before your mind can—your stomach convulses, gagging against his hand, breath stuttering uselessly through your nose. Your skin feels too tight, like it’s already shrinking away from what’s coming.
“We’re going to make the deal now,” he coos.
In the camera’s reflection, you can see his eye—wide, bright, utterly focused on the blinking red dot. Performing. Enjoying the audience if there even is one.
“You either get a matching look…” The brand drifts closer, close enough that the heat kisses your cheek, nerves screaming in anticipation, sweat instantly breaking out along your spine. “…or you tell me who you hate.”
His hand peels away from your mouth.
Air rushes in too fast. You choke on it, coughing hard enough that the wire grinds into your throat, pain blooming hot and blinding. Your voice comes out shredded. “Who… who I hate?”
“Who put you here?” he hums thoughtfully, as if the answer delights him. “It wasn’t me.”
The brand pauses, hovering inches from your skin. You can feel the heat burrowing inward, like it’s already memorizing you.
“Why do you think I found you?” he continues lightly. “Do you know how sloppy he is?”
Silence stretches, thick and oppressive.
You stare at the glowing red letter, your mind drifting somewhere distant and numb to survive. Absurdly, irrationally, you think of Jason’s helmet—the same violent red, the same defiant color. You wonder if he’s thinking of you right now. If he can feel this, somehow.
“Tell me who you hate.”
The words don’t just reach you—they enter you, heavy and cold, sinking past bone and settling somewhere deep and irreversible. They press the air flat, make the warehouse feel smaller, closer, like the walls are leaning in to listen.
He stands before you in all his wrongness, and up close there is nothing theatrical left. The Joker’s makeup has melted into something corpse-like, white cracked and flaking into the grooves of his face as though his skin is trying to shed it. The red smile is no longer a grin so much as a wound, smeared unevenly, darker where blood has mixed in, the corners dragged downward by age and use. His hair hangs limp, green dulled to the color of mold, clinging to his scalp in greasy strands. His eyes are too bright—glass-bright, feverish—never still, never soft, reflecting the warehouse lights like knives.
The space around you hums with misery. The concrete beneath your feet is slick with blood and oil, cold seeping up through the chair and into your bones. Shipping containers loom like coffins, their metal sides scarred and rusted, shadows pooled so thick between them it feels like something could step out at any moment. The air reeks—burnt iron, old sweat, copper, rot—and every breath feels like inhaling something alive and hostile.
You look at the camera.
That red eye blinks steadily, rhythmically, a heart that isn’t yours. It sees the way your chest shudders, the way your fingers twitch uselessly against the bindings, the way your body is already bracing for pain it knows is coming. Your thoughts drift, slow and exhausted, slipping through your hands like water you can’t quite hold.
You think of Jason.
Not the helmet. Not the blood. But his hands—warm, callused, careful when they touch you. The way he looks at you like the world might soften if you stay. The way he says your name like it’s something solid.
You could say his name now.
You could offer it up like a sacrifice and pray that this monster believes in deals, that you might walk out of here broken but breathing. You could lie and hope he lets you go.
Or you could say Jason’s name and watch Joker’s smile vanish as he switches off the camera and kills you quietly, preserving this horror to show your sweet boy later.
Or you could stay silent and take the brand—feel your skin burn, your body marked, watch the ecstasy bloom in Joker’s eyes as he claims you like an object he’s improved.
None of them feel survivable.
Something inside you twists—not courage, not bravery, but love sharpened into something desperate and ugly and defiant. You gather what spit you can in your blood-wet mouth and turn your head as far as the wire allows.
You spit in his face.
It lands wet and unmistakable, dragging a slow line through the cracked white paint, cutting through the red smile like an insult carved in flesh.
For a heartbeat, everything freezes.
The Joker goes utterly still, his expression emptying out in a way that is far more frightening than his laughter. Then his eyes widen, pupils dilating, fury flaring bright and feral—pleased.
You lean forward, neck screaming as the wire bites deeper, and you whisper because your voice will not survive being louder.
“You know,” you murmur, breath shaking despite everything you do to steady it, “he’s never mentioned you before.”
His breath stutters.
“You must not have left quite an impression.”
It’s a lie. A reckless, transparent lie.
You have lived in Gotham long enough to know exactly what he is—his name written in blood across the city’s history—but lies can still cut, and you see it land. You see the way his smile stretches wider, hungry and thrilled.
You’ve given him a reason.
A reason to prove himself.
A reason to keep you alive.
A reason to make you hurt longer.
His hand tangles in your hair and yanks your head back violently. Your neck slams into the barbed wire, spikes tearing in with a wet, intimate sound that makes you sob despite yourself. Warm blood spills down your throat, choking you, slicking your chest.
Then the brand descends.
The heat is indescribable—ancient, total, a pain so vast it consumes thought itself. Your flesh screams as it burns, the smell of seared skin rising thick and sweet, smoke curling upward as the letter is carved into you slowly, deliberately. Your body arches uselessly against the restraints, every nerve on fire, and the sound that leaves you is not a scream so much as something torn out of your soul.
You hate that he hears it. And when that drug denies you the void of sleep you so desperately need, you allow yourself to think numbly as the man pulls it away that at least Jason can't dwindle his appearance anymore.
Your tears stripe down your cheeks, burning as they touch your skin.
We match. You think numbly, Atleast we match.
He strokes over the brand with more delicacy than he has ever had in this whole nightmare, mumbling, “This is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me.”
When you wake again, it’s to the weight of tears landing on your face—warm, uneven drops that pull you out of the dark in slow, reluctant pieces. For a moment you don’t know where you are. The world rocks gently, like it can’t decide whether to keep moving or stop altogether. There’s the low hum of an engine beneath you, vibration traveling through bone and bruised muscle, and the smell of old leather surrounds you—worn, familiar, grounding in a way that makes your chest ache.
Leather is good.
Leather is not acid.
Leather does not burn your lungs on the way in.
“Hurts,” you mumble, the word barely surviving the journey out of your throat. You offer it up like an apology, like a peace offering, half-expecting pain to answer you back.
Instead, the crying breaks harder.
It comes undone above you, raw and ugly, and through the haze you realize you aren’t lying flat on concrete, waiting for the Joker to press a cinder block to your stomach. Your body is stretched across someone, your legs draped over another set of knees, your weight distributed carefully, reverently, like something fragile that might shatter if shifted wrong.
An arm is braced beneath your neck, steady and strong, keeping your head from lolling, and your cheek presses into a leather jacket that smells unmistakably like gun oil, sweat, rain—
Jason.
The knowledge hits softer than it should, cushioned by exhaustion and shock, and when your eyes finally manage to open, everything swims. Light smears at the edges, colors bleeding into one another, but his face is there anyway, hovering close, carved with terror and relief and something so naked it almost scares you more than the warehouse did.
“Am I in heaven?” you mumble.
He lets out a sound that isn’t quite a sob and isn’t quite a laugh, choking on it as his chin trembles. “You don’t even believe in heaven.”
“Well,” you murmur, trying—and failing—to pull your mouth into something that resembles a smile, “what else could you be?”
Your jaw burns when you speak. Everything burns. It feels like your body has been filled with broken glass and lit from the inside, and you’re dimly aware of warm liquid slipping from your mouth, darkening the leather beneath your cheek every time you breathe wrong. You hate that you’re staining him. You hate that you can’t stop.
“I’ll kill him,” Jason whispers, like a prayer he’s been holding onto with both hands. His fingers shake as they brush your hair back, careful to avoid places he knows are hurt. “I’ll kill him. I promise.”
“Can I have hot chocolate first?” you mumble. The words feel distant, like they belong to someone else. “I bought that expensive kind… from Finland. Asshole knocked it all over my carpet…”
Jason’s breath fractures completely at that. He nods too hard, tears spilling freely now, dropping onto your cheeks, your neck, your collarbone. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll buy you hot chocolate. I’ll buy you all of it.”
Somewhere near your feet, another voice cuts in, low and strained with concern. “Hey, Jay—breathe—”
Jason doesn’t hear them. Or maybe he does and simply can’t afford to listen. His chest is rising too fast beneath you, breaths sawing in and out like he’s drowning on dry land, his eyes glassy and unfocused, the green in them shifting with every frantic blink.
Or maybe that’s just your vision still failing you. That would make sense. The powder. The smoke. The way light hurts now.
“Stop crying,” you murmur weakly. “I can’t die with you looking like that.”
That breaks him.
His face crumples completely, grief spilling over into something fierce and desperate as he bends closer, forehead almost touching yours. “Good,” he chokes. “Fuck you. I’ll cry even more, so–so stay with me, yeah?”
“No,” you whisper, your voice scraping raw against your throat. “Wanna sleep.”
“You slept an awful lot,” he snaps, but there’s no anger in it—only terror wearing sharp edges, only love clawing its way out however it can.
“Well,” you murmur, your voice thin but soft, like you’re afraid of startling him, “You show up in my dreams an awful lot.”
That does it.
Whatever fragile control Jason had left fractures clean through. He folds over you instinctively, shoulders caving as he tries—fails—to hide the sound of it. His breath comes apart against your hair, his forehead dipping close to your temple like if he presses himself near enough, he can keep you here by force alone. You feel the tremor of him through your whole body, every hitch of his chest echoing in your ribs.
You smell blood on him then. Copper and iron, sharp beneath the leather and sweat and rain. For a distant, numb second you think it’s yours again—until the scent is too heavy, too layered.
Oh.
Was this—
“Did I interrupt family bonding?” you whisper.
Your lips barely move. The words slip out half-asleep, half-dreaming, and they earn you a startled huff from somewhere behind you. Jason doesn’t answer. He can’t. His arms tighten instead, one hand splayed carefully at your back like he’s afraid even breathing too hard might hurt you more.
A voice comes from the seat behind, dry and unimpressed, because Jason is currently incapable of speech and whoever has your legs resting in their lap is rubbing slow, grounding circles into his back.
“If this is what you think family bonding is, you’ll fit right in.”
“Damian, be quiet,” another voice snaps.
“She’s the one shamelessly flirting with him in front of all of us, Tim” Damian continues anyway, undeterred. “And Father isn’t even saying anything, so—”
“Well she’s the one dying!” Tim blurts, voice cracking sharp with fear.
Jason chokes on the words that come from Tim’s mouth, breath stuttering hard, and a deeper voice cuts in from the front seat—controlled, measured, holding itself together by sheer will.
“She’s not going to die, Tim.”
“I want hoya bellas on my grave,” you interrupt softly.
Jason lets out a broken sound that might have been a laugh in another universe. He shakes his head over you, forehead brushing your hair, and through your blurry vision you think you catch a gloved hand popping up behind him in a solemn thumbs-up.
“Got it.”
Another voice joins in from the front, exasperated and strained. “Cassandra, she’s not being serious.”
“I’m sorry,” Jason whispers, over and over, like a mantra, like something he’s trying to carve into reality. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His thumb strokes your hair away from your forehead again, impossibly gentle, avoiding the places he knows hurt, the places he doesn’t want to know at all.
“I’m gonna sleep now,” you murmur. It takes effort to shape the words. The dark is getting heavier again, tugging at you, warm and deep. “Can one of you give Jason water?”
“Hey—” Jason breathes, panic flaring sharp as his voice cracks. “Hey, no—no, no, no, stay with me, come on—”
But you’re already slipping.
Your eyes flutter closed despite him, despite the warmth of his arms, despite the way his heart is racing beneath your ear like it’s trying to outrun fate itself. His glove comes off hurriedly and you feel his bare fingers press to your pulse, grounding himself in the steady beat there, in the fact that it’s still happening.
After a few minutes, Dick leans forward and taps Jason’s shoulder gently, offering a water bottle. His uniform is torn and scorched like the rest of them, a thin cut bright against his cheek, but his voice is soft when he speaks.
“Drink.”
Jason doesn’t look up. He doesn’t let go. He just nods once, tight and shaky, eyes fixed on you like if he looks away for even a second, the world might take you again.
He forces himself to take a full gulp of water, the plastic bottle crinkling loudly in the too-quiet car, his throat working like it has to remember how swallowing goes. His hands are still shaking when he passes it off to Tim.
“Hey, I don’t need any—”
Jason looks at him.
Not sharp. Not angry. Just steady in a way that leaves no room for argument, the kind of look that says do this or I will fall apart next.
Tim takes a long swig immediately. Somewhere in the background, Damian lets out a low, satisfied cackle.
The digital clock on the Batmobile reads 4:00 a.m.
The numbers glow cold blue against the dark interior, reflected faintly in the windshield like a second set of eyes staring back at them. Gotham outside is hollow and half-dead at this hour—streetlights flickering, rain-slick asphalt stretching endlessly, buildings slumped together like they’re exhausted too.
Bruce’s voice is calm as he calls Alfred, clipped and precise, already listing supplies like this is something he can control if he names enough of it out loud.
Jason doesn’t listen.
He keeps his focus on you.
On the shallow rise and fall of your chest. The warmth is still clinging stubbornly to your skin. On the way your weight settles into him like it belongs there, like it always has. One hand stays firm at your neck, holding you upright because you need it—because you need him steady, and that knowledge anchors him harder than anything Bruce could ever say.
You need him here. You need him present. You need him not to break.
He knows that, because once—once—that was all he ever wanted too.
And that’s the cruel part of it.
Because the weight of you in his arms has only ever meant safety. Home. Sleep curling warm and heavy in his bones. His body doesn’t know the difference between holding you safe and finally being allowed to rest.
Jason Todd passes out with his forehead dipping gently toward yours, his grip loosening only by a fraction, like even unconscious he’s afraid to let you go.
The last thing he hears before everything goes dark is Tim’s voice, sharp with panic and disbelief.
“Dude—what the fuck—”
“Hold his head up—don’t let him fall on her!” Bruce barks from the front, voice cracking sharp through the Batmobile like a snapped cable.
All at once, everyone moves.
Damian fists the back of Jason’s T‑shirt, knuckles white as he yanks him upright with a strength born of panic he’d never admit to. Dick stretches impossibly from the passenger seat, arm braced awkwardly as he cups the back of Jason’s head, careful, reverent, like he’s afraid one wrong angle will shatter him. Tim presses a steadying hand to Jason’s chest, feeling the uneven rise and fall beneath his palm, grounding him the way he’s learned to do with bombs and brothers alike.
Jason is dead weight. Heavy. Still clinging to you even in unconsciousness, his arm slack but stubborn around your shoulders, like muscle memory alone refuses to let you go.
The Batmobile hums on, tires slicing through wet streets, Gotham blurring past in streaks of sodium light and rain-slick concrete. The city feels distant now, muffled, like it’s holding its breath with them.
“…Did someone check if the Joker was—uh—breathing?” Stephanie asks from the back, her voice small in a way it rarely ever is.
She hadn’t stayed for the end. Her job had been triage—getting the kids out, shouting orders, dragging civilians through blood and broken glass while the rest of them stayed behind in the warehouse with the laughter and the screaming. She’d smelled the aftermath on them when they regrouped. She didn’t need details then but...
Bruce doesn’t look back. His hands tighten on the wheel.
“Jason didn’t hit any vital points,” he says quietly, like he’s reciting a report he’s already memorized. “Just… ah—”
“Carved his face like a jack‑o’‑lantern,” Damian supplies, entirely too calm. “Heated up a crowbar to do it too. Very effective.”
There’s a beat of silence.
The city lights flash over Bruce’s face—old stone and deep eyes that are hollowed by relief he doesn’t let himself feel yet.
“…Yeah,” Bruce exhales, short and rough. “That.”
The Batmobile keeps moving.
Jason breathes.
You breathe.
And for now, that’s enough to keep the night from swallowing them whole.
You wake up in bed.
Not the thin, borrowed kind your body has learned to tolerate at your apartment, but something deep and indulgent—clean sheets tucked tight, the mattress yielding just enough to cradle you instead of swallowing you whole. The pillow beneath your cheek feels stupidly expensive, cool and smooth, smelling faintly of detergent and something old and comforting, like cedar and money and quiet hallways that echo.
For a moment, you think you’re dreaming again.
Then you feel him.
Jason is asleep beside you, solid and unmistakable. You don’t need to move—you can’t really anyways—to know it’s him. The arm wrapped around your waist is heavy with familiar strength, protective even in unconsciousness. His hair brushes against your arm every time he breathes, soft, tickling your skin in a way that makes your chest ache.
He’s breathing.
That fact alone nearly undoes you.
God. You really need to raise your standards, you think hazily. You’re reduced to this—listening to him breathe, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest, and already you want to curl into him and coo like nothing in the world has ever gone wrong.
Then you see Bruce.
He’s standing near the bed, still as a statue, watching you with the careful intensity of someone afraid to spook a wild animal. It takes effort to focus on his face, your vision dragging itself into clarity inch by inch.
When you try to lift your head—manners resurfacing before sense—your body protests sharply.
Bruce moves instantly.
“Hey, hey—no,” he murmurs, hands gentle but firm as he presses you back into the mattress. “Relax. It’s okay. You’re safe.”
Your head sinks back into the pillow, and the moment stretches. You swallow thickly before managing a small, hoarse sound of politeness.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Wayne. Jason—”
“Hasn’t told you much about me,” Bruce finishes for you, a faint, tired chuckle slipping out. “That’s alright. I just need you to sleep right now.”
You glance downward as best you can, feeling something sharp dig into your side.
“…I can’t sleep if your son’s elbow is in my ribs.”
Bruce blinks.
Actually blinks—surprised enough that it breaks through the carefully assembled calm. “Ah—” he starts, then reaches for Jason, trying to rearrange him with the same precision he uses on everything else.
It doesn’t work.
Jason huffs in his sleep, a low, irritated sound, and somehow manages to make it worse—his arm tightening, his leg hooking over yours possessively, like you’re something he’s afraid the world might steal back if he lets go.
Bruce freezes.
You mumble, exhausted but soft, “It’s alright. I’m sure he hasn’t slept… I’ve gotten quite a lot, so…”
Bruce looks like he wants to argue. His jaw tightens, then loosens, the fight draining out of him. He exhales and sits back in the chair by the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together.
“It’s the 26th,” he says quietly.
Oh.
You missed Christmas.
What a shame.
After a moment, Bruce speaks again, and his voice is heavier now—careful, deliberate, like every word costs him something.
“I… want to apologize to you.” His fingers interlace, knuckles whitening. “I knew you’d been taken. And I didn’t tell him. Possibly… he could have been there sooner. But I needed to make sure the others would be saved as well.”
“Well,” you murmur, the word barely more than breath, “I don’t exactly blame you for that.”
It isn’t forgiveness exactly—nothing so grand—but it’s honest, and it lands heavier than anger ever could.
Bruce doesn’t relax. If anything, his shoulders pull tighter, like he’s bracing for a blow that never quite comes. He’s spent his whole life learning how to de‑escalate men with guns, gods with vendettas, cities with teeth—but you unsettle him in a quieter, more dangerous way. You’re calm. You’re lucid. You’re something Jason had threatened to shoot himself for.
He clears his throat, trying to give you something solid, something measurable. Facts are safer.
“Jason… got him,” Bruce says carefully. “Badly. I think—” He hesitates, eyes flicking once toward Jason like he’s checking for movement. “I think the Joker may be blind now. Or at least permanently impaired.”
“You let him?” you ask.
Still no accusation. Just a soft, stunned curiosity, as if you’re piecing together a story you were never meant to survive.
Bruce nods. Once. The motion costs him. “I did,” he admits. “But I—”
“Then that’s enough,” you whisper, interrupting him gently, like you’re afraid the words themselves might hurt. “Jason will realize that too.” Your lashes flutter; exhaustion tugs at you like a tide. “I mean… he probably won’t. He’ll still try to kill him.” A faint, crooked exhale. “But you did everything you could yesterday.”
Your gaze drifts—not to Bruce, but to Jason. To the way his arm is still locked around you, even in sleep. To the stubborn set of his jaw, the crease between his brows that never fully smooths out anymore.
“Thank you,” you add quietly. “For finding me.”
That’s when Bruce goes still.
Not rigid. Not defensive.
Still.
Because he’s been looking at you, yes—but now you realize he hasn't been looking you in the eye while he speaks. His eyes have been caught in one place, drawn there again and again like a bruise you can’t help but press.
Your cheek.
The skin there is angry beneath the bandage’s edge—raw, faintly swollen, discolored in a way he winced at while he bandaged it. Bruce didn't let anyone else tend to it, not even Alfred.
Because this was a wound he inflicted, one that he needed to tend to.
“It’s still fresh,” he says, softer now, stripped of the Bat and the rules and the fear. Just a man speaking carefully around something fragile. “I’ll get you better medicine. The pigment should fade.” A pause. His voice lowers. “I can’t promise about the texture.”
You don’t look away. You don’t flinch.
“That’s okay,” you say.
And Bruce doesn’t know if you mean the scar, or the pain, or the fact that you’ll carry this forever—but Jason shifts in his sleep then, brow tightening, arm drawing you closer like he sensed the weight of the moment and refused to let it settle on you alone.
Bruce watches that. Watches how Jason anchors himself to you without waking, how his breathing steadies when yours does, how it pauses even in sleep when yours hitches.
“He loves you a lot.” Bruce mumbles.
“...And you too Mr.Wayne.”
jason peter todd tag-list (check pinned post for info on how to be added .ᐟ ) :@justamarsbar, @peridotnature854, @nayy-a, @that-willowtree,
Synopsis: You've got a lot of problems. Firstly, you're Hal Jordan's accident daughter, you're a Green Lantern, you are incapable of understanding that people can care about you, and you have a fear of unknown feelings. Most notably though, Wally West makes you feel strange. And you hate it.
W.C: 7.2k
Tags: Angst ✮, daddy issues, kinda bad dad Hal, arguing, emotionally mature Wally, emotionally immature Reader, planning/threatening to run away, reader is referred to as 'stargirl'
To say you hate it here would be an understatement. You really fucking hate it here. As a matter of fact, you actually can't stand being in Mount Justice surrounded by all these optimistic flesh bags of hope—especially not when your "dad" (if you dare call him that) was here.
Having to be in the presence of this man was somehow more infuriating than listening to your teammates talk about him and how cool and chill he was. He'd never been cool or chill with you! Not in the nine years you'd know him.
Your mother had simply left you there. With a bag and a letter pinned on your top. Hal was running late for work. He hobbled out trying to put his left shoe on. Only to freeze at the sight of a little girl, alone on his doorstep, in the rain.
Looking into your eyes—although red and puffy he'd recognise them from anywhere. How could he forget the shameful mistake he'd made several years ago...
Ever since that unfortunate day, you've been Hal Jordan —the Young Justice team's favourite Green Lantern's problem. For the first few years of your life, you'd been your mother's problem. Most nights you lie awake wishing you'd stayed being her problem. She wasn't perfect, she did abandon you in the rain on the doorstep of a man she hadn't seen in over years, but at least she seemed to have a slight care for you.
Your childhood should've been magical. And sometimes you trick yourself into thinking it was. All those hours you'd spent staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling, you'd pretend you were outside—in your garden or on some other planet—star gazing with your dad. The galaxy and sci-fi themed decor of your room confused your child mind into believing all those hours spent jumping around your room—alone—with a plastic spaceship in hand, were real galactic adventures with him.
You wish you could say that those days of hopeless wishing were gone, but even now—at your grown age you find yourself staring at the glow-in-the-dark stickers Wally had insisted you needed, wishing that one day maybe those dreams of stargazing could happen. The crinkled posters sitting on your desk waiting to be put up taunt you. Wally found them shoved into a box and told you they were cool. After he'd made fun of you for being such a space nerd. He said they add something to your room. Your room at Mount Justice held a closer resemblance to a safe house rather than a teen girl's bedroom. Maybe it was the underlying desire to leave and never look back. The fear that if you tried to settle, fit in and find your place in this world you would suddenly realise not a single person actually cared for you.
The Young Justice team had already been formed. The JL had decided that you would join the team once you returned from your space oddity. You weren't thrilled to hear the news. You returned from your trip only to be met by your dad—waiting to drop some news on you.
"What?" You asked. Your shoulders were tensed. You were sore and tired and he was the last person you wanted to see right now.
"I've got something to tell you." He frowned a little at your lack of enthusiasm.
"I can tell." You deadpanned.
He sighed. "The Justice League has formed a new team. It consists of their students."
"No."
"What do you mean no?" He squinted.
"I'm not joining your team." He called out your name.
"Your already set to join the team. It'll be good for you."
"Good for me to miss more school than I already am?" Your voice raised.
"You're joining the team! They're expecting us right now." He raised his voice right back.
You scowled, but piped down. Your arms were crossed as you trailed behind him. You glared at him the whole time.
"Behave," Hal gave you a pointed look through the mask.
Your rolled your eyes and continued walking towards the closed doors. There was muffled voices behind the door.
"Please?" Hal pleaded. He opened the doors. Your vision was filled with colourful costumes and stupid smiles.
"Green Lantern, how nice of you to join us." Batman commented sarcastically. He looked to the clock wall. Ten minutes late—they better get used to it with you.
"Sorry, got held up with her mission." Hal laughed.
"These are the members of the League," He gestured to the adults in the room. "And these are your teammates." He gestured to the teens. Most of them sat down.
One of them got up and walked towards you.
"I'm Robin, team leader." He reached his hand out to shake.
You stared at his hand for a moment before feeling a nudge beside you. You uncrossed your arms and shook his hand.
"Green Lantern." You said bluntly.
Robin introduced you to the rest of the team. You looked at each of them boredly. You could hear Hal sighing behind you. You might not have been looking at him but you could see him pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Are we done?" You asked.
Hal called out your name tiredly.
"You know how I am. Should've given your team a heads up." You left the room abruptly.
"I'm sorry, she's just cranky from her mission." Hal apologised to the League.
"She's not what I expected..." Dick muttered.
"Let's hope when she settles in she'll be more willing to work with us and her team." Diana sighed.
"Can someone please make sure she finds her room?" Dinah asked the Young Justice team.
"Go help her out." Barry gave Wally a gentle shove.
You eventually found the empty bedroom. You dropped onto the bed assuming the empty room was yours. Your bags were thrown into a corner beside some boxes. There was a welcome card on your nightstand—probably from one of the girls. You didn't care to read it though. Rapid knocks on your door had you groaning and slipping off the bed. You swung the door open expecting Hal but were met with a smiling ginger boy.
"Hey!" He greeted with a toothy grin.
"Hi."
"Black Carnay asked me to make sure you found your room and got settled in—"
"I'm settled just fine."
"Okay! Can I see your room? You can come see my room if you want!" He beamed. You squinted your eyes as if you were being blinded by his energy.
"I'm Kid Flash—you can call me Wally." He pointed a thumb at himself.
"You should see Zatanna's room, she does magic! Don't go into Roy's room—it's always messy."
You don't know how but at some point he ended up in your room. Sat on the edge of your bed, talking your ear off. You stood with your arms crossed staring at the boy.
"I know you said you were settled in just fine, but you haven't even opened your bags?" He pointed at the corner of bags and boxes.
"I'll do it eventually." You sighed.
"Here let me help you!" Before you could blink he was already on the floor opening your boxes.
He started to unpack the boxes, commenting on ever single thing he pulled out. You hadn't packed the boxes—Hal did. The boxes were filled with stuff from your bedroom at Hal's house. Space posters, a telescope, a man on the moon lamp you'd begged him for, and more.
"So have you always been a space nerd? Or was it just when you became a Green Lantern?" Wally asked.
"I've always liked space. Growing up with a Lantern kinda made it that way." Wally lit up at your addition to the conversation. It was the most he'd heard you talk.
"You know, my uncle and your dad are like best friends! Which means we're going to be good friends!" You laughed at his juvenile thought process.
You didn't notice the dreamy look on his face as you laughed at him.
"Hey, you should put these up over your bed!" He pulled out a pack of glow-in-the-dark stars. You remember Hal buying you some. You'd stacked books and whatnot onto your bed because you couldn't reach the ceiling.
"I'll put them up later."
"I'll put them up for you." He was already stood on your bed sticking the stars to the ceiling before you could protest.
"Thanks."
"No problem, stargirl. It's what friends are for!" You nearly gagged at the response.
Some time had passed. The team had gone on several missions and spent days training together. But after all of this their toughest challenge yet was trying to get you to spend time with them. You were cooperative on missions but you would train on your own (unless Diana forced you to train with everyone else). The one thing they couldn't overcome; you wouldn't hangout with them. Just as yourself. You were simply Green Lantern to them. They'd tried to get you to go to the arcade with them. As usual, you said no and retreated to your room.
"She smiled during training, I thought for sure she'd agree to go out today." M'gann frowned while putting her shoes on.
"Think you all just need to accept that she doesn't like us." Roy piped up.
"Don't say that, we're a team. She works just fine with us on missions." Dick responded. "I just don't get how she'll work fine with us out on the field but refused any other interaction with us."
"Hey, Wally! You coming with us to the arcade?" Artemis called out.
"Nah, I'm beat after that training." He grabbed some snacks from the kitchen and headed off.
"Did he hit his head on training?" Artemis asked.
"I think she possed him." Roy whispered.
You were sat at your desk reading a book. Boxes still sit in the corner of your room, but some posters had been put up, your man on the moon lamp was on your nightstand, there was stationery on your desk and some clothes in the closet. You still hadn't fully settled in though.
"Hey stargirl!" Wally kicked your door open and flopped onto your bed.
You took the headphones off one ear and spun your chair around to see him sprawled out comfortably with a pile of snacks. Some of your favourites in the mix. You still didn't know how he kept finding out things about you. Sometimes you did let your guard down around him, letting bits of info about your personal life slip out.
"Do you wanna play something?" He asked.
You marked your page with a bookmark before pausing your music and pulling your headphones around your neck.
"What do you wanna play?"
"Hmm," He contemplated. "Oh! Have you ever played heads up?"
"No."
"Hold on, let me download it."
A couple hours flew by. You played several different games and ran through the snacks. At some point you shifted from the desk to the opposite end of the bed.
"We should play 20 questions." He suggested.
"Sure." Your answer was hesitant, but you didn't realise. You fidgeted with your sleeves as he stared at you, thinking of his questions.
"Alright, what's your favourite subject?"
"Physics."
"Really?" His voice pitched higher. "Suppose that makes sense, space and stuff." He laughed.
"Uhm, what's your favourite planet?"
"Venus."
The questions went on. Wally asked all sorts; stuff about school, space, your personal preferences on random things. You then made it to the last 5 questions.
"Have you had your first kiss yet?"
"No." Your cheeks felt warm at the question. You cleared your throat to signal to Wally to move on.
"Wait, so you've never had a boyfriend or anything?" He was so surprised by your answer.
"No. You've got three questions left." You replied quickly. Your cheeks kept heating up and you hated it.
"What? That's not fair!" He protested. "I was just—suprised that you've never dated! I mean you're—beautiful." He choked a little before the compliment.
You stared at eachother for a moment. His face went a little red and your face wouldn't stop getting hot. Your heart was beating faster than usual. You swallowed the urges creeping up your throat and took a deep breath.
"You've got three questions left." You said softly.
"Uhm—uh have you ever had a crush on someone?"
"—I-I don't think so?"
He laughed. "What do you mean? And that's doesn't count as a question!"
"I don't know. I just—how am I supposed to be sure?"
"I think you just know." He said with a smile.
The staring and hot feeling came back for another moment. You couldn't help staring into his eyes, but at the same time you felt uncomfortable.
"One question."
"I have two questions left! That didn't count."
"Yes it did, ask me the last question."
"Fine," He looked around your room to try get inspiration. "What would you do if you weren't a Green Lantern?"
"Leave."
"Huh?"
"I'd leave. I'd move somewhere for college, leave all this behind." You gestured to your ring and out the window to the surroundings of headquarters.
"What would you study?" You'd never had someone ask you about yourself—only about your ring or your dad—with genuine interest. You and your interests weren't what people wanted to know about.
"I want to be a scientist. I really wanted to be an astronaut when I was younger." You laughed at yourself. "I'd like to study the universe in more depth. I don't really get the time to do that when on missions."
"Of course you do, stargirl." Unlike the first time he was he in room, you caught the dreamy look I'm his eyes.
The sound of chatter brought you back to reality. The rest of the team had returned. The realisation that you've done it again washed over you. You'd spilt out more information about yourself again. You've been so good at keeping to yourself when it came to the League and the other Lanterns. Something about Wally made it so easy to just talk.
"I think I'm going to get ready for bed." You began looking for your pyjamas, silently signalling for him to leave.
"Oh, goodnight then."
Fury boiled in your veins. Hal was getting on your nerves again. It's not rare for him to get on you about your mistakes and bad behaviour. But that's all he does. He points it out and you argue. Suggestions are never made on how to change for the better, and reasonable conversations are never had. Just screaming. And crying behind closed doors.
That's what was happening. You were sitting on the floor of your bedroom, sobbing. Post-mission exhaustion and the guilt of messing up didn't pair well with speaking to your dad. He did try to have a level headed conversation with you—but you didn't feel like having one. You tried to walk away and just resulted in voices being raised.
Your throat hurt and your head ached. Instead of training or studying or doing anything useful—here you are—sat on your floor crying like a kid.
"Stargirl?" A quiet voice asked on the other side of the wall.
"What?" Your voice cracked.
"Can I come in?" Wally's words came out slowly. He was carefully deciding what to say, not word vomiting like usual.
You sat rigid for a minute. Your tear-soaked hands paused where they were wiping your cheeks. Heat filled your bones but you couldn't tell the difference between the anger your dad made you feel and whatever showed up when Wally was around.
"N–no! Go away." You choked on a sob.
You didn't want to be seen like this. Not by anyone. Especially Wally. You don't want to be weak in front of others. You can barely stand being weak in front of yourself. The glow of the stupid stars he had stuck up highlighted the tears on your hands. Your face too, but your mirror was flipped around so you couldn't see.
"Then," He sat down with his back against the door. "Can I stay?"
The sight of him leaned against the door. A sad frown on his face. Paired with brows furrowed from concern. The image filled your mind and it stabbed your heart. No matter how much time passes, and all the things you go through with him and the team—you can't bring yourself to understand why he wastes his time on you. Part of you knew why—but you didn't understand—or believe it to be true. You inhaled a shaky breath and stood up. You quickly wipe your face before opening the door. Wally grabbed onto the door frame to hold himself up. He tilted his head up to stare at you from the floor.
"Get up." You nodded your head. "You look stupid."
He stood instantly—about to ask if you were okay, but you just turned and sat on your bed. Door left open. An invitation no one but him had ever received. And he didn't let the invite float alone. He took it immediately. Stepping inside your space and closing the door behind him. Wally cautiously moved closer and took a seat on the edge of your bed. Your room was dark. Beside the stars on your ceiling. Curtains drawn and lights off. As he debated what to say or if to say anything at all, he studied your room. Like he did every time he invaded your space. More posters had been put up. Your desk was cluttered with books and stationery. A few trinkets are scattered across the surfaces in your room. A CD player was plugged in under your desk, and it's worn stickers are peeling off. Three CD cases were piled beside it.
Wally smiled softly. You were actually settling in. Slowly—but it was happening.
"Wanna talk about it?" His voice was gentle. Not in a baby way but a sweet way.
You tugged on your sleeves. You were curled into yourself. You sniffled and looked anywhere but at him. Well, you tried to look anywhere but him, yet your eyes kept flickering back to his green eyes. It was self-torture. Looking away and looking back just to get scared by the sincerity in his eyes.
"...Got into a fight with Hal..." Wally barely picked up what you said.
He stayed silent. You took a deep breath and gave him a quick look.
"I—" You bit your lip as you searched for your words. "I messed up."
It physically pained you to say it. To be so vulnerable and Wally knew that. He also knows this conversation could've never happened months ago.
"I got—I uhm—" You hiccuped.
Wally's hand grazed your hand. It flinched at the feeling of his skin but you didn't retract from him. You went quiet and still. His hand slowly intertwined with yours. His grip was loose but grounding. You were free to let go. But he was there and letting you know he would always be there.
"I don't know." Those were the words you settled on.
The same as always. Anytime your conversations got uncomfortable (vulnerable) you chose those words. They were a reflex at this point. When your teachers would ask why you were falling asleep in class—"I don't know". When your friends worried over your bruised and bandaged body—"I don't know". When Hal would beg you to tell him why you weren't focused on the mission—"I don't know". And whenever Wally would question your emotions. When he would find his way beyond the walls you had built and convince you to let the ice around your heart melt.
"Are you sure?" You stared at him in disbelief.
"I think you do know." His thumb brushed across your knuckles. "Your smart, stargirl."
If the conversation weren't so serious and there weren't tears in your eyes, he would've laughed at your dropped jaw.
"—I-I don't know how to explain it."
"Try, please?"
If Hal had spoken to you like this you would've taken it the wrong way. You would've stated another screaming match. Something about Wally made it different. And that you honestly didn't know. You didn't know what this was. And you hated it. You hated the unknown. It was scary.
"I want a normal life."
That was the most honest thing Wally's ever heard from you. It's the most honest thing you've ever heard from yourself.
"I don't want this responsibility." Your ring glowed dimly in the dark.
"I don't want to miss school. I don't want to miss hangouts with my friends. I don't want to upset people," You bottom lip wobbled. "But that's all I seem to do."
Wally's eyes stung at the sound of your voice wavering.
"I don't know why he doesn't like me. I don't understand why he kept me."
At this point you'd broken into sobs again. You did everything you could hold the sobs back but they and the tears escaped you. Wally held onto your hand. His grip got tighter. He tried to ground you without overstepping.
You continued to cry. To pour your heart out to Wally. Vulnerability coursed through your body but it felt like bacteria. Unfamiliar—dangerous even. Something that shouldn't be there. Something that needs to be removed—and that's when you shot up from leaning on his shoulder. A wet patch stained his top. The conversation had brought you two closer. Mentally and physically. But your fear was about to unravel to strings of faith Wally had worked so hard to tie together.
"What? You okay?" Wally's voice was groggy.
Your eyes were bleary. Your body was warm and your lips were chapped. Your room was brighter. A small amount of sunlight beamed through your closed curtains. You had fallen asleep. From your position beside him and the indentation on his clothes, you could tell you fell asleep curled into him.
You cleared your throat. "Sorry." Your voice was raw and it hurt to say that one word.
"For what? What time is it?"
"You should go." You shuffled away from him.
"Star—"
"Please go." Your voice was broken but demanding.
With a sad look, he stood up from your bed. His fingers slipped from the spaces between yours. He exited the room but not before saying,
"Thanks for talking."
His tone was sincere, gentle, and kind. It was everything beautiful. It was light.
Wally West, is your teammate. The closest thing to being your friend and yet so far from it. Ever since the day you arrived—all moody about it—he's been persistent in getting to know you, in becoming someone to you. It was scary. It sounds silly to say. He'd never done anything that would typically make people scared. But he was just so nice, and his presence was warm. You found yourself relaxing, settling. Your piece was finding its way in the puzzle we call life. You thought that would've made you happy. It just scared you though. You thought when you found your place and your people you wouldn't have this ache in your body. Every time he'd get too close—nearly persuade you to join the team hangouts, have you accidentally pour your heart to him—you'd get a new kind of ache. An unfamiliar aching in your heart. And it scared you because you didn't understand it.
This fear is what led to today's events. It's what wound Wally unconscious in the Med Bay, your dad yelling at you for compromising the mission, and an ache you hadn't felt in a long time resurfacing.
You hadn't spoken since that night. Well, you hadn't spoken since that night. It was like you had just joined the team. Your relationship had gone back to square one. Wally would greet you with a small smile and you would respond with a nod. Only now there was an underlying guilt and fear. You would nod with hesitancy. He realised he wasn't welcome to barge into your room anymore. The invitation had been revoked.
"What happened?" Dick enquired.
They were waiting for a video game to load. Almost the entire team was in the room. All doing their individual things, but pausing the hear what Wally would say.
"What do you mean?" Wally let out a nervous and dead-sounding laugh.
"You and her. Something changed—we can all tell." Artemis piped up, she was sitting on the floor fixing her bow.
"Yeah, she's gone all cold again. Even to you." Dick added.
Wally's heart stopped for a split second. He didn't want to air out your private conversations. He couldn't. He wouldn't.
"Nothing." He scratched the back of his neck and avoided his friends' gazes. "She's probably just tired. The Lanterns have had her busy lately!"
"You go out with us now." Conner implored from across the room. "You stopped going out so you could spend more time with her."
"Alright Conner, no need to announce my life to everyone here!" Wally snapped.
"Did you guys fight?" M'gann wondered.
The room went still and turned to Wally.
"No?" His voice was weak.
You hadn't fought. But you didn't seem happy with him.
"No?" Dick repeated.
"Uh—we didn't argue—we just—" Had a very serious conversation where she opened up more than she's ever before and I'm so proud of her for that but then she shut me out and I don't understand why. "She's tired that's all." He concluded in a faltering tone.
Dick stared at him. He was breaking him down and reading him like a book with a stare. And Wally now started to feel guilty. Your flickering glances appeared in the forefront of his mind. Did he make you uncomfortable? Did he overstep? Waves of guilt crashed over him and he suddenly had no interest in his new video game.
"I'm actually not feeling great," He set his controller aside and stood up from the couch. "You can play if you want Conner."
He left the room in a brooding state. And Dick could tell. He was very familiar with brooding people after all. He wanted to go after him—he's his best friend. But what would he say? How does he comfort Wally if he doesn't understand you? He can't assure him that everything will be alright. He didn't know what had happened and it didn't seem like Wally knew either. How can he help if he has no evidence to study? All Dick did was shut down the console and retreat to his room.
Training had been going horribly. You couldn't keep it together. You were impossible to work with. Everyone tried and no one succeeded. Wally was their only hope to get you back to being cooperative before the big mission—but you wouldn't even look at him.
"We need to talk." Hal said from the door of the training room.
It was just you in there. Letting out your frustrations on the poor punching bag.
"About what?" You droned.
Hal sighed hearing your voice. You sounded exhausted. You looked exhausted. There were dark circles under your eyes.
"You aren't cooperating with the team anymore." You threw a punch and struck the bag. "Why's that?"
The echo of the punch lingered as you looked up at him.
"Why do you care?" Your voice was barley above a whisper but you were clearly snarling.
"I'm your mentor and your—" You threw another hard punch. Harder than the last.
"Oh shut up Hal!" You threw your gloves off and marched up to the door.
"Don't!" He blocked the door. "We need to talk. The upcoming mission is important. You can't be this off key with your team."
Your face was drooping. A solemn expression dressed it.
"I've managed so long on my own. And they've managed so long without my cooperation." You shoved through his arm blocking your path.
"They'll be fine." You stormed down the hallway.
Hal watched you disappear. He ran a hand down his face and braced himself against the doorframe.
"Please stay safe."
The mission was going great. That's what you would say if you were a pathological liar. It was going horribly. You'd all gotten separated. Yet somehow you and Wally found your way to eachother. The monster of a villain you were trying to stop was currently rampaging through his lair. You and Wally were hidden behind a large beam trying to come up with a plan or something.
"I can build a construct—"
"Are you mad at me?" Wally blurted out.
"What?" Your eyes were wide.
"I know this isn't the most conventional time to talk but you've been avoiding me and I think you're scared—"
"W–what? No I'm not!" You started to raise your voice but remembered you were hiding.
"You keep avoiding things, stargirl. You avoid me, the team, your dad—"
"Don't you dare go there!" You grabbed the collar of his suit. Your voice raised too loud before you could stop it.
"You don't get to go there! You don't know what you're talking about!" Your eyes were stinging and your face was hot.
"It's the only reason I can think of! Why would you avoid unless you were scared?" Wally was pleading with you to reason with him.
"Just because I said a few things to you doesn't mean you know me. You don't! You don't understand me—so don't act like it!" You fists were shaking.
Your yells covered up the sound of the creature you were hiding from approaching. Its large fist crashed into the pillar. Debris went flying. Crashing against the walls of the fortress. Particles dirtied your costume. Blood dripped past your eyes. It wasn't yours. Wally reacted within seconds. He had pulled you closer to him and shielded you from the debris. While you were both stunned the monster grabbed Wally. He was trapped in the thing's fist. He squirmed and wheezed. His body felt crushed by the monster's grip.
"Put him down!" You shot a beam of green at the monster's eye.
The creature groaned and threw Wally out of his grip. He was sent flying into the wall across from you. The impact caused cracks to form. You watched in horror as the cracks spread. The monster cried in pain in the background, Wally lay unconscious on the ground with blood dripping from his head. You stood frozen watching the cracks crawl up the ceiling. More debris was flying. Not from a pillar. The ceiling was coming down on top of you both. You ran to Wally, skidding onto your knees and forming a construct around the two of you. You shielded him with the construct and your body.
"Oh shit..." You muttered as the debris weighed down on your construct.
You would only be able to hold it up for so long. You could only hope the rest of the team was okay and that someone would show up and get you both out of the mess you made. As you helplessly watched the blood seep from Wally's body guilt began to drown you. Why do you do this?
"...I don't want to upset people,' Your bottom lip wobbled. 'But that's all I seem to do.'."
A strangled cry escaped your lungs. Dust replaced it. The diet and dust from debris escaped into your construct. You fell into a coughing fit. Your vision started to blur. You couldn't tell if it was dust in your eyes or if you were about to pass out.
"Kid Flash!" You think that was Robin's voice.
The weight was getting lighter, probably Conner. But you couldn't bare it and the dust in your lungs any longer. Everything went dark.
The Med Bay smelled of chemicals and quiet beeps of monitors filled the air. Your body felt stale. Your lungs felt dusty and old, like they belonged to a smoker not you. With a groan, you sat up in the cot. Your ring was glowing dimly in the dark room, the only source of light aside from the lowering moon. The oxygen mask on your face felt suffocating. You pulled it off and stood up, ripping the curtains to the side. The metal screeched. The Med Bay appeared empty—until you spotted drawn curtains with faint voices behind them.
"He's going to be okay Iris."
You recognised that voice as the Flash; Barry Allen. You had never met Iris but you'd heard of her through Wally. And you know how much she meant to him, and he to her. You felt responsible for this. Wally's injuries, Iris' worry, and Barry's stress. You felt responsible for it all. The weight felt heavier than the rubble you were previously trapped under. Part of you desperately wanted to see him. Maybe hold him and repeat the sweet nothings he would whisper to you. But you didn't, instead, you silently left the Med Bay.
You stood in the kitchen, a glass in hand as you filled it from the tap. You only got one gulp before you heard him.
"What the hell was that?" His voice wasn't raised but you knew this conversation would end up loud.
You set the glass down with an aggressive thud. Barry must've told him you were awake. Your mind thought of the conversations and arguments you've had with Hal and Wally. Thinking about Wally made you think about his accusation; that you were avoiding. Not just him, but your dad and the team too. Hal was going on about the mission, your mistakes, and begging you to turn around—to say something.
"Why did you keep me?"
"Sorry?" Hal was truly bewildered by your question.
You turned to face him. "Why did you bother keeping me?"
"Your my daughter—"
"Well, you don't act like it!" Your fists clenched at your sides.
"This isn't about me and us, it's about—" Hal backtracked.
"It is about you and us though! Everything is!" Tears began to pool the corners of your eyes.
"Dad, I'm tired. I'm so tired of this." You gestured to the building and yourselves with your ring hand. "I just want a normal life,"
Hal took a cautious step foward. His mouth opened to speak but your words tumbled out first.
"With a proper family."
"I don't remember what she looks like. I barley see you—and when I do, we yell and I run and I cry. Alone. My friends hate me because I can't respond to messages—I miss hangouts and give terrible excuses. My teachers look at me the same way they look a kids with deadbeat parents. Cause you're never there! You miss meetings—you—you forget to pick me up..."
You choked on a sob in the middle of your tangent. Everything was coming out all at once. Just like it did with Wally.
"I don't know when the last time I made you proud was. I don't know if I ever have." You sniffled as your bottom lip quivered.
"I know I'm a problem—"
"You're not a problem." Hal interjected.
"—but I am! And everyone knows it, everyone acts like it. I can't understand myself! I don't know how to be the way people want me to be!" You took a shaky breath as hot tears fell from your eyes.
"I shouldn't have joined this team—I should never have sworn that oath! You shouldn't have kept me!" You angrily wipe your teary face.
Hal was broken at the sight of you. He knew he wasn't the best dad, but he thought he was better than this. He never thought he would be the father to upset his kid the way he has you. He never for a moment thought he would be the root of his kid's problems. Every issue you had, or caused, all seemed to stem from your childhood. The improper childhood he gave you. Due to his lack of presence up until you became a Green Lantern. As you ran out of the kitchen all your moments together flashed before him. He couldn't think of a time before you were a Lantern—minus the day you showed up on his doorstep. He ran a hand down his tired face and sighed. He fucked up bad.
You knew you shouldn't have. You knew from the start this wouldnt work—wouldn't last. It's why you constantly put off unpacking. Your boxes and bags were still half packed. You shoved your essentials into the bags. Clothes, hygiene products, bandages...as you sorted through your nightstand drawer you found a polaroid. It was you and Wally. The picture was taken one of those nights he ditched team hangouts to sit around your room. He didn't know who the camera belonged to but he found it and wanted to take a picture. He took two, kept one for himself and left the other behind for you. You sniffled as you stared at the picture. You were smiling. It was smaller than his, but bigger than the usual practiced one you used. It was genuine.
"Stargirl!" Your bedroom door banged open.
You snapped your head up. Wally was dressed in comfy clothes provided by his auntie. Bandages were wrapped around his head. There was some red blotches on the white material. A bruise peeked out from underneath. You winced at the sight.
"What are you doing?"
You stood up, shoving the polaroid into your pocket and walked over to your bag. You knelt down and threw your CDs into the bag before zipping it up.
"What I should've done from the start."
"You're not leaving, are you?" You felt immense guilt from his cracking voice. "You can't!"
"What's the point of staying? No one wants me here—look what I've done!" You screamed.
Your lips began to quiver again. Your face felt hot and you know the moonlight was highlighting the tears on your cheeks.
"I want you here, stargirl!"
"You want to have a Green Lantern! Trust me, there's better ones out there!" You swung your bag over your shoulder and began to walk out the door, but he stopped you.
"But they're not you! I don't want a Green Lantern if they're not you!" He gripped your shoulders.
"Why would you want me here if my own family doesn't even want me? He doesn't care about me—"
"I do!" Wally cried. "I care about you—you're so important to me." Tears began to run down his face.
"I know your life is complicated and you see yourself as complicated—"
"I am." You turned your head away from him.
"—and that's fine!" A hand slid up your neck, resting on your jaw and guiding you to look at him.
"But just stay, and be complicated with me." He pleaded through sobs.
Wally cared about you more than anyone. He loved you and all your flaws—even if they hurt him. He loved it when you let him in even if that meant you would push him away later. He wants to be there for you. He wants to help you overcome your problems and figure yourself out. He wants to be there when you are scared and when you aren't.
"Let me figure you out, please?"
You broke down into a sobbing mess. You hiccuped and sniffled. Wally felt your body shake beneath his hands. He took a slow step foward and pulled you in. You cried into his shoulder as his hands rested on your back and neck.
"I'm sorry! I—I know I'm difficult, and I pushed you away. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to I just—I don't know what to do..." Your hands clawed at his shirt, trying to ground yourself.
"I'm sorry for yelling—and getting you hurt."
"That wasn't your fault. You saved me, stargirl." Wally whispered.
"I'm sorry for pushing. I shouldn't have brought it up on the mission, and I shouldn't have called you out like that."
"No," You pulled away from his embrace to look at him. "I needed to hear it."
Wally slid the bag off your shoulder, letting it drop to the floor. You used the sleeve of your jumper to wipe the tears off his face. Careful to not irritate any injuries.
"Wanna go star gazing?"
"Wally, the sun's starting to rise." You pointed at your window.
"You can still see a couple," He took your hand in his. "You can tell me about the constellations and I'll try find them."
He gently pulled you out your bedroom doorway and headed for an exit.
The early morning breeze felt nice against your warm cheeks. You took a deep inhale when you stepped outside. The two of you lay down and stared up at the sky. The deep midnight colours were fading away as the orange and pink hues took over. A sliver of the perfect sky blue peeked over the horizon, following the rising sun. Wally was right, you could still see a few stars in the darker parts of the sky.
"So, Venus is your favourite planet, what's your favourite constellation?" You turned your head over to find him already looking at you.
"Perseus and Andromeda," You answered and turned back to gaze at the stars.
"You can see them in the northern hemisphere most of the year. Perseus and Andromeda are both Greek Mythology figures. Perseus was returning from killing Medusa when he saw Andromeda chained to a seaside rock. She had been chained up by her parents King Cephus and Queen Cassiopeia, as Poseidon had sent the seat monster Cetus to destroy their kingdom as punishment for boasting about how beautiful Andromeda was. An oracle told them to sacrifice their daughter."
You turned back to find Wally still staring and listening internally.
"Perseus saved Andromeda and killed Cetus. Then he asked to marry her, but she's was already promised to her uncle Phineus. So Perseus killed him too, and they got married."
Wally had that lovesick look on his face again. If Dick or Roy ever saw that look on his face they would be howling laughing. He looked helplessly in love, a little pathetic. And he wouldn't have it any other way.
"You're such a nerd, stargirl."
"You're the one who asks." You scoffed.
"I like listening to your voice." He admitted.
You sighed. The morning breeze, the pastel colours that bled through the sky, his hand in yours—it was perfect. You didn't fully understand it all. And that was okay. You were okay.
It was common knowledge that the ring chose it's user. You never understood why the ring chose you though.
"Perhaps the ring knew you needed it. That you needed to feel purpose—guidance."
That's what the other Lanterns would say.
Whatever the case may be, you find yourself feeling glad for the ring. It's strange, something you once hated, made many futile attempts to rid of it, now feels precious. It felt right on your finger. Not like an abandoned ring—fitted for someone else and forced onto your hand—it felt like it was yours. And you're happy that it's yours. Without the ring you would've never ended up here; gazing at the stars with someone so special.
A/N: I think I'm getting better at angst. Don't know how to write fight scenes though... THIS BETTER NOT FLOP I WANNA MAKE IT A SERIES!
Synopsis: Your loving, idiot of a boyfriend has invited two of your friends over for a foursome!
W.C: 2.7k
Tags: Smut ❀, Wally x Reader + Kori x Dick (pre-established relationships), Sub!Reader, Sub!Wally, Dom!Kori, Dom!Dick, foursome, wlw + mlm, fingering, anal, p in v, oral (f + m receiving), tribbing, dacryphilia (Dick), maybe ooc Dick I'm so bad at writing him...
"What do you mean you invited them over for a threesome?!" Heat rushed to your face as a screech escaped you.
Wally, your idiot of a boyfriend, had just informed you that he made the executive decision to invite his best friend and his girlfriend (the most attractive couple you know) to have sex.
"Foursome actually, I'll still be there babe." He corrected with a smirk. "Can't get rid of me that easily."
You were fuming. Yes, you absolutely were wet at the thought of getting with Dick and Kori, but you wished he had consulted you beforehand.
"Oh come on, don't be mad at me!" His arms wrapped around your waist whilst he pleaded.
You huffed and crossed your arms, looking away from him.
"You're the one who was having wet dreams about them, not me." He teased. "I'm just being a good boyfriend and getting you what you want."
You sucked and bit your bottom lip as you contemplated. He was right, this was a fucking dream in the making for you—but you were nervous!
"If you're actually upset I'll call and cancel..."
"No—it's fine!" Your eyes snapped to him.
"Are you sure? You look like you could be sick." A hand moved to your face tilting it to the sides as he examined.
"I'm not sick—I'm just—" You took a deep breath, taking a moment to find your words. "I've never gotten with more than one person at a time, or a woman."
Your hands travelled up to your neck rubbing anxiously. Wally took your hands in his, holding them in between his and bringing them to his lips.
"You'll be fine, I won't leave you alone!" He pulled you in for a hug, holding you to his chest. "Besides—they're both pleasers—all you have to do is sit there all pretty and remember our safe word." He pecked your head.
You took a deep breath, nuzzling further into him. "Okay," You hummed. "What time will they be here?"
"Uh—seven ish?" You turned to face the wall clock, six thirty displayed by the hands.
"Seven?!" You recoiled from him and ran into the bedroom.
"What's wrong now?!"
"Wally! The apartment's a mess, I haven't shaved—we haven't even done the shopping—what do we feed them?!"
He covered his mouth to muffle a laugh. "Baby, it's Dick and Kori." He smiled at you and squinted his eyes.
All you did was give him a look that said "so?" before running off to complete your checklist.
"Can't believe it's taken this long for us to do this," Dick said as he and Kori walked towards you and Wally's shared apartment.
Truth be told, he and Kori had been very aware of each other's attraction to the two of you for quite some time. Dick had caught Kori moaning your name with her fingers stuffed in her cunt. Dick had unfortunately cried at Wally's name once when Kori was riding him. They had a serious conversation after it and ended up having a good laugh. Although they're confident people, they were worried about the costs of their friendships with you and Wally if they approached you with the proposition.
This may have been possibly the most awkward moment of your life. You were all sitting on the couch watching a movie, a bowl of popcorn on the table beside some drinks. You didn't understand how the three of them were being so casual. Kori was to your left, Wally to your right with an arm around your shoulder, and Dick to his right. You tried to subtly bounce your leg in anticipation or anxiety or excitement—you had no idea what you were feeling right now. The jitters stopped when a warm hand found its way to your thigh. Your mind automatically assumed it to be Wally, until the feeling of manicured nails grazed your skin.
"I meant to say it earlier, your skirt is really cute." She whispered, eyes focused on you and her hand travelling up. "Where'd you get it?"
You couldn't help but glance at her chest. Her fitted dress made them sit so nicely.
"Uhm, it–it was a gift from Wally." You stuttered, swallowing thickly afterwards. "For our anniversary, I'm not sure where he got it from."
You pressed your lips into a thin line and brought your focus back to the film. Kori continued to look at you. She leaned in and peppered kisses along your neck. Blood rushed to your face as her breath fanned your neck. Her hand slips under your skirt.
"Kori..." You quietly moaned.
You glance towards Wally and Dick noticing nothing. Thanking the throw blanket for covering you. You squirmed as Kori circled her fingers around your clit, occasionally dipping a finger into your soaked cunt. She smiled at the sight of you hunching your shoulders and covering your mouth to hush your moans. Wally's hand massaged your shoulder, bringing a sense of comfort. You got lost in a world of pleasure until Wally groaned quickly turning it into a cough. Dick laughed at his antics and it was only then that you noticed Dick's hand under the blanket.
"You guys are so cute." Kori cooed, kicking the blanket off to reveal her fingering you and Dick stroking Wally.
She leaned in nuzzling her nose into your cheek. "Do you like this? Being pleased in front of them?" You whined behind your hand.
"Come on baby, you've got a beautiful voice." His hand moved from your shoulder, seizing your wrist.
Kori grabbed your free hand when you tried to cover your mouth again. She laced her fingers with yours and began to nibble and kiss near your ear. A breathy moan escaped you causing Wally's cock to jerk. Dick slipped a hand under his chin and connected their lips. His hand slipped into Wally's ginger hair as Wally's hand palmed him through his jeans.
"Oh fuck—you're a good kisser." Wally moaned into Dick's lips.
"Tell me something I don't know." He smiled and slipped his tongue in.
A high-pitched whine left your lips and you dropped your head back against the couch. Kori's fingers curled inside you, perfectly hitting the right spot.
"Ah—Kori!" You cried out.
She sucked along your neck making you lean into her. "Come on sweetie, cum for me."
Her fingers started to move faster and she bit down on your neck, making you finish all over her hand.
"Good job sweetheart, you did so well for me." She whispered with a coy smile.
Wally's hand tightly gripped yours as he bucked up into Dick's hand. Dick turned your boyfriend's head to face you. He groaned at your fucked out glow, before gagging as Kori shoved her cum soaked fingers into his mouth. With a roll of his eyes, he came into Dick's hand.
"Holy shit bro."
"I jerk you off, shove my tongue down your throat and you're calling me bro?" Dick raised a brow.
"My bad—holy shit dude." Wally grinned.
The two men snapped their heads around as a surprised scream rang through. Kori was standing up with you tossed over her shoulder.
"Come on sweetie!" Wally grabbed your hand getting dragged to the bedroom by Kori.
Dick followed casually, like his jeans were tight and drenched. He pulled the curtains in the bedroom shut and turned on the big light. Your apartment had those fancy dimming lights, so he set it to the perfect brightness. The warm hue probably caressed your skin, he couldn't tell with Kori and Wally on top of you ensuing an attack of kisses. Your leg kicked up as their flaming hair tickled your skin and their pinkish lips sucked purple markings.
"You'll find having your clothes off makes this easier," Dick commented as he stripped.
The rest of you were still fully dressed (bar your lost underwear). Kori quickly rid herself of her dress, revealing nothing underneath. Wally tossed his shirt and trousers to the floor before pulling your skirt off as you removed your top. Dick slid behind you, his hands on your waist as he kissed your neck. His hands caressed your sides before snaking up to remove your bra. Your head leaned back in ecstasy, your lips slightly parted and your eyes shut.
"I'm all for seeing you pleased but don't forget about now." Wally joked, situating himself in front of you.
He cradled your face lifting your head up. He admired your relaxed, almost sleepy, expression.
"See? I told you you'd be fine." He kissed you sweetly.
He hummed as your arms wrapped around his neck, chuckling when you jumped at the feeling of Kori latching onto your tits. One was being suckled in her mouth and the other was fondled by her manicured hand.
After some time of making out, you found yourself wrapped up in Kori's embrace, Wally's hands gripping your hips thrusting into you. Dick was bucking into Kori with his arms around her waist. You were lying on your side, limbs and lips entangled with Kori, groping at the other's chest.
"Ah—fuck!" Moans fell from your lips nonstop, most getting swallowed by Kori.
Wally's hand gripped your thigh and hoisted your leg up allowing him to go deeper. He kissed along your neck and whispered dirty lines into your ear. Heat scorched your entire body.
"Shit, you take me so well. Your cunts swallowing me, fucking beautiful..." He muttered with a dreary voice, too pleasured to fully comprehend what he was saying.
Dick had one of Kori's legs resting over his hip, with a hand idly playing with her clit. Kori's hands were too preoccupied holding your faces. She swapped spit and shoved her tongue down your throat like her life depended on it. Your hands cupped her breasts, circling your thumb around her hardened nipples. She giggled and continued to kiss you.
"Wally!" You cried in the familiar tone that he recognised as you reaching climax.
"C'mon baby, cum all over me." He picked up the pace. "Show them what you got."
"Look at her, Kori." Dick guided her out of your chest to look at your fucked out face.
She gripped your face in one hand squishing your cheeks a bit. Her other hand found your clit and began to rub circles.
"God, you're so gorgeous." She pressed another kiss to your lips. "Cum with me, sweetheart."
Dick matched his pace with Wally's and fastened his hand on Kori's clit. You shut your eyes tight and he clicked his tongue.
"Don't hide your eyes, pretty." He groaned at the sight of tears in your eyes when you fluttered your eyes open.
A shiver of pleasure rushed down your spine as you came all over Wally's cock. Kori's moans filled your ears as she came simultaneously. You went limp in his arms, sighing when finally he released inside you. Dick finished with a snap and a groan. You were panting so hard your chest was brushing off of Kori's.
"We don't have to if everyone's too tired—"
"I'm not tired!" Wally raised a hand.
"Trust me, we know." You teased the speedster.
Dick pulled out of Kori and sat up, getting a better view of you and Wally—and giving you a better view of those abs.
"As I was saying," Dick continued. "I've heard a lot about what your mouth can do, gorgeous."
He smirked and you went hot.
"And I've heard a lot of what Wals can do too." Kori grinned.
Now it was Wally's turn to go hot and flush. You'd both been spilling details of your sex life to your friends and now it was coming back to bite you. Probably literally.
Wally pulled out of and sat up. "Don't be nervous babe, I've told nothing but truths." He gave your ass a light smack encouraging you.
You pushed yourself up and crawled over to Dick on shaky legs. Kori maneuvered over to Wally's side. Dick positioned himself, leaning against the headboard with his legs spread. Kori did the same.
Dick had a hand in your hair, pushing you down onto his cock. You took all of him, gagging slightly. His other hand stroked your face delicately, keeping your loose hair out of your face.
"Fuck—you're beautiful like this."
Your eyes wandered over to Kori's hands fisting the sheets. She slid down the headboard at some point. Her fiery curls were spread along the pillows and screamed. Wally held her thighs open as he vibrated his tongue along her cunt. You'd told her about his improper use of his abilities before, but it didn't seem to have prepared her.
"Hey, eyes on me, pretty." Dick's hands guided you back to stare up at him.
He leaned his head back and moaned, doing his best to still hold eye contact. The sight of tears pricking the corner of your eyes made him buck up into you. You gagged causing your eyes to shut and tears to trickle down your face. He groaned and began to roll his hips into you, chasing his release.
Kori cried out as he came onto Wally's face. She was breathless with her legs pushed up, knees to her shoulders. Wally (certified munch), licked up everything like a starved man.
A moment later, Dick pushed your head down and held you there as he came inside your mouth. The warm liquid slid down your throat, some dripped out down your chin, smearing across your lips as he pulled out.
You felt like an animal in heat the way you passed yourself around. One minute with Kori, then Wally, then Dick, and back to Kori. She pinned your wrists above your head, her arms flexing as she grind her soaked pussy against yours. She switched to pinning your arms with one hand the other grasping your leg to keep you spread open for her.
"Ugh, sweetheart you feel so good." She moaned with a smile. "Should've done this sooner."
To your right was a sight you'd admittedly thought about before—your boyfriend face down, ass up. The part you hadn't imagined before was his best friend pounding into him from behind. The sound of skin slapping and the squelching of you and Kori's cunts filled the air. You laughed at Wally's slack jaw, some stains still on his face.
"What're you laughing about?" He couldn't help but laugh back.
"Nothing." You smiled, slipping a hand free from Kori's grasp so you could intertwine it with Wally's.
"Oh fuck–" Dick's form stuttered briefly.
His thumbs stroked Wally's hips in the same fashion as he'd stroked your face. Kori continued to grind into you, her abs shining with sweat and her breasts bouncing in your face. Wally's groans of pleasure filled your ears as his hand held yours sweetly. You may aswell have died and gone to heaven.
"Oh shit!" You tipped your head back when Kori fastened her pace.
The overstimulation got to you, making you cum quickly. It caught up to her too, but she continued to grind even as liquid dripped down onto the sheets. Wally's grip tightened around your hand as he and Dick finally came.
"Where are you going?" Dick asked, puzzled by your actions.
"To get fresh sheets, they're dirty." You stated matter-of-factly, crawling over bodies to get off the bed.
Wally chuckled. "Babe, c'mon those can wait—"
You swatted his hand away as he reached for your waist.
"No they can't! I won't have guests sleeping on dirty sheets." You stood up on shaky legs.
After two small steps, you stumbled into the nightstand, knocking your hip off the corner.
"Ow!" You shouted, falling over in defeat, only momentarily.
As the three came to the edge of the bed, hands stretched out to try drag you back, you stood back up and continued on your mission. Legs still shaking, bruise already forming on your hip.
"A bruise is already forming, come back to bed so we can kiss it better!" Kori attempted to persuade.
"It's fine, it'll blend in with the rest." You responded, standing in front of the hallway mirror.
Hickeys and bite marks littered your whole body. From jaw to hip you were purple.
A/N: I'm so bad at writing dirty talk... anyways, I'm going to try become more consistent with writing. I forgot how much I enjoy it. I'd really appreciate it if people interacted through comments and messages, as it really encourages your authors!
summary: damian wayne is at a total loss in the matters of love and winning over your heart, so much so that he dreadfully ends up on each brother’s doorstep seeking love advice.
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader (featuring dick, tim & jason)
content: flufff, absolute chaos and only one bat brother comes out on top in teaching damian the ways of yearning, not that he needed help for that in the first place.
“You—” Dick’s grin is barely repressed, chest puffed in pride of being the first confidant Damian thought of. “—seek dating advice?”
Damian makes a non-committal shrug. “I admit that I may harbour feelings towards her that differ from my usual disdain to the average person.”
Dick’s laugh escapes his lips, but quickly conceals itself into an overly serious nod when Damian’s glare pierces through him.
“And you… travelled all the way to Blüdhaven to ask me for help?”
Damian would much rather be stabbed with a jagged-edged blade than admit that. There was always a price to pay for relying on others, especially when it came to his tooth-grinning brothers.
“Would you like to tell her.. about these feelings?” Dick tries again, settling for a more emphatic approach.
Damian winces, averting his gaze—trying to displace the sudden lodge in his throat. “I assumed there were more steps that entail to a courtship. You’re clearly well-versed in them.”
Dick clears his throat. “It isn’t like a routined dance, Damian.” At Damian’s furrowed brow, he continues. “Falling in love—dating, it comes naturally between two people. It’s the million little moments, built upon each other that no practiced motion can recreate. It happens regardless of choices, and that’s the beauty of it.”
“Naturally.” Damian tests the word on his tongue, but like he suspected, it ran off with a bitter taste. While he has been deemed a prodigy, a perfect weapon—being a normal human was not something trained into his veins, but rather suppressed.
“Maybe it is for you, Grayson—but where I was raised, details of courtship and emotional connection with another person were never discussed. My body is not programmed to have these natural decisions come forth to my mind, and I-”
It feels like swallowing glass when he mutters. “I require your assistance to explain it to me.”
Dick’s gaze softens in pity, which weighs heavier, worse than his laughter earlier. “Hey, we actually started off on the same boat. If anything, at least you didn’t have to experience Bruce’s attempt at explaining it. He’s more an expert than any of us when it comes to emotional suppression.”
“Love..” Dick ponders. “It hits you when you least expect it, but spending time together does test if the feeling is reciprocated.”
“I suppose there are some steps that you could follow.” Dick murmurs, thumb trailing his chin in thought. “Alright, here’s the plan.”
Damian may not be well-versed in the matters of courtship. However, standing stiffly in competition with the street lamp beside him, his nose buried into his green scarf more so to hide his shame rather than from the winter cold, his regret grows tenfold with every passing minute for even agreeing to this.
You're bound to arrive at any moment, and he'd rather suffer in his regrets than leave you stranded on a date his brother suggested. Not that he used that term, he could barely handle deeming it a hang out.
In his earpiece, Dick’s voice echoes with irritating amusement.
“Damian, you need to relax. You look like an assassin waiting for your target to appear.”
“Train to be one from the moment you were born with a family legacy on your shoulders and see how that affects your posture.” Damian grumbles.
“It’s okay if you’re nervous. I’ll guide you if you freeze, remember?”
“I’m not nervous—”
His peripheral vision recognises your silhouette before he can even finish his retort. All sound seems to fade past the stuttering in his chest, including his brother’s teasing, and maybe time slows too—he wouldn’t put you below that possibility. You’re busy with your scarf that’s loosened enough to reveal your lips, and you don’t even notice that you’re speed-walking right towards him.
It’s instinctive, not at all pleasing when his hands reach out just in time to grab onto your shoulders before you slam face-first into his coat.
Your eyes widen comically, but it doesn’t appease the thundering of his pulse, not especially when you smile at him like that, bashful and sweet. “Damian! Fancy bumping into you here." You tease.
“Perfect meet-cute.” Dick whispers to himself. “Tell her it’s fine—that you actually think it’s cute.”
“What?” He snaps, feeling ashamed at the mere suggestion.
You blink twice at his sudden reaction. He needs to recover quickly, say something.
“Watch where you’re going.” He slips out.
He can hear the sound of Dick slapping his own forehead, echoing in his eardrums.
Thankfully, you don’t seem deterred by his slow-witted response, grin still in-tact. “Apologies for almost ruining your luxurious scarf. Though I’ll must say, green looks really good on you.”
He tenses. This is the moment, he must say something right this time.
“Brings out the colour of my eyes.” Dick offers through a sigh.
Perfect. Something witty, and completely appropriate for the situation.
“Brings out the colour of my eyes.” Damian’s delivery is completely robotic, unlike the one he heard in his ears, carrying none of the light-hearted tone that made it sound right.
Miraculously, it only cracks a laugh out of you.
“She’s an angel.” Dick groans, almost pitifully.
He winces, letting you go before offering his hand. “The snow’s slippery.” His excuse is well-rehearsed, recovering back into the steps Dick gave him.
Your expression brightens, taking ahold of his hand. It’s a perfect fit, your glove in his and a warm glow is forming behind his ribs—an unsteady, pleasant feeling, almost enough to forget the mistake he made.
“Smooth recovery.” Dick comments in approval. “Bring her to the next location.”
If Damian could, he’d mute Dick's channel immediately if he was going to be reminding him every second. It was distracting and nerve wracking to be multi-tasking two tasks at once, especially when you easily compelled him to lose all train of thought.
The skating rink is crowded, more than he’d like, but he wasn’t up for improvisation after his earlier attempt. It’ll have to do, and he’s sure his withering glare can clear enough space for the two of you.
“I’ve always wanted to try ice skating.” You’re brimming with glee with your gaze glued to the ice, and his eyes trail over your excitement with a tender patience. He’d like to sketch it out when he was back home, but even the thought of ending this moment was incomprehensible, so he settles on bending down to tie your skating shoes.
”Just to warn you—” Your joyful glimmer falters into a rare bundle of nerves. “I’ve never skated—like ever. You’ll need to teach me the ropes.”
His lips quirk the slightest lift. “You have the best teacher in all of Gotham.”
“Really?” You tease, leaning down slightly that he feels the warmth of your breath over his nose, sending goosebumps down his arms. “That’s a bold claim.”
“I was raised on snow mountains since I was an infant. A skating rink in Gotham is a small feat for me, and it shall be for you.”
“Less bragging, more swooning.” Dick’s voice echoes in his eardrums.
Damian’s expression clamps shut as he leads you towards the ice. He takes the first step and balances himself perfectly on the naturally formed ice. You enter immediately on the wrong angle, and slip. He doesn’t think, his free hand wrapping around your waist before you fall.
He freezes, and you do too. Caught at the entrance of the rink in the corner where no one is watching, you’re wrapped so closely in his embrace—his body instinctively shielding and protecting you. He feels his entire face burning up from the lack of distance.
“Maybe ice and me are less compatible than you think.” You whisper, as if the ice would crack and swallow you whole if it heard you.
It’s enough to kick him back into his senses, and he quickly lifts you back up to your feet. Gently letting go of your waist, he ignores the jittering in his fingers by taking hold of your hands instead.
“Hasn’t been proven yet.” He answers, looking down at your feet. “Mirror my stance.”
Your own gaze shifts down, and you adjust the blades of your shoes into the same V position. You’re shuffling less, which is already a sign of improvement.
“Alright, now one step forward, and the other leg lifts like a kick.” Damian instructs.
You try, but your feet wobble at your first kick, making you fall into his arms again. Not that he minds.
“You’re lifting too early.” He notes. “You’ll have to glide with your other foot first.”
Your brows furrow together, an adorable concentration creased in the centre as you try again. You manage it the second time, and he finds it despite himself, vulnerable to smiling when you let out a huff of joyous laughter as you glide with him, his hands still holding onto you.
“I guess you proved yourself right.” Your focus is still on your feet, but when you lift your gaze, you’re leaning close to him just like before when he had caught you—with such pure, content bliss that the word ‘beautiful’ fails to describe your features. “You are a good teacher.”
Dick’s muttering something in his ear, but the erratic signals shooting through his brain fries all comprehension of what he’s supposed to do next other than stare at you speechless like a bumbling fool.
He messes up his next step, and before he knows it, he’s tumbling down to the ice, and you fall down with him through your connected limbs. His body shields you from the freezing ice, but nothing protects him from the shame that drowns his entire conscience—of falling onto the ice which he has never done in his lifetime, and dragging you down with him.
He hears Dick clearly now, laughing so hard that it stings his eardrums from the high frequency.
“Damian!” You call out, and your gaze is half worry, half shock. “Are you okay?”
His ears flush with blood at your question, most likely reddened as if there wasn’t enough to mope about.
“I would very much like for the ice to swallow me whole.” He mutters dryly. “Other than that, I am uninjured.”
“I so have that captured.” Dick howls through the earpiece. “I’m calling it, this is going to be the topic of discussion for our next family dinner.”
Damian discreetly rips his ear-piece out and shoves it into his coat’s pocket when your gaze averts to an elderly couple stopping by the two of you like his fall is some tourist attraction, asking if he needed any help to get back to the entrance.
He is never asking Grayson for help ever again.
The Bat-Cave, Wayne Manor
(Drake’s Secondary Home)
“You sure you have the right person?” Tim guffaws, his expression a mixture of horror and fascination. “Haven’t you tried—”
“Grayson, yes. He has failed.” His scowl has dug deeper if possible, the faint memory of Dick’s laughter still penetrates his eardrums when he isn’t preoccupied with his responsibilities.
Pointing an intrusive finger to his new prey, he speaks. “You are to prove yourself more worthy than he is, as the next best in line for successful courtships.”
Tim raises a brow. “Didn’t know you kept track.”
Damian scowls. “Your methods are unconventional, but there are no other better alternatives.” Imposing and distracting with his crossed arms, casting a shadow over the littered papers, his presence eventually forces Tim to detach from the case he was working on.
“Alright, what’s her name?” Tim sighs, his fingers switching to a new tab where the identity search bar flickers.
Damian stiffens, defensive. “Why would you require her name?”
“To search for her, genius.” Tim comments as if it’s obvious that an illegal identity search is the best course of action. “I can have her interests, dislikes, and her entire profile mapped out in less than five minutes.”
“That’s dishonourable.”
“It’s efficient.” Tim fires back. “Or else we’ll be here all day. Why waste time on the uncertainties when you can already mould everything to go perfectly?”
“My respect for you shrinks by the second, Drake.”
Tim snorts. “As if you had any in the first place. Don’t act like you haven’t done your own illegal searches. Suddenly, it’s your crush and I’m not allowed to look into it?”
The back of Damian’s neck grows hot at the mere use of the word ‘crush’, dumbing his feelings down to something so.. pathetic. “Fine, I’ll do it myself. You’re not allowed to so much as glance at her.”
Tim’s hands raise in mock surrender. “I would never.”
As Damian settles into the seat, given the privacy as Tim launches himself into the spare chair, spinning it backward with his back facing the Bat-computer, he can feel the latter brewing with something to say.
“Spit it out.” Damian huffs.
“I just—” Tim starts. “Never thought I’d live to see the day of you softening up for someone. I mean—it’s even made you come all the way for my assistance.”
“I did not come for assistance.”
“Advice is practically the same thing.” Tim remarks. “You may have called it dishonourable, but can you truly claim you love a person if you don’t know them fully? I think falling in love means having a curiosity so strong for someone that you would like to know them as deeply as they know themselves. Isn’t that what it means to love?”
Damian’s gaze flickers to Tim who yawns widely, tucking his head into his elbows over a long drought from sleep after staying up for two days straight. It… resonated with him, his never-ending greed to learn the intricacies of your emotions and actions, to know the depths behind each story you held in your mind.
He’s spent long, treacherous months avoiding even the mention of your name anywhere outside the confinements of his mind, aside from the occasional scribble and tear of his paper, and his hunger has become an obstacle that even he can’t tackle any longer. With a mental push, the mere action of typing your name numbs his fingers from the anticipation.
Your social media accounts pop up—one is public with your name listed, and another is a photography account. There’s not many photos, but there’s enough that it feels like he’s peeking into something intimate, a catalogue of your life that has his heart quickening.
He remembers vividly of you asking to exchange social media accounts when you had first met, before he quickly shut it down, commenting that he refused to have such useless applications.
Yet, here he was—frozen, mesmerised at the sight of your smile captured on your digital camera, unable to scroll further past your most recent post. It didn’t capture the true essence of your joy like he remembered so clearly from that failed date, but it still struck him all the same.
Even his denial falls silent when he’s looking at you, because he’d be a fool to pretend away the quick pattering of his heart, or the small smile etched into his lips caused by you. His mind has formed a despicable habit—a quiet, dreadful longing whenever he envisions even a frame of you in his mind.
He has fallen for you quietly—strongly, and even as he scrolls further, to the latest bookstores you’ve frequented, or your blurred snapshots of sunsets along the Gotham horizon, he’s not satisfied. What is the use of seeing these images if he wasn’t there to witness it or hear from you in person?
He wants to be in your life, not just a mere bystander, but he doesn’t know how to say it.
“You’ve been deathly silent for ten minutes.” Tim comments. “It’s kind of making me curious—”
“I will gouge out your eyes myself, Drake.”
There’s only one person he has left to ask, and as he pierces a coffin-burying glare into Tim’s prying gaze, he wasn’t sure if he’d get the answer he needed.
89, Skirley Apartments, Park Row (Crime Alley)
(Todd’s Rebellious Man-Cave)
Jason whistles, leaning against the door to his mess of an apartment. “You must be desperate if you’ve come to see me.”
The disgruntlement in Damian’s expression comes mostly from embarrassment and partly from the state of disarray he finds from one single swipe past the gap of Jason’s shoulder and the door frame. Motorcycle gear is splayed out over the scratched floorboards, signaling another random side project.
Barely lived in, and somehow a complete mess that would have Alfred over in a snap with his emergency cleaning set.
“Grayson’s overly optimistic and Drake’s downright creepy.” Damian huffs.
“And that leaves me..?” Jason’s brow raises, a taunting smirk on his lips.
“As the last option.” Damian grits.
Jason steps back, his back pushing against the wood to allow Damian into his less-than-adequate living quarters.
“Well, sorry to break it to you, kid—” Jason plops down onto the couch, and the pillow-seat sinks under his weight. “But my understanding of love is barely any better than yours.”
“You’re still the second oldest.” Call it desperation, Damian isn’t sure if he’s above that anymore after the failure of his two other brothers. “You must’ve had some experience.”
“Now, age matters?” Jason mocks. “Well—if you want my two cents, I suppose I can give it.”
“There’s no point beating around the bush.” Jason states. “If you really like her, you just have to say it. Even if it hurts, especially if you’re scared it’ll hurt. That means there’s something worth to lose, and to never ask, it’s always gonna hurt worse than knowing.”
“That’s the whole point of love. It takes being brave, and realising the possibility of something real right in front of you—and fighting for it. You only have so few chances in the world to experience it, and you’re going to waste something like that over fear of what—rejection?”
“Have a heart-to-heart. That’ll always mean more than some hidden message, hoping she’ll notice and give in first.” Leaning back, Jason eyes Damian with a rare look he doesn’t recognise, because there is no possibility in the world that wisdom could exist in that big-head of his. “If she doesn’t return how you feel, that sucks. You’ll live barely, then it’ll heal and you move on. If you never answer the question? It’s gonna haunt you for life. The one that got away.”
The thought of losing you to cowardice, of being a permanent outsider to your life, nearly ruins him. Damian can’t afford that, not when there’s never been a person he desired for more than you. This week has made sure of that.
Even more of a horrifying realisation is that of all people, Jason Todd was the one that got through to him. His trained eyes scan the perimeter for any signs of a secret partner, a reason for this sudden shift in his usual, thick-headed sibling. “Where did you obtain such knowledge?”
Jason’s lips quirk up. “Jane Austen, you should try her sometime.”
135, Kane Street, Otisburg
(Damian's Last Resort)
Damian has only felt the urge to puke on two occasions this past year. Firstly, when he discovered old photos of Dick’s first Nightwing costume in an old album, and had to wash his hands twice with anti-bacterial soap. Secondly, when a rare poison seeped into his bloodstream that he had not already trained to be immune to.
Never had the nauseating feeling of nerves scale till the point of trembling fingers and stiff legs. He just needed to tell the truth, so why did the matter seem so petrifying?
He’s been standing outside your door, letting the winter frost bite at his exposed skin—like a pathetic loser for the past fifteen minutes and if he stood there any longer, he might as well brand himself as one. His hand comes up to knock in three measured beats, and he waits with the patience of Dick’s pit-bull for a belly rub.
The door unlocks, and your tousled hair greets him first. His heart tugs at the sight of you in your home attire, with your loosened shirt and pajama pants dragging against the floor. You’re utterly beautiful, even as you’re slapping your cheeks lightly to coerce yourself awake. It takes a few seconds for the realisation to hit your half-asleep features before your eyes nearly pop out.
“Damian? It’s five in the morning! What are you doing here?”
“I have romantic feelings for you.” He blurts with the subtlety of a ramming gun.
“If you reciprocate, I would like to..” He pauses, his thoughts competing with the rapid pace of his heartbeat. “Wait, I didn’t think this through.”
You blink slowly, shock blasted over your face, before a soft, warm smile creeps over your lips. “No-no, go on.”
He wants it to be perfect, but his words were too direct, too harsh. He wasn’t like Dick, who was naturally charismatic with others, or Tim who thought two steps ahead for every interaction, or Jason who bulldozed through without a care in the world. He doesn’t want to risk losing you over his own incompetence. “No, I feel like I’ve started it all wrong.”
“It’s five in the morning, even Damian Wayne is human enough to mess up his words at this hour.” You tease. His shoulders sag in relief at the sound of your comforting voice, which he suspects is the purpose of your teasing. To calm him, tell him it’s okay.
“Right.” He mutters. “May I start over?”
“I’m all ears.” You grin.
He cracks a soft smile in return. It is difficult for him to be human, to feel his faults bubble to the surface, but in front of you, he is willing to try. “I am unfathomably, undoubtably.. and completely in love with you. Romantic feelings don’t even come close to describing the knowing in my heart that it has chosen you from the very moment you entered my life.”
“When I am around you, it’s as if the world disappears, and all I envision is you.” He admits. “From the moment you approached me with your maddening smile and charming wit, I don’t believe I could have ever fought against it, against you.”
“Your laughter brings joy to me, your sadness distracts me of all my senses, and your very existence is a gift in my life that I cherish deeply and.. I’m terrified at the idea of losing that, losing you.”
“Love..” He hesitates. “..is a difficult concept for me to understand, because it has never been shown to me outright. So when I felt this desire—this constant want to be in your presence, I sought for understanding.”
“I see now—that love can’t be explained in just mere words. It is the shared moments between us that I replay in my mind, the small details I find myself noticing of you and cherishing deeply, and the fear of losing that privilege of knowing you. I realised.. that I can’t fathom continuing my life without you in it.”
“I don’t know if I deserve to be by your side, but I would like to try.” His gaze finds yours, and he hopes. So desperately, he hopes. “Would you have me, even if I am a fool who doesn’t know the right things to say?” His plea is quiet against the silent rustle of the trees, the dark twilight sky that watches over them.
Your eyes soften, filled with warmth and that same, brimming happiness he has memorised from the time spent on the ice. “You’re only an idiot if you think you didn’t say all the right things, Damian.”
His chest, tight till the point of rupturing, feels like it’s finally able to breathe.
Leaning in slowly, right across the barrier of the doorstep that separates you from him, you gift him with a soft kiss pressed against his lips and his entire world falls apart, not that it ever truly existed before you.
He takes you into his arms, lifting your feet off the doorstep as his boots crunch against the melted snow when he kisses you back. He has never kissed anyone before, but the feeling of wanting you so close to his soul only feels natural when you’re here in his arms.
It’s sweet, clumsy—and out of all the moments he’s spent with you, he truly wished he could replay this over and over.
When you break the kiss, he has to remind himself to not follow after you when you whisper softly against his lips. “You never finished. What did you want to do if I reciprocated?”
Visions, blurred and incoherent, flash through his mind but it’s nothing compared to the real thing right in front of him. “Everything. As long as you’re mine, the possibilities are endless.”
“Of course I’m yours, Damian.” Your eyes crinkle into that puddle of warmth that melts through all his defences. “No one has ever come to my doorstep, at five in a winter morning, professing their love before.”
His brows furrow, lips nearing to a pout. “Has anyone ever tried professing their love in other ways?”
You laugh, and he can get used to that. Making you smile and laugh as if it’s his one purpose on this planet. “No—I think my heart was too busy being taken by the person in front of me, who just conveyed what love is so perfectly that I can never think of anyone else.”
He relaxes at that, feeling his own smile deepen at the relief of finally having you in his arms, and in the comfort of the warmth shared under the dim streetlights, he thinks he’ll have to temporarily bump Jason to the number one spot in his long line of siblings.
Not that he’d ever tell him that—but he supposes if a limited edition of Jane Austen's collection ends up at Jason's doorstep tomorrow, it would have simply been the universe's divine gift.
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
one day I’ll finally write that ridiculously elaborate fanfiction that I’ve been carefully constructing in my daydreams for months and then you’ll be sorry. you’ll all be sorry.
