1-800-crazy

[1-800-crazy]

What Was Bought, What Was Taken

Eris Vanserra x Reader

summary: He asked for your hand like you were a favor to be traded. When the mating bond snaps in the Court of Nightmares, furious but powerless, you're taken to Autumn. word count: 5,310 content: [ coercion, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, mating bond, all warnings that come with Keir and the Hewn City, dead parents, mentions of abuse, keir is y/n's grandfather ] author's note: thanks anon for this request! sooo i didnt end up writing any smut for this. the tone it took on as i wrote just didnt have the vibe for that, and it wouldve felt really forced. also i felt a strange power imbalance when i tried; not something i’d usually shy away from writing but i think this was a really pretty piece and i didnt want to muddle it with dubcon yk ✦ . Masterlist . ✦

You walked fast—nearly jogged, if you were honest—through the narrow hallway that led to the Council Chamber, your heels catching against the smooth stone as you tried not to make too much noise. Your pulse was already high in your throat, pushed higher by the low, measured toll of the nearby bells. You were late. Again. 

He was going to skin you alive.

Keir hadn’t said much this morning—just that the heir of Autumn would be joining him for “a conversation of mutual interest,” whatever that meant. You hadn’t asked questions. You’d learned by now that curiosity only invited irritation.

But still. Eris Vanserra didn’t come to the Hewn City for polite formalities. No one did. And Keir had been in a mood ever since the messenger confirmed the High Lord had set the meeting. He’d spent the morning stalking the halls like a male preparing for war.

Which meant you were walking in late to something very, very important.

You swore softly and slipped inside.

You hesitated at the heavy double doors of the Council Chamber, the low murmur of voices inside fading the moment you stepped over the threshold. The scent of burning incense mixed with cold stone filled your lungs. Your footsteps echoed softly on the polished floor as you moved forward, eyes deliberately fixed on the ground. As you crossed the room, the tension prickled at your skin. 

“You’re late,” Keir’s voice was calm but sharp enough to cut through the hum of conversation. 

The room quieted around him.

You stopped just shy of your chair, spine straightening instinctively.

You’d expected the reprimand. The public humiliation. He rarely missed an opportunity to remind you who held the reins. 

Keir didn’t motion for you to sit. “Late,” he repeated, the word twisting with disdain. “As though your time is more valuable than mine. Than the court’s. Than our guest’s.”

You kept your gaze low, jaw tightening. 

Keir rose slowly from his seat, not to tower but to command. His voice stayed even, deliberate. “I give you responsibility, and this is how you meet it? I allow you opportunities I would grant no other female. Not even your mother.”

You flinched. 

“Do you think we can afford such carelessness?” 

He didn’t wait for an answer—there never was room for one. 

He turned slightly, gesturing toward Eris with an open palm. “Beron sends us his heir, a rare opportunity for diplomacy. And you walk in like a distracted servant girl, too absorbed in your own little errands to arrive on time.” 

You felt the heat creeping up your neck. 

“I bring you here to observe, to learn,” Keir continued, each word striking like a lash, “and instead, you’ve set an example I’d be ashamed to see from one of my lowest courtiers.” 

Still standing, still silent, you braced yourself for the worst of it. 

Keir waved a hand. “Apologize,” he said simply, resuming his seat. “You’ve made a spectacle of yourself. You will not make one of me.” 

Only then did you finally allow yourself to move. 

You turned—slowly, deliberately—your movements stiff with the effort of keeping your expression blank. You didn’t rush, though your stomach twisted with the burn of humiliation. You kept your chin high anyway. You’d learned that from Keir: if you must be dragged, at least look like you walked of your own will.

You faced the heir of Autumn like you were stepping into a performance you hadn’t rehearsed.

Eris Vanserra.

He was exactly as you’d imagined—sharp angles and cool composure, seated like the chair belonged to him. His golden-red hair caught the torchlight, flickering like open flame, but his posture was still and unbothered. One ankle crossed over a knee, a single finger resting against the corner of his mouth. His gaze was unreadable. Not cold, but closed. Guarded.

He said nothing. Only watched.

And when your eyes met his—

Not gently. Not like the brushing of threads or a soft breath of recognition. It hit like a tether pulled taut all at once, yanked from the depths of your chest, snapping into place so violently it nearly knocked you back a step. Something inside you reeled, flinched—like a door long rusted shut had been forced open from the inside.

Your breath caught, too sharp, too sudden. 

The world narrowed.

You felt it everywhere—like heat blooming low in your stomach, like your lungs weren’t your own, like your pulse had been dragged into rhythm with someone else’s. It was not pain, not exactly. But it was overwhelming. Terrifying. Your heart scrambled to understand what your body already knew: something irreversible had just happened. Something ancient and final.

It was as if an unknown magic inside you had reared its head for the first time in your life and whispered, there you are.

And he was the answer.

You couldn’t look away.

Didn’t dare blink. Not yet.

Eris’ posture didn’t shift. Not even a flicker of recognition across his face. He sat still as stone, gaze steady, unreadable. A master of silence. If his eyes were a fortress, his control was the outer wall—built stone by stone over years, and just as immovable. 

But you—

Your face betrayed everything.

Your lips parted before you could stop them. Your breath stuttered once, then again, too shallow. The blood had drained from your fingertips and rushed to your throat. You felt your lashes flutter, a single blink too slow, too stunned.

And from the corner of your vision, you saw your grandfather’s head tilt—just slightly.

He had seen it.

And you knew, before you even looked at him, that he understood exactly what had happened.

The silence in the chamber stretched thinner than glass. A breath, then another. You could feel the air shift—not with magic, but with attention. Every gaze in the room was waiting. Watching.

Then Eris stood.

Not abruptly. Not with surprise. But like he had been planning to stand all along. Like your new bond had changed absolutely nothing.

You barely stopped yourself from stepping back. Your throat bobbed, dry.

He didn’t speak. Not yet.

He looked at Keir first, his expression unreadable. Not quite expectant—no, it was cooler than that. Measured. His eyes lingered a beat too long. Like he was assessing your grandfather, weighing something invisible.

Then he turned his gaze to you.

Slowly.

And for a moment—just a moment—you wondered what he saw.

Not the expression you’d failed to mask. Not the shock still ringing in your bones. But you. You. The girl your grandfather had hidden behind a hundred veils of courtly obedience. The girl who’d never, in all her fifty years, breathed real air or touched soil or seen the sun. Did he see that? Did he see a possession, or a person?

What does a male like that think when a bond snaps into place?

What does he do with it?

He turned back to Keir.

You braced yourself—he would speak now, you were sure of it. Would begin the negotiations, would play whatever game the two of them had arranged behind closed doors. You knew how this worked. You knew how your story was supposed to be told.

But he didn’t go to Keir.

He came to you.

You froze.

He crossed the room without hesitation, the distance vanishing beneath the sure, easy weight of his steps. And then he was before you—taller, closer than you’d ever expected.

His fingers found yours, gloved hand brushing bare skin. And without asking, without hesitating, he lifted your hand to his mouth.

And kissed it.

Slowly. Deliberately. His gaze never leaving yours.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

You couldn’t answer. Your voice stuck behind your teeth, behind the shock, behind the weight of everything unspoken. You weren’t sure your lungs had remembered how to pull air.

Then he turned, your hand still in his.

As if you had already agreed.

As if your silence meant yes.

As if you were already behind him.

“I’d like her hand,” he said, gaze returning to Keir. “Formally. As mate. As future lady of Autumn.”

The words didn’t seem real.

You heard them. You understood each one. But they landed out of order, scattered, like someone had tipped your mind sideways and let your thoughts spill into a pile.

Her hand. Mate. Lady of Autumn.

Was this—was this a proposal? A declaration? A transaction?

Your heart was still beating too fast. Your palm still burned faintly where his mouth had touched it. The bond hummed along your spine and through each rib like a second heartbeat, louder now, more insistent, as though it was pleased with itself for being named.

But your body hadn’t caught up with your brain. You felt removed from it—like you were standing in the wrong version of yourself. The version that would have looked to her grandfather for approval. That would have nodded, smiled, curtsied, spoken her lines.

You weren’t smiling now.

He had asked for you. Claimed you. Not in metaphor, not in theory, not in the slow-burn romantic sense you’d once imagined while reading contraband books in the dim corners of your room.

No—he had asked for you like you were an estate: measurable, ownable, transferable. 

You opened your mouth. You weren’t even sure what you meant to say. Maybe No, maybe What are you doing, maybe just your own name to remind the room you had one.

But whatever it was, it didn’t make it past your tongue.

“Vanserra,” your grandfather said smoothly, eyes narrowed just enough to reveal his doubt. “You expect me to believe you would bind yourself, your future court, to someone you’ve not yet had a full conversation with?”

His voice was amused. Skeptical. But not insulted.

Not dismissive.

And that, somehow, made the panic press tighter behind your ribs.

You’d thought—naively, maybe—that your grandfather would laugh. That he’d bristle with offense. That he’d dismiss Eris’s request outright, just for the insult of asking.

But instead, Keir was considering it.

That amusement in his tone wasn’t mockery—it was interest, cloaked in skepticism. Testing the weight of the offer. Looking for the angle.

Your fingers curled in on themselves slowly, like your body was trying to reclaim what had been taken, as if you could reverse it, undo it, pull back from the moment and make it a mistake someone else had made.

Eris didn’t flinch beneath Keir’s scrutiny. His stance remained relaxed—too relaxed. He finally released you in favor of clasping both hands behind his back, chin slightly lifted. 

“Curious choice,” Keir mused, voice light with false interest. “Hardly the most advantageous offer on the table.”

A pause. Your face heated. 

“I don’t make decisions I haven’t already considered in full,” Eris said. “And I don’t waste time asking for what I don’t intend to keep.”

A faint smirk touched his lips, but it wasn’t cruel. It was worse than cruel—it was calm. Certain.

“Let that be answer enough.”

Your knees nearly gave out.

That was the story, then. That was how they’d frame it. As strategy. As inevitability.

Your mouth parted again, and this time, words came. Shaky, quiet.

“I haven’t—”

“Be silent,” Keir said, without looking at you.

And just like that, your voice vanished again.

Not by magic. By command. 

By obedience. 

You looked at Eris then. You wanted to see something—anything—in his face. Doubt, maybe. Hesitation. Some flicker of recognition that this was wrong, or too much, or too fast.

But there was only stillness.

Keir leaned back in his chair with the ease of a male who had just found himself holding the sharpest blade in the room.

“And here I thought,” he said, almost idly, “you’d come to posture and circle, like every other male with a title to defend.” His fingers drummed once against the armrest. 

Eris didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Keir let the silence settle before continuing, voice shifting—cooler now, more precise. “She wasn’t part of the original arrangement. Not in any meaningful way.”

You flinched, barely, at the word meaningful.

“She’s young. Inexperienced. Untried in court or politics. I wouldn’t call her… an asset.”

Your stomach turned.

“But,” Keir went on, tone sharpening, “it seems the bond has given her value. At least to you.”

He smiled then, the kind that didn’t touch his eyes.

“So let’s discuss what her hand is worth.”

It was like being stripped bare in the center of the room—like the torchlight itself was meant to spotlight your stillness, your silence, your helplessness. You didn’t know if they saw you blush or pale or tremble. You didn’t think it mattered.

They weren’t looking at you anymore.

Only at what you could buy.

“What do you offer, Vanserra?” Keir asked, gaze gleaming. “Because I can promise you, I don’t sell cheaply.”

The faint flicker of torchlight caught the sharp angles of Eris’ face, casting shadows that made him look almost carved from stone. His eyes narrowed slightly, the faintest curve touching his lips—not quite a smile, but close. He leaned forward, his voice low, measured.

“You won’t find a more valuable alliance, Keir.”

He let the words hang between them.

“I offer the full backing of Autumn once I am its High Lord—its armies, its resources, its influence. A bond with me is a bond with the power of my court.”

His gaze flicked briefly to you, cool and appraising, then back to Keir.

“This union will strengthen your hold on the Hewn City, and send a clear message to any who would challenge you.”

He paused, voice dipping with a quiet threat.

“Turn away from this offer, and you risk everything Autumn’s power can undo.”

The room grew heavier with unspoken implications.

Your grandfather’s smile was thin but sharp. “Bold words. But fitting for the Vanserra heir.”

Keir leaned forward, steepling his fingers beneath his chin as he studied Eris for a long moment. Then, at last, he nodded slowly, the hint of a smile ghosting across his lips.

“Very well,” he said with deliberate finality. “The alliance is formed. The hand is promised.”

His gaze snapped to you, sharp and unyielding. “You have thirty minutes.”

The weight of his words fell like a stone in your chest.

There was no room for protest. No space to bargain or plead.

This was not a question.

This was command.

Keir rose from his chair, gathering his cloak with a casual authority that brooked no argument.

“Leave us.”

You swallowed hard, every nerve taut, as you turned on unsteady legs, the silent watch of Eris burning at your back.

The path ahead was certain. And terrifying.

You closed the heavy chamber door behind you with a muted click, but the weight of the moment pressed against your chest so hard it felt like stone. Your knees wobbled, breath shallow and uneven, as you leaned against the cold wall just outside the Council Chamber.

The words kept spinning through your mind, relentless: You have thirty minutes. You have thirty minutes. You have thirty minutes. 

Your mind scrambled to make sense of it all. You’d been dealt like a pawn, bargained over like a piece of trade—no voice, no choice, no say. And yet, beneath the shock and numbness, something deeper roiled. 

Not just because Eris had asked for your hand without so much as a conversation, but because your grandfather had agreed so easily, like you were a thing, not a person. Like your life, your future, was a token to be wagered.

You hated the quiet calm in the chamber, hated the way Eris had kissed your hand like it was a prize, hated the way you’d frozen when you wanted to scream.

You wanted to yell. To fight. To rip the whole arrangement apart.

But mostly, you hated the emptiness.

When you finally reached your chambers, the door swung open to reveal the room you had grown up in—familiar, but suddenly stripped bare of comfort.

You stared around at your belongings. A handful of dresses neatly hung or folded, books lined on a shelf, a worn cloak hanging by the door. Nothing worth packing.

What was there to take with you when everything you were about to leave behind was all you’d ever known?

You sank onto the edge of your bed, hands clenched in your lap. The silence screamed louder than the council ever had.

You forced yourself to stand, to move, to do what you had to do.

First, you found your friends. You avoided their eyes at first, unsure how to explain what was happening—or how to bear the pity you already saw lurking there. But they hugged you tight, whispered promises and farewells. 

Then, you made your way to the cremation grounds—an austere place carved into the stone, where your parents’ ashes rested beneath a polished granite marker.

You knelt, fingertips tracing the cool surface, and whispered a goodbye you hadn’t dared to say aloud until now. The names carved into the stone were tethers, memories heavy as iron. 

They had never seen the surface. Never felt true sun, never lived anywhere but in this damn mountain. Born, bound, and buried beneath it. Your chest ached at the thought.

You closed your eyes, let the silence stretch—let it echo with everything you couldn’t give them. Everything they should’ve had. The dust of their memory settled quietly around you as you rose, a small flame of resolve kindling in your chest.

“I’ll wait, if you need more time.”

You didn’t flinch, didn’t so much as turn to look at him. His voice didn’t startle so much as settle—low and composed, like the rest of him. But still unexpected. 

For a long moment, you just stared at the stone. At your parents’ names carved into it, slightly worn by time and your fingertips. 

“I can’t say I expected you to be here,” you said quietly. 

And then—because curiosity always got the better of you, and because something in you bristled at the fact that it was him standing there—you turned. 

He was standing a careful distance away. Hands clasped behind his back, gaze on the marker like he owed it something.

“I would have brought flowers,” Eris said after a beat. “If I’d known.”

“They weren’t the type.” Your voice cracked a little. “Anything sentimental would’ve embarrassed them.”

A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. “Practical, then. Like you.”

You bristled. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” he conceded, meeting your eyes. “Not yet.”

Something in the way he said it—not with the arrogance you heard before, but something quieter, steadier—made your throat tighten.

“I’m still angry,” you admitted, folding your arms like you could hold the feeling in place. 

Eris nodded once, slowly. “You have every right to be.”

You didn’t respond. Just stared at the stone again, at the faint lichen creeping over the edge. It unsettled you, how easily he’d said that. How quickly he’d handed you that piece of ground to stand on. You weren’t used to your feelings being named, let alone validated. It felt like a trick. Like something sharp might be hidden beneath it. 

“It wasn’t what I wanted,” he said, voice low. “But it was the best way to get Keir to let you go.”

You glanced at him, wary. “You bought me.”

His jaw tensed. “No. I negotiated a release. From a court that would never stop holding this bond over our heads.”

Your silence stretched a little too long. 

“I know,” he went on, quieter now, “that Rhysand wouldn’t have allowed me to set foot in the Night Court again if it meant keeping me away from you. Not if Morrigan had anything to say about it.”

You blinked. 

And then—gods. Morrigan.

Your aunt Morrigan. Your father’s sister. 

This was the male she’d been promised to. The male she’d “sullied” herself to escape. Your whole life, your family had cursed her name. Called her tainted. Faithless. A disgrace to her bloodline. Whispers you’d grown up hearing, sharp as knives tucked behind closed doors. That she’d betrayed her own. That she’d been ungrateful for the match.

But now… after having to stand in silence as you were bartered… 

Now you finally understood.

What kind of cruelty had she been trying to avoid?

Surely not worse than what you’d seen in the Hewn City. Surely not worse than what you had endured under Keir’s thumb.

But the question clung like smoke, refusing to leave you.

“So this is it, then?” You gestured to the empty stone corridor. “This is how it starts?”

Eris didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he studied you, the weight of his gaze something you couldn’t quite avoid. And then, as if the weight of it had become too much, he said, “No. This is how it was forced to begin. What comes next… that’s something we decide.”

You believed him. And it infuriated you. Because believing him meant accepting that this—this loss of control—had been the cleanest option. That all the quiet fury in your chest had nowhere to go.

After a long pause, Eris stepped forward. “Take my hand,” he said quietly, extending his gloved fingertips toward you. His tone wasn’t gentle—merely firm, as if it carried the weight of inevitability. “It would be my pleasure to welcome you to Autumn.”

At those words, your heart lurched. You had never stepped beyond the Hewn City, never ventured to the surface where a world existed beyond cold stone and perpetual shadow. The thought alone made you shudder with both apprehension and a spark of fragile hope.

Before you could protest, Eris murmured, “Please. Trust me—even if you can’t fully do so right now.”

And then, his hand pressed to your arm. At his command, your surroundings began to shift. At first, it was subtle—a soft darkening of the edges of your vision, as though a veil were draped over the world. The corridor’s harsh, angular stone and the ever-present damp chill faded into a deeper gloom, the familiar replaced by an almost dreamlike dusk.

The subtle shift in sensation, like the brush of silk over your mind. The way color and texture pulled away from you slightly—not gone, not dulled, but… filtered.

Your stomach clenched.

“What did you do?” you demanded, already blinking hard against the strange dimness. “You glamoured me.”

“Yes.”

“Why—”

“I didn’t want it to overwhelm you,” Eris said, voice steady but not unkind. “You’ve never seen the sun. Not really. I thought easing you into it might be… gentler.”

It should’ve infuriated you. It did—for a breath. But even through the soft, unnatural dimness, you could feel something shifting in the air around you.

Your eyes dropped to the ground.

Leaves.

Thousands of them, scattered in every direction, mottled gold and rust-red and brown. Some crisp, curled in on themselves; others flattened by the damp, pressed into the dirt like forgotten pages.

The ground was dirt. Dirt.

And you were standing on it. Not stone. Not carved, cursed floors. Just—ground.

Your knees wobbled.

You tried to look up—to follow the drifting fall of a leaf—and froze again.

The glamour had begun to lift. Slowly, gradually, but it made all the difference. 

Light filtered through in ribbons. Warm and golden, but not the artificial flickering of faelights or the guttering orange of torches. It hit the edge of your face and you jerked away, blinking rapidly, hand lifting on instinct.

You turned, staring at the strange, living world around you. Everything moved. Not like it did in the Hewn City, where the only shifting things were people and shadows and smoke. Here, even the air moved. The trees swayed. The grass trembled. Light dappled and danced without ever once flickering out.

There were no books about this.

Why would there be? 

What need would any of you have to understand this, when you were never meant to leave? 

The surface was spoken of in fragments, in dismissals wrapped in soft smiles. Your parents had told you once—when you were young and asking too many questions—that they’d gone up, years ago. That it was nothing special. More stone. More dark. Just bigger. Emptier. That the Hewn City was safer, more efficient. Cleaner. The lie had worked for a while. You were a child who still believed adults wouldn’t lie for no reason. 

But you remembered their faces when they eventually admitted the truth: they’d never been above ground. 

Not once. 

But oh, how they’d wanted to. 

They didn’t know what waited for them up here. Didn’t know what the air felt like when it didn’t cling. Didn’t know that cold could come from something other than absence. They didn’t know what it was to hear the earth breathe. 

They never got to find out.

You exhaled through your nose, slow and uneven. The glamour loosened its hold over your sight like fingers unthreading from your hair, slow, gradual, calm. You were starting to see more, now—color edging its way in around the world. 

Something darted between two tree trunks ahead. You flinched. It flapped.

A bird. Not like the crows some kept in the Hewn City—those clever-eyed, miserable things bred for messages and menace. This one was bright. Red all over. Smaller, rounder. It seemed… unnecessary. Beautiful in a way that served no purpose at all.

And the air. You hadn’t realized before—it was scented. Not perfumed, not thick with the smell of candles and sweat and opium or whatever poison the courts were drinking. This was sharp. Crisp. Like snow, but not quite. Like spice, but not any kind you’d tasted. It filled your lungs, slid into your mouth and over your tongue. It was—

Alive.

So was the cold. Not the heavy, hollow kind that leached from stone walls and seeped into your bones while you sat still for too long. This cold had movement. It brushed your cheekbones, bit at your fingers, made your teeth press together—but the sunlight, wherever it touched you, answered it. Like they were playing. Like they were supposed to exist together.

The light was almost fully clear now.

You squinted up, following the glow that filtered through high branches, and—

“Ow—fuck,” you muttered, jerking back a step.

Eris shifted in front of you before you could blink. “Yeah,” he said, amused. “Don’t look straight at the sun. Even mortals know better than that.”

You rubbed your eyes, half-glaring at him. “Thanks for the tip.”

But even now, blinking past the blur, the world stayed. The trees. The grass. The slow roll of clouds, and the strange freedom of air that didn’t sit stale and pressed against a ceiling. It was too much. You didn’t know where to look. You didn’t know what to do with it all.

A whisper, so quiet you weren’t sure at first if you imagined it: “Turn around.”

You did. Slowly. The way he’d said it—low, reverent—it pinned you still.

“And don’t make a sound,” he added, barely audible. “Just look.”

You turned.

And the world opened again.

A small clearing spread before you, rimmed by trees. And in it—movement. Dozens of them. More. Creatures you couldn’t name. Slender, long-legged, soft-eyed. Some with antlers that curved like branches, others smaller, delicate, trailing behind.

Eris leaned in close, voice barely more than breath. “The ones with antlers? Those are bucks—the males.” You watched as they stepped, and grazed, and flicked their ears. 

“The others are does. And…” His smile warmed his words. “Looks like they’ve got fawns with them. Babies.”

They didn’t look real.

They looked like myths given flesh—gentle and silent and unreal in their serenity. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t remember how.

One of the younger ones looked up, ears twitching. It stared directly at you.

And for one impossibly long second, you felt seen in a way no one from the Hewn City had ever dared to look.

Not as something to be shaped. Not as a petulant granddaughter. Not as a tool.

Just… someone standing in the woods.

Alive. 

The fawn blinked. Its ears flicked once more. Then it turned, unafraid, and trotted after its mother through the trees.

You didn’t realize your fingers had curled into Eris’s sleeve until he shifted to glance down at them. You let go at once, heart lurching, but he said nothing.

The clearing quieted again, the herd melting into the underbrush as if they’d never been there at all. But the stillness they left behind was different. Settled. And full.

“I didn’t think anything like that could exist,” you whispered, like the words might scare the memory off too. You looked back to where the deer had vanished. “They weren’t afraid of us.”

“No,” he said. “They didn’t need to be.”

A breeze stirred the trees, and sunlight flickered between the leaves like rippling gold. Somewhere overhead, a bird you didn’t know the name of called out—sharp and clear and free.

You wrapped your arms around yourself. Not because you were cold.

There was moss, impossibly green, clinging to the north side of the trees. Clusters of wildflowers pushing up through soft earth, in shades too delicate to name. A squirrel—tiny, absurdly fast—scrambled up a trunk nearby and vanished into the leaves with a rustle. Even the rocks here didn’t seem lifeless. Sun-warmed and dappled in lichen, they felt like they belonged to the scene, not just cluttered it.

And when you turned back, Eris was looking at you.

His smile was soft. Crooked. Lit not by torchfire, but something gentler. And his eyes—amber, bright as honey in the sun—sparkled with it.

You blinked at him. “What?”

He tilted his head, just a bit. “You’re smiling.”

You were.

Big and bright and wide and completely unrestrained. Not the practiced curve you offered at court. Not the polite, tight-lipped expression your family had called pretty when appropriate.

This was something else. A whole-body kind of smile. A laugh trying to form even though nothing had been said. And you hadn’t even noticed.

Heat crept to your cheeks. “Oh.”

Eris didn’t tease you for it. Didn’t smirk or say something sharp. He only studied you, as if trying to memorize the exact shape of it. 

His voice was quiet when he spoke again. Not uncertain, exactly, but… careful. Like the words mattered more than they usually did.

“Would you…” He hesitated, just a beat. His gaze flicked away, then returned to yours. “Would you like to see more? Take a walk?”

He said it like he wasn’t sure if you’d want to go—with him, specifically. Because it hadn’t occurred to him, maybe, that someone might say yes to something like this. To him, like this.

The breeze rustled again, lifting strands of his hair where it had slipped loose from the ribbon at his nape. In the sunlight, it was all shades of flame—copper and gold, a glint of red. His coat had caught some of the forest too: a few leaves clung to the velvet near his shoulder, unnoticed. His collar was slightly askew.

He looked nothing like the High Lord’s heir here. Nothing like the snarling, coiled force you’d seen before.

He just looked… warm. And waiting. One arm extended in quiet offering, elbow bent like some chivalrous male out of an old tale. Like he meant to escort you, not lead.

You slipped your hand into the crook of his arm. 

He didn’t start walking right away—just stood there a moment, like he was letting you decide when to begin. And when you finally did, your steps slow and quiet beneath the trees, he matched them without question.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The woods did enough talking for you.

“There’s no rush,” Eris said, softly. “Take it as slowly as you like.”

You glanced up at him, but his gaze stayed ahead, following the winding path.

“We’ve got nothing but time.”

It sounded like he meant the walk.

But you knew better. 

[1-800-crazy]

Please, don't leave me! - Azriel x Reader Part 1

Plot: Daughter of Day and Night, Hellion being your father and a Illyrian Warrior being your mother made you one of the most controversial people to walk Prythian. Hellion protected you for most of his life but with war on the rise it's getting harder.

"Father" you smile at Hellion as you walk into the sunlit dining room where he was sat reading a book from the library. You didn't know what the book was about, it seemed like one your father wouldn't let you get your hands on. That proved correct when he lightly closed the book at the sound of your voice and appearance in front of him.

"Hello, my little light. How are you today" he says placing the book down on the chair next to him.

"I'm well, I woke up in good time despite staying up last night to chart the stars! I knew you had that important meeting today" you smile softly taking a seat opposite him.

"We, have an important meeting" he says, sipping at the tea that the maids had given him earlier on as it wasn't steaming like the fresh one that had been placed in front of you was.

"Thank you" you smile kindly to the maids, Cerfel who'd also placed your fruit breakfast infront of you. "We father? I imagined i'd be staying here?" you ask, confusion across your face at the idea that your father wanted you there. Of course he'd trained you in all kinds of politics and warfare but he'd done so well keeping you away from official meetings that you assumed you wouldn't be invited until your father deemed you adult enough to deal with it despite being over 150 years old.

"Yes, we! Your mother will be attending the Dawn Court as Escort to the High Lady and her sisters and has requested that she see's you" he says, his tone a little clipped as if it was something he was dreading. And if you were being honest, so were you.

Your mother hadn’t reached out in nearly 100 years, so why now?

"Why? She barely acknowledges my existence" you say, stuffing some of the juicy cut fruit into your mouth, chewing whilst holding eyecontact with your father.

"I know, darling. Come let us choose a gown for you to wear today!" He says taking a step away from the table coming round to your side and holding a hand out for you. You take it with a sigh, before smiling and kissing his head.

"Thank you"

Once in your room you and your father, with the help of your maid go through potential options. Hellion however had his mind on one dress he'd had the seamstress make you for your 100th birthday. Sky blue in colour, golden accents coming down the bodice and silk fabric that fell down around you making it look like soft waves of water or clouds were surrounding you.

You put it on with help from your made who later starts to style your hair and give you bangles and rings only in gold and sky blue. After your daidem was placed on your head, sun shapes across the spikes pointing up.

"The true Princess of Day, you make me so proud!" he smiles.

Before you know it, your father is winnowing the pair of you to the Dawn Court Palace that he was very much acquainted with.

“Thesan” he smiles pulling the male in for a hug.

“Hellion, always a pleasure. But even more of a pleasure to grant us the presence of your gorgeous daughter” Thesan says, colour rising to your tan cheeks.

“Thank you High Lord” you say, bowing slightly to him which only elicits a laugh from him.

“No need to do that Princess. We don’t have such rash formalities for Princess’ here” he offers and you nod, before he directs you and your father to the main room where everyone already is waiting.

“We were late?” You whisper to him, to which your dad shakes his head.

“A high lord is never late” he says before strutting over to Kallias and Tarquin. You remain behind awkwardly shuffling. You could feel gazes on you which made the anxiety worse.

Turning your head you spot the night court. Their High Lord and Lady, Rhysand and Feyre who you’d spotted when you’d been trapped under the mountain, Cassian and Azriel, Feyre’s two sisters and finally your eyes land on your mother who is fussing about Nesta’s hair.

Rhysand was the first gaze that you caught, his purple eyes wide as he looked over you. He could immediately tell you were like him. Half Illyrian which meant you were both able to conceal your wings.

Then you felt Feyre’s gaze join her mates, obviously he’d said something to her, a gasp coming from her. Which led to Azriel being more attentive to what had gained his high lady’s attention.

He’d been watching Elain, entranced by her beauty yet again. But when his eyes landed on you the world seemed to slow down. All voices that were currently going on seemed to be drowned out and all he could focus on was you. Everything about you. He went to step forward but was stopped by Rhys who had been unfortunate enough to enter his mind just as Azriel’s thoughts became lewd.

She’s your mate? Rhysand’s voice entered his mind snapping him out of his bubble of joy after finding his mate after all this time. 500 years of waiting and here she was, as radiant as the sun during the day and as captivating as a moonlit night.

Yes

Az, I know you’ve waited longer than most, but you have to wait a little longer. Rhys offers and Azriels gaze snaps to his but before he could question it the meeting started.

You still had yet to look at him and Azriel could feel that the bond hadn’t snapped for you yet which frustrated him increasingly. Your gaze was solely on Cisca, Feyre, Nesta and Elain’s sworn protector.

The gaze wasn’t one he could pin and Azriel prided himself of the way he was easily able to read people. But you were like a blank when he looked.

And he kept looking at you hoping that finally your eyes would meet his.

The meeting ended, an agreement made between the courts. You’d gotten up, excusing yourself from your father walking out the room and down the corridor. Azriel sunk into his shadows following her as she left.

“Y/N” a voice calls and it almost makes Azriel loose concentration.

So that was your name, he couldn’t help but think to himself. He wanted to desperately test the word on his tongue to see how it would sound but he knew he had to remain quiet.

You stopped in your tracks, pausing but not turning to look at Cisca. Azriel was confused as to why Feyre’s guard was here talking to you.

As you turn round, and Azriel sees the two of you opposite one another his eyes widen. You’d of course taken after Hellion, after all he was a High Lord and carried the dominant gene, but what shocked him was the uncanny resemblance you held to this Illyrian woman.

“My daughter” she smiles confirming what Azriel had thought.

“Mother” his mate replies with all the angst in the world, a grit in her tone Azriel wished he would never hear directed at him.

“I - you’ve grown into such a beautiful young fae my dear. You are … glowing” she smiles before stepping closer. “Let me see them darling” she says and you knew what she meant, as you revealed wings that hadn’t been there before. Ones you’d hidden. They were long leathery ones like his that he hadn’t expected.

They were concealable like Rhysands where you were only half Illyrian.

“My daughter. I’m so so sorry my duty has kept me away from you. I’ve wished nothing more than to spend time with you. And … if you want the High Lord has given me permission to house you in the Night Court whenever you desire” she adds and you look at her with a frown.

“I never want to go to that place” you say venom in your tone.

“But - I thought I could make up for lost time. Please you have to understand Y/N, I’m under duty to Rhysand and his father before him” she says and tears brim in your eyes.

“I’m happy in the day court with the father who raised me when my mother dropped me on his doorstep unable to care for me! I’m happy with the man who raised me to be both compassionate and combative. The man who taught me how to break spells and curses, using the ability he gave me. Then man who stuck by my side whenever anyone would question my wings as a child because I didn’t understand how to conceal them! So no, I will not take up your late invitation. I don’t want anything to do with the night court!” You say, all while tears are streaming down your face.

“Y/N please” she begs, a horrible look of begging and panic on her face.

“Cisca” a voice joins the conversation and it’s your father who you run over to, his arms open and waiting for you.

“What are you doing?” He asks looking at the woman who once used to very much love.

“I just wanted time” she says, a sad twinge in her tone.

“I’ll talk to her, get yourself back to your court. Please Cisca” he whispers to her, pain in his own heart knowing how horrible it must feel. He wouldn’t probably go insane at the thought of you not wanting to be around him.

“Please promise me you’ll try convince her” she says, tears in her green eyes.

“Of course” he says before kissing her head swiftly ending the conversation. He then led the pair of you away out the corridor and back to where Thesan was.

“You can come out now Azriel” Cisca says making him curse under his breath before he rounds the corner from a dark spot he’d been hiding in.

“Im sorry” he apologises.

[1-800-crazy]

Warm Hands and New Flavors

Azriel x Reader Fic

Plot: Reader is a new member of Rhysands court, being extracted from the Hewn City for her unique abilities. She can taste dishonesty, like metal in her mouth. She’s sent on her first mission with Azriel to obtain information at a ball, which has her reeling as their interactions are a little more intimate than she expected. (I know GIF is a corset but walk with me please).

No warnings that I can think of. Bad writing lmao

~

You had never been on a mission with Azriel, and to be honest, you are quite nervous. You were fairly new to working with the inner circle, and didn’t want to mess anything up. Especially in front of the Shadowsinger. You knew that you were very skilled at what you did, but that didn’t stop your anxiety when thinking about showing Azriel. Rhysan had pulled you because of your talents, being both very charismatic but good at obtaining information.

You had began using your skill set against Keir in the Hewn City. Your parents were nobles of the Court of Nightmares, so you found yourself sitting at Kier’s table quite often. You were able to discuss and listen in on his plans on a regular basis, being able to detect when the people around you were being dishonest about their plans. A particular skill set that you had aside from detecting lies, was being able to extract information. You were able to ask questions and obtain information in a way that people didn’t detect. This is where your charisma came in, as an interrogation was disguised as an engaging conversation. When nobles or Kier were up to no good in the court, you were able to detect their truths and their lies and act out against them. You really only rebelled against them because you knew that they were evil. You knew that their plans were simply to divide the Night Court, when in reality you knew that the Night Court should be united. Both the court of nightmares and the rest of the court. You didn’t know what was beyond your own little world, but you would soon find out when Rhysand caught on to your antics.

As a new member of Rhysands team, you had just started learning and training. Rhysand had already sent to you on a few missions with Cassian, and had even brought you to some meetings of his own. Most of your time here in the court had been used to extract information from conversations. Whether that be in Illyria with the women that were putting up with the males, or with allies in the war room.

Now, however, Rhysand wanted you to go on a mission with Azriel to the Winter Court. Kalias was throwing a ball for people from all over Prythian. He wanted involvement from all the courts to demonstrate a union among the High Lords. Although things have been going well between the High lords, Rhysand wanted to use this as an opportunity to learn from the other courts. And by learn, he means to use his secret weapon. You.

“Are you ready to go?” Azriel asked as he stepped into your room. You glanced up and saw his blank stare, his shadows coiling tightly around his shoulders.

“Yes! How are we getting there?” you prompted. You had sat down on the bench to begin lacing up your boots. Azriel’s eyes were fixed on you and the movement of your hands as he replied.

“I’m going fly us to Dawn, and then we will use the shadows to travel the rest of the way.”

You stood up and grabbed your pack, handing it to azriel to store in the shadows. He took the bag from your hand, your hands lightly brushing together. The contact made you slightly gasp, but also blush. His hands were so warm, you had heard about Illyrian body temperature, but still hadn’t gotten used to it. You looked down at his hands and he quickly retreated, putting his hands behind his back. You both walked toward the balcony of the House of Wind, and he picked you up bridal style.

His hands were just so warm, they felt so good on your slightly chilled skin.

“Hold on tight, we’re going to be flying for awhile.” And with that, Azriel shot off toward the sky, his powerful wings beating against the wind.

~

Upon landing in the winter court, you were greeted by one of Calus’ palace attendants. They led you and Azriel to two rooms, and informed you both that they would be connected by a bathroom in the middle. You both looked at one another and shrugged, before heading into your respective rooms.

Upon entering your room, you were hit with a sudden wave of nerves. This was your first opportunity to work with Azriel. You were pretty intimidated by him, as a lot of your work that you have been doing in the Hewn City overlapped with his skill set, I mean, you were spying and extracting information which were two of his specialties. You just didn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of the master, or seem like you were stepping on his toes.

This was your area of expertise too though. Rhysand wanted you to converse and interact with the various people from the different courts. Especially emissaries and Nobles. He seemed to think that they would be holding onto information that may be used to the Night Courts advantage. Although Azriel is really good at obtaining information, Rhys knew that you would be able to do this instantaneously. You are good at what you did because of your ability to converse with people and interrogate while making it seem like small talk. People engaged with you and shared information, whether that be truth or lie that would be for you to detect, but they revealed information to you nonetheless.

Azriel had already given you your pack, so now you were getting ready for the ball. You had already done your hair and makeup, but you were seriously struggling with putting on your dress (this is somewhat what I’m imaging https://www.instagram.com/reel/CwiaTbTIqp0/?igsh=YnU0eW01aTI5ZzM4) Rhysand had supplied it, but he must not have thought about how you would put it on. It had a million (or more) tiny buttons going up your back, which had steam coming out of your ears at this point. You were staring over your shoulder at your back in the mirror, about ready to rip the dress to shreds, when you heard slight tapping at your bathroom door.

“Come in” you shouted, knowing only one person could be on the other side.

“Are you almost ready?” Azriel said as he opened the door. His eyes landed on you and you heard a sharp, almost undetectable exhale. You were still standing in front of the mirror, probably looking frustrated. You felt your cheeks get rosy, embarrassed by your bare back on display and the fact the he was looking at you with his full attention.

“Yes actually, but I’m seriously struggling. I’m considering actually getting into a physical altercation with Rhysand for picking this dress. I can’t close it on my own. Could you help me?” You felt so stupid for asking, and even stupider for rambling in front of him. Gods why did this man make you so nervous. You could answer that, he was so attractive and his presence alone intimidated you… in a good way you thought.

“Of course” he whispered as he walked over to you. You turned around so that you could face the mirror. Watching from the reflection as he approached your back.

“May I?” He nodded toward your dress, and you silently nodded, tracking his every movement. For your first mission, this felt very intimate. You could feel his breath at the tips of your ears, he was standing so close. But what made it feel even more intimate is when you felt his warm hands at the base of your spine. It was something about those hands, their warmth, that had you leaning into his touch and blushing. He worked slowly, being gentle with every single button along your spine. You could feel his knuckles, dragging across the fabric as he worked his way up. You couldn’t help but just watch him in the mirror, occasionally catching his eyes as he looked back up at you, which made you avert then your eyes.

“Do you want me to tie this bit at the top too?” he said as he gesture toward the straps hanging at the front of your dress.

“Yes please, I would appreciate that” you breathed. This entire interaction was leaving you reeling. You had never gotten to work with this man, and now he was helping you get dressed. He tied the string at your neck, his fingers lingering just a second too long at the base of your neck, before he pulled away and put his hands in his pockets.

“Are you ready now?” He asked, making eye contact through the reflection. Your eyes narrowed at him.

“Wait, what exactly is the plan? I’m ready, but are we doing anything specific” You asked and he shrugged. The Spymaster, Shawdowsinger, this Illyrian warrior, shrugged at you. So… no plan?

“I was just going to let you do your thing. I’m intrigued to see how you operate. And in all honesty, we are just here to gather some intel, harmlessly. We can also enjoy ourselves while we’re here. Pretty low stakes mission. And, my only job is to introduce you as a new member of our court” he explained, and you had finally turned around at this point. He somehow felt lighter than all the other times you’d encountered him, like he was looking forward to this little mission he was assigned with you. But it still set you on edge, especially how he was interested in your methods.

“Easy enough. Training wheels I guess” you sighed as you walked toward your bedroom door to exit, Azriel in tow.

~

After conversing with some nobles from the autumn court, you discovered that Byron seem to be building up an army. For what? You didn’t know. But apparently, he had been rallying troops together, recruiting from the families of his ‘subjects.’ You thought that would be some good information to relay back to Azriel and Rhys. Azriel had left you to your own antics throughout the night. He knew that people would be more willing to share information with you if he wasn’t hovering over your shoulder, but you kind of wish he had stayed by your side. You liked his presence. It brought you a set of comfort as you explored this new world of spying/Intel gathering.

You looked around the room for Azriel, but he was nowhere to be found. At least nowhere that you could find him, so you headed to the drink table and grabbed a glass of wine. You took a slow sip, enjoying the flavors as they hit your tongue. Winter Court had some good wine, the rich flavor of plums were hitting your taste buds in all the right way. Your eyes somewhat rolled back when you heard someone say,

“The wine must be really good” Azriel smirked. You couldn’t believe your eyes and your ears. Everything you had heard about Azriel was at odds with the male before you. He was playful and gentle (at least with your buttons).

“Try some” you shot back, and he reached for your glass. You gave him a look that said “I’m not sharing” so he opted for a glass on the table. Azriel took a slow drink, you watching intently as he swallowed, tracking the movement of his lips and throat. What was wrong with you and being so acutely aware of this male?

“Do you like it?” You lightly shook your head, trying to rid yourself of any weird thoughts. Azriel nodded, taking another drink.

“Find out anything interesting?” He asked, causing you to look around. You didn’t want to discuss while you were out in the open, so you simply nodded and glanced toward the rest of the ball.

“I still have more people to talk to” you sighed. You had gotten that information, that came easily. The Autumn court folks easily shared their thoughts on Byron’s movements.

“I like watching you work the room” he admitted, and his compliment brought a taste to your mouth. But not metallic. It tasted… good, which had never happened before. Usually you could only taste dishonesty but this tasted sweet like… admiration or maybe something else. Something you liked.

“Why?” You couldn’t help the furrow of your brows and your head tilt to the side, truly confused by this notion.

“I don’t know. You just naturally engage with people, and they give you information so easily, almost like they trust you. Have you sensed any dishonesty tonight?” He asked, as he took ahold of your hand and led you to the dance floor. They were playing some slower music, but loud enough to mask the conversation you were having.

“Not yet, have any lies to share Shadowsinger?” You slide one hand into his, and the other around his neck. He slid one hand around your waist, the tips of his fingers nudging at your buttons. You couldn’t get over the warmth of his hands. It was so comforting.

“Hmmm… my favorite color is red.” He said, watching you carefully. You clenched your jaw, the awful taste of metal filling your mouth.

“I shouldn’t have asked” you cringed as he let out a soft laugh at your expression.

“Are you always this dramatic?” He questioned, a smile in his tone.

“No. That just tasted especially bad.” You both giggled, but you were still thinking about why it tasted so intense. He leaned in and whispered,

“Well, here’s a truth. You look beautiful. I hope you don’t kick Rhysands ass for choosing this dress” your mouth filled with that sweetness again, and your eyes shut in enjoyment at the flavor in on your tongue.

“What is it? Why are you making that face?” He questioned, which immediately made your face hot and palms sweaty. You didn’t want to answer, but felt obligated.

“When you compliment me it tastes so good” you said shyly. You didn’t want to explain further because you had no idea what was happening. He nodded like he understood, but you didn’t even understand.

“Does that happen a lot?” He pressed.

“No, this has never happened before.” You looked down at the movement of your feet, which somehow made you misstep. Azriel quickly caught you, bringing you in closer. You don’t know what you were doing, being so unprofessional. You couldn’t be swooning for Azriel. He was your superior, and you were new to the team. You needed to get your head in the game, and show him and Rhysand why they pulled you out of Hewn City.

Your snap back to reality was perfect timing, as the song ended. You pulled away from Azriel.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have some more people to extract information from.” And with that, you walked away, ready to join a new group and learn.

Azriel watched from where he stood, already delighted by seeing you work. He was impressed with your abilities, not even the lie detecting ones. He was looking forward to working with you more, and knew your skillset would bring you to work with him more often than not. Too bad you seemed to avoid him the rest of the evening, even as the ball drew to a close and you headed to your respective rooms in silence.

[1-800-crazy]

Wash.

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel had found his mate. Better yet, he had found his mate in the beautiful girl who had held his hands as a child and made him feel wanted. But a bargain kept you caged in a marriage with the nefarious man who had caused his scars, and while there was little he wouldn’t do to get you out, it was never as easy as that. 

Word count: 9.5k (sorry)

Warnings: So much angst, yearning, an abusive relationship (physical, verbal/emotional), manipulation, arranged marriage, allusions to non-consensual situations, cheating sorta, also a bit suggestive and heated so minors dni with that aspect please <3

a/n: Inspired by Wash. by Bon Iver if you wanna take a listen <3 Also this lovely ask amid a blog convo about cheating hehe. Writing this was genuinely a roller coaster that I couldn't get off of and I loved it. I hope you love it too 🫶

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

Air met the planes of your cheeks in tepid, sticky throes. The humidity of summer in the northeast camps was an unwelcome friend, greeting you on the mornings you could slip out and huddle on the modest patio you were allowed. On this particular morning, it was stifling. The air felt cemented in your lungs as you breathed it in. 

You tugged the gauzy shawl closer to your shoulders, seeking comfort where you could find it. Tomorrow would mark ten years—ten years of this life you had neither asked for nor wanted. 

The rickety chair in the corner screeched in protest as you sat, a harbinger for the shout that followed soon after. Damien usually gave you a few minutes of peace before he started shouting for your return. Today, he gave you only one. You braced yourself as heavy footfall paraded toward the front door. The wood was ripped from the hinges when the echo subsided. 

His angry face was then the frame of your morning, his hazel eyes narrowed, his jaw a sharp snap against the humid wind. His gaze roved over your figure. With a harsh swipe of his tongue along the inside of his cheek, the Illyrian sniffed and remarked, “We’re out of firewood.” 

Your lashes fluttered, and you brought your shawl closer to your body. “Alright,” you nodded. “I’ll cut more.” 

“Now, preferably.” 

The illusion of choice, as always.

So, you stood. You offered the briefest of smiles as you passed him to the side yard, the only figment of happiness you had mustered in the past few years. It was a pointless act, but one you felt necessary. You’d heard the tales of what happened to disagreeable women in this camp, and even more so, what happened to disagreeable women in this family. Damien’s brother had a wife once. She was no longer. 

The camp you hailed from was rooted in more progressive tendencies, no doubt a product of the proximity to the bottom of the mountain. The closer you got to the bottom, the more time the High Lord and his General spent reforming laws and harsh rules. Of course, that hadn’t saved you from having your wings clipped at a young age, and it hadn’t saved you from an arranged marriage to spare your family’s noble title. You were married to a lord’s son now, and that meant your family could keep their high rank—that your sister had the freedom to marry who she wanted—if she ever wanted. The tattoo twining at your shoulder was a constant reminder of that.

You had a difficult time seeing the benefits of marriage as you brushed your hair back and set the wood to cut. Your hands were still raw from doing the same action just last night, but Damien refused to take part in “menial household tasks.” You’d had a maid at one point, but he sent her away in frustration. It had been a feat to find another. 

You were three logs down when the axe fell from your hands with a sharp intake of breath, a cracking twig startling you just as much as the overwhelming male standing at the treeline of your yard. It took you a moment to connect the past to the present, the shadows now whispering at your wrists and fingertips a punch to the gut. 

Azriel. 

It was Azriel. 

The Shadowsinger himself looked to have the same line of thought, shock and confusion clear in the tenseness of his shoulders. He was frozen there, as you were, just far enough away that you couldn’t fully make out his face. The blue of his siphons reflected on the sharp turn of his jaw, and you counted each glow down his body. The power he held should have frightened you, but fear had no place in your mind. 

Azriel whispered your name across the yard, and you answered with a single step forward. 

“Azriel?” you called out, voice a frigid strike in the otherwise stagnant air. “Is that you?” 

You hadn’t seen him in… years—centuries. He was much changed from youth, but also so much of the same.

Azriel took long strides until only feet separated you. “What are you doing here?” he stressed, sounding pained. Sounding frustrated. 

“What am I doing here?” you echoed, hands empty and useless, swaying at your sides. “I live here. What are you doing here, Azriel? This is Lord Damien’s—” 

“I know who resides here. Why are you connected to this house? Are you working as the maid? Your family—” 

“Wife,” you stuttered out, swiping your hands behind your back and squeezing your fingers. “I am Damien’s wife.” 

That gave Azriel pause, a flicker of horror washing over his face. He took another step forward, but you glanced over your shoulder as he did, fear making an appearance as you considered your husband’s wrath if he were to see you. Azriel stopped, and then he seemed to wince. 

“You’re married to him?” 

Betrayal collided with the array of emotions swirling in your chest. Azriel was the one who left Windhaven, not you. Azriel was the one who said he would visit, said he would be back, and hadn’t. You breathed in deeply and tried to remember that Azriel was also the one abused by the family you were now tied to. The sympathy was there, but so was the hurt. 

“Don’t do that,” you accused, shaking your head in defeat. “Don’t act like this is my fault. I had to marry him. You left and I couldnt—”

“Well, if it isn’t the bastard.” Damien’s voice was always just as cruel as you remembered. You closed your eyes as he edged in on you, placing a heavy hand on your shoulder. You fought the urge to flinch. 

“Damien,” Azriel greeted through clenched teeth. Your previous conversation was wiped clean from his expression, replaced by stoic regality and simmering rage. “Your High Lord requires information on the northeast camps. As you are now the lord in this area, it is your duty to send reports. Of which you have not done since your appointment four years ago.” 

The switch that had flipped in him was jarring. You stared at your old friend and marked the position of power he now held. 

“My High Lord? He is nothing of the sort,” Damien flippantly replied, bringing his hand down to yank you by your waist. “Does he not know I am married? Surely the High Lord understands marital duties as well as political ones.” 

Azriel’s eyes flickered to Damien’s contact on your body, measuring the interaction in short glances and calculating stares. You couldn’t return the looks as you heard him get closer, your eyes glued to the twig-covered ground as something akin to shame settled. You braced yourself against Damien’s chest as he jostled you. 

“My congratulations. That does not, however, abate your duties as lord of this camp. A title that you have earned based on birthright alone, may I remind you. A title you could lose if challenged, Damien.” 

“Is that a threat, Azriel? From a bastard, no less? What, does it hurt to see your old flame so nestled into my arms?” Damien taunted. 

Old flame felt like an incorrect title when it came to the friendship you and Azriel had harbored for each other. When your family would call upon Damien’s, you would always seek Azriel out. The first time had been a mistake, with you wandering into the basement when you shouldn’t have to find the boy alone—alone and made to be alone on purpose. 

It had struck you the wrong way, and then you began sneaking around to go to him, begging your family to visit Damien’s under the guise of enjoying his company and not Azriel’s. You would bring him extra food, toys he wasn’t allowed, music boxes enchanted so only the listener could hear. When Azriel was finally kicked out of the home and sent to the training camps, you had been equal parts relieved and devastated. 

You had only seen him sporadically since then—a few times when he was a teen in the training camps, another in his twenties, and the last in his 30s right after Rhysand had become High Lord. The memory of the last encounter made you close your eyes once more as Damien spoke again. 

“Nothing to say?” he quipped, holding you tighter, pressing you to him until you were uncomfortable. 

Azriel tracked the movement, his jaw clenched. Shadows wicked at his ears and fought on the ground by his feet, but his eyes remained cold and measured as he observed you. As he made a decision. 

“Send the report,” he demanded, voice rough. “If you do not, we will sanction a challenge with another who will follow through.” 

Damien scoffed out a laugh, and you flinched at the sound. Azriel breathed in deeply through his nose, and then he was gone. The echo of an insult falling from Damien’s lips was the last thing you heard before you pushed past him and escaped inside. 

~~

The reconciliation of your present truths with your past reality was a struggle. Two days after seeing Azriel, you sat with your palms squeezed together at the dining table, Damien’s parents surrounding a hearty meal you couldn’t bring yourself to touch. You hated it when they visited on an ordinary day, but now they were talking about Azriel and Damien’s run-in, and everything felt different. 

Your world had shifted, and everything felt different. 

But nothing was different—not really. Everything was the same, and Azriel had left despite knowing what he knew. 

“That wretched boy,” Damien’s mother quipped, leaning back in her chair. “He never knew his place. Still doesn’t.” 

Damien scoffed. “Don’t have to tell me. I still revel in the day my brother and I can repay the heinous way Rhysand and his lackeys treated us.” 

Damien’s father hummed in agreement. The conversation shifted to hatred of the Night Court, and you detached. 

You sifted through the complicated grief taking up residence in your chest to find reason. There was nothing to be angry at, in all honesty. Your relationship with Azriel had been brief—but, no that wasn’t right. It may have felt brief in the grand scheme of a fae’s life, but nothing about knowing him felt brief. Even as children, when everything felt of lesser consequence, your meetings with Azriel felt… so big. 

Each time you slipped past your families to join him under the house had been purposeful—not pity-fueled, but because you liked him. Because you loved him in the way a 10-year-old could love. And then he had grown up and stalked by the windows of your house, peeking in and beckoning you outside to simply ensure you were okay. To check on you. 

Knowing Azriel had meant knowing a partial ghost, but you had been okay with that. Something made you want to know him more than anything, and then he had vanished. He had promised to be back, and then he hadn’t. 

And then he judged you for doing what you must to support your family. 

You stared at the lick of your tattoo trailing along your collarbone. 

Grief returned and became even more complicated. 

You felt the pit in your stomach grow as conversation flowed and became heated. It always did when Damien’s family visited; the hate they harbored for so many filled the space with hostility. It wasn’t until they pushed away from the table and sent you an expectant look that you rejoined the present. 

“We are going to the tavern for drinks. As I see you haven’t yet employed another maid…” his mother drawled, eyeing the table with distaste. 

You perked up at the notion of them leaving. “Of course,” you nodded, beginning to gather the remnants of dinner as the three of them went for the door. 

“Don’t wait for me to return,” Damien ordered. 

The click of the front door sent relief coursing through you. You dropped the plates you had stacked and slumped against the table, a hand pressed to your chest. The thump of your heart steadied you, but it was beating too hard, too fast. This was more difficult now. The grief was stirring within you, and it was tugging, pulling. 

Your fingers shook as you smoothed the front of your shirt and mustered the strength to move the plates to the basin. Magic had water running through your fingers and clearing the dishes; the feel of it was a welcome distraction. You could do this. You could pretend, just as you had done for the past ten years. There was only one distinct difference now, but that was your own problem. Your own weight to carry. 

It wasn’t as if—

Movement beyond the kitchen window gave you pause. 

You stared past your reflection set in front of the darkness, and squinted at the blue light shining by the trees. Something made you move, made you abandon your task without thinking. You rushed to the front door, expecting to make the trek to find the source of the light, but gasped as the man you sought stood at the foot of your patio stairs. 

The wind from the swinging door brushed your hair back. Your lips parted in shock, but there was nothing to say. 

Azriel did not fill the empty space. He simply looked upon you, gaze roving over your rigid stance in the doorway, fingers uncurling from his palms. You were breathing heavy, you realized, your shoulders heaving with each intake of air. 

Azriel licked his lips and shifted his weight between his feet, his wings fluttering at his back. Shadows were straining at his feet, reaching and reaching to the two steps leading up to the patio. 

You should say something. You shouldn’t assume he was here for you. 

“Lord Damien is out for the night,” was the first thing that came to mind, your words breathless and tight. 

“I know,” Azriel replied, his eyes locked on yours. “I hoped to speak with you.” 

In the cloak of night, you were thrown back hundreds of years to your last meeting. It had been dark then, too, and Azriel had been hasty in his seeking you out. You had stood before him, as you did now, and said the few words to send him away. 

“Come with me,” he had urged, hand outstretched and face pleading.

You hesitated now, clutching the door and looking over your shoulder to observe the empty house. “I don’t know what we would have to speak about,” you softly said. “I can try to persuade Damien to obey the High Lord’s orders, but you know how women are viewed here.” 

Azriel took a fleeting glance behind you—where your wings would be. “That is not why I want to speak with you.” 

You pressed your lips into a hard line. With one step back, you made space for him to come through, closing and locking the door behind you as he took your lead. It never took much for you when it came to Azriel. 

He looked too big in the space—too wide and imposing. Azriel observed the sitting room, the ornaments unnecessarily gaudy for the station your husband held, and then peered past you to the dining room, the table still half set, the food still out. 

“I didn’t know you would be here when I agreed to speak with Damien,” Azriel explained, eyes still locked on the remnants of your forced meal. “I didn’t know where you were. Over the years, I lost track of you. Not on purpose. With the wars and my role in court I—” 

“Forgot about me,” you finished for him, tilting your chin up to keep his gaze as it shot to you. “It’s fine, Azriel. You didn’t have a duty when it came to me. I wasn’t your responsibility.” 

He shook his head, brows furrowed. “That’s not it. I’ve never forgotten about you. I thought you didn’t want to be found after…” 

“You know why I couldn’t go with you.” 

“Because of your family, yes, but I could have—” 

“I couldn’t just leave them, Az.” 

At the tender way you spoke his name, Azriel’s shoulders dropped. “Is that why you’re with him now? Why you married him?” 

“We didn’t have anything left. My father gambled half of the inheritance and blew the other half on leathers he would never use. And then he died with two daughters and no heir. They needed me to marry. This was why I had to stay.” 

“And are you happy?” 

His question hung in the air. 

“Yes,” you replied, eyes firm amidst your lie. You clenched your palms closer together. “I am safe.” 

“That is not what I asked.” 

“That doesn’t matter.” 

“It does to me.” 

Your responding laugh was an accident, the sound escaping you before you had allowed it. You looked down and clutched the back of a chair to your right, covering your lips with rigid fingertips. After a stint of silence, you reaffirmed the thought you had lived by for centuries. 

“This is what I was born to do,” you said evenly. “I was born to marry for my family. I only know you, Azriel, because my parents had picked my betrothed before I could even speak. It was always going to be Damien; it was just a matter of when.

“We got lucky with our friendship, leaning on each other when we were young, but it ended there. It ended when I couldn’t go with you, and you know that.” 

“I don’t believe that,” Azriel stressed, his footsteps echoing as they approached you. “I don’t believe it ended. I—I should have found you sooner. I should have looked.” 

A bittersweet sadness filled you then, and you looked up to tell him that it was okay; that you were happy he had gotten away from this life that you were now stuck in; that you were glad your roles were reversed in so many ways. But as you found the gold speckling his irises, something struck you. 

Your jaw shook with the weight of the connection. Azriel’s own expression widened then, and the tether snapped, binding the two of you under the oath of a God you didn’t know. 

“I knew it,” Azirel whispered under his breath, and the elation that filled you was so utterly consuming. It felt good to give in to the feeling, your once assumed grief morphing into the bridge that connected you to your mate. You blinked and Azriel was only inches from you, his hand hesitating for only a moment before it covered yours on the back of the chair. 

But just as quickly, the reality of your life came crashing down on you. You ripped your hand out from under his and paced the length of the sitting room. 

“What?” you asked no one—maybe yourself. “I don’t understand.” 

“We are mates,” Azriel offered as if that was actually your question. “I thought I felt it when I saw you again. I had to come back. I can’t leave you here.” 

“I have to be here,” you rushed. You stopped pacing to look at him with watery eyes. “They… own my family. I can’t leave. And I haven’t seen you in—in 500 years, Azriel. This doesn’t—this can’t—” 

Azriel’s features were drawn, pained. He licked his lips and his shadows pooled at your feet. “I can help your family. I can bring you to—” 

He sounded as if he were underwater. Each word that fell from his lips was lost on you as you clutched at your chest, wishing you could dig in and feel the bond with your fingers. Each year of your life since he had left had been cloistered. And after your father had died, your fate had been sealed with no alternative. 

A mate had been out of the question. A life outside of marriage had been out of the question. 

When Azriel’s hand met your back, you breached the surface of your panic.

“You need to leave,” you stammered out, breathing in uneven puffs. 

“What? No,” Azriel all-but demanded.

“Yes. I can’t think about this right now. You—I have a responsibility to my family. I can’t—you have to leave.” 

With each unfinished thought, Azriel seemed to back down, worry trumping his urgency. He began speaking low, bending down to meet your slumped form. “Okay, okay. Take deep breaths. I’m sorry.” 

The tender touch and low timber of his voice sent you back to the past once more, and panic was only stronger there. 

“I can’t leave you here. Y/n—” Azriel stressed, his hands firm on your shoulders, shaking you slightly so you could understand. “Come with me, please.” 

You covered your mouth with a shaking hand and felt a sob creep up your throat. You fought it back and gripped Azriel’s wrist where he held your shoulder even now. “Please leave.” 

“I’m not leaving,” came Azriel’s tone of finality. 

“You don’t understand. This isn’t just—Azriel, my family made a bargain. I literally can’t—I don’t—” 

You looked at him and you knew you looked ruined, and so the Shadowsinger took a step back. And then another. With the notion of a bargain tying you to your position, several complications came into play. Complications that could cost you your life. 

With a hint of defeat, Azriel still did not relent. He was steps away from you now, a horrified shadow hanging over his eyes as he said, “I’m coming back.” He reached his hand out as if to touch you and then curled it back to his side. When he left, a shadow remained by your knees as they sank to the ground. 

~~

It was a week until you saw him again. A week of feeling the bond, of living with your husband as your bargain chafed, of feeling the loss of the life that could have been. 

It hurt now—to pretend. 

Damien was particularly terrible as of late. His parents’ real reason for visiting your home last week was revealed at the tavern that night; something about his brother getting more of the family funds due to an upcoming wedding and Damien having to make up the difference. You thought he might have said something about needing an heir before anyone else, but you didn’t have the mind to fully listen. 

Each day passed like a blistering winter, which was strange, as summer was in full motion and birds were loud by every window. You knew what each looked like as you stared out, your hours filled with household chores and stalking the treeline in the distance. Azriel shouldn’t return; nothing was here for him, but you wanted him to so desperately. 

Getting used to the bond was difficult. It hurt. When you thought of Azriel and the lack of future there, it stung. Damien would touch you, and it would throb in defiance, but there was nothing you could do. Nothing anyone could do.

A week after the bond connected, Azriel was in the marketplace. You felt him before you saw him, the tether between you pulled taut and directing you. He was dressed down from his fighting leathers, unlike the two times you’d seen him before, his siphons still blaring and bright against the soft cotton of his daywear. 

Your heart leapt in your throat when you made eye contact, your lashes fluttering as you calmed yourself. The marketplace was packed as it usually was in the late morning, so although you were panicked and he was imposing, the pair of you blended in on the street. 

“Hello,” Azriel greeted, falling into step beside you as you passed the dried meats. “You look well.” 

“Don’t be weird,” you chastised, tugging your basket closer amidst the bustle. “We never did small talk.” 

“Right. Sorry.” 

With your blood thrumming beneath your skin, you took a sidelong glance his way. He was just a step away from you, matching your pace with an easy grace you had watched develop as he grew up. His hair was swept from his forehead the way an Illyrian’s always was due to flight, and a subtle determination lined the softness of his face. 

He was beautiful. 

But he had always been beautiful. 

In your dissection of Azriel, you missed the group of women sharing textiles in the middle of the street. You ran face-first into an older Illyrian’s back, a slew of apologies leaving you before you could ascertain any damage you had done. Azriel’s hand was on your dropped basket instantly, and then his other was on your back. 

“Watch where you’re going, girl,” the older woman ordered, a sour look on her weathered face. She went to say more, but looked a few inches up to find Azriel’s face and abruptly stopped her tirade. She paled slightly, ushering her group from the streets. 

“Perhaps I could persuade you to come somewhere private with me,” Azriel said by your ear. “I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble over camp gossip.” 

“I take it you aren’t simply going to leave?” You asked the question, fully opposed to the idea even as you voiced it. 

Azriel did not even humor your sarcasm. He kept your basket and kept you close as he directed you towards an establishment tucked into the deep corner of the farthest path in the camp. You never went here. You never went anywhere that Damien did not order you to go. 

The bookkeeper’s office was quaint and completely empty when you entered. 

“Do you know who works here?” you asked, looking beyond the front counter to subtly search the back. 

Azriel placed your wicker basket on a small table and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. You caught the scars webbing his hands briefly, looking away just as fast. “I do. He’s away for a while.” 

“I’m guessing that’s not a coincidence?” 

“I know people.” Azriel watched you shift your weight between your feet and clutch your hands at your waist. “Tell me about your bargain.” 

You knew that was coming. With a quick raise of your brows and a sigh, you leaned back until your shoulders met the wooden door. “I don’t have much to say about it. Damien’s family—” you eyed the Shadowsinger, not wanting to offend him with the wrong words related to his estranged kin “—didn’t trust that I would stay put. They called me ‘too headstrong for my own good’ and claimed I was influenced by the High Lord’s ‘women's propaganda.’ In order to access the money my family needed, I needed to bargain my compliance. My obedience.” 

“Tell me the words exactly,” Azriel requested, his words low. 

“In return for the monetary and noble support of Lord Damien, I bargain that I will remain a dutiful Illyrian wife to him by fulfilling my role in the household.” 

The words had been ingrained in you, playing on a loop in your mind for the first few years of your marriage. 

Azriel crossed his arms over his chest, the tendons flexing. “So no bargain of love.” 

A laugh similar to the accidental scoff a week ago simmered behind your lips. “I do not love him. I am positive he does not love me. He is off at the pleasure hall at least once a week.” 

“He lies with other women?” 

“Thankfully.” 

Azriel began speaking as the word only just left your lips. “May I—” He paused. Azriel looked to the floor with furrowed brows before finding you again, his expression open. “I left so quickly that night because I needed distance before I did anything rash. I needed to understand more about bargains before I could hurt you in some way. But now that I know what I need to, may I hold you? Only for a moment.” 

The ask left you speechless, everything in your body and posture softening. You agreed before you realized you had and he moved before you finished speaking. He looked upon you first, face only a breath from yours, eyes seeming to memorize your every feature, and then he pulled you into his chest. 

The overwhelming scent of him covered up the dust and paper and bleakness of the bookkeeper’s shop, and you buried your face into it, allowing yourself, even though you knew you shouldn’t. Azriel’s hands were gripping your back with an urgency you couldn’t replicate as you melted into him. For the first time in decades, maybe even centuries, you felt peace. You felt calm. 

It was not only a moment. 

With your hands at his chest, you balled Azriel’s shirt between your fingers and brought yourself closer. His nose pressed against the side of your neck, edging into your hair. You squeezed your eyes shut and felt him. 

“I missed you,” he said so close to you. “I’m sorry.” 

And you knew you’d already forgiven him—that you’d forgiven him for anything and everything the moment the bond flowed freely between you. The moment you felt the anguish and guilt that plagued him. 

You didn’t respond, not wanting the moment to end, afraid that he would pull away at the sound of your voice. Shadows whisped through your hair and around your neck. Azriel’s breath was steady across your skin. In another life, this would have been commonplace, but in this life—your life—this feeling was rare. 

Azriel ran a hand back along your head and pulled away—only slightly, only enough to see you. “You don’t owe me anything, not because of the bond,” he began. “But I want to get you away from Damien. Away from that family.” 

“Azriel, you can’t—” 

She hushed you, running his hand along your hair. “I can. There are workarounds to bargains and I know people.” 

“You’ve said that,” you whispered, searching his eyes fervently. “But I can’t risk my family. I can’t risk dying from a broken bargain. I agreed to this.” 

Conflict raged on Azriel’s face. His fingers trailed to the side of your face, brushing your hair away from your eyes and behind your ear, his gaze tracking his own movements. “I have thought about you so often since that day. I thought you didn’t want to see me again. I thought I was doing the right thing.” 

“I told you to go. I made you leave.”

“I shouldn’t have listened.” 

“There was no way for you to know it would end up like this.” 

“But I did. I understood the connection between your family and his.” 

“Well,” you began to reason, desperate to relieve some of the guilt eating away at the bond. You reached up and held Azriel’s arm as he held your face. “You couldn’t have known we were mates. That we would end up like this.” 

A sad smile fell over Azriel’s face. “That shouldn’t have mattered.” 

You puffed out a breath. A clock chimed from the back of the shop, reminding you that this was a stolen moment. “I can’t stay. I have to be back home soon.” 

“Okay,” he affirmed. He brushed his hands along your skin a few more times, wherever he could reach, before he stepped back. “I meant what I said. There are ways around a bargain, and whatever help your family needs will be taken care of.” 

You wanted to believe him. 

“I know you meant it, Az,” was all you could offer in return. 

~~

Tensions were high at home. 

And Azriel found you often. 

Whatever money imbalance Damien was angry about meant that he didn’t want you in his sight for longer than an hour at a time, so he sent you out. 

You went to the marketplace often; you sought after men crafting the random trinkets your husband wanted; you bartered for animals the house didn’t need. Your bargain required you to do as your husband said when it came to the household, and right now, he wanted you away from it. 

Azriel followed. 

He kept hidden until he didn’t need to, slinking into darkness in busier streets and walking alongside you in more sparse areas. And he would talk. He told you everything about his life now—the people, the work, even Velaris itself. You’d known about the city since its reluctant opening, but you didn’t quite know how marvelous its apparent beauty was. Azriel spoke of it so adoringly. 

Talking to Azriel was easy, like talking to an old friend—because that’s what he was. But it was also different now. 

You remembered talking to him in your youth—some underlying jitters and childhood crushes often present, but never at the forefront. Now, the bond was driving every interaction. You looked at him and your world shifted. You heard his voice, his laugh, and breath would halt. He would touch you, fleetingly, never so intensely as your embrace in the bookkeeping shop, and you wanted to melt. To end this farce of a life you’d been living with Damien. 

And still, part of you felt wrong. You were married, even if it wasn’t for love. Even if you’d never wanted it and he was cruel and mean and unloving, you had still made vows. 

You’d never felt more at odds for so many reasons. 

On a morning when Autumn was finally felt in a somewhat frigid breeze, Azriel sat by a tall tree with his knees tented. You were foraging that day, on a fool’s errand for an herb you were sure Damien had made up. Azriel had joined you as soon as you entered the forest. 

“Come sit,” he prompted, eyeing the space beside him. 

You sent him a glance. “You know I can’t. He asked me to find it, so I have to look.” 

“And you have. You’ve looked enough.” 

You gave up with a huff, stomping over and taking a seat in front of him instead of beside just to be defiant. With Azriel, it was the only time you were allowed to be so. You slumped your cheek against your fist and stared at the Shadowsinger. 

“What is it?” Azriel softly asked, tilting his head to match yours. 

“Nothing,” you drearily replied.

“Tell me.” 

“It’s pointless.” 

“Tell me anyway.” 

“I’m just confused. And I’m exhausted from this all. From being confused and from living by his hand. But it will pass.” 

Azriel shifted forward on the forest floor, crossing his legs. “We’re still figuring out the bargain, but I promise, y/n—” 

“I know, Azriel,” you finished for him, trying to tamp down some of the intensity. It was nice when things were easy. “I believe you.” 

He reached forward then, bringing your hands into his lap. “Why are you confused then?” 

The casual intimacy sent you on another private spiral. You stared down at your joined hands and felt the echo of your home a few miles away, looming over you in obligation. If you did anything to jeopardize yourself before things were squared away, people you loved would be implicated. 

But it felt good to be held by him; he held you like you were to be revered, like you meant more than a useful bargain. 

You used to hold hands when you were kids. After Azriel’s hands were burned, he had hated them. The fresh wrapping was always replaced by careful maids who loved him in their own way, and then you would come over and hold his hands in each of your palms, telling stories about heroes and fires and the magic of Autumn, because he wouldn’t look at them otherwise. 

You wondered if he remembered that. 

“I’m married, Azriel,” you began, still staring at your hands, unable to look away. “I’m—I’m not supposed to be doing this.” 

His touch remained motionless in yours. He wouldn’t move away unless you did. He paused for several beats, trees rustling overhead. “You don’t have to do anything. I told you there were no strings to this. You don’t need to be anything because of the bond.” 

You looked up. “But I want to be. I want to be something because of the bond. I want it to mean something. I feel…” 

You couldn’t explain how you felt, not with so much taking up your every thought. Azriel squeezed your hands. 

“You don’t have to know how you feel,” he whispered to you. 

“Well, how do you feel then?” 

Azriel’s lips parted, and he squeezed your hands in a way that felt unintentional. “It’s less complicated for me.” 

“Tell me anyway.” 

“I feel like I want to protect you. Like I want to be with you in any way I am able. I look at you and it feels like home, just as it did when we were children.” 

You kissed him then, and it was confusing, but it was also wonderful. His sound of surprise was muffled by your mouth pressing to his, and he moved back until he was against the tree once more, his hands finding your waist. You kissed him and moved your touch to his chest, allowing yourself to take this even though it wasn’t yours. 

One of his hands reached to cover yours, to twine the back of your knuckles with his scarred fingers as your lips rushed to meet each other. You fit between his legs exactly, comfortable there despite the forest floor, despite the rest of the world being against you. And so you kissed him more, and more, and more. 

It was only when you needed air that you moved back, and Azriel brushed your hair away in movements made harsh by the fervent mood. He heaved out a breath and caught every inch of your face in his view, his one hand still attached to yours over his heart. 

“I am not confused,” Azriel admitted. “Not in the slightest.” 

~~

Having a secret offered you a feeling of power you should not have had. 

You began to act brazenly when you shouldn’t, even in the small ways that wouldn’t have mattered in a normal Illyrian marriage. But this was not a normal Illyrian marriage, and Damien was not in his right mind as of late. 

“I think you forget your place, woman,” Damien seethed, the kitchen scattered with the dinner you hadn’t gotten to make. “I didn’t ask for your opinion on the budget, did I?” 

You fought to catch your breath, your back pressed harshly into the counter. Damien, while a vicious man in his own right, had never resorted to violence with you. He had never needed to; the bargain was a security he leaned on heavily. 

As the ground beneath you lay messy with ingredients and pots, you worried for your safety for the first time in ten years. Your fear was met by an urgent tug on the bond hidden deep within your chest—a tug you needed to ignore. 

You knew Damien wouldn’t be able to do anything—not really. Bargains were nuanced, so many unknowns were at play in your relationship, but you didn’t think he would wager his life over a few mindless questions. 

You didn’t think, but Damien had wild eyes as he stared at you, his form almost shaking with rage. The Illyrian turned suddenly, his wings knocking into light fixtures and rattling the hinges on the cupboards. He reached into his belt by the door and hauled his money pouch at you next, the terrycloth smacking against your chest. 

“Take it then!” Damien yelled, ripping the front door open. “Go buy whatever the hell you were droning on about! Go!” 

You hesitated, measuring the space between him and the cracked door. It was dark out, and your coat was behind him in the closet. That thought came and went as Damien’s hands shook and whitened with their harsh grip. 

“What? You don’t want to go and meet whoever it is you’re sneaking around with? Do you think I’m stupid? That I don’t hear things about my wife?” 

In a low voice that frightened you more than the screaming, Damien pressed you to leave once more, and you were rushing out before he could change his mind. The door slammed behind you and the wind chilled your bones when you ran down the patio steps, but you kept running. The market was closed now, but you kept running. 

You ran until the floor turned to packed dirt, alerting you of the camp’s center where businesses would be closing shop for the day, and then you ran until the tiny sign for the bookkeeper’s shop came into view. Your shoes got stuck in the divots of the uneven ground, but fear was propelling you forward. 

Until it wasn’t.

Until a loud grunt fell from your lips as you collided with a sturdy chest and shadows invaded your senses. The loss of your vision was jarring at first, but it soon soothed you when Azriel’s low and steady voice met your ears. 

He hushed you and pulled you close, his words accompanied by his lips along your skin. He told you you were okay, that you were safe. He was going to fix it, he said, and tell him what was wrong. It took several deep breaths before the shadows dispersed from your view, and seeing Azriel was enough to get the tears trailing down your cheeks. 

You hadn’t cried since you got married.

The blubbering mess you became was a testament to that. 

Azriel held you through it, and you were faintly aware that you were inside the shop you had run to. He must have led you in amidst your panic, a cover you now knew was desperately necessary. You wiped at your face over and over, but the tears only continued to fall, so Azriel took up the job. He pressed the heels of his palms against your cheeks when the wetness started to pool, shushing you to no avail. 

Nothing he could say would fix this. 

Your harsh sobs soon morphed into violent, hiccuping breaths that shook your body, but it gave Azriel enough space to speak again. He kept your face in his hands—in the hands you held until he loved them—and fought the burn in his own waterline as he looked at you. 

“What happened?” Azriel asked for the fifth time—the first time you had heard it. “Did he hurt you?” 

Your responding no was broken and took several attempts. You paired it with a harsh shake of your head and clutched the hem of Azriel’s shirt in between your fingers. 

“He—knows,” you cried out. “He knows something. He—he’s been angry, but he was so angry tonight. He threw things. Said I’ve been sneaking around.” 

Azriel’s features crumbled. He brought you closer and pressed a long kiss to your forehead. “My angel, I’m so sorry. This has been taking longer than anticipated. I should have known this would happen.” 

“What has?” you hiccuped, each word separated by the pulse of your panic. 

Azriel cooed softly at your tear-streaked face. “Come upstairs. You need water. And to sit.” 

You didn’t even voice your confusion, allowing him to guide you to the back and up a rickety set of stairs that barely accommodated his wings. The top floor was furnished sparsely, but it looked rather lived in, with an apple half-peeled in the small kitchenette and rumpled blankets thrown over the couch. 

“Have you been staying here?” you asked, taking the water he handed you in shaking hands as you glanced around the space. 

“Sometimes. When I want to be closer to you. There… isn’t exactly a bookkeeper here.” 

“But you hate Illyria. You hate staying in the camps.” 

Azriel only gave you a sad smile in response, sitting beside you on the worn couch that was also too small for his wings. He watched you drink, watched you set down the class on the side table, and then clutched your knee beside his. 

“I had brought your bargain and its terms to the Inner Circle in Velaris—to the High Lord and Lady. There were a few ways to work around wording. Harder ways and easier ones. We were going to try each if needed.” 

“Has it been needed?” 

“No,” Azriel soothed. “We’re still on the first, and it’s going well. But it has obviously agitated him, made him search for ways out, and that has led to you being unsafe. I’m sorry. I have never wanted that.” 

You slid your hand over his, and he continued, “The shortest path has been to drain his funds. If he and his family can’t provide their end of the bargain, he either has to release you or deal with the consequences.” 

“You mean death.” 

“Yes,” Azriel confirmed. “It’s been a slow process, but he’s just reaching the end of his reserve. He’s turned to gambling, which was expected, but it has required more diligence from the team we’ve put in play. He can’t think anything is happening.” 

“And what if this doesn’t work?” you whispered, playing his fingers against your thigh. “He knows I’m unfaithful now. He will make me add that to the bargain. He won’t let me—” 

“I will challenge him to become Lord of the camp. In your bargain, you included his title and his noble protection. If this doesn’t work, I will do that.” 

You looked at him in both trepidation and a deflated sort of hope. “Azriel, you can’t do that. This is everything you hate. It would complicate things so much for you, bring so many eyes back on you.” 

“Do you think I care about any of that?” Azriel posed, pressing his forehead to your temple, his eyes closing beside you. “Look at what waits for me after.” 

Tears were starting up again, this time with an undercurrent of disbelieving adoration. You squeezed Azriel’s fingers and remembered when you tried to forget him—when he felt whisked away in shadows, a figment of your imagination. You wondered if finding your way back to him was inevitable, if each barrier in your life had led to this. 

An ache permeated your chest, and you decided the only way to make it dissipate was to kiss him, and so you did. You turned his face up to meet yours, and you kissed him as you had several times since the first, this time so private that it actually felt like something that belonged to you. 

Your brazenness returned as you shifted your body to straddle his seat on the couch, his touch running under your blouse and skimming the hem of your skirt. You pressed further into his mouth then, hands framing his face, his body warm against yours. 

When you pulled back for air, he wasted no time, his lips pressing to the sensitive skin of your neck. He kissed down to your chest and then back up to your jaw, his hands making their assent past your naval. He hit the band of lace at your ribs as your mouths reconnected, and you felt his touch escape back down, but this was yours. This wasn’t a secret you had to live in forever. 

With unsteady hands, you gripped his wrist and brought his hand back up to your chest, a small moan leaving you when he stayed there. He let a gentle touch skim the tops of your breasts and kissed you harder when goosebumps were left in his wake. When you pressed him for more, urging him closer, Azriel left an inch of space between your mouths and whispered, “Not yet. Not until you’re fully mine.”  

Embarrassment didn’t have time to reach you. Azriel cupped the back of your neck and leaned forward to kiss you more, every inch of him invading every inch of you. His wings unfurled behind him and splayed out on the couch; the wind from their wideness was welcomed against your heated face. 

Azriel kissed you until you couldn’t breathe, and then he kissed you more. 

~~

The next morning greeted you with consequences. 

You’d made it back home later on in the night, much to Azriel’s reluctance and poorly contained anxiety. He had begged you to stay with him, promising that he had sent word to his High Lord that the finalizations needed to happen immediately due to the escalating circumstances, and it would all be fine by the following night. But you couldn’t risk an entire day of unknown—not when you knew what was at stake. 

You knew he wanted to keep you safe above all else, but this was how you assured that. Your bargain was jeopardized if you weren’t a dutiful housewife at his command.

You understood how Damien worked.

You could handle his anger when it fell before the backdrop of your mate—of Azriel. 

With nervous energy prickling at your fingers, you pushed open the door to your room and made way to the main sitting area. It was likely that he was still asleep. He never woke up too early, and with his mood last night, he could have started drinking. 

When a loud bang echoed down the hall, you no longer thought that true. 

Timid steps guided you to the sound. You kept your hand against the wall for support, but that did little to comfort you when you saw Damien overhauling every inch of the house. Boxes lay at his feet, loaded with blankets and artwork and kitchen supplies. You watched in quiet horror as he watched you with a crazed look. 

“Good morning, wife,” Damien greeted, slamming a desk lamp into another box. “For your next task, you finish packing the kitchen.” 

The compulsion to follow orders tugged at you, but you knew its limits. You took a step toward the kitchen, but your voice was even when you asked, “ What’s going on?” 

Damien kicked the box closest to him against a wall, lining it up with the others. “We’re moving. Far away from this camp that I never asked to lead and far away from whoever you’re screwing. I won’t have a whore for a wife. And this place has grown pathetic.” 

Okay. This was fine. The entire house would take days to pack up, and Azriel had said things would be better by tonight. You pressed your lips together and nodded silently, intent on keeping him tame. 

The action only enraged him, and you realized that while you used to understand Damien, you didn’t understand him in ruin. While he may have been easy to work around before, now he was on the verge of destitution, and you were not listening in the way he wanted. You backed yourself against the wall when he charged at you, his fist slamming above your head. 

“Or, maybe, I don’t actually need a wife, huh?” Damien shouted in your face. You flinched when spit flew from his mouth, and his cheeks became a deep red. “Maybe you’ve outlived your usefulness—going around fucking whoever you want. You embarrass this family.” 

With a shaking jaw, you fought to find reassurance. “Y-you can’t actually kill me. The bargain—”

“Do you not think my brother had a bargain? That his wife wasn’t tied under the same oath? Where is she now, y/n? And where is my brother?” 

With each question, Damien banged his fist above your head. You flinched at the contact, pressed yourself further into the wall and brought your arms up to cover your stomach.

Damien and his brother had tortured Azriel. They had burned him for fun, just to watch what would happen. You had been foolish to believe he couldn’t hurt you—that he didn’t want to hurt you. You turned your head to the side when he came in closer, his nose a breath from your cheek.

“Right—that’s right. She didn’t cheat, but she was a bitch. Gotta make sure to work out the wording for my next wife to keep the bitch and the whore out of the marriage,” Damien spat out, pinning your shoulder to the wall with his free hand. His touch burned at your bargain mark. “Who were you fucking, huh? Who?” 

“No one!” you cried, the tears from last night returning. “I swear.”

“I don’t believe you.” 

“Please, Damien, you don’t have to do this. I’ve been an easy wife. Women are progressing now; they won’t all agree to what I have.” 

You were spewing nonsense, incapable of forming a coherent thought when his hand was so close to your throat. You’d thought about killing him yourself a few times, but your family obligations always stopped you. Now that you had Azriel, it was Damien’s brute strength that kept you from attacking. The only way you could have bested him in the past was to go after him in his sleep. 

Damien was not sleeping now. 

He clenched his teeth, and a vein formed at his forehead. And then, his hands slid down and wrapped around your neck. Only for a moment. Only long enough for the squeeze to become too much for three seconds before he was ripped from your body with the element of surprise. 

You gasped for air as your husband was thrown into the far wall, his wings splaying out behind him as he grunted in pain. Cool licks of air soothed the burning in your throat, Azriel’s shadows comforting you when he could not. 

His back was to you, his wings tucked into his shoulders as he stood between you and the man who had attempted to take your life. You were sure Azriel looked threatening, because fear was the first thing you noticed on Damien’s face—fear, and then disbelief. 

 “The bastard?” Damien accused, peering over your mate's shoulder to catch you. “You’ve been fucking my bastard brother?” 

You shrank behind Azriel as his voice ground low, “You don’t look at her.” 

“Oh? I don’t? I own her. I own every part of her.” 

Azriel growled deep in his chest, his siphons blaring as he shoved Damien hard against the wall, his forearm pressed to his neck. “You won’t own anything if you’re dead.” 

Through choked gasps, a haughty laugh spat from Damien’s mouth. “You can’t kill me. She needs me. I’m attached to her through the bargain.” 

“If that were true,” Azriel gritted out. “You wouldn’t have been attempting to kill my mate.” Azriel shoved your husband against the brick of the wall, cracking his head back. “I tried to do this the diplomatic way, but you touched her. I should end you here.” 

Fear began to creep back into Damien’s eyes at the mention of mates. He grappled at Azriel’s arm, but although he overpowered you easily, he was nothing compared to Azriel. Azriel pressed harder, his shadows pulsing from his body like rage incarnate. 

“No, I won’t do that. I won’t make it easy,” Azriel hissed. Damien choked and scrambled. “You’re going to release her from the bargain, and then you’re going to live with the mess you made. With the pennies you have left. With the challenger fighting for your title.

“You will release her, and then you’ll be alone. With nothing.” 

With each word Azriel spoke, Damien’s skin tinted an unnatural blue, his lips losing color. You held a hand to your mouth and gave in to the weakness of your knees, collapsing to the floor with shadows following you down. You shook as you went, the sound of Damien’s broken breath the only echo in your ears. 

“Release her bargain,” Azriel demanded. A forceful shove that had Damien clawing at his neck. 

His eyes were bulging in his panic, and he looked at you on the floor from beyond Azriel’s wings before choking out, “I release you from our bargain.” 

He was pushed away and crumpled to the floor the same moment you felt the cooling of the bargain mark disappearing from your skin. You gasped and your hand flew to your shoulder, but Azriel was in front of you before you could reconcile the feeling with its meaning. 

He held your hands in one of his, the other cupping your cheek as he kneeled before you. His scars sloped and dipped against the tear-sticky skin on your face, and you leaned into the touch in disbelief. 

“Is it over?” you whispered. 

At some point, Damien had scattered from the room, a box displaced from where he tripped as he fled the house. 

“It’s over, angel.” His lips against your head. His forehead pressed to yours. “I’m going to take you home. Like I should have years ago.” 

And later—months later—you would be home, living in moments that felt like yours. Velaris was home, but home was more than the bustling streets and star-lit nights. Somehow, you had known where you lived even when you felt lost. Even when Azriel was years away and you stared out to treelines where he didn’t exist. 

He was always going to find you.

[1-800-crazy]

𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫

𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤!𝘫𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘹 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

𝘤𝘸: 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘦𝘹𝘶𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘶𝘭𝘵, [𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥, 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥] 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘺, 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘤 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘴, 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘫𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤, 𝘴𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘶𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘣𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘯! 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘢𝘶𝘭𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘵, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘦! 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘸𝘤: 10.5𝘬

You can feel your skin tingling after you get out of the shower, but more than that you feel dirty even though your skin has been rubbed raw. 

You don’t look at yourself as you get to your closet, looking for the perfect outfit. You frown when you thumb through racks of cropped shirts and tank tops. Your frown worsens when you can’t find any of your band tees from that time in high school. 

Your room is cold, your skin pebbles in goosebumps as you slip into yoga pants and a shirt that hits about mid thigh. 

You have errands to run today, you have to go out. It’d be the first time you do since that day.

Your friend Mary had been bringing you groceries for the last couple of weeks, and just after your trip you had a business trip that ate up about three months of your time. 

That had been good, it hadn’t felt like everyone was watching you and could see what had happened. 

Not that anyone could now. Your therapist says that’s normal thought processes for after a  major assault, but that you can’t order groceries to be delivered to your house or have only online sessions anymore. 

She says they can make you reclusive. 

You don’t really see an issue with it. 

Your hands shake as you pull down your band t-shirt, “You can do hard things.” you murmur to yourself, trying not to cry. 

There’s a few differences today than on that day. The sun is out today, lots of clouds in the sky and there isn’t that smell of incoming rain. It helps that it’s different; that’s what you tell yourself as you get into your car and start towards the grocery. 

“You can do this,” you tell yourself as you walk in, trying not to let the itchy feeling crawling up your back get the best of you. “You can do this.” Your throat feels tight the further you go into the store. 

The air in here hums with something, something terrible. Something familiar and terrible and your chest squeezes tightly as you push yourself to keep going. 

You don’t know how to stop noticing things like the pace of the other shoppers, their movement pattern, the way they smell. You can’t stop since that night two weeks ago. 

You make it to the cereal aisle before the first tear falls and your knees buckle. Your collapse is slow, your knees hit the floor first, then your hands break the impact and then suddenly you’re sitting in the middle of the cereal aisle, lungs tight and your vision blurring. 

You don’t notice someone trying to talk to you till a man crouches in front of you. Unintentionally you flinch, and the man steps back, keeping his hands to himself as your focus comes back slowly. 

“Are you okay, love?” This man is different from the one on that day. He’s got dark waves that remind you of those squiggly lines, he’s a little smaller too.

You nod, open your mouth, try to say something, but your tongue can’t seem to work. 

The man before you looks panicked. “Should I call an ambulance?” 

You shake your head, a hand resting on your chest. The man nods then, putting a hand to his chest and inhaling long. You try to mimic it but your breath rattles in your chest.

The man before you panics again, “I’m gonna go get my friend. He’s a paramedic, trained in this sort of thing.”

The man rushes off, and as he stands you see that he’s taller than you anticipated. 

When he comes back, it’s with a man much burlier than him. He’s also got curls, but they’re a little tighter, more like springs. You’re not sure you could fight him off if he tried anything.

“Hey lovie, I’m James. My friend Sirius said you’re having some trouble breathing.” You nod, eyes on his hands the entire time. “I think you’re having a panic attack.” You barely hear his words now, the blood roaring in your ears a little louder now. 

He speaks to you gently, like he’s trying to subdue a wild dog. “That’s okay. Can you try again?” The man before you inhales deeply and you mimic him with a little more success. “Good.”

You take a few more, by the fourth breath your lungs don’t burn. 

“Thank you.” you mumble, voice small and strained. “I’m sorry by the way,” you swallow hard, “for flinching.” 

Sirius gives you a small smile. “You’re all good, doll.” 

“Would it be strange if I got my medical bag and checked your breathing and heart rate?” James asks, noticing the tremble in your hands. 

You stiffen where you sit on the floor, James steps back a little bit almost immediately. “Do you think that something could be wrong with me?” 

James tilts his head, almost like he’s weighing what to say to you, “You had a very intense panic attack, your fingers are shaking and you weren’t taking in enough air for a little while so your lips are a little purple. It’s just precautionary, I promise.” 

“Can we do it right here?” The grocery is getting a bit busier, there’s a lot of women here. You feel comfortable here.

James nods, “I’ll be back.” 

Sirius keeps you company, he sits on the floor directly opposite of you, his long legs stretched to the side of yours. “Do you usually get them so fiercely?” 

You shake your head, trying to determine if you should say more. “This one was sudden.” is what you land on, and it’s enough for Sirius to change the topic. 

“Should I finish your shopping? It seems like it would be a wasted trip if you leave with nothing but a check up from a paramedic.” 

You’ve never met men like this. It’s a little disconcerting. 

“I just needed flour, milk and cereal.” You whisper and Sirius is standing immediately, taking your basket and looking around the aisle. 

“Any preference?” 

“Protein Weetabix and Shreddies.” Sirius laughs as he picks up both boxes. 

“You’re the only other person I know who likes these.” You shrug, they’re both good. 

James comes back before you can say anything further. Sirius goes to find the rest of the things on your list when James whips out the pressure monitor. 

“Is it okay if I touch you?” Your eyes burn as you nod. You can feel your heart rate climbing again. 

James says nothing as he puts the strap on your arm. There’s a long silence that stretches the minute and a half it takes for the monitor to beep. “It’s good,” James says quietly, reaching into his bag for his stethoscope.

“It might be a little cold.” he warns, watching your reaction as he presses the stethoscope onto your chest. You tense up, breathing paused in panic. You will your heart not to stampede when he puts the plugs in his ear. 

“Deep breath lovie.” you inhale long, chest burning as you hold it for a few seconds. “That hurt the whole way?” 

“No, just at the end.”

James nods, packing his tools away. “That’s okay, pretty natural too.” He doesn’t comment on the riot that was your heart, and you’re grateful for it.

“I’m gonna give you my card just in case though. I’m with the NHS but I also take calls. If it’s an emergency and you want to avoid the ambulance, just give me a call.” 

Sirius comes back just then, more things in your basket than you’d sent him for.

“Thanks James,” you take the card and stand, knees just a little shaky. “And thank you Sirius. Sorry to upend your shopping as well.” 

“You’re welcome, call me if anything worries you about how you’re feeling though. I can get them to see you super fast!” 

-

You don’t have cause to call James as the weeks go by but you remember the kind interaction every day. 

He and his friend had restored your hope that humanity wasn’t a lost cause. 

The hope is smashed when you leave your therapist’s office after a long session and a longer day at work.

Sure the woman had helped you to go outside without having a severe panic attack, but some days she could be the devil. 

You know she’s just doing her job, but when her job entails making you relive the worst day of your life to help you remember who attacked you and work through the assault, you hate her guts and everything she represents. 

“Fucking stupid,” you mutter to yourself the whole way from her office to the ice cream parlour at the corner. 

You figure you deserve it after today. You also figure you’re getting a triple scoop with extra toffee pieces and chocolate chunks. Maybe even a pint of the damn thing to take home so you don’t have to leave your house for a while. 

As soon as you enter the parlour, you smell a familiar scent and all the hairs on your arm stand on end. Your eyes scan the small shop quickly, and land on a familiar head of curls.

You’re not sure it’s him until he turns and you see his eyes. It was something you only remembered the colour of after you’d gone home. A sort of chocolate brown that had flecks of a golden yellow in just the right light. You also remember thinking they were kind. 

“James?” 

His face splits in a smile. “Hi lovie,” he’s got a pint of ice cream in his hand and a cup of toppings in the other. “How’ve you been?”

You shrug, “Okay, been a long week.” 

James nods, “I know what you mean. But hey, it’s the weekend right?”

“Do you get weekends off as a paramedic at the NHS?” 

James laughs, and you find the sound makes him seem even more gentle. You notice he’s got dimples then too. “Not really, but at least I don’t have the graveyard shift for another month.”

“Small mercies.” 

“You get it, angel.” James looks to the door and spots someone he knows because his eyes soften a little. You turn and find him smiling at two women, one with blonde hair and the other a redhead. “Listen, me and some of my friends are having a little get together tonight, would you like to come?” 

You look at the women before weighing your options. Maybe this is one of those sexual parties, they could just be part of a ruse. That second thought makes you feel a little guilty, but you can’t afford to just go off to places with men. You’ve learnt that lesson ten times over. 

“I’m alright James, thank you. I’ve got a date with my tv and the ice cream I’m picking up.”

James nods, no disappointment flooding him. His smile remains soft, soft enough that his dimple you noticed earlier pokes out again. “Maybe next time, angel. Have a good night.”

“You too James.”

You get home and immediately text your friend Mary about James. 

She squeals in a voice message she sends, “He’s cute for inviting you out, but what makes me like him more is that he didn’t push!” 

You call her before she can send another message, “I’m so not ready to date yet though, Mary. It’s sort of scary how nice he seems.”

She understands what you don’t say. “If you bump into him again, you should bring him up to Sarah and see what she says.”

You flop back on your bed, staring up at the ceiling as you remember the fresh orange scent that had stuck to James. 

“If I bump into him again, I should be worried I’m being stalked.”

You can’t see her, but you know your friend is cringing at her word choice. “You said he was leaving when you got there, that’s not stalking. Especially if he left without trying to get you alone.” 

“I know, it’s just easier to keep this as a wrinkle in time and space related thing, rather than a thing that can fester and grow.”

She laughs, “Don’t make it sound like a fungus, babe.” 

You can’t help but laugh too, “If it happens again I’ll bring it up to Sarah.” 

-

“I think we should make a list,” your therapist, Sarah, says as you lay on her sofa. Sarah’s office smells like clean sheets and cotton, a scent that has always calmed you. 

It’s so different to what you had smelt that night, no grease, no hot oil, no sweat. You’d never told her the smell of her office was why you’d chosen her. 

Your eyes are shut as you lay down, regulating your breathing as you listen. “A list for what?”

You hear her move on the leather armchair across from you. “A list of places or things for you to do every time you go outside, so it feels like a journey.” 

You forget that therapists remember every word uttered to them, and the subtle nod to The Lord of The Rings makes you despite yourself. 

“To trick my brain essentially?” you say bluntly and Sarah laughs. 

“Well, I’d prefer not to call it tricking.” She takes a breath, “It’s more like giving it a task to look forward to. It doesn’t have to be every single time, but on a day when you know going out may be hard, you can do something on the list. As a reward.”

You nod, opening your eyes and focusing on the swirling patterns on her ceiling. “There’s a few movies coming out that I could go to, and there’s that new bistro a few blocks from my apartment.” You say thoughtfully. 

Sarah scribbles on her notepad, “Anything else? I remember you saying something about a new book and a new puzzle launch.” 

You smile despite yourself. “Oh yeah, but I already ordered those two to avoid the entire day being spent in a line that wraps around the street.” 

Sarah laughs again, “That’s fine, what about when they have their book club? You said you’d always wanted to join one.”

You sit up then, “Can we ease into that one? People like asking a lot of questions I’m not sure I can answer yet.” 

She nods, writing something in her notepad. “Okay we can table that one for say a month into this little experiment. There was that gardening thing you wanted to check out too, for new flowers now that the sun has really set in.” 

You nod, “Can I do something today?” You don’t want to over commit and you can do something that serves two purposes today if it would get you to where you need to be to be normal again. 

She smiles, you know it’s progress in her book. 

“What are you thinking about trying?”

It’s almost fate that James bumps into you as you enter the bistro right after you leave Sarah’s office. You remember his smell, which would be weird if you ever said it outloud. James had smelt like the supermarket air con and cardamom and orange on the first day you met. 

Now he just smells like cardamom and orange, it’s a homey scent that reminds you of winter and being in front of the fireplace. 

His hands come to your shoulders to steady you, “Sorry,” James’ tone changes when he makes out your face. Dimples popping out as he smiles down at you. “We seem to keep running into each other, lovie.”

He’s with his black haired friend Sirius this time. Sirius gives you a smile and a small wave from behind him. 

“Sorry about that,” you say shyly, James’ hands don’t linger on your shoulders when you’re steady. “Are you just leaving or coming in?”

Sirius’s grin widens, “Just coming in, but we’re meeting another of our mates here.” 

James nods, “We decided to be good friends and find him outside rather than have him do the walk of shame all the way to us.”

You furrow your brows, “Why would it be a walk of shame?”

James’ ears turn pink. Sirius answers for him, “We like to pretend that whoever gets there first, are a couple that’s being caught out.” 

At your horrified expression Sirius laughs, loud and barking and you feel heat licking up your neck. “You’re joking, aren’t you?” 

He nods, wiping invisible tears from the corners of his eyes as James shakes his head. 

“Sirius likes calling out to Remus, our mate, loudly and I like to spare him all the stares.”

You nod at James’ explanation. “Well, I’ll let you two go get him.”

Sirius nudges James as you start walking away, “Lovie?” James stops you with a sort of winded shout. 

You turn, hair slapping your face when you do. “That’s not my name you know.” he shrugs, a timid smile on his face that looks a little out of place. 

“What about if you had lunch with us?” He asks, a bashfulness about him that makes his burliness seem a lot less. 

You frown, “But you’re with your friends.” James shrugs, not caring that Sirius is beside him when he responds. 

“I’m sure you’ll be better company.”

You turn to Sirius expecting him to be aghast; he isn’t. 

Their other friend comes up, and you freeze a little. He’s got silvery scars all over his face and hands and you’re horrified by what caused them. 

“Is this the pretty girl you keep telling us about Jamie? The one you met in the ice cream parlour?” 

His accent is a little different to James and Sirius’, but he still sounds nice. 

“The same one from the supermarket too,” Sirius adds and you feel your stomach tense. He isn’t unkind about it and neither is their friend. 

James groans anyhow, ears and cheeks ablaze as he covers his hands with his face while a chuckle stutters out of you. 

“This is our friend Moony,” Sirius says and the man before you rolls his eyes. 

“I’m Remus.” 

Your eyes widen, “Like the myth.” 

He nods with a soft smile. “Exactly like it, but I don’t have a twin brother to help me build an empire.” Remus gestures to Sirius and James, “Just these two dragging me around.” 

“I won’t crash your lunch James,” you say softly, and James’ hands move down to his hot neck. 

“You really won’t be crashing it.” he insists, but you shake your head gently. 

“Have a nice time with your friends.” You watch his eyes soften. “With our luck, we’ll bump into each other tomorrow.” 

“Have a good lunch, lovie.”

You tell him your name then and James blushes madly. 

“You as well.”

Damn it, you have to tell Sarah. 

You’re in your work parking lot the next time James and you cross paths. Your head is between your knees as your coworker, Mary speaks quietly to him. You make out a few words, ‘stalker,’ and ‘panic attack,’ are the only three that stand out. 

You’d just been on your way to lunch, a panini and cappuccino calling your name, and then you’d smelt his cologne and froze. 

He was standing there in the parking lot, leant on your car and your heart stopped. The grease and sweat had filled your lungs and stopped your heart when you looked up. He had that same sick smile on his face and your blood was cold when he tried walking up to you. 

You had run back into the doors of your office, bumping into Mary. She was speaking to you gently, slow and soft all the while she kept her gaze on the man on the other side of the glass.

“I’ll ask Frank to escort him off babe, you don’t have to go through this again.” 

You don’t remember nodding, but you had to have because Mary left to go get Frank. 

Frank got him out of the parking lot, but by then your panic attack had set in and you were unresponsive to Mary’s questions. 

The next thing you know, she was leading you to the curb and putting your head between your knees as the ambulance approached. 

“We have to stop meeting like this,” You smell oranges and look up, eyes wild as they flit over James’ face. “Can I touch your back?”

Your ears are a little plugged up, but you can hear him even through the buzzing. You nod, a broken up motion but James smiles encouragingly. 

You still flinch when James touches you, but he doesn’t take it personally. Your heart beat stutters and James can feel how ragged your breathing is. 

He reaches into his bag, and hands a brown paper bag to you, “Deep breaths, lovie.” It’s easier with the bag, but your eyes follow his hands as they go back to his bag to pull out the pressure monitor. 

James doesn’t fit your arm through it, instead his hand returns to your back as your inhales get longer. 

“Better?” he murmurs, eyes on yours as you lower the bag. 

“Yeah,” your voice chokes and tears spring to your eyes immediately. “Sorry, I don’t know why I’m crying.” 

James shakes his head, “You’re okay lovie, if you need a cry you can.” the tears roll down your cheeks hot and thick, but your breathing doesn’t worsen. 

“Is he gone?” You turn to Mary who’s been behind you the entire time. 

She nods, a sympathetic smile on her face. “Yeah, Frank escorted him babe. I’m sorry he showed up.” 

You wipe your face roughly and turn back to James, “You have to check my blood pressure again right?” 

He nods, “But it’ll be super quick.” 

James doesn’t ask anything about the man, but you know Mary told him at least surface level information about him as to why you had the panic attack in the first place. 

“Do you think he’ll come back?” you whisper, a little ashamed for even asking James. Still, you’re scared and you really, really don’t want him to come back. 

“I don’t think so. Frank seems like a scary bloke.” you nod and he slips your arm through the monitor’s sleeve. 

“It’s coming down, lovie. That’s good,” you let James take it off but you don’t try to get up yet. “I should’ve asked last time, but do you take insulin medication?” he already starts rifling through his bag.

You shake your head, James nods, putting the meter back. 

“It’s strange that it was you responding to the call.” you say quietly, but James only smiles at you. 

“No more graveyard shift, remember?”

That pulls a small smile from you and James feels heat spread in his chest suddenly. 

“Are you okay with going to the hospital?” 

You freeze up, you have a record there. You don’t want James to know what happened to you. Guiltily you think that and then you scold yourself mentally; nothing that happened to you on that night was not your fault and realistically you know that. It’s just that when moments like this happen, it’s hard to think that it wasn’t.

“Do I have to?”

James nods sadly, “Because this is the second one in about three weeks, I’d rather not risk just sending you home angel.”

Another round of tears fill your eyes. You know James is just being a good paramedic, he’s just doing his job. Still, you don’t want to go. You’d rather take the day off work and go cry yourself to sleep. 

You take a breath to steel yourself, “Okay. Let me get my things.” you wipe your eyes and stand, giving Mary a hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow Mary, thanks for today.”

She kisses your forehead, “Nothing to thank me for. Do you want me to come with?”

You couldn’t ask her to take the rest of the day off work for ten minutes in the hospital and then the walk home.

“I’m okay, Mary. I’ll go home after, and call you when I get there.” 

She nods and watches you get into the back of James’ ambulance. 

James sits across from you as you lay on the gurney, his head running a million questions but he doesn’t ask one. 

He just lets you sit in the silence of the moving ambulance. 

“Do you have a GP here?” he asks when the ambulance stops, and you nod. 

“A Dr. McKinnon.” you sound distant, but James only nods relaying the information to the receptionist at the desk.

“Okay lovie, you’re all set. I can wait with you till she gets here.” 

You sit on your hands while you wait, remembering Sarah told you that hiding your hands will help with the skin picking when you’re anxious. 

James wants to fill the silence desperately, if only to keep his mind along with yours from spiraling. He can’t seem to come up with anything that would seem to work. 

“Y/n?” You look up, shock flooding you when you notice Dr. McKinnon. “Oh honey,” 

You shrug, “James said you have to check me out because I had two panic attacks recently.” 

James explains how bad they were and when the first one had happened, and she nods. “Yeah we’ll just do a quick checkup and you can leave.” 

You turn to James, “Thanks for bringing me here James, and for taking care of me again.” 

“It’s all good lovie, you’re the last hour of my shift. I can walk you home if you want.”

You just nod when you notice Dr. McKinnon watching you with a smile. 

When you’re in her office, you sigh, tears pooling in your eyes. “He came to my office.” 

Dr. McKinnon shakes her head. “I’m sorry, I thought the police were handling it.”

You shrug as she presses her stethoscope to your chest. “I thought so too, but he came there and didn’t say anything. Just stood there and smiled.” 

She sighs, long and hard. “I’m sorry they’re so fucking incompetant.” 

When she finishes her check up, she gives you a couple of anxiety tablets and a bottle of water. “These are just for tonight if the anxiety doesn’t wane.” you nod, a few beats of silence passing between you, “Let James walk you home.”

You freeze, Dr. McKinnon shakes her head. “He’s genuinely a good bloke, I’ve known him my entire career here. He’s not pushy or invasive and he’ll just walk you home. Nothing expected from it.” 

You look up at her, cheeks stained with tear tracks. “But-” 

She cuts you off, “I wouldn’t push, but I know you’ve been going to therapy and Sarah’s been sharing the notes. In the last six months since it happened, she’s said you’ve genuinely been making great strides and that these last couple of weeks have been good. She said you tried going out last month and couldn’t make it past your front gate, but three weeks ago you went to the supermarket.” 

“That was when I had my first panic attack. I smelt the grease and got scared.” You say dryly. 

Dr. McKinnon nods, “But you made it out, and you kept making it out. I’m not saying there won’t be more days where it’s grueling, I’m just saying she and I are in agreement that right now, all progress barring today and that day three weeks ago has been positive and buildable.”

You sigh, you know she’s right and if Mary were here with you, she’d agree with Dr. McKinnon, because you have been making progress that’s stuck. Today was just a shitty day amongst weeks of great days. You know you can’t give up on yourself and you don’t want to. 

Still, it’s scary to think you can trust someone only six months after everything has happened. 

Dr. McKinnon perches on her desk across from you, “I’m not asking you to act like nothing happened and you don’t have things to work on still. I’m asking that you let yourself make a friend after all the things that have happened.”

When you say nothing, she levels you with a serious stare. “You deserve someone to show you that humanity is not all the way fucked. James is a diamond amongst lumps of coal.”

You give her a small nod, “Just make a friend.”

James’ hair is wet, curls dripping on his shoulders and dampening the material of his compression shirt. His shoulders are quickly hidden by a jumper he pulls over, red and gold and boasting of a college rugby team. He looks impossibly soft for a man as broad as he is. 

“Can I walk you home? Or would you rather me call you a taxi?” 

You smile, Dr. McKinnon’s words ringing in your ears. “We can walk, James.” 

He gives you another smile, eyes bright as he lets you lead the way out of the hospital. “Do you think the ice cream parlour is still open?” 

You look up at him in surprise. “Ice cream before dinner endorsed by a paramedic?”

James shrugs, a cheeky smile on his face. “It can’t hurt us so long as we eat enough protein and milk has loads of it.” 

You and James are the two of four persons in the parlour, James insisting you get a table.

“What flavour angel?”

“It’s a mint chocolate afternoon.” 

James nods, “I’m more of a double chocolate person myself, but I can respect it in this summer heat.” 

You laugh, watching James leave to the register. 

You pull out your phone and call Mary. 

“I got a clean bill of health, anxiety tablets, and the paramedic is walking me home but we stopped at the ice cream place first. Oh and a request to let myself make friends.” 

She lets out a sigh on the other end. “Okay good. Are you alright with him walking you? Because if you’re at the parlour I can meet you there.” 

You turn to watch James let a mother and her daughter go ahead of him, kneeling to help the girl choose a flavour. 

“No, I’m okay Mary. There’s no fire engine coloured flags going off. Just residual trauma flags.” 

She sighs again. “Okay, do you think he likes you?” You laugh, Mary is the least subtle person you know and you love her for it. 

“I don’t know. I think we keep meeting each other, and I think I’m starting to like meeting him, but I honestly don’t think I can handle that becoming anything more right now.”

Mary hums, “That’s okay. You can agree to be friends for right now, babe. Nothing has to happen overnight especially if you don’t feel comfortable with that.” 

You only chat for a little bit more before you notice James coming back with two huge bowls of ice cream. 

“James, this is more than a little taste.” you laugh as he sets the bowl before you. There’s waffle cone bits crushed into your ice cream and a few extra chocolate chips. His is the mirror image on chocolate ice cream. 

He shrugs, “It’s been a day. We deserve this.” 

You can’t argue with that logic. 

Walking home with James is exactly like Dr. McKinnon had said it would be. Respectful and restorative of your faith in humanity; if only by 2%.

So far.

James walks on the outside of the pavement, and as it nears five thirty on your walk back, he sheds his jumper and hands it over to you the first time you shiver. 

“We’re only a couple minutes from my apartment James, I’m okay.” 

He shakes his head, “It’s only going to get colder, and getting ill would be a god awful way to end today.” 

You try to have a stare off with James, but twenty seconds into it, you realise he’s never lost one. Staring at him like this makes his big brown eyes somehow softer, and wider and all the more beeseeching. It’s almost as if he can make them widen like a pair of cat eyes, and that fact is adorable if a little scary as you relent. 

You’re rewarded immediately by James holding the jumper out to you and waiting for you to put it on. But what makes it worth it to lose, is the fact that his scent, that fresh orange and cardamom scent, envelopes you completely. You find yourself warm all over as you tug it over your head, loose hairs tickling your forehead. 

“Thank you,” you’re bashful suddenly, trying not to make it obvious that you can smell him through his jumper. 

James beams, dimples out in full force. “You’re welcome, angel. You look cozy in that.” 

James doesn’t let his eyes linger on you for too long, but he finds even just glancing at you in his periphery has his heart beat speeding up. 

He can’t tell Sirius this at all. 

When you make it to your front gate, James stands with his hands in his pockets to the side as you unlock it. 

“Angel,” he stops you as you walk through the garden gate, curls resting right on his browbone as he turns his body towards you. “This might be completely inappropriate and you can totally tell me to fuck off, I won’t hold it against you.” 

You tilt your head, confusion written all over your face. 

“Would it be so bad if I said I’d like for us to do today again, minus the part where I show up in the ambulance?” 

His words flood out of him, almost like the dam was broken and he couldn’t force them to slow. 

Your eyebrows crease, not sure what to tell him. Even though you suspect James is an absolutely nice guy, a gem to quote your doctor slash his friend, you’re terrified.  You’re not sure if you can be hurt again, not like before. 

“Would it be bad if I asked if we could just try being friends out for a bit?” 

James shakes his head. “I don’t want to push you. I can be friends, lovie. I’d kill to be your friend.”

James sounds like an excited toddler at the playpark, and that makes you smile. 

“I’d appreciate that, James. I just,” you have to be a little honest here, especially because you know Mary already started it. “I’ve got some things to work through right now, and I want to get that all behind me before I commit to anything more than a friendship.” 

James gives you a soft smile, his brown eyes resembling pools of wet earth. Soft and safe. 

“I don’t want to push you too far into anything you’re not ready or wanting, angel. I’m a million percent okay with friends.” 

If you had a little courage, and didn’t have such a shitty day, you’d probably toy with the idea of giving James a hug. For now, it’s a passing thought. 

“Okay, I’ll text you from the number on your card.”

He nods, “Perfect,” James leans on your gate. “Lock up, lovie. I’ll be looking forward to your message.”

You feel James’ gaze on you the entire time you walk to your door. It’s not predatory, it’s just there. When you get inside, you don’t see him move until you click all your locks into place. 

God, why does Sarah, Mary and now Dr. McKinnon have to be right all the time. 

-

Over the next couple of days, you and James go back and forth on the phone a bit just getting to know each other. 

You learn that he, Sirius and Remus used to be roommates at boarding school, James was the star rugby player of the group but he studied sports medicine and then became a medic when he dislocated his shoulder and shattered his knee. 

You tell James that you and Mary hit it off when you joined the office you now work at, that you used to be really good at languages but can hardly remember any of what you learnt and that you garden like crazy. 

He had laughed at that, pointing out to you that he did walk you home and saw your flowers.

You blushed something fierce and were grateful that he couldn’t see it. 

You had eased into meeting up with James, little walks near your neighbourhood and to the ice cream parlour and the bookstore on the corner. 

“It’s so nice when summer feels like summer,” he says while you walk to the bookstore two streets down from your apartment. 

You turn to him, sweat pooling on your upper lip, “Not when London gets humid like this. I’d much rather the rain.” 

James shrugs, “I love summer.” 

You give him a pointed up and down, eyeing the muscle tee he’s wearing. There’s a comment about his biceps on the tip of your tongue, but you withhold. 

“You do seem the type.” 

His laugh was loud, but still it sounded like him. Happy and bright. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrug, “You know what it means, James Potter. You like the outdoors, and things of that nature.” 

“That makes me a summer bloke?” 

You nod, happy when he pushes open the door to the bookstore and cool air hits your damp skin. 

“A thousand percent.” 

You always met him at the places, but with every time you hung out, you got more comfortable with James. To the point where the thought of being in an enclosed space with him didn’t scare you shitless. 

At your first therapy session after going further than your venture to the bookstore farthest from your home with James, you spilled your guts to Sarah. 

“I made a friend.” you start and she nods, “A male friend.” You’re in her office, on the floor as you twist the arms on one of the toggle toys she has in a box under the coffee table in the middle of the room. 

Her eyebrows jump. “And how do you feel about it?”

You sigh, “Remember the paramedic who helped me in the supermarket?” she nods, “Well, it’s him. He was also the one to show up when I had the panic attack in the car park at work.” Sarah doesn’t interrupt you as you rehash every meeting you and James have had and how Dr. McKinnon told you that making a friend was also a good step in the right direction. 

She speaks when you’re finished, “She’s right that making a friend is a step in the right direction, I just don’t want you to feel forced to be this man’s friend.” 

You nod, mulling over her words. Your hands wind and unwind the toy, watching it spin with every movement.

“I don’t. It sort of got to the point where even if I didn’t think about him or think about seeing him, I would. I think this is the natural course.” 

Sarah smiles. “It does seem like it.” When you nod happily, she asks, “What about being in other places? Like his car, or somewhere new to you?” 

You pause on her sofa, “We haven’t tried it yet.” as you sit there winding up a new toy, a wooden one this time you think about your possible reactions to being in James’ car if he has one. 

“I might freak out a little, you know with account of it being an enclosed space. But I don’t think I’ll be frightened that James would do something to hurt me.” 

Sarah nods, scribbling as you set up three wooden mice to race across the table. “That’s amazing progress, Y/n. And I’m glad these things are happening on your terms.”

You smile, thinking about how James hasn’t made you feel weird, wrong or rushed you to anything. “So am I.” 

-

James’ text interrupts your thoughts, 

What do you think about lunch, angel? I’m off right now.

You’d been staring at your monitor screen for the last ten minutes, trying to figure out what the hell your supervisors were moaning about in the email thread.

I’m on lunch in ten minutes.

You message back, smiling when you see the three grey bubbles pop up immediately. 

When you notice the smile, you smooth your features into something neutral. 

You’ve only known him coming up on six months now, five months since you’d agreed to be just friends, and you’re trying hard not to let your feelings spiral too far before your brain is ready for more. 

Oh what about The Bistro? They’ve got great coffee and pastries!

You laugh at the irony of a paramedic having an insane sweet tooth. 

I’m not sure if pastries only would be smart after a 12 hour shift, I can meet you there!

James’ bubbles bounce furiously. 

I don’t think so angel, I’ll come get you.

If that’s okay. 

Your response takes a few minutes. You try to assess how you feel and if your anxiety is because of his suddenness or because you’re uncomfortable. 

In the ambulance?

No, that would be a gross misuse of the government’s property, lovie.

His second message comes instantly, 

I do have a car, I just prefer walking. Either is fine with me, angel.

You’re too kind. I don’t mind going in your car, the heat is demonic today and having the air con blasting on my face would be heavensent, James Potter.

You chuckle when he sends the red faced emoji to you. 

I never should’ve told you about the summer house, if this is how you’re acting, lovie.

I’m in the presence of royalty, it’s called respect. Plus, you love it!

He only hearts your message, and that makes you smile wider than you have all day. 

“I’m going out to lunch,” you stop by Mary’s cubicle and offer her a box of cookies you’d baked the day before. 

“With James?” You nod, biting your lip to stop it from spreading when Mary smirks. 

“Have fun, babe. Let me know when you get back.” 

You nod, kissing her cheek as you head down to the lobby. 

James is outside your office in five minutes later, leaning on the passenger side door with shades on and wet curls again. 

“Won’t you get a head cold being out with wet hair?” You ask as you approach him, a smile breaking out on his face when you come into view.

“Nah, it’s mostly damp and the sun is killer today. Should be dry before we even get to lunch.” 

James opens the door for you, smiling when you duck under his arm to get in. “If you’re sure, James. My mum always said that was the number one way to get ill and remain ill.” 

His car starts with a low purr, and you can’t help but give him a once over as he pulls out of the parking lot. 

James always looks good when you see him, but you especially like how soft he looks after work. Sure you know he’s exhausted, but he reminds you of a cuddly bear when he wears jumpers like the one he’s in now. 

It’s a plain forest green and smart brown pants, but he still looks soft. It’s hard to pin the correct description. 

“You smell like chocolate.” he says suddenly, chancing a look at you as he rolls to a stop at the red light. 

“A new perfume, black cherry and chocolate.”

James nods, “It’s very good.” 

You can’t help but flush a little. It’s been two months of you and James being friends and so far it’s been perfect. You like being his friend, but you can’t deny the fact that every time you see each other, that warm, gooey feeling spreads through you like it was made to. 

“Thanks, James.” You don’t let the silence in the car swallow you up. “Are you really only getting a coffee and a pastry?” 

James shakes his head, a smile playing on his lips, “No, their sandwiches are great.” 

Conversation during lunch is easy, James let you recommend an iced coffee flavour to him, a blueberry syrup latte, which he loved, and you let him recommend a cappuccino flavour - maple syrup. 

“Should we split that carrot cake?” you ask, eyeing the size of it as he brought it back to your table. 

James frowns, “You ordered this, angel. It’s yours to do with what you like.”

God, your heart melts. James is so fucking kind you could cry. 

“I want to share,” he smiles, dimple poking out a little.

“Then we will.” 

Every time you lean in to cut a piece of cake with your fork, james is hit with the scent of your perfume and he swears there’s something else, some sort of spell they put in there with the notes of the perfume because he swears every time you lean in, he gets a little drunk on the scent of you. 

James still lets you get the bigger portion of the carrot cake and the minute you reach into your purse he stills. “Angel, don’t even think about it. My mother would smack me silly if she could see what you’re doing.”

You shake your head. “It’s lunch, James.”

He nods, crossing his arms over his chest. “Exactly, lovie. And it’s on me, always.”

“But you let me pay for ice cream.”

He scoffs, “The first time we went for it I did not, I put the cash back into your purse. The outside pocket.” 

Your eyes widen, “You did not.”

“I certainly did.” 

You mutter something about him being insufferable under your breath, but James only laughs as he stands to cover your bill.

As James drives you back to work, you turn on his radio to find Breathless by The Corrs playing. “I love this song!”

He smiles, turning it up a little and sending his windows down, “It’s a rom com classic.” he explains and you just shake your head, wind whipping your hair as disbelief floods you at the existence of James Potter. 

James parks, and then turns to you before you get out. “I have a question.”

You stiffen, “No good conversation starts like that,” 

He tuts, correcting your train of thought immediately, “Nothing bad I swear! My friends and I, Sirius and Remus, and then two of our friends from boarding school, Lily and Pandora, go to my parents’ summer house for the weekend next week, and I wanted to ask if you and your friend Mary would like to come?”

You bite your lip as you consider the offer. “Just the weekend?” 

James nods, “Yeah, it’s sort of tradition the weekend before the beginning of August we go and have the lake and house to ourselves for three days and just have a fun time with each other.” 

“And it’s fine with everyone that you’re inviting me?” 

James rolls his eyes affectionately, “I’m pretty sure if I show up without you, they’d kick me out of my own house.”

“I’ll ask Mary and get back to you. Is that okay?” James nods, reaching a hand towards your cheek slowly just in case you don’t want him to touch you. 

When you don’t flinch away, James stores it away in his mind, and tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear. 

“That’s perfect, lovie,” James pulls away before the smell of your perfume can intoxicate him further. “Text me when you get home.” 

“Always do, James. Have a good ‘night’s’ sleep.” 

He smiles, nodding as he watches you leave his car and walk back into your building. James drives with the windows up all the way to his apartment, the smell of you, black cherry and chocolate flooding his senses. 

“You obviously have to tell him yes, babe!” Mary screeches down the phone as you FaceTime her that night. 

You’re both doing your night time skincare, the only way either of you can do it at this point is on FaceTime with one another. 

“But won’t that be a weird way to meet all his other friends?” 

Mary blows a raspberry at your question, “You’ve met two of them already, and the girls seem like they’re cool. I already found their socials.”

Your jaw drops. “That’s a little scary actually, McDonald.” 

“I just wanted to be sure they were real!” 

You narrow your eyes at her, “You wanted to see if either of them was single, you little rake.”

She cackles but doesn’t deny the claim, making you laugh too. 

“Plus I’ll be there the entire time, backing you up.” Mary says as she catches her breath. 

You heave a sigh, “I know, but small confession,” 

Mary already knows what you’re going to say. 

You and James have been friends for nearing six months now, and the feelings are developing fast. 

You feel guilty that he doesn’t know the reason why you can only be friends right now, even though it’s clear to both of you and everyone around you that you like each other. 

“What is it, babe?” 

You massage your moisturizer into your face as you weigh your words. “I know I’m not expected to tell everyone I meet the gory details of my life, but not telling James is making me feel like I’m lying to him.” 

Mary studies you, reading all the panic and shame on your face. “Babe,” you look at her, something else shining in your eyes. “You’re not lying to him, and there’s no set time to tell someone about what’s happened to you. However, if you feel like James is someone who can know what happened and how it’s affected you, you should tell him. No one is going to judge you for that, certainly not that man with a heart of pure honey.” 

You chuckle, a few sudden tears flooding your eyes. “He really is sweet, huh?” 

Mary smiles, happy to see you happy. “He is.” 

You text James that night that you’ll be at his lake house. 

You can’t even pretend there aren’t excited nerves bubbling under your skin. 

-

James delivers flowers to your work a few days before the trip and Mary giggles like crazy when she brings it up to you. 

“Look at this!” she sing-songs, practically skipping towards you with the vase. 

You look up from your laptop, “Are those yours? They’re beautiful, Mary!” 

She scoffs, “Me? No, babe. These are from James!” 

You freeze in your seat, not daring to reach forward as you spot the card in there. 

“What’s it say?” you ask her and she grins, setting the vase down on your desk and plucking the card from between a few stems. 

‘Happy six month anniversary to us meeting! Is that a weird thing to celebrate? It makes me happy though, knowing you. Love, James.’ 

Mary would scream if you both weren’t at work. 

“He’s unreal.” you mutter and she’s inclined to agree. 

“Let him know you got them! He’s so sweet.” 

You send James a photo of the bouquet, 

Thank you for the flowers, James. They’re beautiful!

His response is fast. 

I’m glad you like them! I really am glad we met in the supermarket six months ago, angel.

I am too. 

You’re not even embellishing that fact as you send the message. 

As you’re the last person packing your bag to leave when your phone rings. Without thinking you answer it. 

“Y/n Y/Ln?” A woman’s voice fills the speaker. 

Your eyebrows knit together, “Speaking. How can I help you?” 

“I’m calling from the police, we have the man who assaulted you in custody.”

Your heart stops beating and you’re sure you’ve been calcified where you stand. “Pardon?”

“Yes, a Mr. Luther. He’d been picked up for assaulting another woman, but this one he’d been dating for a little over two months. The description matched the one you had given us and the matter’s been addressed in court.”

This is a dream, it has to be. “Is the other woman alright?” 

The lady on the phone moves around a bit. “She’s as well as can be expected. But when I told her this was his second attack, she said to pass on the news to you. He’s going to prison.”

Tears gather on your lashline immediately. “Oh my god.” 

You never thought you’d have ever felt this sort of relief. 

“Are you sure?”

The lady gives a small chuckle. “The judge ruled at midday, ten years no parole.” 

“Thanks for the call.” 

You walk to your car, shocked to your core. When you get inside you call Mary. 

“Mary, they got him.”

“What? Are you serious?”

The tears fall then. “They got him. Ten years no parole.” 

“Fuck yeah babe. That’s a huge fucking win.” Your heart feels so light. “Want me to come over with chinese takeaway and those mochi balls?”

You nod even though she can’t see you. “Yeah, we can watch Princess Diaries together.”

“This is so great, babe! I’m so happy for you!” 

“Everything’s finally moving forward.” 

-

You’re at your therapy session before the drive to the lake. You couldn’t fit in another day, so you had texted James to let him know that you’d be a few hours behind them. 

You’re laying on Sarah’s floor, toggles surrounding you as you listen to her tell you about how much progress you’ve made and how the police having him in custody will only help your progress along. 

All you can think about is James, and telling him. More than ever now that ‘Luther’ is in prison. 

“I want to tell James about what happened. So that he can at least know why I want to take things slow with him.” 

You’ve interrupted Sarah, but she’s only shocked. In a good way too. 

“It’s your call. It’s something that happened to you, and if you feel like this friendship with you and James can go somewhere further, you can tell him as much or as little as you please.”

You nod, twisting the back on one of Sarah’s wooden ducks. 

“But what if he thinks there’s something wrong with me now? I’ve read that sometimes others see you as ‘broken goods,’ which is nasty and unfair, but it could still hurt if that’s how he felt.” 

Sarah hums, you can tell she’s weighing her words.

“Has James ever made you feel uncomfortable for just wanting to be friends?” 

You shake your head, “He even sent me flowers the other day.” Sarah raises her eyebrows. “To commemorate meeting in the supermarket six months ago.” 

“And did it feel like he was trying to insinuate something more before you were ready?” 

You shake your head again. 

“No, he never pushes for anything more than I’m willing to give.”

“Well then, I don’t think he’d think anything of you other than how resilient you are for going through something like that.” 

You and Mary get to James’ lake house just before sunset and the house is gorgeous. 

It’s a pastel yellow house with pink trim and beautiful flower bushes. 

James is in the front garden, sitting in a porch swing with a beer in his hand and sunglasses over his eyes.

He looks every bit of the rugby player he bragged about being in college.

You try not to focus on his exposed thighs as you park or the hint of ink you see peeking under the hem of his shorts. 

“You’re drooling,” Mary sings happily as you park. 

“You’ll drool too, don’t think I won’t notice if you suddenly make nice with the girls.” 

She only slaps your shoulder as you start getting out of your car. 

“Let me help you angel,” his hand hovers near your back as you reach to open the back door of your car. When Mary steps out, James gives her a big smile, dimples poking out. “You must be Mary.” 

She nods, “I am. Thank you for having us over.” 

James shrugs as he lifts your duffel bag to his shoulder and takes Mary’s as well. “The more the merrier! Plus like I told this one, I think the boys would’ve beheaded me if I didn’t invite you.” 

You roll your eyes, “Where is everyone?” 

James grins, “By the lake,” he leads the way, you and Mary following behind him. “It’ll be warm now, so if you wanted to go for a swim you could.” 

Mary’s all for it, but you’re undecided. You want to tell James before you lose your nerve. You also want to tell him that maybe you can start taking your friendship to a more romantic path, but maybe that would be too much at once. 

“The house is beautiful James,” you murmur as you make it to the back. The lake is right there, a jetty extending so you can walk straight out to it. 

“That’s all my mum, she’s got an eye for these kinds of things.” 

Mary is in awe, more so when she steps onto the jetty and realises that you’ve been holding out on her.

All of James’ friends are just as gorgeous as he is. 

“You made it!” Sirius is near you first, dropping his cards on the jetty and coming over to you. “James can’t stop talking about you, so I figured you had to come.”  

You laugh, “He does?” you turn to James who’s red.

Sirius nods, “It’s endearingly pathetic, but this is James we’re talking about.”

James squeaks, “Siri, stop!” 

Sirius gives you a look that says, ‘You see what I mean?’ and that makes your heart race even more. 

You give James reprieve as you turn to Mary, “This is my friend Mary. Don’t let her play cards, she’ll hustle you.” 

Sirius’ eyes glint with something mischievous that you know is reflected in Mary’s. “Oh yeah?” 

Mary nods, “Introduce me to everyone before you lose whatever you’re playing for.” 

James laughs, going around in a circle introducing you to his friends. The redheaded girl is Lily, the other one with curly black hair, is Pandora.

You know Remus already, and he gives you a kind smile where he sits on the jetty with only his legs in the water. 

“You’re in the next round!” Lily says and you nod, watching as Sirius takes Mary’s hand. 

“Prepare to lose your sweets, Sirius.” Mary says as she sits beside them, ready to take them for everything they have. 

“You want a beer, Mary?” you ask as she sits, she waves you off. 

“I’m sound, babe.” 

You turn to James, “Would it be terrible if I asked to see the flower garden?”

He shakes his head, pushing his sunglasses up through his hair to look down at you.

“I had a feeling you’d want to.” James extends his hand to you, when you take it, it’s warm and a little weathered from all the years of rugby. Still, it feels nice. 

As you approach the garden, the first thing you notice is the smell. It’s fresh and bright, and you gasp when you notice an orange tree in the middle of hydrangeas, orange and red daylilies, and even some hostas. 

“This is gorgeous, James.” 

He smiles at you as you let go of his hand to step a little further into the garden. James watches as you take care to step only on the mosaic stones his mum had laid down to be a path years ago. 

“Do you think your mum could help me design mine?” 

He chuckles, “I’m sure she’d love to.” It strikes him as odd when his palm tingles when you come back to hold his hand. “There’s the path to the front as well,” 

“Lead the way.” 

You end up sitting on the porch swing James was on when you first got there, legs curled under you as James brings two beers from the fridge.

“I have something I want to tell you.” you ask as he opens the bottle before handing it over to you. 

James smiles, repeating your words from a few nights ago, “No good conversation starts like that, angel.”

You shake your head as you take a sip. “It’s sort of an explanation.”

James furrows his brows, “For what?”

You take a deep breath. James hears it rattle on the way out and wishes he could crush you close to his chest. 

“For me, I guess.” 

“You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready, lovie.”

You shake your head, “I’m ready. It’s just hard.”

James nods, turning to face you completely. “Take your time, angel. No rush, no pressure.” 

You take another sip of the beer and then sigh. “Nearly a year ago now, I was attacked on the way home from work. There was this man, I didn’t know him, and he just came up behind me and I’m honestly still not sure how I lost consciousness, but I did. I woke up in an alley, and I knew immediately what had happened. I didn’t remember much, just this slight description and the smell of grease.”

James is stiff beside you, desperate to pull you close and wrap you up so no one could hurt you again.

“That first day we met, was the first time I’d left my house since everything happened. That’s why I had the panic attack. My therapist had said I needed to get out before I never could.”

“Oh honey,” James murmurs, heart shattering in his chest. 

“After that, honestly as bad as that day was, the day in the supermarket, I think it also helped.” You take another breath, “I could leave the house, still with panic but I could leave. My therapist kept making me go out, places close to my home to get used to it again. And I kept bumping into you.” 

You smile at him then, the memory of bumping into him at the ice cream parlour vivid behind your eyes. 

“It felt like it was the right thing to do. And then I had another panic attack at work.”

James puts the pieces together. “He was there. That’s who Mary was telling me about.” 

You nod, “But he’s been put away now. Unfortunately, he attacked another girl but she could give them a proper description that matched the one I did and he’s in prison now.” 

James nods, swallowing the last bits of his beer. “Can I hug you?”

You laugh, heart light as you note how soft his voice is when he asks. 

You lean into him, “Yeah James.” 

His hug is warm, even for the summer, but it’s comforting. 

“I wanted to give you the preface as to why I could only be friends.” you say as you pull away. “But now that he’s gone I want to try to be something more than friends.”

James smiles sadly, his hands cupping your cheeks, “I’m glad you felt like you could tell me. I’m sorry you had to go through all of that, m’heart.” 

You shrug, “It can finally be behind me now. And I want to try for something good after a year of all of that.”

James leans slowly into you, pressing his forehead to yours, “You’re fucking resilient. We can go at the pace you set, sweet girl.” His heart beat is in his throat as he looks at you. 

You smile, tilting your head up just a little. Your lips brush James’. “Mary’s gonna be thrilled.” 

James blushes, “She’s my number one fan?” 

You shake your head, “No, I’m number one. She’s definitely number two though.” 

James tucks your head to his chest as he laughs, his blush making him hotter than the weather. “C’mon let’s go to the lake. You need to cool down.”

[1-800-crazy]

Get Around

Summary : After going on a date with Bucky, Sarah realises they're better off as friends. So she does the next best thing: sets him up with you, the Wilsons’ childhood best friend. 

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Wilsons’ best friend!reader (she/her) 

Warnings/tags : Fluff!!!! Canon-compliant-ish. cursing. Sex is mentioned and described but nothing too graphic. Honorary Wilson!reader lol. (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 6.1k

Note : If you’d like to be on the taglist, message me! It gets lost in the comments sometimes. Enjoy!

Bucky had been hanging around Delacroix more often—helping out with repairs, tagging along with Sam, awkwardly charming every older woman at the community center. 

After a while, he asked Sarah out the old-fashioned way. They were mid-conversation on her porch after a neighborhood barbecue when he said, “Would you maybe wanna grab coffee sometime?”

Sarah blinked. “Like… a date?”

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, shrugging. “Yeah. A date.”

She smiled, a little surprised he actually made a move. “Sure, Barnes. Why not?”

—

The coffee date was… fine.

Sarah looked good—she always did—but sitting across from her in a cosy little café, Bucky felt like he was going through the motions. She talked about her boys, the PTA, the plumber who still hadn’t fixed the upstairs sink. He listened politely, sipping his drink.

As the date went on, the silences got longer. Not the comfortable kind— the searching-for-what-to-say-next kind.

Sarah told a hilarious story about AJ trying to microwave a juice box. Bucky laughed but didn’t know how to relate. He talked about old jazz clubs in Brooklyn, and she smiled, but couldn’t picture it.

Now, he thought to himself, what on earth do we have in common? 

She liked things like school pickups and meal prep and making sure her boys had clean socks.

He was still figuring out how to use Google Maps.

By the time their drinks were finished, Sarah leaned back in her chair and tilted her head. “You know this isn’t gonna work, right?”

Bucky let out a relieved sigh. “God, thank you. I thought I was crazy.”

“You’re sweet,” she said with a grin. “But you’re… not for me.”

“You’re way too… normal,” he joked, happy to go back to friendly banter.

“Hey! Normal’s not so bad,” she playfully slapped his arm, grinning. “Especially with two kids and a mortgage. I like normal.”

Bucky shrugged. “I think I’m still trying to figure out what normal even is.”

There wasn’t any bitterness between them, just a mutual understanding. They walked out side by side, still friends, no pressure. Bucky held the door open for her, and they walked side-by-side on the sidewalk.

“You’ll find someone,” she said, patting his shoulder. “Just maybe not a single mom who spends half her life arguing with a ten-year-old about screen time.”

“Mm. Modern dating’s rough,” Bucky muttered, almost to himself, kicking a pebble. He gave her a half-hearted laugh. “I never had to do it before. In the forties, you danced with someone, got shipped three weeks later, and that was that.”

Sarah adjusted the strap of her bag. “Yeah, well, times have changed.”

“I don’t even know what my ‘type’ is,” Bucky sighed, plunging his hands into the pocket of his leather jacket.

“Come on. Everyone has a type,” She glanced at him. “What do you usually go for?”

He thought for a long moment, mouth half open, brows furrowed like he was trying to solve a math problem.

“I dunno… pretty? Smart? Likes reading and stuff?” He squinted. “You know. Someone who makes me feel like I’m not completely out of place all the time.”

Sarah blinked at him, then let out a laugh that was more affectionate than mocking. “You’re hopeless.”

“I said I don’t know!”

“So,” she started, gears already shifting in her head, “You want someone smart, probably a little intense, maybe a little weird— someone who could keep up with your nerdy ass and not try to fix you.”

Bucky looked at her sideways. “...Is that a bad thing?”

“Not at all. Just not me.” She shrugged, before smiling to herself. “Lucky for you, I think I know the woman for you,” she said with a little sing-song voice.

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “You’re setting me up with someone else?”

She grinned, wide and smug. “Damn right I am.”

“After I just tried to date you?”

“Please,” she said, already pulling out her phone. “This is the South. Everyone’s dated everyone once. It’s how we weed out the bad matches and find the good ones.”

—

The air was warm and fragrant with the smell of jasmine, the kind of Southern evening that made time stretch out and slow down. Cicadas hummed in the trees like a constant chorus, and the porch creaked beneath. You sat curled up on the steps, legs tucked beneath you, an old quilt draped across your lap even though the heat hardly called for it. Sarah lounged across from you, sipping sweet tea from a mason jar, her curls tied back, the porch light casting a halo around her.

“So,” she said, breaking the comfortable silence as she swirled the ice in her glass, “I went on a date with Bucky Barnes.”

You blinked. “Wait—the Bucky? Metal arm, might’ve killed a guy with a butter knife?” Sam has told you a lot about him, of course. But that wasn’t the same as knowing him. 

Sarah nodded.

You sat up straighter, curious now. “Okay, and? Spill.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully. “He’s... complicated. But nice. Weirdly funny. He loves old movies and books and he’s got this thing where he looks constantly exhausted by the existence of social media.”

“That’s… something.”

Sarah shrugged. “He’s trying. But it didn’t really click, you know? Not romantically, anyway. We kind of gave each other this look like, ‘Yeah, this isn’t it.’”

You took a slow sip of your tea, watching her closely. “So why are you telling me this?”

Sarah raised an eyebrow, unhurried. And if you knew her— and you did— she was scheming. “Because you… you might be exactly his type.”

Your brow shot up. “You’re trying to set me up with the Winter Soldier?”

“No,” Sarah rolled her eyes and leaned forward. “I’m trying to set you up with Bucky. Who happens to have a metal arm and a very unfortunate history of government-sanctioned murder. Besides, I think he’s your type, too.”

You made a show of pretending to consider it, lips pursed. “Pretty but did government-sanctioned murder is my type?”

She nodded without missing a beat. “A hundred percent. You like them brooding and bookish with just a dash of ‘might stab someone for you.’”

You laughed. “Okay, but what about Sam?” You leaned back to the wooden railing, running your fingers around the rim of your glass. “You really think he’s gonna be chill with Bucky taking two of the closest women in his life out?”

“He’ll freak,” Sarah finished, deadpan. “But if it doesn’t work out, he doesn’t have to know. If it does we’ll handle it. I’ll hit him with the ‘don’t get in the way of love’ speech. Maybe throw in some guilt about daddy watching from heaven.”

“That’s cold.”

“It’s effective.”

You chuckled, setting your glass down and leaning back, looking out at the yard. Crickets chirped somewhere near the bushes, and the stars were just starting to peek through the indigo sky. 

You bit your lip, shaking your head but not saying no. You were picturing him now— this man you’d only ever seen in brief glimpses, standing quiet at the edges of cookouts, nodding along to conversations, sometimes slipping into laughter like he forgot he was allowed to enjoy things.

“Does he read?” you asked finally, glancing sideways at her.

“All the time. Sam said he annotates in the margins.”

You tried not to smile, but it slipped out anyway. “That’s annoyingly charming.”

“Right?” Sarah grinned, delighted.

You took another sip, thinking. “I mean... I’m not saying yes,” you murmured.

Sarah just chuckled. “But you’re already thinking about what you’re gonna wear.”

You shot her a look. “Shut up.”

But to be fair, she was right. You were intrigued. 

Completely, undeniably intrigued.

—

Sarah picked the brunch spot—a sunny corner café with mismatched mugs and a chalkboard menu that changed every week. It had string lights even in daylight and smelled like syrup, coffee, and cinnamon.

Bucky walked in five minutes early, as he always did when he wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. He scanned the room— and then stopped short.

“Oh,” he said aloud, more to himself than anything.

Because there you were, sitting by the window in a breezy sundress and sneakers, sipping coffee from a mug the size of your face. You looked up, spotted him, and smiled like you were in on a secret he hadn’t been told yet.

He found himself smiling. “It’s you.”

You hadn't really talked before, not properly. He knew you were close with Sam and Sarah, always laughing or deep in conversation with someone else at the Wilson gatherings. He’d noticed you, though— thought you were beautiful, but always just too out of reach.

“That’s one way to greet a date.” Your brow lifted, amused. “I was hoping for a little more enthusiasm.”

“No—I mean—hi,” he managed to recover, walking over. “I just didn’t know it was you you.”

“Sarah didn’t tell you?”

“No,” he admitted, a little sheepish. “I thought I was showing up for a complete stranger. Not the Wilson’s pretty friend who always hangs out with the book club moms at barbecues.”

“Hey!” You defended yourself. “Mrs. Landry always has good gossip.”

Oh, this was going to be interesting.

—

You both sat a little awkward at first, but then he made a dry joke about how brunch menus had too many eggs, and you responded with a sass-laced quip about men being afraid of hollandaise. The banter just clicked.

Conversation flowed easy after that.

You teased him for calling the server “ma’am” like he was born in a different century (because he was), and he shot back that you flirt like it’s a contact sport— which you didn’t deny. He found out you liked old books and that you could, in fact, take him in an argument about which Indiana Jones movie was the best. 

To your surprise, Bucky was funny. Not just in a dry, sarcastic way, but he was genuinely quick-witted. He told a story about a disastrous attempt to use a self-checkout machine (“It yelled at me, loudly, in front of children”), and you nearly choked on your coffee.

When you talked about the petty drama at your job, he listened with real interest, laughing in the right places, asking the right questions. It wasn’t like dragging someone through small talk; it felt… mutual.

“So…” you started as you took the last bite of your croissant. “how’s this date measuring up to Sarah’s?”

“Well,” he raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t checked the time once.”

Your smile widened.

“She’s cool,” he added, “but… this is different. In a good way.”

“I’ll take that.”

–

By the time the check landed on the table, you both reached for it.

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Don’t even think about it.”

You tilted your head, amused. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.” 

“You were going to insist on splitting. Don’t. Let me feel like a gentleman,” he said playfully, “Don’t steal my moment.”

“Oh, this is your moment?”

He leaned in slightly. “I’m trying to be charming, sweetheart. Let me have this.”

“Fine,” you rolled your eyes, pretending to be pissed, “But only because you said ‘sweetheart’ like a noir movie star.”

He winked. “I’ve got more where that came from.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were grinning now as he handed the check off, and thought, Sarah was right. 

–

He walked you to your car, hands in his pockets, close enough that your shoulders brushed every few steps. The sun was warm, the air smelled like honeysuckle and syrup, and you… didn’t want it to end.

“I had a good time,” you said, pausing at your door.

He stopped, looking at you like you’d caught him off guard. “Yeah… me too. More than I expected.”

You raised an eyebrow, pretending to be offended. “More than you expected?”

“I just didn’t think it’d be… this easy,” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck. 

“Careful,” you teased. “I might start thinking you like me.”

He looked at you, eyes on your mouth, on the way you leaned back against the car door like you had nowhere else to be. “I do.”

You smiled, knowing this wouldn’t be the last time you saw each other. “So… what now?”

“That depends,” he said. “Would you wanna do this again?”

You stepped in just a little, your face tilted up toward his, close enough to feel the heat off his skin. “Definitely.”

“We should go to the new bar down the corner soon,” he suggested.

“Great,” you said, eyes twinkling. “Text me, and I’ll be there.”

He leaned in like he might say something else, or might kiss you, might do something bold— but instead, he just smiled.

You slipped into your car, started it up, and rolled the window down.

“Hey, Bucky?” you called.

He stepped back, looking unfairly attractive in the sunlight. “Yeah?”

You met his eyes. “You’re even prettier up close.”

And you drove off, leaving him standing there— watching you go like you were the best thing that had happened to him all week.

—

Three days later, you went on your second date.

“Are we sure about this?” Bucky asked, pulling open the bar’s door for you. For better or for worse, tonight was trivia night. 

You stepped in, instantly hit with the scent of beer, wings, questionable cologne. “Nope,” you said cheerfully. “I’m mostly here for the nachos.”

“That’s fair.” He chuckled, following behind. “I’m just gonna pretend I know things about pop culture.”

You gave him a sidelong glance. “I don’t know if I trust your grasp on modern trivia.”

“I’ve been catching up,” he said, almost seriously if not for the slight curve on his lips. “Did you know there are nine Fast & Furious movies?”

“Ten, actually,” you said with mock pity. “Proud of you, though.”

He held a hand to his chest like you’d wounded him. “I let you insult my trivia knowledge and I still pulled your chair out for you.”

You beamed. “Chivalry’s not dead.”

“Just slightly bruised,” he said, sitting beside you as the host passed around answer sheets and sharpies.

–

You came in fifth out of nine teams.

“Honestly,” Bucky said as you both stepped into the night air, “I think we did well.”

“You thought Pluto was a planet.”

“It was,” he defended, “back in 1940!”

You laughed, waving him off. “Excuses.”

He walked a little closer, catching up. “Still,” he started again, “I had fun.”

You nudged him with your shoulder. “We make a good team. Incompetent, but y’know.”

“Speak for yourself,” he said lightly. 

“So…,” you drawled. “Should we do something again next week?”

He leaned in close, pretending to think. “Only if you promise to educate me on planetary bodies.”

“Deal.”

—

The week after, you decided to go to a roller rink together.

“This is either going to be really cute,” you said as you laced up your skates, “or humiliating.”

Bucky was already upright, perfectly balanced in his skates, the annoyingly coordinated war-time ballerina that he is. He looked down at you with that stupidly charming half-smile. “So far, I’m voting cute.”

You squinted at him. “You’re only saying that because you haven’t seen me fall yet.”

He offered you his hand. “Let’s see, then.”

You took it—gratefully—and let him help you up. Instantly, your legs turned into spaghetti and you clung to his arm with both hands.

“Oh fuck,” you cursed under your breath.. “Fuckfuckfuck.”

He laughed, gently snaking an arm down your waist. “When was the last time you did this?”

“Thirteen?” you guessed, “I had a much lower center of gravity. Also, zero fear of public scrutiny.”

“Well,” he said, guiding you slowly onto the rink like you were made of glass, “you can hold on to me.”

“I’m practically koala-ing your arm.”

“I don’t mind,” he murmured under his breath, glancing down at you with a look that was far too fond for someone who’d just watched you nearly faceplant.

You clutched his arm tighter, still trying to get your legs to cooperate. “God, this is embarrassing."

“It’s cute,” he insisted. “You’re like a baby deer on ice.”

“I will push you into a wall.”

“You’d fall too,” he warned, “So it’d be mutually assured destruction.”

Eventually, you got the hang of not immediately dying, though Bucky still skated close, one hand lightly on your back or guiding your wrist like he didn’t want to be too far away. Every time you stumbled, he caught you like he’d been training for this moment his whole life.

“You’re doing great,” he encouraged, breathless from laughing. “You haven’t even faceplanted yet.”

“That’s because I’ve been using you like a human walker.”

“And I’m honored,” he said solemnly. “Touch me all you want.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t let go. His hand was steady, and every time you squeezed in fear, it made his heart stutter a little.

As the cheesy pop music echoed through the rink and colored lights flashed over your faces, you tugged him down slightly and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

He tilted his head like he hadn’t expected it. “What was that for?”

You gave him a casual shrug. “You didn’t let me fall.”

His grin looked a little dazed. “I’m never letting go now.”

You bumped his shoulder playfully. “You sound like you’re catching feelings.”

He looked down at you, cheeks still pink from your kiss. “And if I was? You gonna push me into a wall?”

You leaned into him, still holding on. “No,” you pretended to consider, “You’re growing on me.”

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, then tugged you into another lap around the rink— this time, not as your balance support, but just because he wanted to keep you close.

—

The next time he took you out was two weeks later— Bucky needed to go on a mission, and thankfully, he came back in one piece.

You weren’t sure what possessed you to say yes to a swing dance night— probably Bucky’s hopeful smile and the promise of watching him do footwork that didn’t involve combat boots and a rifle. But now, standing in the bar with a live brass band warming up and people in suspenders and retro curls twirling across the floor, you were very aware of two things: One, you were wearing a swing dress that flared when you spun. Two, Bucky Barnes was staring at you like he forgot how to breathe.

“Wow,” he said as he stepped up to you. “You look…”

You raised a brow, playfully daring him to finish that sentence.

He blinked, still locked in on your dress. It was deep red with a fitted waist and a full skirt. Your hair was pinned just enough to look like effort without screaming it, and your lipstick was the exact shade of I-wanna-kiss-you red. “Like a dream.”

You laughed, smoothing your skirt like it might somehow make his gaze less intense. “You’re just saying that because the dress twirls.”

He offered you his arm, loving the way you fit beside him— like an old-Hollywood couple.

The dance floor was alive, buzzing with movement and people spinning and dipping under strings of lights. You clutched Bucky’s hand tightly as he led you out, equal parts excited and terrified.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” you whispered.

He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear. “That’s okay. I do.”

And he did. Oh, he really did.

Bucky danced well, probably because he learned to when it meant something—when music was a lifeline, when joy had to be stolen in smoky clubs when the world was falling apart. He was confident, never showy, and always aware of you. 

You found yourself laughing, light and giddy, as he spun you out and back again. Your dress fanned like a flame, your heels sliding along the floor, and every time you landed in his arms, his stare lingered just a moment longer than necessary.

“Where’d you learn to dance like this?” you asked, catching your breath.

He gave a small, wistful smile. “Brooklyn. You had to ask someone or you didn’t dance at all.”

“And you always asked?”

He shrugged, but the glance he gave you was shy. “Sometimes.”

You couldn’t help yourself. “What a player.”

“Well, I never found the right partner,” he chuckled, but didn’t deny it. “Until now.”

Oh?

“Only took you ninety years,” you teased and squeezed his hand. When you leaned back slightly, the lights caught the silver of his dog tags beneath the open collar of his shirt. It was a reminder of everything he’d carried on his shoulders— everything he rarely said out loud. And you wanted, suddenly, for him to feel something new. 

So you kissed him.

Right there on the floor, standing on your toes to press your mouth to his. His lips parted with surprise at first, then his hand tightening at your waist, his other sliding up your back like he couldn’t stop himself.

You weren’t trying to steal something from him—you were offering something instead. He kissed you back because he understood that. 

When you finally pulled away, he didn’t say anything.

He just looked at you like he was falling in love— and trying, desperately, not to admit it.

—

A couple days later, you had your monthly catch up with Sarah. 

Your porch smelled like beer, chicken wings, and dandelions. The boys were pretending to swordfight in your backyard. 

Sarah stirred the ketchup pot with a wing. “So,” she said, already smiling like she knew, “how’s it going with our favorite ex-assassin?”

You tried to play it cool. You really did.

“It’s…” You took a sip from your glass to buy time. “Going.”

Sarah tilted her head. “That’s all I get?”

“Fine.” You let out a soft laugh, resting your elbow on the lap, chin in your hand. “It’s going… really well.”

“Mmhmm.” She took a sip like she was examining a case. “Are we talking awkward small talk and polite side hugs? Or—”

“He took me dancing,” you interrupted, like that alone said everything. 

Sarah sat up straighter, eyes wide. “Bucky Barnes took you dancing?”

“To a swing bar with a live band and couples in suspenders and victory rolls. He knew all the steps.”

Sarah pretended to look disappointed. “The best he could do for me was coffee.”

You laughed, nudging her shoulders. “And he looked at me like— fuck, Sarah, like I was made of stardust or somethin’.”

“Oof.” She leaned back, hand over her heart. “You’re in it.”

“I’m not—” You paused, considering it. “Okay. Maybe. A little.”

“A little?”

“I kissed him,” you confessed. “On the dance floor.”

Sarah was quiet for a beat, her eyes turning warm. “Sounds like he’s falling for you.” 

You toyed with the rim of the bowl. “I think it scares him.”

Sarah nodded slowly. “Good.”

You looked up at her, almost worried. “What if I fall first?”

“Then you fall,” she reassured, proud of her matchmaking skills. “He’ll catch you. Even if it takes him a minute.”

—

Across the world, Sam and Bucky were just finishing up a mission— low-level intel retrieval, some mild breaking and entering, nothing they hadn’t done a dozen times before. Still, Bucky was in a suspiciously good mood for someone who’d just spent three hours crawling through ventilation ducts and dodging motion sensors.

They were walking back to the jet when Sam finally said it.

“You’ve been smiley lately.”

Bucky scoffed, keeping his eyes forward. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve got this weird, smug little grin thing going on,” Sam insisted. “Thought maybe you got hit too hard in the head back there.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I’m not.”

Sam nudged him with an elbow. “So what’s her name?”

Bucky stiffened for a split second, just enough for Sam to catch it.

“See, I know you,” Sam said, leaning forward now, laughing. “You’re seeing someone, aren’t you?”

Bucky tried to play it off, shrugging like it was no big deal. “I’m... Yeah.”

Sam’s jaw dropped in mock offense. “And you weren’t gonna tell me?”

Bucky groaned, already regretting it. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird! I’m just—who?”

“Drop it.”

Sam blinked. “You’re not gonna tell me?”

“Nope.”

“Is it someone I know?” Sam insisted.

“I’m not talking about it,” Bucky gritted.

“Is it—? Wait.” Sam’s eyes went round. “It better not be someone from my neighborhood .”

Bucky shot him a look. “It’s none of your business.”

“Oh my God it is someone from the neighbourhood!”

“Sam.”

“You’re dating one of the aunties??”

“No! Jesus.”

“Who then? Just give me a hint—”

“Fuck, it’s… early,” Bucky said, voice a little tight. “So just—drop it, okay?”

Truth was, he didn’t want to deal with the fallout. Yet. Because once Sam found out—once he did the math and realised Bucky had dated his sister, however briefly, and then ended up dating you, his childhood best friend, the one who used to sneak popsicles to Sarah after bedtime and once helped him bury a broken Game Boy like it was a funeral…?

Yeah. No thanks. Not until he had to.

Sam, to Bucky’s immense surprise, let it go.

Kind of.

“Well,” Sam said after a long moment, trying to play it cool but still delighted, “Just a foolproof-Sam-Wilson-dating-tip: bring her over to yours. Cook for her. Ladies love that.”

Bucky side-eyed him. “What, like, from scratch?”

“Yeah, man. Light a candle, put on some Coltrane, pretend you know how to make pasta that isn’t out of a box.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but Sam could tell he was actually considering it. “I didn’t ask for your advice.”

“You never do, and yet, I keep improving your life,” Sam said in that annoying matter-of-factly way he always did. “You’re welcome.”

Bucky shook his head, fighting the urge to smile again as he started planning your dinner. 

—

So he invited you to your apartment when he got back. 

When he opened the door that night, you kissed him chastely on the corner of his mouth as a greeting. “Hey you.”

He tried to look casual, but blushed a little. You were in jeans and a tucked-in tank top, nothing dramatic, but seeing you again after three weeks of non-stop texting felt like a breath of fresh air.

You had since gotten comfortable in his place, exploring every nook and cranny, figuring what made this place so…. him.

It was tidy and lived-in, filled with small signs that he was figuring out what a home meant— books stacked on end tables, a couch with a cozy throw, a record player in the corner playing jazz like it belonged in another century.

You were now barefoot in his kitchen, sipping wine and leaning against the counter, watching him move around like he wasn’t nervously making sure he was making the pesto right. Bucky wore a plain black tee and trousers, sleeves pushed up, forearm metal plates rippling as he stirred something on the stove— pasta, homemade sauce, garlic bread in the oven. It smelled good.

“I can’t believe James Buchanan Barnes is cooking for me,” you teased, swirling the wine in your glass.

He glanced over his shoulder, smirking. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

“What?” you defended, “I’m flattered.”

“You should be. I’m just trying to impress you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Trying pretty hard, huh?”

He squinted playfully at you. “Shut up.”

You were chuckled as he stepped closer, reaching past you for the olive oil—but his hand hovered on the counter instead, palm pressed near your hip. His eyes flickered to your mouth and lingered, there, like it was physically impossible to look away.

“You look good here,” he mentioned, hands creeping closer to you.

“Here?”

“In my space.” He clarified, nodding. “You fit.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

Before he could overthink it, he kissed you.

It started slow—his hand resting just below your ribs,—but it escalated quickly, the kind of kiss that made you forget the world was round. 

Your hands slipped up under the edge of his shirt, palms flattening against the warm skin of his stomach. He gasped against your mouth, just a little, but didn’t pull back. His hands found your waist and pulled you closer until there was no space between you.

Bucky kissed like he was starving. Like he’d been trying so hard to be careful and you’d finally told him he didn’t have to be.

You dragged your fingers up his sides, felt the way his body shivered slightly under your touch. He kissed you harder, tongue slipping against yours, his metal hand gripping your waist. Your back hit the edge of the counter and you arched into him, lips parting on a moan you didn’t mean to make—but it set a bomb off in him.

His mouth dropped to your neck, open-mouthed and hot, and your hands found the hem of his shirt again, tugging gently.

“Wait—” you said, breathless, your head falling back a little, “Bucky—” 

“What? Did I—?”

You laughed, one hand resting on his chest. “The stove.”

He blinked. “The—?”

You tilted your head toward the pot behind him, steam now visible, the faint bubbling sound definitely not part of the white noise.

“Oh, shit.”

He turned fast, fumbling with the knob, grabbing the towel and yanking the pot off the heat and turning off the oven while muttering curses under his breath. You leaned back against the counter, laughing.

He turned back around, hair slightly tousled, but not looking the least bit sorry. “We can heat it up later.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Mhm.” He stepped in close again, gently crowding you against the cabinets, one hand braced beside your head. “Dinner can wait.”

You didn’t argue. You just hooked a finger into the collar of his shirt, pulled him in again. His hand hiked up your thigh as he sunk down, kneeling on the floor, pasta be damned. 

You tasted better than anything on the stove anyway.

—

After a good hour or so in bed, Bucky took you to shower. It was all steam and lazy kisses pressed to damp skin. You’d lingered under the spray longer than you needed to, neither of you in any rush to move, to pull away, to stop being tangled up in each other.

Now, you were perched on the edge of Bucky’s island kitchen counter, freshly showered, legs swinging gently, damp hair tucked behind your ears, wearing nothing but a pair of his briefs and his t-shirt, hanging off one shoulder in a way that made Bucky keep glancing over like he was already planning to peel it back off.

He stood shirtless across from you at the stove, boiling a new batch of pasta after he’d abandoned the old ones earlier. His hair was still a little wet, clinging to the back of his neck, and his gray sweatpants hung dangerously low on his hips. His metal arm glinted in the light as he stirred the sauce one-handed, the other casually wiping at a stray droplet of water on his chest.

You tilted your head. “You know what?” you started.

Bucky looked over, eyebrows raised. 

“I think I like sex better before dinner,” you finished your thoughts.

He let out the sweetest laugh, remembering how beautiful you looked underneath him on the couch earlier, right before he scooped you up, took you to bed, and placed you on his lap. “Do you, now?”

“Mmhmm,” you nodded, “Because the food’s not in there yet. It’s not, like… sloshing around.”

Bucky paused mid-stir, blinked at you, then chuckled. “Sloshing?”

You laughed too, unapologetic. “I’m just saying! Strategic timing is key.”

He turned back to the stove and shrugged. “My metabolism’s so quick it doesn’t really matter.”

You scoffed. “Of course it doesn’t.”

He turned to face you fully, spoon in hand, as he fed you a taste of the sauce. “But I’m glad we didn’t wait.”

You hummed in approval at the taste and hooked your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants to tug him closer, gently. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, almost sheepishly. “You, in my shirt…” He reached up, tugging the loose collar gently back into place over your shoulder. “Kind of ruins me a little.”

Your smile turned fond. “Good.”

He kissed you again, sighing as he pictured you thirty minutes earlier, mewling and begging on top of him, falling apart at the same time as him. He remembered pulling you close afterward, whispering praises and sweet nothings in your ears as you mumbled his name, content and so fucking pretty—

Knock knock knock. 

The sound interrupted the kiss as you pulled away. The knocks were so confident, it sounded like the person on the other side knew Bucky was home.

You tilted your head, your fingers idly twisting the waistband of his sweats. “Who’s that?”

Bucky glanced toward the door, grabbing a towel to wipe his hands. “Probably one of my neighbors. You were loud earlier.”

You swatted him. “Shut up.”

He just winked and went to open the door.

But his smirk vanished the second he saw who was standing there.

“Hey, tin man,” Sam greeted casually, breezing in like he owned the place, holding up a paper bag from that diner down the street. “I got fries, I’m bored, and Joaquin’s still in Miami, so I figured we could—” He trailed off, freezing.

Because he’d looked past Bucky.

And saw you.

You, still perched on the counter in Bucky’s shirt, hair damp, face flushed. Very clearly post-shower, post-sex, post-everything.

Sam looks at Bucky. “Hold up.”

Your eyes grew as wide as dinner plates. Bucky winced.

Sam pointed between the two of you, voice rising. “You’re dating my childhood best friend?!”

You tried to recover, sliding off the counter like that would somehow make things better. “Okay, wait—”

“It’s not—” Bucky started, rubbing the back of his neck like he wanted to disappear into the wall. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Sam gestured wildly. “It looks like she’s wearing your shirt.”

You looked down. Yep. Sure was.

You cleared your throat. “Surprise?”

Bucky groaned. “Look, Sarah set us up.”

“SARAH???” Sam yelped. “What does Sarah have to do with this?!”

You raised a hand like a student in class. “Okay, okay—context,” you started, “Sarah went on a date with Bucky. But it didn’t work out.”

Sam turned so fast. “YOU DATED MY SISTER TOO?!”

Bucky dragged a hand down his face. “It didn’t work out, man!”

“I can’t—” Sam paced in a tight circle. “You dated my sister, and now you’re—what—hooking up with our childhood best friend? An honorary Wilson? Are you working through my entire support system? Gonna date my mom next?!”

You muttered under your breath, “Don’t think they have tinder in the afterlife.”

Bucky gave you a look. “Not the time.”

You winced. “Sorry.”

Sam squinted at you both, still flabbergasted, still holding his fries like they’d betrayed him. “And how long has this been going on?”

You and Bucky exchanged a guilty glance. You opened his mouth to answer, but he beat you to it.

“… when did we get back from that Madripoor mission?”

Sam stared. “That was, like, two months ago.”

Then, quietly, Bucky muttered, “I was gonna tell you.”

“When?” Sam crossed his arms. “At the wedding?”

Bucky sighed. “You gonna be mad forever?”

Sam shook his head, grumbling, “I’m not mad. I’m just—processing.” Then he pointed a finger at you, suspicious. “And you. You were just gonna act like this is normal?”

You bit your lip, smiled sheepishly. “In my defense, I was planning to tell you… eventually. So stop pointing hot food at me and quit being dramatic. Sarah and I can take care of ourselves, thank you very much.”

Sam looked at his fries.

“…These are for both of you now,” he muttered.

And Bucky, hopeful, asked, “So we’re good?”

Sam narrowed his eyes.

“I swear to God, Barnes, if you hurt her—”

“I won’t,” Bucky said, before you even could. And the way he said it made something in your chest flutter. 

Sam sighed again, shaking his head. “Fine. But next time, maybe tell me before I walk in on my best friend looking like she just climbed outta your bed.”

You shrugged, plucking a fry from the bag. “Honestly, we never made it to bed the first time.”

“NOPE,” Sam said, backing toward the door. “I’m leaving. And you!” He pointed at Bucky “Next week. You’re explaining everything.” Then he pointed at you. “You. Bring wine.”

You saluted. “Yes, sir.”

And as Sam walked out grumbling, Bucky just shook his head, slid an arm around your waist, and pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Well,” you said, leaning into him, “that could’ve gone worse.”

“Yeah,” Bucky laughed. “He didn’t even threaten to punch me.”

“Yet.”

“Fair.”

—end. 

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₊⊹ ᶻz !! Echoes in the Hall !! ␥

Batfam x Reader | You are here!! >>>

✮ Epitome: It’s that time of the year again.

The Manor’s old chapel smells like wax and lavender.

It always has. But today, the scent drapes heavier than usual—settled into the dust like memory, like grief with its coat hung up and staying awhile.

The wood beneath Alfred’s shoes creaks with every step. He walks slowly, reverently, like if he moves too quickly, the air might shatter… or worse, wake you. As if somewhere inside this hush, you’re only sleeping. Just tucked away behind one of the pews, knees up, head bowed, breath misting against a story too big for your age.

You used to sit here when the rain was too cruel outside.

Legs swinging, nose buried in a battered mystery novel you’d found in Bruce’s library. Your feet never touched the floor, not even once. You always wanted to look solemn, look wise. But your eyes would keep flicking toward the stained-glass windows, chasing the colored light. Your lips would twitch every time Alfred pretended not to notice.

“This candle,” he used to say, striking the match with practiced grace, “is for those we miss.”

You frowned the first time. That very serious, very you kind of frown.

“But what if they come back?”

He’d smiled then—slow and warm, like melted sugar in tea.

“Then it’ll still be burning.”

Today, he lights that candle again.

Not for Thomas Wayne.

Not for Martha.

But for you.

It flickers. The flame dances uncertainly, casting soft, trembling light against the dark wood pews.

Your pew–the one closest to the far window, where your rain-drenched umbrella used to lean. The rug beneath it is still faintly stained, a muddy crescent Alfred never quite got out. He’d never really tried.

He stands there for a long time. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink.

Just breathes.

Just remembers.

•

Later then he’s preparing tea for tea time at dining room.

The tea is already steeped when he sets it down–your favorite blend. Two sugars. No milk. A little too sweet for anyone else’s taste, but you always claimed it made your brain sharper.

The cup sits across from him at the end of the long, too-empty dining table.

No one sits there anymore.

Except for one.

A gray stuffed cat, fur matted with age and affection, slouches in the high-backed chair. Its seams are loose, belly bulging slightly from years of bedtime wrestling.

You loved that thing more than any of the designer plushies Bruce ever tried to substitute it with. Said it “understood things.”

Alfred smooths the cat’s fur with steady fingers, then adjusts the lopsided ribbon you once tied around its neck. Crooked. Purple. Fraying. He never had the heart to retie it properly.

“There we are,” he murmurs, satisfied.

And then he sits.

He doesn’t look at the tea. Not right away.

Instead, he talks to the cat.

To the chair.

To the air, heavy with your laughter. With your scent. With the echo of a life too short, too bright.

“I polished your room today,” he says softly. “Even dusted the top of the bookshelf. Folded your blanket just the way you liked– military corners, heaven forbid. Picked the lint off that ridiculous green sweater you always wore on rainy days.”

His voice begins to shake, just slightly.

“I don’t know why.”

He pauses.

His hand comes to rest against the table, knuckles pale. His eyes sting, but the tears don’t fall yet. Not here. Not in front of the cat. Not where you might still be watching.

“I just thought you might…” he swallows. “Need it.”

The tea cools.

Outside, rain begins to tick against the windows, just like it used to.

Alfred closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of lavender and bergamot.

Pretends for a second–that your muddy shoes will squeak down the hall, that your voice will call his name with sleepy cheer, that you’ll flop down beside him with a sigh and a smile, asking for toast.

He opens his eyes.

Stillness. Still.

Then, finally, he speaks—not to the room, not to the candle, not even to himself.

But to you.

“As long as I remember,” he whispers, “you’re not gone.”

And the candle burns.

───── ୨୧ ─────

Dick’s fists split open again.

He doesn’t feel it, not right away–doesn’t notice until the sweat dripping from his jaw darkens where it lands. The mat beneath him is smeared with it now: blood, sweat, ghost-shadows. Guilt that bleeds through his skin like poison.

He keeps going.

Jab. Cross.

Hook. Elbow.

Repeat until the rhythm drowns out the silence in his chest.

He doesn’t grunt. Doesn’t yell. He trains with a silence so loud it buzzes in his ears, fists slamming into the bag like he’s trying to fight God. Or fate. Or himself.

The room smells of iron and regret. It stinks. The old kind. The kind you can’t wash out. Not even with fire.

When he finally stops, it’s not because the pain hits—it’s because he can’t breathe through it anymore.

He stumbles back, drops against the wall, slides down until he’s crouched low, fists resting uselessly against his knees. His chest heaves. Sweat stings the corner of his eyes.

“Goddammit,” he mutters.

And then, quieter–barely audible, like a breath leaking from the deepest part of him, he whispers your name.

Sometimes it sounds like an apology.

Sometimes like a question.

Always like a wound.

•

When you were small.

You used to throw yourself at him the second he walked in the door, sticky hands, tangled hair, face lit up like Gotham had never been anything but safe.

He always smelled like leather, sweat, and the overwashed cotton of his favorite t-shirts. You said he smelled like “outside” and “fun.” He said you smelled like cereal and trouble.

You clung to him like a koala, legs wrapped around his waist, tiny arms choking his neck. He’d pretend to stumble, groaning, “You’re getting too heavy, kid—gonna squish me like a pancake,” and you’d scream with laughter, daring him to fall.

“You’re my favorite person,” you once told him, curled into his side after patrol, your voice gummy with sleep.

Not ‘brother.’ Not ‘hero.’ Just person. Like that was the most sacred title in the world.

He laughed. Ruffled your hair. “Don’t let the others hear that,” he said.

And then he left.

Blüdhaven called. So did the idea of being more than a shadow. He needed distance from Bruce. From the cave. From the mission. He told himself he deserved to carve his own path.

You’d cried. Like a child. Because you were one.

He kissed your forehead and promised, “I’ll be back all the time, dummy.”

He wasn’t.

Not that night.

Not when it counted.

Not when you needed him most.

•

Now.

Sometimes he walks the rooftops just to feel closer to you. Retracing steps from that night you begged to see Gotham from above–your first time.

The look in your eyes as the city spread beneath you like a secret. How your hands clutched his arm, not out of fear, but awe.

Once, not long ago, he swore he saw you.

Just a flicker. A shape turning the corner. A shadow with your gait. A laugh that echoed and shattered him.

“Y/N!” he shouted, lunging forward.

Nothing.

Just smoke.

•

Now he hears you sometimes. When the wind moves right. When the city’s quiet. When the guilt inside him claws too loud to ignore.

Your voice.

“Dick.”

He always turns. Always.

Nothing’s there.

He doesn’t tell anyone that the hallucinations are back. Not even Alfred. Not even Bruce. Because this time, it’s different. This time, it’s you.

Jason’s death gutted him.

But yours?

Yours stole something he never had words for.

You weren’t a symbol. You weren’t the mission. You were his little comfort. His anchor. His reason.

You were the soft thing that came after pain. And now you’re gone.

•

Wayne Manor. His room. 3:17 a.m.

He sits on the floor. Legs crossed. Forehead pressed to the photo frame like a prayer.

You’re laughing in it, out of focus. He took it mid-giggle—caught you by accident, and never deleted it. It’s his favorite.

“I should’ve stayed,” he says.

His voice breaks around the words.

“I should’ve taken you with me.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Just breathes. Hurts. Waits.

And somewhere, in the silence, in the ache of it all–

He believes you would’ve forgiven him.

But he doesn’t forgive himself.

──── ୨୧ ────

Jason’s quiet this year.

He doesn’t make a thing of it—doesn’t storm in, doesn’t throw punches at ghosts. But he shows up more than he used to. And when he’s there, he’s almost always in your room.

He never turns on the light. Just cracks the window open like he’s pretending he still has manners, even though the smoke curls in anyway, soft as snow. It drifts onto everything you left behind–your bookshelf, your game controllers, the hoodie he used to “borrow” and never give back.

The hoodie still smells like you. Or maybe that’s in his head.

He doesn’t sleep here, not really. Just sits.

Sometimes with the lights of Gotham blinking against the windowpane. Sometimes with his head pressed against the edge of your bed like he’s waiting to hear you breathing again.

He acts like he’s over it. Like he’s past the point of breaking. But his jacket always carries this ratty envelope—creases worn white at the edges, the paper inside frayed and curled.

It’s full of your notes.

The kind you used to leave him everywhere, absurd places.

Tucked inside his helmet, slipped into the pockets of his jacket, wedged beneath the clip of a gun or folded into a boot.

Some are nonsense:

“Eat something or I’ll break your kneecaps.”

“Extra pickles in the fridge. You’re welcome.”

“I saw you smile. I’m telling B.”

Some are softer:

“Get some sleep, grumpface.”

One, he reads more than the others. Ink faded. Folded and unfolded so many times it’s practically tissue.

“I’m glad you came back.”

He doesn’t tell anyone about that one. Not even Alfred. Not even Dick. Especially not Bruce.

Because that one—that one undoes him.

•

Cemetery. Late evening.

Your grave is clean. Someone’s been here before him—probably Alfred. Maybe Steph. The flowers are fresh. The stone smooth, your name etched deep and clear like the world needed a reminder of how real this loss is.

Jason stands there, helmet tucked under his arm. The wind brushes past him, low and sharp. A cigarette dangles between his fingers, the tip burning orange in the dim light.

He doesn’t talk, not really.

He never has much to say around here.

But he pulls another cigarette from his pocket—lights it, just like yours—and places it next to the flowers. Lets it burn down in silence.

A strange ritual. But it feels like you’d understand. You always understood the parts of him that didn’t know how to be soft without cracking open entirely.

He stays until the stars come out.

Then, without ceremony, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bullet. It’s not bloodstained or marked. Just smooth. Polished. The kind meant to promise, not threaten.

He sets it gently at the base of your headstone.

“I came back,” he mutters.

His voice is raw. Low. Not meant for anyone but you.

He waits a beat. Two.

Then quieter–

“Next time, I won’t be late.”

And he means it.

Even if it kills him.

──── ୨୧ ────

A tiny café tucked between 7th and Bristol.

The table is still the same—slightly lopsided, with a chipped ceramic sugar jar and two mismatched mugs.

You used to call it “your spot,” like claiming it made it more real. Like a trio of underage vigilantes sneaking lattes and stolen pastries were just another group of high schoolers with nowhere better to be.

Now there are only two seats filled.

Tim stares down at his coffee like it might spill answers into the foam. His hands are wrapped around the cup even though it’s gone cold.

Stephanie sits across from him, one leg pulled up into the booth, arms tight across her chest like she’s trying to hold herself together with elbows. She hasn’t touched her drink.

The air smells like cinnamon and burnt beans. Someone’s playing a crackly vinyl in the corner—some jazz that doesn’t quite reach their corner of the café.

They haven’t spoken for ten minutes.

They don’t have to. You were always the talker. The mood-setter. The one who made the silences feel intentional, cozy even. You’d come here and poke fun at Tim for his caffeine dependency, steal a sip of Steph’s drink and declare it too sweet, and then pay the tip in exact change just to irritate the barista.

Now the air sits heavy. Like a ghost still ordering a caramel macchiato.

Tim exhales, shaky. “They always reminded me to eat,” he says, voice hoarse, like it had to be dragged up from somewhere deep and raw. “Even when we were mid-mission. They’d shove a protein bar in my hand and say, ‘Eat this or pass out, your choice.’”

Steph snorts through her nose, but her smile doesn’t hold. Her chin quivers, and she looks away.

“They’d be pissed if we cried in public,” she says. Her voice is light, teasing, almost defiant—but her eyes are glossy, throat tight.

Tim looks at her.

She looks back.

And there’s a flicker of the old rhythm. That space where you would’ve made a joke. Broken the tension. Called them “emo” and suggested getting cupcakes.

But you’re not here.

Steph nods slowly, more to herself than anyone else.

“We’ll cry after.”

Tim nods, too. Silent agreement. An old pact, rewritten.

And they do.

Not right there—not loud, not breaking—but when they leave the café and walk around the corner, past the alley where you once spray-painted a smiley face on the brick wall because “it looked like it needed a friend,” Steph presses her forehead to the cold concrete.

Tim stands beside her, eyes closed.

They don’t speak.

Tears slide down without permission. Quiet. Steady.

Because the glue is gone.

And the rift is real.

And neither of them knows how to fix something that’s been buried.

But for a moment—just one—they let themselves fall apart. Together.

────୨ৎ────

Gotham Community Center, Friday afternoon.

The rug beneath Duke’s knees is a chaos of colors—bright reds, sunny yellows, thick stripes of green and blue curling like vines. It’s sticky in places. Crayon wax is crushed into one corner. A juice box leaks quietly behind him, forgotten in the flurry of small limbs and louder voices.

He’s not wearing armor. No cape, no domino mask. Just a hoodie and jeans and a name tag that reads “DUKE 🦇 Volunteer” in glitter pen.

You’d made that. You always used the glitter pen, even when he protested. “Heroes don’t sparkle,” he’d said once.

“Batman doesn’t,” you had grinned, “but you do.”

Now the glitter’s faded, but the ache hasn’t.

Kids crawl over him like he’s playground equipment. One clings to his shoulder, firing off questions in rapid succession.

“Why do you talk slow sometimes?”

“Why’s the sun yellow and not green?”

“Why do bad guys wear capes too? That’s cheating.”

Duke’s lips twitch into a smile. It’s practiced. Not quite fake. Not quite real.

“I talk slow when I’m thinking,” he says, answering the first.

The other questions blur together. His brain drags behind his mouth. It’s always like this lately. Like thinking is something he has to wade through.

You dragged him here his first week in the family. He’d been stiff, unsure, still clinging to the idea of what being a hero should look like. Crime-fighting. Patrol. Glory.

But you–

“Be a hero out of costume too.”

That’s what you’d told him, apron tied backwards, glue in your hair, helping two five-year-olds make pasta necklaces while explaining Newton’s Third Law in baby talk.

He hadn’t realized then how those words would come back like broken ribs every time he breathed.

A little girl with pigtails and a unicorn sticker on her cheek clutches his arm.

“Where’s the one who wore the silly apron?” she asks, her voice small but certain.

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “They had to go away,” he says.

She frowns. “Why?”

Duke hesitates. The right words don’t come. The truth is too big for this room.

“They were tired,” he finally says. “So they’re resting now.”

The girl nods solemnly and squeezes his arm. “They were funny. They made the macaroni dragon.”

“I know,” he whispers.

When the last parent signs out their kid, when the art bins are put away and the lights dim, Duke slips into the janitor’s closet like muscle memory. Quiet. Familiar.

The air smells like bleach and lemon cleaner. The floor is damp from a mop someone forgot to rinse. He lowers himself onto the cold tile beside the mop bucket, back against the wall, head in his hands.

It starts with a sniff. Then another. Then his whole chest caves inward like a collapsed tunnel.

He tries to stay quiet.

He’s not wearing the mask. But he still doesn’t want anyone to hear a hero cry.

Fists pressed to his eyes, knees tucked to his chest, he sobs into the sleeve of his hoodie. Muffled. Shameful. Like it’s something he’s not allowed to feel.

But the pain doesn’t care about permission.

He presses his forehead to the wall, breathing fast, like maybe he can sob it all out before anyone notices. Like grief is something you can squeeze into a janitor’s closet and leave behind with the mop water.

You would’ve hated this.

You would’ve found him, offered a juice box and a dumb joke, like “The mop’s name is Jeremy. Respect him.”

You would’ve stayed.

But now it’s just him. Glitter fading on a name tag. Salt on his cheeks.

And silence.

────୨ৎ────

Gotham Clocktower. Afternoon light bleeds through the high windows.

The room is too quiet. Not peaceful—hollow.

Cass sits on the floor, spine against the leg of Barbara’s work desk, knees drawn up. Her hands hover in the space between them, fingers twitching with unspoken words. Barbara is beside her, wheelchair angled slightly, as if ready to catch a thought falling apart mid-air.

Cass blinks at her own hands like they belong to someone else.

“I…”

Her fingers move, slow. Unsure.

“I can…”

She hesitates. The sign falters.

“…say…”

She stops. Arms fall into her lap. Her throat tightens. No sound comes. Only the silence pressing against her skull, thick and suffocating.

Barbara leans in, her hand a warm weight over Cass’s.

“It’s okay,” she says, voice soft, breaking like glass at the edges. “Take your time.”

Cass shakes her head, eyes narrowed with frustration. Her breath hitches, chest pulling tight in a way words never learned how to describe.

You used to guide her—tap her wrist gently, shape her fingers, smile with that crooked grin when she got it right. You didn’t speak over her silence. You didn’t rush to finish her sentence. You waited. You listened. Even when she couldn’t listen to herself.

Cass signs again. Slower this time. Deliberate.

“They helped… me say.”

Barbara’s mouth trembles.

“I know.” She reaches over, fingers curling around Cass’s hand. “You’re still doing it. You’re still saying things, Cass.”

But it’s different. The shape of silence is different now. Before, it was full—filled with your laughter, your patience, your voice reading aloud from some book you barely understood just because Cass liked the rhythm. Now it’s just silence. Unanchored.

Cass lowers her gaze. Her hands fall still. “Harder now,” she signs. Her lip quivers. “No… no one hears fast. Like them.”

Barbara nods. “I know. I feel it too.”

They sit like that for a moment, fingers clasped. Still.

Beneath the desk, Barbara’s other hand finds something—a notebook. Your notebook.

Half-filled pages, messy diagrams, unfinished attempts at sign language jokes. One of them is a dumb pun involving the sign for “grape” and “great.” Cass had hated it. You kept doing it.

Barbara opens to the page and shows her.

Cass breathes out a laugh, small but real. “Stupid,” she signs.

Barbara chuckles wetly. “Yeah. God, they were annoying.”

Cass nods. The grin slips, then wavers, then collapses again into grief. Her face folds in on itself, chin tucked to chest. “Miss them,” she signs. “Miss how they looked.”

Barbara touches her chest. “Me too. I still think they’re gonna walk in. Say something ridiculous. Like—‘Hey, what’s up, danger?’”

That one makes Cass huff. “Dumb.”

“You loved it.”

Cass nods.

There are no more jokes. No more signs. Just the weight of everything unsaid.

Barbara shifts, pulling herself closer. She cups Cass’s cheek with one hand. “You don’t need to be perfect. You don’t need to get it all right. I’m here. I’ll wait for your words. However long it takes.”

Cass blinks. One tear slips down. Her fingers rise again. Tentative. Trusting.

“I will keep… saying,” she signs. “Even if they’re gone. For them. With you.”

Barbara squeezes her hand. “Then we’ll learn again. Together.”

Silence settles again, but this time it’s softer. Shared. Not empty. A space you once filled now held between them, remembered.

They’re still trying.

For you.

────୨ৎ────

The cave is colder than usual.

Damian sits cross-legged on the stone floor, bare feet pressed to the earth, spine arrow-straight. He’s been meditating for hours—long past sunrise. Long past when Alfred would’ve called him up for tea or breakfast. But there’s no Alfred here.

Just the ghost of your laughter echoing off the walls, like water dripping in an empty cistern.

Titus rests nearby, his massive head laid solemnly over his paws. Every so often, his ears twitch at some noise—an air vent hum, a bat fluttering in the high dark rafters—but he never strays far.

The dog knows. He always knew when you were near.

Alfred the cat—named with stubborn irony—circles Damian’s still form once, then curls tightly in his lap without asking. Damian doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t open his eyes. Just rests one hand over the cat’s arched back, steady. Controlled.

The only sound in the room is the low, almost bovine breath of Bat-Cow, tucked in her special paddock at the back of the cave. (Yes she still alive)

She’s been oddly quiet today too, as if the animals can feel it.

It’s your death anniversary.

Another year without you.

Another year where the world has kept spinning and Damian has kept sharpening his blades.

But this morning, all he’s done is sit. Until now.

His breath hitches—a crack in the calm.

He opens his eyes slowly. The light from the Batcomputer behind him casts just enough of a glow to catch the shimmer at the corner of his lashes.

He doesn’t wipe it away.

Instead, he looks at the sword across his knees. The hilt is worn with years of use—but at the very base, carved in tight, decisive strokes, is your name.

Etched deep.

Deep enough to splinter the grip if he ever loses control.

Deep enough that it cannot be erased, even if he tried.

He’d used his own dagger to do it. The same one his grandfather once gave him.

Precision work. Clean lines. The kind of carving done not in a fit of grief, but with total, surgical focus.

“You’d have mocked me for how dramatic it looks,” he murmurs, voice low. Almost hoarse. He scratches gently behind Alfred the cat’s ears. “Then insisted it was still sweet. That I was secretly sentimental.”

Titus raises his head, as if hearing your voice too. His tail thumps once, hopeful.

Damian exhales. Then speaks again. This time to you. Wherever you are.

“You were the first one to ever hug me.”

The words leave him like a confession. A whispered sin.

He remembers it like it just happened.

You’d been younger than he is now—maybe fourteen, fifteen. He’d been a child barely taller than your chest. Angry at the world. All jagged reflexes and rigid posturing.

You had launched at him. No warning. Just barreled into his side and wrapped him up like you belonged there.

He’d gone stiff as a board. Every muscle tensed. Ready to lash out and throw you across the room.

You only laughed. Hugged tighter.

“You little assassin nerd,” you’d teased, ruffling his hair, pressing your cheek to his shoulder. “You need, like, ten more of these per day.”

And the next day, you did it again.

And the next.

Eventually… he hugged back.

You were the only one he let drag him to museums. Art galleries. Rooftops for stargazing and hot chocolate. He used to roll his eyes the whole time, but you’d catch the edge of his smile in the glass of a display case or in the shimmer of moonlight on his face.

No one else could ever make him go. But he always went with you.

“I hated most of it,” he lies now, just to hear himself say it. “Except I didn’t. You knew I didn’t.”

He leans forward and presses his forehead to the hilt of the sword. Your name is cold against his skin.

“We share the same blood,” he whispers. “And I still couldn’t protect you.”

The breath leaves his body all at once. Like a blow to the ribs.

His fingers curl tight around the hilt. He doesn’t scream. Doesn’t cry. Doesn’t move.

But when he finally stands—quietly, with Alfred leaping down from his lap—his steps lead him not upstairs.

They lead him to the training floor.

Titus watches from the edge. Knows what’s coming.

Damian doesn’t warm up. Doesn’t speak.

He draws the sword with a sound like lightning splitting through bone.

And then—he moves.

Every strike is a memory. A fracture. A sin. A promise broken.

When he finishes, the training dummy is sliced clean in half. Not jagged. Not splintered.

Clean.

There’s a moment of stillness as the pieces fall to the floor.

Damian’s chest rises and falls. Sweat beads at his temple. His hands tremble now, only now, when the damage is already done.

He doesn’t look at the sword again.

Just drops to his knees beside Titus. Bows his head into the dog’s fur and breathes like it might be enough to pull you back from wherever you are.

“You were my favorite,” he admits into the dark. “I never told you. But you were. Always.”

Titus whines, soft and aching.

The cave is quiet again.

And this time, Damian lets himself grieve—no blades, no masks, no training.

Just your name carved in steel.

And a family of animals who still remember the warmth you left behind.

────୨ৎ────

Wayne Manor. Surveillance Room. 3:17 A.M.

The monitor hums softly in the dark.

Everything else is still. No clocks ticking. No comms buzzing. Just static-light flickering over Bruce’s unshaven face as he sits hunched forward, eyes locked to the footage like it might change if he wills it hard enough.

He presses play again.

There you are.

Walking into the gala.

Nervous.

You tug self-consciously at the collar of your formal suit—the one Alfred insisted looked “dignified” and you called “fashionable punishment.” You shift your weight like you want to bolt. Straighten your shoulders just like Alfred told you to.

A forced smile. Then a real one. You laugh at something someone says just off-frame. You tilt your head toward a voice calling your name, mouth parted in response.

Then:

“I’m not ready.”

And then–

Static.

Bruce freezes the frame. Rewinds. Plays it again.

That moment.

That voice.

The tiny tremble in it.

He watches it over and over. Not the whole clip. Just that fragment. You fidgeting. Speaking. Glancing over your shoulder like something might be following. Like you already knew.

You did.

God. You knew.

You’d begged him.

•

Memory, Two Nights Before.

You stood by the cave exit, arms crossed, voice small beneath all the steel.

“Don’t go out like this. Something feels wrong tonight.”

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t look back.

“We can talk when I’m back.”

“What if I’m not here when you are?”

You had said it lightly. Like a joke.

He hadn’t laughed.

He didn’t say “I love you.”

Didn’t say “thank you” or “I hear you.”

He was already gone.

•

“I thought you were safe,” Bruce murmurs, the words barely audible. As if saying them too loud might make them even less true.

“I thought you were safe… inside these walls. Under my roof. Inside the gates.”

His jaw clenches. His throat works. He doesn’t blink.

“You were supposed to be safe.”

His eyes are bloodshot. The footage crackles. His hand hovers over the keyboard, knuckles taut, veins visible. He’s memorized every angle of your smile, every hitch in your breath in those last moments, every fraction of unease in your body language.

And it wasn’t enough.

None of it was.

•

The silence is unbearable.

He walks through the halls like a ghost, barefoot and aimless. Every footstep is muffled on ancient carpets. Every turn reminds him of you—sitting upside down on the staircase railing, trailing your fingers along the banister, laughing too loud during dinners no one else found funny.

He still hears your voice sometimes. The echo of it. The lingering shape of your presence carved into the silence.

He doesn’t sleep anymore. Not really.

•

He makes his way to your room’s door.

He pauses there.

Doesn’t open it.

Can’t.

Instead, he stands outside it like a soldier posted at a tomb. Like he’s guarding what little remains.

His hand lifts halfway toward the doorknob. Then falls.

“I’m sorry,” he says, so softly it doesn’t echo.

And still the house groans in reply. The silence doesn’t forgive. The halls do not answer.

•

Back in the cave.

He sits again. Hits play.

“I’m not ready.”

He knows now you were right. Not about the gala. Not just about that night.

About everything.

Neither of you were ready—for the way things would break. For the silence afterward. For the finality of a child dying before their father.

And yet here he is.

Alone. With the flickering image of a child who looked back one last time.

And with all the ways he didn’t listen.

────୨ৎ────

Crime Alley. Midnight.

Rain traces down the gutters like veins. The alley is quiet now—emptied of police tape and flashing lights, but the memory of it burns brighter than any crime scene spotlight. Gotham’s heart never stops bleeding, but here—it gushed.

Selina stands at the edge.

Her heels click once against wet stone, then fall silent. She walks further in. No mask. No costume. Just a long black coat, tailored like grief, soaked at the hem.

She stops where the scorch marks begin.

The brick is still charred, dark veins of soot climbing like vines toward the broken fire escape. The bloodstain is barely visible now—diluted, washed down the drain, but she sees it. She knows where it was.

She kneels.

Gloved fingers skim the wall, right where it happened. She doesn’t flinch at the soot that stains the leather. Doesn’t wipe it off. She presses her palm flat to the stone.

Her breath catches.

But she doesn’t cry.

She hasn’t cried since the call. Not even when they showed her the evidence bag with the charm bracelet. Not when she saw the tooth-blackened bone. Not when Alfred held her shoulder so tightly it bruised.

Because if she cries, it means it’s real.

Instead, she breathes you in. Or what’s left.

Ash. Smoke. The faintest memory of your shampoo—lavender and mint—and the strange way it mixed with Gotham filth. She swears she can still smell it in the stone. Still feel the hum of your laughter ricocheting off the alley walls.

You used to chase her through alleys like this. Little boots pounding behind her, giggling as she pretended to vanish over the rooftops.

You’d call:

“I saw your tail, Mama!”

And she’d shout back,

“Then keep up, kitten!”

God. You tried so hard to keep up.

•

She whispers now, voice barely there, like she’s afraid the rain might swallow it:

“I left you once.”

Her fingers tremble. She flattens them harder against the wall, grounding herself, biting down on her lip so hard it breaks skin.

“And I never got to come back.”

That’s the truth. The only one that matters.

She left you. A mother’s greatest crime, wrapped in good intentions and selfish fear.

She thought you’d be safer with Bruce. She thought love meant stepping aside.

But you needed her. And she was gone.

•

The wind picks up. Carries smoke from somewhere deeper in Gotham—a chimney, a car fire, a signal.

But in the twist of air through the alley, for just a breath, it smells like you.

She inhales sharply. Eyes flutter shut.

A hand rises to cover her mouth.

And for one cruel, fleeting second, she imagines you’re there. Hiding behind the dumpster like you used to. Waiting to leap out. Playing some awful joke. Laughing that reckless, raw laugh that sounded too much like hers.

The shadows flicker like cat’s tails. Her kind of magic.

But you’re not there.

Just the stone. The ash. The guilt.

•

She stands slowly, knees stiff, spine aching with years of running from consequences. But she doesn’t wipe the soot off her glove. She lets it stay—like a mark, a bruise, a promise.

She doesn’t say goodbye.

She never has.

Instead, she turns her head to the wind one last time. Listening. Reaching.

Just in case.

In case you’re still near.

In case ghosts really follow bloodlines.

In case your soul is clever enough to linger.

And in the stillness, she whispers:

“I should’ve stayed.”

────୨ৎ────

They only found pieces of you.

Bone fragments. Teeth. A sliver of jaw. Skin fused to fabric in a way that made the coroners turn away and breathe through their sleeves.

Bruce signed the report without flinching. Selina refused to.

Some of it wasn’t even yours.

Gotham chews its children and spits out what’s left.

And you—you were never meant to be in its mouth in the first place. You weren’t a soldier. You weren’t a sidekick. They trained you just enough—to recognize danger, to escape if it came too close. You knew how to vanish down alleys. How to disappear behind curtains. How to run.

Your last call was panicked static. Muffled breath. A sob that stuttered into a gasp. Someone shouted your name—maybe through the phone, maybe in the street. You’ll never know. The line went dead before you could answer.

You remember the way your chest locked. The heat. Not flames yet, but pressure—a vacuum before the collapse. The sound of splintering bone. Concrete. Something wet.

Then stillness.

Your final thought wasn’t of vengeance or glory.

You want none of that.

It was: Did he hate me when I left?

It was: Did she know I loved her, even after everything?

It was: I’m not strong enough.

But you were.

Maybe not in the way Gotham needed.

Maybe you should have run faster.

But enough that, today…

They still speak to you.

In tea cups. In worn hoodies. In cracked knuckles. In candlelight.

You were not a soldier.

You were not a vigilante.

You were the heart.

And no one—not Gotham, not even death—can erase that.

•Note: holycow it’s over 5k words in 72 hours💀💀 I have rewritten over and over but still not satisfied enough with 10+ drafts in my Apple Note LMAO. If you’re wondering why the fic published so fast and long then it’s because Im in summer vacation, I’ve been writing through days till nights so yeah the outcome might come after 1-2 days.

This is the inspiration I talk about here, there’s also some of my concept in comment. This series strictly platonic towards the Batfam but there also some love interests.

Ngl Im gonna take a rest after this for awhile and fulfill promise by working on Descent Into Shadows, hope you enjoy this fic! If you have some questions after this, leave a comment/through inbox to let me know💙

©𐙚 rikudaa—Please do not repost or copy this content to other websites.

[1-800-crazy]

“I know it’s over”

Yandere Batfam x Neglected Maki Zenin!reader

Prologue, chapter 1, Chapter 2 - “Still I cling”

Tw: neglect, Injury, obsession, abandonment, Torture, Abuse, SA (this is a disclaimer for the whole story + sorry about the bad grammar and typos.)

[Name] stares at the weird white blind folded man. “Um…what the fuck are you talking about?” [Name] side eyes the Gojo guy.

‘People in Gotham get crazy and crazier everyday…just look at this guy! No shame on showing his weird kinks huh?’ Satoru just laughs it off, and points his thumb to himself “I am Satoru Gojo, the strongest Jujustu Sorcerer!”

“Hey Man I don’t want to be apart of your weird kinky porn play you got going on. And how do you know about Jujustu sorcerers?” [Name] crosses her arms, when she was about to blast off on this weirdo for pretending to be one of the strongest sorcerers, Satoru quickly shouts “WOAH WOAH LITTLE LADY I PROMISE YOU I AM NOT INTO THAT STUFF AND IM NOT A CHILD FIDDLER!!!” He said shaking has hands in surrender “I PROMISE you i really am the strongest, I can even show you!”

[name] sighs “Ok so if you apparently aren’t a local Gotham and the ‘strongest’ what do you want from me? I don’t have any cursed energy. Well only a little. Im sure you heard of me as the Zenin clan’s disgrace if you are.” Satoru only smiles at those words “Well since you asked…I want you to Join Jujustu High!”

….

There was a long silence between them, [name] then walked up in front of him and tried to kick him in the balls, only for her leg to hit the air like their was a invisible force blocking her foot and his jewels, [name] falls back on her ass.

“Ok so like…How I start?” [name] says standing up dusting herself.

.

.

.

.

Satoru walks with name as he explains the basics on how he had founded out about her and, why he wants her to join Jujustu high. [name] kept quiet and occasionally asked or replied/responded to questions. [name] may seem to be chill about this interaction but she was really happy on the inside to finally have someone to talk with and even walk her home!

“So, you officially have joined Jujustu high!” Satoru exclaimed with jazz hands dramatically and [name] only sighed. “But like isn’t it in Tokyo? Don’t I have to move or whatever.” [name] asked since it could be a chance to see Mai again.

“About that! I actually am on a business trip here to get rid of curses in Gotham!!! The lazy ass higher ups decided to send me since it was requested by your dear ol’ dilf daddy Bruce Wayne” Satoru chuckled, [name] expression suddenly hardened.

“oh. Can we not talk about him please?”

“Oop. Why not?” He suddenly stopped and stood in front of her crouching to her height and stares at her with an unreadable expression since she couldn’t see his face.

[name] froze “Look it’s none of your business.” She moves out the way to walk past him, but he puts an arm to her chest to stop her “Talk to me.” He said quietly.

.

.

.

.

“Awe man that sucks.” Satoru said with his hands in his pockets after [name] had explained everything “I was about ask why you have wraps around your eye too” he chuckled softly.

“Shut up” [name] cheeks burned up a little from speaking about these issues which she didn’t like talking about. “Don’t worry I can be your dear ol dad then!”

[name] holds back a large smile “THATS NOT HOW IT WORKS DIPSHIT!”

“LANGUAGE YOUNG LADY!”

Satoru trains [name] for a week, [name] routine had been wake up, eat breakfast get Alfred to drive her to school with Damian being a little shit and tormenting and insulting her in the car, go go school, after school be picked up by Satoru sensei, train and get dropped off at the manor, Satoru finds a way to freeze the camera footage at the manor for 1 minute so [name] can sneak back in, and repeat. Cycle was easy and simple and a 2 weeks passed doing the same routine, and [name] was able to get her old fighting skills back with no problem! Satoru even lets her exercise curse spirits with the cursed energy weapons!

Nothing can ruin this routine right?…

“Where are you going?” A sharp child’s voice cuts in the air making [name] freeze just about to walk, to Satoru’s mansion.

[name] turned and looked at him with narrowed eyes “What’s it to you? You should mind your business Damian.” Damian only tsked “Don’t want you ruining the family’s image even more as you do by existing, so it is my business as a heir of the Wayne enterprise” [name] sighs ‘God when does he ever shut the fuck up?’

“Yeah that’s cool and all but like I have places to be and it doesn’t concern you. And I promise it would hurt your precious family image” [name] said with a mocking voice “Seems you now understand where you’re place is. Not a Wayne-“

[name] interrupts him before he could blabber on more “Yeah yeah I fucking know. Can you just shut up? Seriously god you’re so fucking annoying with this family heir and all the shit. Yeah I know I’m not a Wayne. You guys very much showed that, you literally almost cut my already shitty eye! And wanna know who made my eye shitty? Timthoy fucking drake and Cassandra who literally seen the whole thing didn’t even tell the truth and Bruce! Oh that fucker Bruce didn’t even go to really see what happened and basically said that I was being a nuisance. So yeah I fucking know Damian Wayne that I’m not accepted as a Wayne, so LEAVE. ME. THE FUCK. ALONE!”

….

Damian just looks at her shocked that she, [name] Wayne the disappointment of the Wayne’s, the girl who always tries to get the vigilante family attention blow off on him.

I mean…she’s supposed to be the weak big sister he would belittle.

right?

Before he could even reply he finally focus back in front of him to see she was gone. “Mistake? Hey mistake? [Name].” He looks around but didn’t see her. He narrows his eyes ‘I’ll have to get father’s attention on this.’

Back at the manor Alfred have been the first to notice this behavior and the almost untouched room of [name]’s. He try to think of a good simple conclusion that she probably have finally found friends to hang out with, and that she finally had people to care for her like she cares for others, he knew that was the less likely scenario. He sees the new designer clothes, nice expensive accessories that he knew for a fact that Bruce wouldn’t personally buy Prada boots, or Arc’teryx much less a 10k dollar white bottom up shirt?!

She doesn’t even get an allowance from Bruce because she never asked! Alfred knew she was too scared to seem you know…So it gave him the conclusion she probably was doing some illegal stuff especially when she would have bruises, cuts or more bandages than she usually would have <It will make sense later on>. So like a good caring butler of the Wayne’s family he was going to bring this to Bruce her father!

As Alfred came to give Bruce a cup of coffee in the bat cave, he had coughed softly to get his attention. Bruce says to just leave it beside him while he keeps his back turned as he types away. “Master Bruce I would like to talk about something that has caught my attention.”

Bruce stopped for a second then continued “Which is?”

“It’s something about your daughter master Bruce.” Bruce then turns to him now serious “What’s wrong with Cassandra?” Alfred shook his head a little “No your other daughter.” Bruce raised a brow “Who?”

Alfred sighed and shook his head disappointedly

“[Name]”

“oh…What about her? Causing a scene or trouble again? I outta punish her if so-“ Before Bruce could finish Alfred shut ups him “No, she hasn’t caused anything. If you were paying more attention and caring for her you would notice the “trouble” you’re talking about is just what a normal thing a kid her age do. But you wouldn’t know would you because you don’t quite understand her do you?”

Bruce was stunned what Alfred had said that he just stayed quiet and was thinking to himself.

What do I know about her?

Other than her occasionally incidents he never interacted with her nor even looked at her! All he really felt for her was a small bit of hate because she was the reason why his lover was dead. Her mother. Well that’s the excuse and what he believed anyway.

‘What did [name] even look like again?’ Bruce thought but was soon snatched out of his mind when Alfred had broke the silence. “I would like you to know that [name] has been coming home late wearing expensive things and looks roughen up everything. Just wanted you to look into what is going on because it doesn’t seem like it is a very legal situation.” Alfred finished, and placed Bruce’s coffee on the counter then walked out.

‘I’ll look into it. I swear…but I’ll have to finish business first.’

.

.

.

.

The moon now arrives and the sun went down. [name] was dropped off a block away from the manor and she hurriedly climbed on a tree and leaped to her open window before the one minute mark had passed.

[name] dusted the leaves off her and turned to close her window when her lights suddenly turned on. “AH FUCK!-…ugh” [name] sighed already getting a headache with Tim standing at her open doorway with his arms crossed looking at her like she was responsible for murdering his parents.

What now…

“What the fuck is your problem?” Tim said as he walked inside slowly “Dude what are you talking about?-“ Tim quickly cuts her off “Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. Everytime at 10:00 PM the damn manor cameras freeze and become active after a minute.”

Fuck.

“I thought I was just paranoid from being sleepy but it kept happening for weeks. And guess what I found last night?” Tim then pulls out his phone to show a glitchy glimpses of one frame where [name] had been climbing on a tree to her window.

‘Fuck. He must’ve been able to unfreeze the cameras for a second…stupid smart bastard’

“Um..that’s Ai.” [name] shrugged “Don’t fucking try to get out of this. Look It was better off when you weren’t here or messing up anything that has to deal with my shit, but you just have to ruin it don’t you? I promise you nobody gives a single thing about you coming home late.” He scoffs “Nobody even cares about you at all. Not anyone here, not anyone in Gotham, not anyone at all. Now next time you freeze the camera for fuck up anything else I’ll make sure to make that other eye partially blind like I did to your other one.” He walks out slamming [name]’s door shut; Damian had watched the whole scene since his room was next her hers, and he smirks ‘looks like I have something coming up for you [name].’ He thought while marking down another tally mark where he checks off how many times he makes his family hate [name].

But it’s ok in his eyes because she is just a stranger, so what if she gets hurt? He’s made it clear that she’s not his sister. Why not just get her to leave altogether?

.

.

.

.

“what?” [name] had said as her sensei had said the most stupidest thing ever “Well….i was wondering if you could tell Bruce that you’re moving to Tokyo! That’s where you’ll get to meet your other teammates!” Satoru said with a casual tone. “Ok sure they don’t care where I go but I’m their responsibility legally so if I were to get hurt there or even anything that requires parental consent I’m cooked you know? Plus I’m sure Bruce doesn’t want to deal with all that paperwork when he has ‘better thing to do’ “

Satoru only laughed dramatically like those rich evil women in movies, and suddenly throw a stack of money at her face. “did you forget…IM RICH!!!”

…

[name] had told the butler Pennyworth she was going on a summer school camp, and shoved a fake paper advertisement paper about it and told him to sign it which he did after a long minute of thinking what the hell was going on since summer break doesn’t start till next year? [name] promised she already had talked to Bruce about it so he doesn’t have to ask him. As the wonderful butler he is, he sighed and signed it, [name] now was packing the stuff she really needed.

[name] looked at this one photo where it was a family picture but her face was barely visible since the flash, and they never much wasn’t that bothered to do a retake for her.

She sighed putting the photo on the bed, now closing the door of her new old abandoned room. Damian who just now finished his training with dick was going to his room sees [name] with a duffel bag, he smirks cockily “Finally doing the family a favor and moving?” [name] turns and looks at him but didn’t say anything and walked off. Damian now crossed his arms with a frown annoyed, not getting the reaction he wanted from her.

As [name] was about to leave Dick was in the kitchen talking with Jason but he hears footsteps, he looks up to see [name] with a duffle bag?

“Woah, woah, woah, where you going without telling your big brother?” Dick said with a forced cheerful tone to seem like he actually cares that she’s leaving, but in reality he just didn’t want to think that once she actually becomes useful to him, she wouldn’t want to help because he didn’t acknowledge her leave.

[name] cringes at the words “your big brother”

“Um…Summer. Camp.”

Jason groaned “little bitch not really leaving forever? Damn it’s like me dying all over again.” He said as he walked to stand next to Dick.[name] clenched her grip on her duffel bag, but kept walking and left the manor ignoring Richard’s “wait”s and Jason’s insults.

She went inside the back of Satoru’s car that had just pulled up in front of the manor, Satoru looks at her through the reverie mirror, his blue eyes glowing through his glasses.

“Yeah. Let go to Tokyo.”

Date: 11/??/2016

[Name] stands with a blank expression that speaks “I’m so over it”

“I’m Panda!”

“Salmon”

“And that’s Inumaki! He speaks onigri ingredients because his Curse Speech Technique!”

“Here’s your classmates!” Satoru exclaimed twirling with his one leg up.

‘What is my life…’

A/N|| Finally finished 😛!!! Sorry for the short chapter!!! I had expected to be longer but it’s not💔Sorry the tag list looks weird bec I forgot to check the format and I’m not redoing the tags(ts pmo🥀🪫) ALSO ONE OF MY FAV WRITERS @coldilikeit LIKED MY POST OMG ILYSM YOU WERE ONE OF THE ONES THAT INSPIRED ME TO MAKE THIS!!!🤑Thx gurt!!

<Taglist>: @bat1212,@moon0goddess @holderoflostmemories, @cruzerforce4256, @victoria1676 @gloriousvariant @yhin-gg @celesteelysia @charlenexoxo1 @ailshii @aelxr @sxftiebee @suneaterscape @rainschnael @simpingpandas @shinning-stars @zomqiez

[1-800-crazy]

PROJECT SHATTERCORE ☣︎

DIRECTORY

bruce wayne x reader, jason todd x reader, dick grayson x reader, damian wayne x reader, tim drake x reader

SYNOPSIS: you were taken young, too young to ever have known anything other than needles and pain. stuck inside a lab that was bright and loud, they enhanced every neural frequency within you, transforming you into more than you could have ever been. after years of experiments, someone finally comes to save you. he’s tall, dark, and terrifying. but he offers you safety in a new home. you feel like an outsider in the gloomy mansion, but you understand why they behave as though you’re not there. it’s probably your fault, but over time, things begin to change, and the people in your home are starting to act as if they want you here. is this desire something normal?

WARNINGS: 18+ only, DEAD DOVE; DO NOT EAT, death and blood, angst, child endangerment, alcoholism, descriptive medical abuse (not that bad but like,,,,still there)

PLAYLIST FOR THE CHAPTER: ♫ medicine - daughter, then teeth - 5 seconds of summer listen to this for ultimate immersion

A/N : hello! i am back!! this took a full day to write, forgive me if it's not the best!!! listen to the playlist above for full immersion, and go right ahead

CHAPTER ONE: NEURAL FREQUENCY

Your body curled into a fetal position; everything felt too loud. Your eyelids slowly opened to reveal a gray room. It looked clinical and pristine, unlike any of the shadowed corners of Gotham you were used to. Somehow, it’s so loud in here. 

BEEP

BEEP

BEEP

You turn around to it—the machine, the source that’s grating your ears. It looks mechanical. Consistently, it beeps, a rhythm that doesn’t feel musical at all. Then the beeps begin to increase in speed, and your heart is humming against your sternum. You don’t understand why the silence in this room feels so loud; it makes you dizzy before the familiar stinging hits your sinuses. Hot tears well up in your eyes before they spill onto your cheeks, and you try to breathe, but it feels useless. Your breath feels snagged on a rib. 

Before you know it, doctors file into the room, the erratic spike in your heart rate having alerted them to check in on you. You’re so clueless, and the lights are starting to flicker and—

“I just want my Mama!” You yowl, your voice rasped in pain.

They freeze what they’re doing before hesitantly going back to injecting something through the IV line nestled in your right arm. You feel the cool liquid rush into you, and suddenly you feel calm. The tremors in your chest stop, and you breathe slowly. You feel immobile, but maybe that’s just exhaustion.

They proceed to shove the curtain beside you open, and that’s when you see her. Mama is attached to a bunch of machines and has an oxygen mask on. 

But she’s alive.

Your little heart flutters at that. You hear footsteps approaching and watch as the giant man from before walks in. He has a hard look on his face as he approaches your bedridden Mama. 

“Doctor says she has nothing of value inside her; she’s projected to become a nuisance in the future.” He speaks flatly into the air, and the other doctors solemnly nod their heads. You don’t quite understand what’s happening, you’re just so relieved Mama is here.

Your tiny hand reaches out weakly towards her, but your bed isn’t close enough. You watch her in awe; she looks so pretty, her hair is messy, but she looks clean. 

You hadn’t seen her clean in a long time.

The man caresses her head, just like she used to do when you were even tinier. You watch with content, orbs trailing his every movement.

His hand slides down to her mandible, caressing it gently. Then he grips her throat. It’s light at first, tender, but you feel a growing sense of urgency as his hands tighten, cutting off her airways. You feel a panic thrum in your chest, but whatever the doctors put in your IV seems to have you half lulled and unable to move with any real meaning.

Your tiny hand trembles as it desperately reaches out for her, just one more time. Your eyelids droop, but just before you fall victim to the drugs, you hear the shriek of the machine.

A flatline.

It’s the worst sound you think you’ve ever heard.

Sun Dokhwa lingered in his study; he tended to keep to himself when there was no work to be done. Instead, he theorized about the many things he could do. Sheets lined with unknown experiments and ripped pages from formulas that just didn’t work. His hand dragged across his face, and he felt the prickle of his stubble and sighed. Adjusting his square glasses, he pushed back from the table, rising to his feet.

Last week, he had sent for Daniel to get a job done for him; he succeeded, as he always did. His lack of presence helped in obscuring them from the vigilantes who so desperately tried to save Gotham. But he had picked up a special gift on his errand, and Dokhwa was hesitant at first, but when he saw them, I mean, really saw them. He almost foamed at the mouth from the possibilities.

This child was extraordinary— or rather, the possibility of what they could be. He felt an unholy sort of glee unfurl in his chest.

Daniel wasn’t exactly right in assuming it was electricity; it was something far more interesting than that. He wanted, no, needed to dissect it.

A few tests and blood samples confirmed what he already suspected. They had some mutation in their DNA, perhaps inherited. After some tests on the mother, he learned the anomaly in the child had nothing to do with her. Most likely passed down through their father, though who that was became irrelevant. If he were to truly uncover the scope of their capabilities— to mould this child into what he wanted, he had to get rid of the mother.

And so he sent Daniel to dispose of her. It had been after a week of testing, he’d given the go-ahead to exterminate her. He was slightly impatient; he felt a sort of chill crawl up his spine.

 Still, he would wait.

 Give the child two days to be isolated before making contact.

He’d done all the prep. How he would mould them, how he would approach like a gentle predator, offering shelter beneath his wing. Maybe, in time, he’d find a sense of family with them, though that wasn’t the goal. What mattered most was this:

 He’d haunt them forever. 

You cried for a full day when you woke up from your sedation. Tears stained the hospital gown they’d dressed you in—you were terrified. Confusedly screaming in your room, the buzz of the machines like a bee that wouldn’t leave your head. Anytime you’d get out of control, they’d pump the IV with more chemicals, and you were lulled back into nightmares of your Mama dying in front of you.

On what you thought might be the third day of being awake, the air shifted. The clean scent of alcohol laced the room. You heard footsteps once more and cowered in your bedsheets. Digits gripped the blanket tightly, knuckles white from the strain. 

A rap at the door stilled your shaking.  Your beady orbs peeked out from the covers, and you were met with the sight of another doctor.

Although this one looked… different.

He stood hesitantly at the door, almost afraid to come in. You raked your eyes over his form, and he looked non-lethal. His hair was brown and dishevelled in a nice sort of way, like your Mama’s used to be. He looked older, maybe in his 30s or 40s—you could never really tell. He adjusted his glasses, and you took note of his stubble; you scrunched your nose at the thought of how scratchy it probably felt. 

He speaks before you can, finally breaking the silence. You’re silently grateful for that.

“Hi there, little one.” His voice is fatherly but also boyish. You stare back at him.

Are they gonna kill me next?

You shudder at the thought of that. His eyebrows seem to furrow as he lets himself into your room. He approaches your bed with the caution of a rabbit. You let him, just for now. 

“I’m not here to hurt you, I hope you know that.” Something in his voice sounds real—genuine, even not like the other doctors' monotonous voices when they read your vitals. “I’m not like that scary man who hurt your mother.” He speaks calculatedly. Gauging your reactions, but all you can do is shiver at the thought of what that man did. 

“You’re not here… to hurt me?” Your voice is small, and he nearly coos at how cute you look. He clears his throat before nodding in response.

“I have something to tell you, do you know that you’re different from others?” He starts, and your beady eyes simply blink at him. He takes it as a sign to continue. “You little one, have special abilities.” You furrow your brows at him and go to speak, your voice coming out smaller than you hoped.

“H-how?” You ask softly. He gives you a warm smile, before reaching to take your hand in his. His palms are warm. 

“Have you ever noticed the lights flicker sometimes when you’re upset? Or feel a certain buzz in your head?” he queries gently. “You actually can disrupt radio signals, too, little one. It is something we call low-level aura disruption.” You suddenly are thrown back to the day you were taken, and you can’t believe it.

“Y-you mean I did all that?” You whisper. He nods his head before planting more new information into your little head.

“A lot of people don't like people like you; they think you shouldn’t exist in this city.” His voice is fractured as he speaks. A pit forms in your stomach.

“But not me, no, I believe we can make you into something even better.” His voice is excited, almost cloying. But this idea lights a tiny match in the pit of your stomach, and you look at him expectantly.

“W-what’s your name, mister doctor, I wann’ be better,” You mumble before tightening your grip on his hand.

“I’m Doctor Sun, little one.” He beams at you, pulling you into an embrace from the nape of your neck. You let it happen; you haven’t felt something this soft in a long time. 

Dr. Sun was a nice name.

FIVE YEARS LATER

Locked in that same room again, you learned not to cry as much. The machines shook your nervous system to its core, pulsating through the padded walls. There was a deafening ringing in your ear from the overload of information; you’d been locked in isolation for weeks this time, your eyes sunken from the stress. Your entire body felt like an exposed nerve, frayed raw.

Then came a voice over the speaker, somehow, you heard it— distinct, threaded through all the noises screeching in your head. 

“You can come out now.” Suddenly, doctors file into the room, removing the egregious number of wires attached to your body. They rip out the IV faster than they should, and you feel bile aching to rush up your throat. You cradle your arms, holding yourself tightly, averting their touch. 

You were ushered out of the room and into the cold hallways, which felt haunting, reminding you of everything that had ever happened in here. There was an obscene amount of silence when you left the room. Your body swayed like the fall leaves headed towards the ground, before you could crumple to the floor, an arm grabbed you. You stumbled into whoever's arms had held you, only in necessity. You were nearly passed out.

They sat you in another room, only one wire embedded into the nape of your neck. In front of you sits a glass, clear as the window pane, looking into your room. Their watching, expectant. 

“You know what to do.” A monotone voice came through the speakers

For the past month, they’d been attempting to get you to shatter glass; you’ve already passed the tests for disabling radios, at least—most of the time. You don’t understand why they believed you could shatter glass, they said you’re powers were low-level, but you assumed all the frying your nerves was to alter your body's limits. You picked at your cuticles until they bled, and the room fell into a manufactured silence. They always played dirty. You shrank in your chair, limbs folding in on themselves. Even breathing made you feel like you took up too much space. 

Despite your position, you knew you had to comply; you didn’t wanna think about what they would do if you didn’t. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you concentrate on the glass, feeling the aura in the space surrounding it. The lights flicker more violently than they used to, and you feel a hum in the base of your skull. But you focus harder. It’s not working though, your body is straining, but all you can manage is the glass teetering on the table, your irises shift upwards to give the crew a solemn look of discouragement when you see blonde hair—

KSSSSHKK

The glass SHATTERS across the entire room.

Dread unfurls in your stomach. 

Why was he here? 

Why was he here? 

He wasn’t supposed to be in today

No, no, no—

You watch as he gives you a grin, his presence is like poison in the air. The surrounding doctors stare at him in dismay. They had been trying to get you to shatter the glass without emotional disruption. For some godforsaken reason, you always freaked out around this doctor. One of them rubbed their temples with their hand while letting out an exasperated sigh. And so they logged the outbursts, but missed the cause. 

In a small sense of remorse, one of the doctors called in a favour. Someone you hadn’t seen in a while.

Before you know it, someone’s rushing into the room, and you’re sobbing, but you look up and there you see your saviour.

“Dr. Sun!” You rasp through tears. He gently picks you up and cradles you against his sternum, as you listen to the thrum of his heartbeat. 

“You did well today, little one.” His voice ghosts the shell of your ear. Your frame goes limp as you pass out from the sheer stress.

ANOTHER FIVE YEARS LATER

Bruce was exhausted, more so than usual, for once in his life, he wished he could take a real break. He’d tried desperately to find anything about it. He had Tim pull up anything he could find, but he always came up empty-handed. He felt his blood boil. His eyebrows knitted together on his face. Mandible tightening with stress. The dreary feeling was coming back—the ache in his stomach.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred’s voice comes steady, “I think it’s high time you met with your bed, it’s been days.” His voice is gentle, like a silent nudge towards better health. Watching the man he’d helped raise come undone at the seams.

“Alfred… what am I missing here?” Bruce’s voice comes out gruff and tired. He runs his hand through his hair, disheveling it more than usual.

When Bruce was out on patrol almost a year ago, he tailed a man who wasn’t anything special. At least that’s what he’d thought. The man then managed to get in a punch to his right temple. He had grumbled something that he almost didn’t catch. Something that felt off.

“All his time is focused on Project Shattercore; he couldn’t even give me a boost.” The man then roundhouse kicked him, before jumping off the roof of the building, but Bruce, in a moment of stun, wasn’t fast enough to catch him. When he searched the pavement below, there was no sign of a body; the man had somehow evaded him.

Bruce clung onto that piece of information like a vice; it was like a ghost; he could find no trace of it.

A year later and where had he gotten? Nearly nowhere. Dick had tried to convince him otherwise.

“Maybe you heard it wrong, Bruce. Maybe it was nothing.”

But Bruce was unrelenting; he couldn’t shake the marrow-deep feeling that this wasn’t a misheard whisper.

It felt like a weapon. And by the sounds of it, it might’ve been human. It sounded dangerous, like a needle hidden in something soft. Like it was going to ruin Gotham.

After a pause, Bruce’s breath stilled, and he silently got up, pacing towards the exit. He needed to rest if he wanted to ever figure this out. Alfred let out a breath he had been holding and ushered Bruce upstairs.

It was two nights later that he got the call from Tim.

“Bruce… I think I found something.”

TAGLIST: @alishii @lalana1703 @purple-obsidian @ghosty-the-grim-fairy @shadowsingers-redhood @staarflowerr @nininehaaa @hai-there-how-are-you @cynniee @lovebug-apple @nervousalpacalady @nisarelle @lilyalone @cxcilla

[1-800-crazy]

“My little Nepenthe,”

Series synopsis: The looming threat of the Death God Koschei and the High Lord of Autumn allying has those of the Inner Circle fretting about the consequences on Prythian. However, the heir of the Autumn Court, Eris Vanserra, proposes a deadly machination of deceit to bypass laws and suspicions to remove his father from the board—a show of wooing and manipulating a reason for murder. You, the second eldest Archeron sister, still dealing with the repercussions of your mortal changes and manifesting gifts, agree to play the partner in Eris’s wicked schemes of usurpation. As you pretend to fall for the heir who always manages to get under your skin, you uncover more than just a male of arrogance and entitlement. Sometimes, even the best playwrights change the script in the production's final moments. And nothing makes a performance more exhilarating than a little behind-the-scenes romance. 

Current word count: 35.8k

CHAPTER ONE: And The Dark Awaits Us All Around The Corner

⋆｡°✩ Nightmares plague your every night, even after a year after your mortal changes. Grappling with new instincts and powers threatening to escape, you wallow in silence, until you were presented an opportunity to leave your glamoured cage. A ball in the Court of Nightmares appeared an exciting change of fleeting liberty—and, a chance meeting.

CHAPTER TWO: Let Your Branches Fork My Veins

⋆｡°✩ You receive a letter after a gift exchange that sends you on a witch hunt.

CHAPTER THREE: I Feel Them Drown My Name

⋆｡°✩ A prophecy has been dreamed, and a plan has been made. Trust the fox and kill a King.

CHAPTER FOUR: I Would Die Inside If You Ever Stopped Nurturing Me

⋆｡°✩ As you settle into Autumn, another secret is torn from you. But after a breakfast with the Lady Autumn, you realise Eris is not all thorns and callouses.

CHAPTER FIVE: The World Was On Fire (And No One Could Save Me But You)

⋆｡°✩ A week has already passed since your arrival at Autumn, when your scheme is challenged in the form of a revel.

CHAPTER SIX: You're Lost At Sea, Then I'll Command Your Boat To Me

⋆｡°✩ The High Lord of the Autumn Court calls for a family dinner. Eris learns the art of vulnerability.

CHAPTER SEVEN: Have You No Idea That You're In Deep?

⋆｡°✩ With the Summer Solstice on the horizon, you're made to confront more than your worries about this coup. Instead of running away from what you are now, you begin to accept the things you once feared—including the bond that's made a home in your soul.

[1-800-crazy]

Shadows of Dawn III

"During Amarantha’s reign, she would delight in ripping out the feathers of Peregryn she was displeased with - one by one. She once made a dress out of the feathers."

second part / story masterlist / azriel taglist

Golden rays of sunlight spill across the floor, and you watch them dance on your hands as you replay his words in your mind. Thank you, my lady. The male’s voice was nothing like you’ve ever heard before - low and tender, beautiful. They way he said my lady did something to you and made a small part of your heart flutter. His sheer beauty did obviously nothing to help it calm down.

And as you replay the words one more time in your mind, you know that you could listen to him every day and for a moment, you find yourself wondering if he could be a singer. With a voice like his.

Your eyes lift, searching, and finally landing on him. His presence is dark, just like the whole appearance of the Night Court fae, a stark contrast to the Summer Court fae beside them. 

The male you talked to earlier sits like a shadow carved into flesh - silent, observant, powerful and a little gloomy. His wings are tucked in tight, and you can practically feel the tension in every line of his body. And the power simmering in his veins. It draws you to him, making it hard for you to move your eyes away from him.

There are shadows swirling and curling around him, always close-by, always appearing to be on watch-out. You have never seen anything like that before, but it’s breathtaking. How they move and appear.

The male‘s face, cruelly beautiful, is unreadable though. You wish you could see something there - a flicker of emotion or something like that.

You know you have been looking at him for too long, because suddenly his gaze meets yours and locks - for a heartbeat too long, and for a moment the world pauses, standing still. Everything around you fades into insignificance. And in that silence of the moment, something ancient stirs within you. 

A muscle in his jaw feathers and eventually he looks away, at his High Lord who says something. Something you ignore.

There’s a whirlwind of emotions within you now. You don’t understand what it is, never having felt anything like that before. It makes no sense, looking at him feels like the world is holding its very breath, like a gust of fresh air after being inside for too long, like sunlight warming your skin after days full of rainfall.

There is a certain kind of calmness, of peace within him that you can feel and that anchors you, even as everything inside you begins to spin.

"Good point, huh?" Esren lean in and his questions snaps you back to the moment. The High Lord‘s meeting. Your eyes open wide, darting to your brother. 

"Mhm," you mumble, and luckily Esren is already focused on the discussion in front of him again, instead of you.

A sigh slips through your lips and that‘s when you feel his eyes on you again. Strong, piercing, intrigued. 

You turn your attention back to the Night Court male. And smile. Small, instinctive. 

He doesn’t smile back, but something in his expression softens. And an emotion you can’t place flickers in his eyes. 

>>>>>

He doesn’t understand it. Well, partly he does. What it is. What it means. But why you? Why after such a long time? And then exactly, out of all people, you. A fae female from another court.

For a moment the faint aching in his wings is forgotten because now there’s a much stronger feeling within him. A pull toward you, a need to be close. It gnaws at him, quiet but relentless.

And when you smiled at him … he almost gasped. He has never seen such beauty before. Such breathtaking beauty. Such kindness and quiet fierceness.

He wants you to smile at him again, but then—

He feels his shadows tighten around his legs. 

One of Eris’s brothers lets his gaze linger on you for too long. Azriel can see it, the Autumn Court male‘s gaze hungry, assessing. His stomach twists at the sight, his jaw clenching. He calls upon every restraint within him to hold back, to not lash out. It takes a lot of will-power, a lot of strength.

He doesn’t didn’t say anything, doesn’t move, but the air around him grows colder, sharper, his eyes like daggers piercing right in the Autumn Court’ male’s heart. A silent warning.

Eventually the male averts his gaze and ease fills Azriel’s body. Yet he can‘t shake the tension within him, the constant pull at his chest.

Around him the meeting dissolves into faint murmurs he no longer pays attention too. It’s impossible to listen to them, to focus on anything other than the tug … other than you.

Azriel has never been one to talk a lot, to be super outgoing, but he wants to speak to you again. Talk about your dayC or the things you like … everything. He wants to hear your voice again, wants it to fill his ears and be the only thing he needs to concentrate on.

Chairs suddenly scraping across the marble floor snap him back to the moment, the meeting that has somehow stopped.

The shadowsinger tries to veil his face in cool boredom, not wanting to let it show that he has drifted off.

Ever so slightly he turns his head and meets Rhysand‘s gaze. The High Lord‘s expression is unreadable, but he parts his lips and says, "We stay a little long. We have some things to discuss. With Helion and Thesan only."

The spymaster bows his head in acknowledgment, his shadows sliding closer and swirling frantically around his legs. At first he doesn’t know why, but then his breath catches in his throat as a somehow familiar scent fills his nose. He doesn’t know why it’s familiar because at the same time he realises he has never smelled it before. But …

It reminds him of … home. A feeling of home.. 

"May I?" You don’t wait for an answer as you slide into the seat beside the shadowsinger, a small, tentative smile on your lips that is solely for him. A smile that warms a small part of his heart that has forever been cold. 

Azriel nods absentmindedly, then averts his gaze because looking ag you for too long makes his heart race too fast and his hands turn clammy. 

The others -members of the Dawn and Day Court and his own family- shift closer as well, forming a smaller circle. Conversations about border security and patrols pick up again, but with you so close it’s even harder for Azriel to focus. In all honesty, it’s impossible. 

You‘re not looking at him, fully focused on something his High Lord is saying and so Azriel allows himself a glimpse at you. Just a little look. Or that is what he’s trying to tell himself, trying to convince himself of.

Just a small look at first, before his gaze fully moves over your body, lingering on your face a moment too long - your beautiful features, long lashes, rosy cheeks, full lips. You are breathtaking. 

And you totally catch him staring at you.

Your gaze jumps to him and a funny smile lights up your face.

"Distracted?" you whisper as you lean in. "I always tend to zone out as well. Don’t worry." Your nose crinkles as you try to stifle a laugh and Azriel knows it’s the most adorable thing he has ever seen.

He tries to hold back from chuckling and only nods again. Just as he is about to whisper an answer, he realises your gaze has left his face and has …

Dropped to his scarred, calloused hands resting upon his thighs. 

He can see the sorrow, the questions, the sadness flash in your gaze, as your throat works on a rough swallow.

He flinches slightly, and begins to pull his hands back, ashamed. His shadows recoil slightly, curling protectively around his wrists and lower arms. He avoids your eyes, even when he feels them on his face again, his jaw tight, his posture suddenly guarded.

You reach out instinctively, your fingers brushing his. Don’t," you murmur, your voice soft but steady. "They only prove how strong you are." Finally his gaze lifts and meets yours, locking. 

But then Azriel shakes his head. "They are awful and—"

"Anything you want to say Azriel?" There’s a hint of annoyance in Rhysand’s voice that Azriel feels right to his bones. He quickly shakes his head at his High Lord, before sending you an apologetic look. He doesn’t know what he’s even apologising for. Probably because he thinks that with this your conversation is over. But he doesn’t know yet that he makes the bill without the waiter.

You smile at him in understanding, and give your head the slightest shake. “After the meeting I would like to show you something," you whisper. You glance toward the others, still deep in conversation, then back to him. "If you would like that, my Lord."

Without waiting for an answer from him, you turn back to the people in front of you, addressing no one in particular when you ask, "You think we can hope for help from Rask?", the worry in your voice is too loud to ignore. Almost on their own accord, Azriel’s shadows try to slither towards you, to reach for you, but the shadowsinger holds them back, commanding them to stay with him.

"Possible," Helion answers you, rubbing his hand over his chin. "But we shouldn’t hope. If push comes to shove they will stand with the continent and consequently with Koschei."

You bow your head, lips rolled together. Azriel can practically feel the shudder coursing through you, and desperately wants to say something to comfort you. To reach out and tell you it will be alright.

"I will see what I can find out. If they are preparing for anything," he says instead, voice low but steady.

It draws your attention to him. You glance at him, your eyes lingering for a moment too long and his gaze moves to you as well, eyes locking.

Azriel hopes that in his eyes he can show you something like a promise, as if saying "everything will be alright, we can do this."

And apparently he manages to do so. A small smile blooms on your lips and you bow your head.

"The Illyrians are ready. We have been preparing for months, at the first sign of war, we are ready," Cassian cuts in, first looking at Rhys, then Azriel and lastly at the male sitting beside Thesan. 

Azriel has to admit that there’s quite the resemblance between you and the male which makes him wonder if you are related or—

"My sister and I have been training the Peregryns for months too. They are ready for both ground and air combat." The male looks at you, and Azriel’s question is answered.

Sister. It makes sense.

You bow your head with a small, yet confident smile. "Ready whenever needed."

>>

story tag list: @apenasandorinha @i-am-infinite @shinyghosteclipse @whoreforfictionalmen18 @aevoit @sstrohma @readingintooblivion @breathingstarlight @byteme05 @1-800-crazy @buttermilktea11

tags (crossed-out I couldn't tag) : @juulle987 @marimorena06 @danikasthings @younxii @nightcourtwritings @mrofontaine @lunalilyf @whor-3-crux @tired-all-the-time @anni-was-here @ummmmmwat @azbracadabra @j-pendragonx @hollyismentallyillhelp @famousbasementpainter @bsenpai @lena-davina @red-highlady @thesugatoyourtae @azrielsbabyg @aroseinvelaris @moony-thoughts @wrensical003 @cherryjain17 @moonfawnx @crushedcloudsx @devilsfoodcake22  @valeridarkness @azrielscertifiedslut @mulansaucey @cynicalpotato95 @hanasakr @high-bi-andreadytocry @eerievixen @feyretopia @moonlightazriel @randomness-it-is @brekkershadowsinger @eliieee23 @girasoli-e-sorrisi @illyrianvalkyriecarynthian  @kennedy-brooke @highladyofillyria @theworthlessqueen @marina468 @topaz125 @illyrian-dreamer @azriels-mate123 @eos-princess @courtofjurdan @a-frog-with-a-laptop @insufferablebookaddict @cadiawrites @bookishbroadwaybish @tele86 @fuckingsimp4azriel 

[1-800-crazy]

❝DID YOU GET ENOUGH LOVE, MY LITTLE DOVE, WHY DO YOU CRY?❞

୨⎯ ┊BATFAM X NEGLECTED!HEALER!READER ꒱

✰ ৎ──────SYPNOPSIS: all you ever wanted was a purpose. something that would give meaning to your existence, your power. healing others was the only thing that ever made you feel alive, needed… until you ended up in that awful place.

or… in which some decisions end in an unfortunate tragedy for some.

✰ ৎ────── masterlist. | prev. | next.

What’s so important about your power?

The question returns, as it always does, in the quiet moments. When no one is watching. When there’s no blood, no patients, no bodies to heal.

When there’s no excuse to exist.

Why do you do it? Why can’t you just stop?

It was never just about healing. It’s never been only that.

It’s… the only thing that gives you meaning.

You didn’t like hurting yourself, though you do. You didn’t enjoy the pain of others, though you feel it. You never wanted to die stitching together lives that weren’t your own, though you know that’s exactly what will happen if no one stops you.

It’s just that you don’t know how to live without it.

Every time someone bleeds and you can’t intervene, something curls inside you. Like you’re a broken doll, incomplete, incapable of fulfilling the one thing you were made to do.

Every time someone breaks and you don’t stitch them back together, a piece of you splinters too.

Your power became something greater than a skill.

It’s your compass. Your purpose, your voice.

When Masashi told you that you were special, that no one else could do what you could, you believed him.

How could you not? He let you heal. He let you treat patient after patient. He let you use your power. He looked at you with a warm smile when you were exhausted, bleeding, shaking… and told you that you’d done well.

He’s proud of you. He never asked if you were okay. Only if the patient had survived.

And over time, you learned to ignore yourself too.

When a bone breaks, you fix it. When an organ fails, you rebuild it. Even if it shatters you inside.

You know you can endure it.

You have to.

Bruce wouldn’t understand.

Your father would never accept it.

Would he be the first to stand against the only reason you have to live?

What’s the worth of a power if you can’t use it?

You never asked the question aloud. You didn’t have to, you already knew the answer. You’d felt it in your fingers, numbed by thread. In your nails, bloodied from stitching too hard. In the needle that no longer hurt when you drove it into your own arm just to practice, just so you wouldn’t forget what it felt like.

Just so you wouldn’t grow rusty.

Just so you could still be useful.

This power is yours. You had accepted it as such. It wasn’t a gift, and it wasn’t a curse. This power is a responsibility.

If you had it, then you had to use it. If you used it, then you could save. And if you could save lives… then maybe you weren’t a bad person.

That’s what you thought.

You weren’t a good person.

You’re not like them. You’ll never be like the heroes. They shine. They reach people’s hearts. Heroes lift buildings with a smile, capes fluttering in the wind, saying things that make people feel safe.

But you couldn’t do that.

You know perfectly well you don’t speak kindly to your patients. You sound irritated, frustrated, because you are. Why would you be happy treating injured people? You hated seeing the pain on their faces, but you loved the joy when you saved them.

You didn’t know how to comfort people. You only knew how to stitch torn flesh, mend shattered bones, repair punctured organs. You only knew how to drive a needle deep into their bodies and keep threading until their bodies stopped begging to die.

It was that… or nothing.

And now you were in Gotham.

The city that either rejects or embraces everything rotten in the world. Everything that could ever be like you.

Mutants, metas, people with abnormalities. Gotham didn’t want them. It didn’t need that kind of trouble. Ironically, though, the city also seemed to be a magnet for exactly those kinds of people.

Your father, Bruce, is the symbol of that, at least his alter ego is. Batman was the unspoken law. The silent rule that dictated: if you were born different, you were a potential threat to the city. To his city. Even if you wanted to help, even if you had never hurt anyone.

Because people born like you always ended up being a problem for the city and for the innocent. Everyone had to be investigated before being treated like a person.

You aren’t trusted.

Thankfully, Bruce hasn’t figured it out yet. No one in your family has.

You feel proud of having successfully fooled an entire family of heroes and detectives.

Then again, Masashi likely intervened in every document related to your existence, carefully crafting your life before Gotham to avoid suspicion.

That was… a rather helpful gesture on his part. You’re not surprised Masashi was so meticulous with your whereabouts. What genuinely does surprise you is that he didn’t warn you in advance about everything that was going to happen.

His silence is suspicious. Masashi has never left you alone for this long. He was always too clingy, too eager to spend every second by your side.

But then again, considering the kind of people your family is made of, it wouldn’t be surprising if Masashi took overly cautious, even surgical steps before finding a way into Gotham.

You can’t blame him. You’re scared of your own family too.

Every time Bruce walks past you… Every time one of your brothers talks about missions, villains, or justice… You shrink a little more inside. Like your very existence is a betrayal waiting to be exposed.

Because you know that once they find out what you really are, they won’t look at you the same way anymore. They won’t look at you like you’re something normal, like you’re something human.

You haven’t used your power.

You can’t use it.

You’re scared.

You’re terrified of all of them.

Is this really the right thing to do? Doubt fills you. You’re afraid… What do you want right now? There are no injured people in this mansion. No patients to treat.

Only you.

Running away like a coward, too afraid to face the consequences of your actions. With the truth of your existence pressing down on your shoulders.

Why did you want Bruce to look at you with the same approval Masashi always gave you?

You were alone again. The only company you had was the trembling in your fingers as you wondered how quickly you'd forget everything you’d learned.

What was the point of being alive if you couldn’t save anyone?

You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t dare say anything at all.

Because in the end, the only thing separating you from being a burden, the only thing that helped you believe you weren’t useless, the only thing that let you think you weren’t a bad person, that maybe, just maybe, you could really save someone’s life—

…was your power.

You loved your power. You adored it like nothing else in the world. Your power went far beyond any feeling of ego or control—over others or even yourself.

You loved your power because you knew that saving someone was the right thing to do.

The right thing, even if it hurt.

The right thing, even if you bled.

The right thing, even if it tore you apart.

Masashi always understood that. He was the one who helped you stop hating your power. He helped you stop questioning your existence, gave you a purpose, something to keep fighting for.

He never told you to stop.

He never scolded you for using it.

He was never horrified when you trembled with fever after healing over thirteen critically injured patients in a single night.

He just said: “Good job. You’re really… good at this, aren’t you?”

You believed him.

You were enough, for him.

Now you were here, in Gotham. A city where “goodness” was far more complicated than it pretended to be. You understand why a hero would stop you if they saw what you were doing.

You know they wouldn’t hurt you… And that was even more terrifying than being punished.

Because you understand that not hurting you would mean forbidding you. It would be the same as telling you that you can’t help anymore.

That you can’t save anyone.

That maybe… things would be better that way.

But you know that isn’t possible. If you stopped using your power, if you stopped healing, then who would you even be?

Who are you without your power?

Would you become that same dying girl with no last name again? Or would you turn into the greatest failure your father could have ever imagined?

No one.

You’d be no one.

Just a useless child, living in a massive house, waiting for something, or someone, to break, just so your existence could be justified.

At first, you thought maybe, just maybe, your father could understand. That foolish hope shattered the moment you found out Bruce Wayne was Batman.

Batman doesn’t trust what he can’t control.

You discovered his identity by accident. And with it, you discovered your sentence.

He wouldn’t allow what you do. You doubt Bruce would go as far as to believe a child is inherently evil… But you know it’s his job to stop things like you, and you don’t want to be stopped.

You can’t be stopped.

Because if you abandon everything that makes you who you are, then all that’s left is the worst version of you.

A broken child, a lie inside Wayne Manor, a horrible lie to this poor family, a metahuman hidden among orphaned children who fight crime wearing masks.

Damian already told you, and he’s right.

In this house, you’ll only ever be known as a burden.

You theorize that Bruce thinks he’s protecting you by keeping you on the sidelines. That he genuinely believes offering you a bed, food, a family close enough to see but distant enough to ignore, is enough to keep you safe.

Unfortunately for Bruce, he doesn’t know that it’s not enough. It never has been.

You can survive without all that.

What you need is something else. You need to save someone. To make your pain worth something. To see your power move. To watch the thread pass through flesh, in and out of their bodies.

You need this pain to be worth something.

If Bruce knew… he’d take it away. He’d lock you up, he’d isolate you. Maybe even hand you over, maybe because he secretly hated you for being a liar or maybe because he truly believed that separating you from your power was the healthiest thing he could do for you.

Unlike Masashi, Bruce would never accept that you needed to survive through your power.

Masashi at least knows. He knows that you’re already broken.

And still, he let you save lives.

This life is so painfully strange and complicated. You hope you’ve done the right thing, even as the doubts grow more unbearable with time.

You just hope… You’ll be able to leave this place at the right moment.

Masashi would never consider himself a ruthless man.

No, not at all.

He considers himself a just man.

Someone who does what must be done. Someone who doesn’t reject his true nature, who doesn’t waste time clinging to moral illusions about what’s right or wrong.

Masashi simply adapts. He takes advantage of every opportunity life gives him, molding the pieces as they best serve his cause.

That’s perfectly normal, for everyone. The only difference lies in whether you choose to accept it or live in ignorance while chasing vague moral ideals of what “good” means in this world.

To Masashi, you were one of those pieces.

If not the best one he’s ever obtained, ironically, even he didn’t realize that at first.

Meeting you was a blessing.

One he didn’t recognize until much later. Until the second time he saw you.

Masashi still remembers the first day he laid eyes on you.

Killing your mother was necessary.

It was even… fun.

That woman was foolish enough to think she could leave him. As if walking away would be enough to disappear without a trace. As if a traitor could ever hide from consequences.

Masashi always found a way to reclaim what he considered his.

Muchitsujo Seika.

A distinguished, highly respected woman, meticulous, brilliant in the field of medicine. She could have become a leading figure in Japan.

Seika could have been remembered for years to come, for her work, her pure effort.

But she made one critical mistake: She crossed a clear line. She dared to think her life belonged to her.

There’s no need to talk much about Seika. She was capable, talented, even brilliant.

But also naive.

She knew exactly who she was getting involved with. She knew she couldn’t leave without consequences. And yet she tried. Even knowing the risk. She actually believed she could hide a child from him.

Seika thought she could protect you from him.

The media didn’t say much.

They couldn’t. Masashi made sure of that.

Seika had been a well-known doctor in certain circles. Quiet, brilliant, with a spotless career and an unshakable reputation. Her sudden disappearance was, of course, an anomaly.

But Masashi filled in the blanks with an elegant and functional narrative: That Seika had chosen to leave medicine after an unexpected pregnancy and raise her daughter alone in a quiet place, away from the public eye. A reserved woman making a personal choice. Nothing more.

There was no body. There was no funeral.

Only an absence far too convenient.

It was the story he himself planted. The story you’d one day be told, whispered in a soft voice, with the rehearsed sorrow of someone who says, “I was too late.” A lie, carefully crafted, precisely manipulated by his own hand.

“Seika left to raise her daughter. Then… she vanished. Some say she was murdered. No one knows for certain what happened to her.”

All lies.

Masashi remembers the truth.

He remembers every second.

He remembers the blood. The spasms. The way Seika dragged herself across the freezing floor, dripping life, trying to reach the little creature she’d just brought into the world.

Just a few steps.

Never enough.

He remembers Seika on the hospital floor. The cold lights. The dull sound of her body collapsing against the tile.

It was a grotesque, desperate spectacle…

And at the same time, profoundly beautiful.

The terror in her face. The trembling in her hands. The pain in her eyes.

All of it was worth more than any apology she could’ve offered.

"You don’t have to do this… you don’t have to do this to her…” She whispered, barely a murmur, as blood poured down her coat.

“Of course I don’t.” He replied, voice gentle.

“But I want to.”

All she tried to do was reach the baby.

It was useless. Pathetic, even. The desperate effort of a mother who hadn’t yet realized she was already dead.

Masashi didn’t feel hatred. Just a flicker of irritation, like a tool breaking before it finished its task.

Still, even Masashi knew there was nothing interesting about caring for an infant.

A baby was useless. All it did was cry. The thought alone was tedious.

Who was supposed to take care of you? Him?

Ridiculous.

Then everything went quiet.

It was Charlotte who spoke next.

“The baby… are you going to get rid of her too?”

He looked at her without much interest.

“Why bother? She’s worthless. She’ll probably die with her mother. Wouldn’t that be lovely for them both?”

Charlotte lowered her gaze, calm.

“And yet… she could become useful. In time. You said the mother had potential. Maybe the daughter does too.”

Masashi didn’t answer right away.

“You’re suggesting I let her live?”

“I’m suggesting that if there’s no reason to kill her, letting her live isn’t a loss. If she dies on her own, time will have solved the matter for us. But if she survives… she might be worth something.”

He let out a soft laugh, thoroughly delighted by the idea Charlotte had offered. Masashi simply reached out and patted her head, like a master praising his dog.

“Good work. I really have taught you well.”

Masashi granted you the benefit of the doubt.

The decision was made. A decision based on logic. On a remote possibility, and the mild pleasure of watching what the future might bring.

There wasn’t much hope for you. You were just a tiny thing, so fragile, you barely counted as real.

Masashi didn’t believe you were special.

But like any other experiment, you had to be tested.

You were thrown into the nameless misery of Japan’s outskirts the moment you were born.

Brothels. Damp streets. Alleys where the sky didn’t seem to exist.

Seeing if you survived was the only curiosity in his mind.

If you did… maybe.

If not, who would mourn you?

If you couldn’t survive something that simple, then it was impossible for Masashi to imagine you'd be worth anything later.

Because it wasn’t as if someone would come for you, claim you, or protect you from the cruelties of the world at such a young age.

Years later, Masashi found you again. He hadn’t looked for you. Hadn’t even thought of you all those years. His expectations were minimal, if not nonexistent.

It was a coincidence, a twist of chance, but sometimes, fate arranges its pieces with terrifying precision.

The girl he saw wasn’t a living creature. She was an empty shell, dead eyes, the perfect mirror of her mother, without her fire. A walking corpse.

You were injured… and healing yourself.

The power surprised him. Not just the fact that it existed, but its rarity.

“Healing?” Masashi murmured, watching from a distance.

He crouched in front of you, studying the scene without intervening. Thin, almost transparent and luminous threads pierced your own flesh at inhuman speed. Needles, impossible to ignore, yet you didn’t cry. You didn’t even tremble.

You simply worked. As if that was the only thing you’d ever been taught to do.

“How interesting…” Masashi remembers how you looked at him.

Wordless. As if unsure whether you should fear him, or thank him. It no longer mattered. Because he had already decided.

That strange, broken, useful creature, would belong to him.

It wasn’t an act of love. It wasn’t vengeance. Because if he couldn’t keep Seika, then he would take what she left behind. As he should have from the beginning.

The daughter would suffice. You would be enough.

This time, Masashi would shape you from the start.

“You’re going to stay with me.” He said with a bright smile, stroking your head with something that resembled tenderness, but couldn’t possibly be called that.

“I’ll teach you not to waste what you are.”

You didn’t respond. You simply blinked, slowly.

You were empty. No mother. No father figures. No relatives to run to. No identity. No functioning emotional framework.

All that was left was that absurd need to serve, to heal, to do something useful with a body no one had asked to be born into.

Perfect.

Masashi would be more than happy to fill every corner of your being.

You didn’t have to ask for guidance.

He gave it to you.

You didn’t have to cry for your mother.

He told you he arrived too late. That there was nothing he could do. That he believed you had died along with her.

A convenient story.

He wasn’t trying to inspire pity. He simply needed to keep you calm.

Masashi found it almost moving.

You—a child with no trace of anger, no ambition, no drive.

You were just waiting for someone to tell you who you were.

And he did.

He told you pain must have a purpose. That you were only valuable if you could heal. That being good meant being useful, nothing more. That you could save the innocent with the gift you’d been given.

You believed him. You accepted it, desperately.

Because you had never known anything else.

You were far too lost back then to even consider searching for something more.

You just wanted to save lives.

At least that way, you wouldn’t be a bad person.

The room was dim, lit only by the warm lamp beside the bed and the pale glow of the moon slipping through the curtains. Seika had settled onto the futon with effort, cradling her belly in her arms as if holding something fragile, precious, irreplaceable.

She couldn’t sleep.

Lately, Seika rarely managed to.

This time, it wasn’t because of the sharp aches in her back or the accumulated exhaustion from the past few weeks, with the worrying surge of patients suffering from deadly diseases and injuries.

This time, it was something softer. Sweeter.

Something inside her was begging, pleading, not to let the night pass without saying something.

So she gave in to the whim of speaking to her daughter.

“You know… I’ve been thinking about you all day.” She murmured, gently caressing the soft curve of her abdomen. “I wondered if you’ll like the rain. It calms me... but you move around a lot when it rains. Does that mean you don’t like it? Or does it excite you?”

She smiled. A slow, tired smile, but a real one.

“I don’t know what color your eyes will be. That makes me laugh a little. I’d like them to be like mine, though… if you end up looking like him, I think I’ll still love you just as much.” She chuckled at her own illogical thought.

“Silly, right? As if I could stop loving you over a few genes.”

Seika paused. She closed her eyes for a moment. The silence was thick, all-encompassing. Outside, the wind shook the branches of the tree in the yard.

“I want to give you a peaceful life. A life of school, snacks, books… a slow childhood, like the ones you don’t see much anymore. Far from harm and problems no child should ever face. But I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if the world will let us.”

Her voice dropped, barely a whisper.

“I don’t know if he will let us.”

There it was... the name she didn’t dare say out loud.

Masashi.

Her worst mistake, her crime.

But Seika wasn’t going to think about that now. Not about that man. Not tonight. She couldn’t.

“No, no. Not tonight, little one.” She sighed, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Tonight, I just want to imagine you happy. Walking through a park. Laughing with your mouth wide open, without fear. Breaking things by accident. Dreaming big dreams, the kind that sound impossible when you say them out loud.”

Her voice trembled.

“I want you to know that I wanted you. I waited for you. I worried. I protected you. As much as I could, I protected you.”

She brought her hands to the center of her belly and pressed gently, as if trying to draw that invisible bond between them even closer.

“I don’t know if I’ll be there to watch you grow. And even if I am… maybe not in the way I’d like.”

She swallowed hard.

“But I want you to know this: I love you already. I love you unconditionally. Without knowing you. I love you with a part of me I never used before.”

She lay down fully, slowly, exhaling as if the weight of the world had become a little easier to bear.

“I’ll name you with care.” She whispered. “I’ll give you something beautiful, something strong. A name that protects you when I’m not there, a name that feels like home. Not a weapon, not a curse… just a real name.”

A tear slid down her cheek, quiet.

“I want to give you everything I never had. I want you to never feel alone.”

She caressed her belly one last time, as the soft movements of the baby answered her touch, as if truly listening.

“If the world ever hurts you, I want you to know your mother loved you before you were born. That she talked to you every night. That she laughed to herself thinking about your imagined quirks. That she dreamed of your tiny hands, your voice, your face full of questions.”

Then, with a gentle sigh, she closed her eyes.

“Tonight, tonight and for all my life… I just want to love you.”

“I promise I’ll be a good mother… I only wish you’ll come into this world safely and live happily… without worries…” Seika hummed a familiar melody. A lullaby, perfect for practicing, for when you finally arrive into the world, into her life.

“I’ll love you for all eternity, little one… I already love you, and I always will.”

A shame that, without knowing it, this counted as a farewell for both of them.

Her precious daughter.

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[1-800-crazy]

Blossom Reverse (Yandere Batfam x Neglected! Poison Ivy‘s Daughter! Reader)

Chapter 8

A/N: that's the last of the chapters I have already wrote. Now I need to be locked in againnn. Thank you all for the support and that you're even reading this. 🥹

I opened the taglist again and why do some of you have the craziest longest names ever.😭.. jk love u guys!! 🩷 - poppy

The city skyline bled grey against the window.

Meetings stacked on his tablet. Stock reports in his inbox. A board call in twenty minutes.

And yet—

Bruce couldn’t stop staring at the box on his desk.

It had arrived with Alfred that morning.

No explanation. No label.

Just a quiet look. A subtle press of the old man’s hand on his shoulder.

“You may want to read this today, Master Bruce.”

He hadn’t opened it at first.

Didn’t think much of it.

Too many numbers. Too many decisions. Too many fires in Gotham to put out.

But now—he was exhausted.

And he needed something to distract him.

He opened the lid.

Dozens of envelopes.

All small. Some crooked. Many with bright, mismatched stickers and glitter residue.

A few had tiny pressed flowers taped to the corner. Others had faint crayon hearts scribbled along the fold.

He blinked.

Lifted one.

____

To Daddy

From: Y/N

____

The writing was messy.

Half the letters backward.

The “N” in her name was so big it crossed the entire envelope.

He hesitated.

Then slowly, carefully, peeled it open.

The paper inside was pink.

Lined notebook paper, torn at the edge. Crumpled. Wrinkled. Like it had been folded and unfolded dozens of times before she finally gave it to Alfred to deliver.

The handwriting inside made his throat tighten.

⸻

Hi Daddy.

I saw a movie yesterday with Alfred and it had a dad and a girl in it and they fed ducks. They looked very happy and the ducks were very cute. I want to feed ducks too.

Maybe if you are not busy we could go. There are ducks in the park. Alfred said so.

But it is okay if you are busy. You are Batman.

I still like you.

From,

Y/N

(PS I will bring the bread!!! Alfred baked it with me)

⸻

The final line was in all caps.

The “D” in bread looked like a flower.

He read it twice.

Then three more times.

By the fourth, he had to stop.

He closed his eyes.

The words burned.

The sweetness. The effort. The gentle apology woven into every sentence—as if even asking for a moment of his time was too much.

As if she already expected to be dismissed.

He reached into the box again.

Pulled another letter.

Then another.

And another.

⸻

Father, I got 100% on my test. Alfred says that means perfect.

I wrote a story with your name in it. Do you want to read it?

I miss you when you are gone. I am good, I promise. Please come say goodnight.

⸻

Some were barely legible.

Some were never even opened.

All were dated between age five to twelve.

All addressed to him.

⸻

He remembered the first time he saw her.

When Ivy had been cornered in that warehouse, she’d laughed in his face.

“Congratulations,” she hissed, as the chains tightened around her ankles. “You caught the eco-terrorist. Now go find your daughter.”

He’d thought she was bluffing.

But she wasn’t.

She led them to an address.

Run-down. Hidden.

And there—in Alfred‘s arms—was a girl.

Tiny. Pale. Eyes too wide for her face.

A stuffed elephant held in her hands.

Bruce had frozen.

Because when she looked up at him—

She smiled.

Small. Hopeful.

“Are you my daddy?”

He didn’t know how to answer.

Didn’t know how to hold her.

Didn’t even remember what he said that first day.

But she reached for him anyway.

⸻

Back in the present, Bruce pressed his hand to the letter again.

His breath shook.

⸻

Alfred

He had watched her for weeks.

Watched her smile politely. Lie sweetly. Slip in and out like a shadow.

And he had known something was wrong.

Something was cracking behind that smile.

He couldn’t do much.

Not anymore.

But he could make them see what they had done.

So he packed the letters.

Every single one he’d intercepted.

Every one she’d handed him, hopeful.

Every note that went unanswered.

Every truth her father never read.

He packed them in a box.

And gave them to Bruce.

“They always think they have time,” Alfred thought grimly, standing now in the empty kitchen.

Until one day… the girl is simply gone.

____

Bruce

He couldn’t stop shaking.

The box was spread out across his desk now—every envelope, every little folded note, laid out by date.

Color-coded by her own childish hand.

“2000—&—10”

“11 and a haf.”

“Thirtenth!!! (finally!!)”

“Fourtine”

He sat there, frozen, sorting them like pieces of a life he never bothered to memorize.

The birthdays.

The school plays.

The “Alfred let me help him make a cake today!” notes.

The “I got picked for science fair!”

The “I was the sunflower in the dance recital!”

The “Tim showed me the Batcomputer (don’t tell).”

He kept reading.

Letter after letter.

And what haunted him most wasn’t the content.

It was the tone.

How it changed.

At first, she always asked:

“Can we go to the park, Daddy?”

“Will you come see my painting?”

“Can we have breakfast together sometime, just us?”

And then she started writing more like:

“I know you’re busy. That’s okay.”

“I hope you’re safe tonight.”

“I watched the news. You looked brave.”

Then—

She stopped asking altogether.

Just sent updates.

“I won the English award this week.”

“Alfred said I looked pretty in green.”

“Leyla,my friend, let me braid her hair again.”

“It’s okay if you don’t have time. I just wanted to say hi.”

And still, he never wrote back.

He didn’t remember ever seeing these.

Had Alfred intercepted them?

Or had he just…

Not cared enough to notice.

His hand hovered over the last envelope.

It was dated exactly one year ago.

The handwriting was sharper now.

Grown.

Still soft. Still graceful.

But… no stickers. No drawings. No crayon hearts.

Just a white envelope.

Sealed with tape.

Her name signed in ink, small and clean:

From Y/N

He opened it.

His stomach dropped.

____

Dear Dad,

I hope you are well.

I know you are busy with work and the city and your responsibilities.

I just wanted to write this, maybe one last time.

I don’t think I’ll send more letters after this. It’s not because I’m mad. I’m not.

I just realized maybe I’ve been writing them wrong all these years.

I thought if I told you about me, you’d want to be part of it.

But maybe you already are part of too many things.

That’s okay.

I’ll still cheer for you. I’ll still think you’re amazing.

Thank you for giving me a home. Even if you couldn’t stay in it much.

I hope the city treats you kindly.

I hope I made you proud, even if you didn’t notice.

—Y/N

⸻

He didn’t breathe.

He couldn’t.

The weight of the paper in his hand felt heavier than any file, any blueprint, any death certificate he’d ever signed.

A whole year ago.

She had already stopped.

She had already stopped.

Stopped writing.

Stopped asking.

Stopped hoping.

But Bruce—

He wasn’t ready to believe that yet.

He didn’t call.

Didn’t ask Alfred to check.

He just left.

Tore out of Wayne Tower like a man with purpose, not panic. Like this wasn’t spiraling out of his control.

She’s just upset. She’ll come around and forget about it. She always does.

He told himself that. Over and over.

She’ll be there.

She’ll be home.

With Damian.

Back from school.

He just needed to be at the Manor when she walked in.

He just needed to see her. To hold her.

To apologize and make up for all the times he has been a terrible father.

The car couldn’t move fast enough.

He arrived at the manor in record time, stepping through the massive front doors with his jaw clenched, eyes searching the entry hall.

Empty.

Silent.

She’s probably upstairs.

“Miss Y/N hasn’t returned yet,” Alfred had said gently on the phone, moments before Bruce arrived. But Bruce hadn’t listened.

He was already in motion.

Then he heard the front door open behind him.

Footsteps.

Fast. Familiar.

Damian.

The boy stormed in, school blazer unbuttoned, tie yanked loose. He looked irritated—tense and brooding the way he always was after a fight.

Bruce turned to face him.

“Where’s your sister?”

Damian blinked. Frowned.

“…She’s not back yet?”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “You were supposed to bring her home.”

Damian scoffed, brushing past him with a grimace. “Tch. She probably left early.”

Bruce didn’t move.

Damian kept talking. “We had an argument, okay? She was being secretive. Again. I figured she’d run off to sulk like she always does.”

He sounded defensive.

But Bruce wasn’t listening anymore.

He was already walking.

Up the stairs.

Slow. Measured.

Damian hesitated in the hall, watching him ascend.

He sighed.

Fine. Might as well tell him now. Tell him everything.

About the Silas guy. The fake friend. The lies. She’s hiding something, and someone needs to say it.

He followed after his father, still stewing from the hallway encounter at school.

Bruce reached the end of the second-floor corridor.

The room furthest from the rest.

The door was cracked open.

He pushed it fully open.

And stopped.

Not because the room was plain.

He’d already noticed that last week.

Not because there were no flowers.

Not because the bed was neatly made.

Not because there were no shoes by the wall or coat on the hook.

But because—

Her elephant plush was gone.

The one thing she never went anywhere without.

The one thing he remembered from the very beginning.

It wasn’t there.

Something in his chest—

snapped.

He stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, breathing shallow. The sound of his own heartbeat pulsed in his ears like thunder.

It was too quiet.

Behind him, footsteps slowed.

Alfred had just returned—his keys still in hand, grocery bags half-unpacked in the foyer when Bruce arrived.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

He stood behind Bruce now.

Looked into the same empty space.

And his heart cracked.

Not from surprise.

But from confirmation.

He had feared this.

Felt it in his bones.

Watched her slip farther and farther from them like fog through fingers.

Bruce’s hands slowly curled at his sides.

His voice, when it came, was low. Cold.

“Where the hell is my daughter?”

Alfred didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

The silence said it all.

Damian had just stepped into the hall behind them.

Ready to tattle. Ready to vent and snitch on his little sister.

Then he heard those words.

Froze.

Eyes narrowing.

“What…?”

His voice faltered.

“What do you mean by 'where'?”

Bruce turned, expression blank.

“She left.”

“Left where?”

No answer.

Alfred stepped into the doorway now.

Surveying the room. The bed. The desk. The missing pieces.

His voice was a whisper, breaking under the weight of it:

“She packed.”

“She’s not coming back.”

Damian took a step back.

His throat tightened.

He thought of their fight.

Thought of her eyes—wide and anxious. How she flinched. How she looked smaller than ever in that classroom, even when she tried to snap back.

And now she was gone.

She lied to him.

She smiled at him like nothing was wrong.

And then she disappeared.

Damian looked at the room again.

At the bed. The window.

And for the first time in his life—

He felt scared.

The room was still.

Frozen in time.

None of them knew how long they stood there—Bruce, Alfred, Damian—just staring at the doorway. The air felt heavy, like the oxygen had drained out of the house entirely.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

Until—

“Hey—”

Tim’s voice cut in from down the hall.

Footsteps. Quick. Measured. He’d just returned from Wayne Enterprises, backpack slung over one shoulder, something clutched in his hand.

A carved wooden box. Small, chest-shaped. Slightly dented at the corners.

The chess box.

The one she had made for him years ago. He found it today in his office drawer—the only thing he’d never thrown out. He was ready to bring it to her. Start again.

His boots scuffed against the polished floor as he turned the corner—then stopped.

Three of them were standing there.

Bruce. Damian. Alfred.

Silent.

Their backs to him. Faces turned to her room.

Something in their posture—

Something wrong.

Tim blinked.

“…What’s going on?”

Bruce didn’t turn.

Alfred lowered his gaze.

And Damian—Damian didn’t answer at all. He was pale. Rigid. Eyes fixed forward like a predator who’d lost his target.

Tim stepped closer, confused.

Then—

He caught a glimpse inside the room.

Empty bed.

No color.

No presence.

And the phone.

Her phone.

Just sitting there. Quiet. Dead. Untouched.

His breath caught.

“…No.”

He was already moving, storming past them, gripping the edge of the desk and yanking the cord out of the wall.

Pulled up the tracking software on his watch.

The phone pinged.

Last location: Here.

Status: Offline.

No signal.

No trace.

Nothing.

“She left,” Bruce muttered, the words rasping out like they were cutting his throat on the way out.

Tim’s fingers fumbled across the screen. “No—no, she wouldn’t just—She’s—she’s a kid, she’s just a—she’s—”

He was already spiraling.

Then Damian moved.

Like a switch flipped in him.

He was tearing through her room now—no hesitation, no restraint.

Sheets flung. Mattress shoved aside like it weighed nothing. The small rug kicked out of place. Drawers yanked open with violent force.

“Master Damian—” Alfred began, but the boy didn’t even hear him.

He was on his knees, dragging his hand across the floorboards, searching for—something, anything.

And then—

His hand paused.

A soft click.

One of the planks wobbled.

He dug his nails beneath the edge and pulled.

A loose board lifted.

Underneath,

a box.

Not tech.

Not cash.

Not escape supplies.

Just—

A box.

Wooden. Worn. Carefully hidden.

Damian pulled it free, shoving the lid open with a rough breath.

And inside:

Drawings.

Letters.

Painted cards.

Handmade bracelets, crumpled origami bats, scribbled “I love you” notes.

All of it—

For them.

“Tim’s the smartest,” one said in crayon. “He doesn’t talk to me a lot but I hope he knows I think he’s amazing.”

“Dick said I could come to the arcade next week!! I can’t wait I can’t wait I can’t wait!!”

That never happened.

“To Jason—I made you a snack today but I left it in the fridge because I don’t want to bother you. Hope it makes you feel better.”

Even ones for Bruce:

“I don’t need anything fancy. I just want you to be home sometimes.”

“Happy birthday, Daddy. I don’t know if you want to celebrate, but I got you this drawing anyway.”

The drawings were aged.

Edges curled. Smudges at the corners. One or two had obvious water damage.

Most were never opened.

Others looked like they’d been recovered from the trash.

No one spoke.

Bruce knelt beside Damian now, one hand trembling as he picked up a folded note.

“You’re my favorite hero even if you don’t talk to me much. I hope I can be someone you’re proud of. I try really hard. Even if I mess up. I’m sorry if I mess up.”

Tim stared into the box.

Into the pieces of a girl none of them really knew.

A girl who begged for their attention, then slowly taught herself not to want it anymore.

Then the door burst open.

“I’m home!”

Dick’s voice.

Bright.

Hopeful.

He was holding a paper bag in one hand and a small wrapped box in the other.

“Got the pastries she liked on her instagram—figured I’d surprise her. Did she make it back yet?”

They didn’t answer.

He froze mid-step when he saw their faces.

“…What happened?”

He looked past them.

Into the room.

And saw it.

The phone.

The empty bed.

The missing elephant plush.

The blank silence.

The box in Bruce’s hands.

The raw devastation on Alfred’s face.

The panic in Tim’s fingers as they tapped furiously on his screen.

Damian crouched on the floor. Trembling. Jaw clenched. Hands shaking in his lap.

Dick’s voice cracked.

“…Where’s my little flower?”

_____

The window creaked.

The air shifted.

All heads turned.

Jason.

Boots heavy. Leather scuffed. Red helmet tucked under one arm. He stepped over the windowsill like it was nothing, pausing mid-motion as his boot hit the floor.

Unlocked?

He frowned.

That window was never left open.

He would have to scold her for being so careless.

The room hit him like a brick.

Scattered sheets. Overturned drawers. Empty desk. The low hum of tension in the air.

And the silence—the eerie, heavy silence—of a room that had been picked clean of a life.

Jason turned to the others, arching a brow.

“…Okay, why does it look like someone just got abducted in here?”

No one laughed.

No one even flinched.

That’s when he noticed it—Bruce, standing beside the bed, face blank, eyes darker than coal. Tim crouched beside the desk, still glued to his tech, sweat at his temples. Damian near the foot of the bed, fists clenched, lips curled in furious silence.

And Dick—

Dick was on the floor, kneeling beside a small wooden box with shaking hands. His gloves had been tossed aside, like they were getting in the way. His face was unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes were wildfire.

Jason’s voice lost its sarcasm.

“…Where is she?”

No one answered.

He stepped forward, fast now. Eyes darted across the mess.

“What happened? What the hell happened?”

Then his eyes locked onto the pile in the box.

Small drawings. Crayon notes. Carefully tied bracelets, some frayed, some with beads missing. A hand-drawn sketch of the whole Batfamily… with a stick-figure Jason holding a cupcake labeled “Don’t be angry today.”

His throat tightened.

“…She made this?”

Dick didn’t speak.

Just slowly lifted a folded diary page and passed it to him.

Jason took it.

Read.

And everything inside him stopped.

“Today Dick smiled at me. He called me his little flower. He hasn’t said that in a long time, but I remember it every day. I hope maybe he says it again soon. I don’t know why he stopped. But it made me feel warm. It made me feel like maybe he loves me too.”

Jason lowered the page slowly.

“…She’s gone.”

Tim spoke, voice sharp. “We don’t know where. She left her phone, her tracker, everything.”

“She planned it,” Damian added bitterly. “She’s been planning it for a while.”

Jason’s jaw tightened. His helmet fell to the floor with a thud.

“Why the hell didn’t anyone notice?”

That was aimed at everyone, but especially at Bruce.

Bruce, who hadn’t moved in minutes.

“You,” Jason snapped, stepping forward now, finger pointed. “You’re her goddamn father. What the hell were you doing?”

“She was—” Bruce started, but Jason cut him off.

“She was invisible in this house for years, Bruce. She screamed for attention without making a sound. And you—what? You just let it happen?”

No one stopped him.

Not this time.

Alfred’s voice finally cut in—tired, gravel-soft.

“She left today. She was wearing her coat, and the plush was missing.”

Jason’s breath caught.

“The elephant?”

Dick nodded once. His face was still blank.

Jason cursed.

He spun toward Tim, voice sharp.

“You’re the genius—track her.”

“I’ve tried,” Tim snapped back, pushing to his feet. “She wiped her digital signature. Do you want to know what’s worse? We don’t even know her. We never bothered to. I have no clue what she listens to. Where she likes to go. What kind of clothes she wears. Hell—I just found out she’s the student rep two days ago.”

Dick finally stood up.

When he moved, he moved like a soldier.

Eyes dark. Expression flat. He took off his jacket, grabbed his comm from the desk, and clipped it to his belt without a word.

“Where are you going?” Jason asked.

“Where do you think?”

Dick’s voice was low. Controlled.

“I’m going to find my little flower.”

Damian stood too.

“If anyone finds her, it will be me.”

“No,” Tim said without looking at him. “If anyone finds her first, it’ll be whoever knows her best. And none of us do.”

His eyes finally lifted.

“But we’re going to learn.”

They didn’t speak again for a long moment. The weight of what they’d lost—what they had blindly let slip through their fingers—hung in the air like a curse.

But as the silence deepened, something else began to stir beneath it.

Resolve.

Not calm.

Not peace.

Something darker.

Possessive. Territorial. Obsessive.

She was theirs—their sweet, soft Y/N. The one with the doe eyes and sugar-laced voice. The one who baked for them and never asked for anything. The one they didn’t deserve—but still belonged to them.

And now?

She was out there. Alone. Vulnerable. Beautiful.

In a city like Gotham.

That was unacceptable.

Whether she wanted to be found or not didn’t matter.

She was going to be found.

She was going to be brought back.

And this time—she would never be allowed to slip away again.

Even if it meant burning Gotham down to find her.

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[1-800-crazy]

— the “informant” (jason todd x reader)

Summary: You mark up one of Jason's case files, and it slips both of your minds the next day. So, when Jason brings the file with him to the cave, everyone quickly catches on to the fact that Jason is working with someone. He's able to pass it off as just an informant, but one sibling stumbles upon the truth. Word count: 1.1k

Jason lands as quietly as possible on the fire escape attached to his apartment — top floor corner, adjacent to an alley with almost zero lighting and a building with no windows. Great for a vigilante at least.

He crouches down by the window, pressing a disguised button to disable the alarm attached. After the soft popping sound, he pushes up the window and steps through into his apartment. His boots land on scuffed hardwood with a thud and he quickly shuts the window, turning the alarm back on while doing so.

The apartment is silent besides the soft rush of air coming from the air conditioner. As he moves into his kitchen, he hears a mug be placed on the counter gently, then the scratch of a pen against paper. A small fond smile forms on his face, hidden by his helmet, which he takes off as he passes through the archway.

You're sitting at the counter, a cup of tea to your right and a file in front of you. "You snoopin' through my stuff now?" He teases. You pick up your head the slightest, and he can make your sheepish smile. "You seemed a little stumped, thought I could offer my expertise." Jason is reminded of the past you once held, following your "mentor" around the world as they battled assassins and the like. You had a similar life to him, but you left your cape behind for a new start in Gotham of all places. He got lucky meeting you.

Jason watches as you twirl a glittery, purple gel pen in between your fingers. He silently removes the rest of his getup as you return to making small notes in the margins of the case profile. Being with you is easy, because sometimes his presence in the room is enough. No words have to be exchanged even as time passes.

He peels off his mask and washes away the 'glue' on his face. Jason can feel your eyes on him, watching as he shrugs off his leather jacket, then his gloves. "You joining me?" He asks when he turns around, tipping his head toward the hallway that leads to the bathroom. Sometimes, when he arrives home and you're awake, you'll join him in the shower. It's never anything sexual, but relaxing nonetheless; with your hands gentle as you run the soap through his hair, and your soft words. "Mmm...sure. I'm about done, anyway." You slip off the stool silently, closing the file before stretching your arms above your head.

A moment later, Jason is in front of you, placing a kiss on your temple, your cheek. "I think they might be selling to Scarecrow, some of the chemicals are similar to what he's been using lately." Jason groans at your statement and his head falls to lean against your shoulder. "Not now, I do not need more motivation to go back out there."

"Later, then."

Later never comes; Jason picks up a shift at the auto shop near the edge of Park Row, and you go into work as you usually do. He completely forgets about your 'annotations', so he brings the file with him when he visits the cave later that night.

"Since when do you own a glitter pen?" Tim teases from his spot by the computer, Jason's file open in front of him. "What— Gimme it." Jason springs forward, memories from the previous night coming back to him. Tim quickly grabs the papers, holding them in the air and leaving the manila file folder on the desk.

"What's going on?" Steph questions, eyes narrowed as Tim stands on his chair to get a height advantage over Jason. "Todd uses a glitter pen." Damian rolls his eyes before going back to sparring against a hologram.

"It's purple," Tim grins and laughs as Steph gasps dramatically. "You do like purple! I knew it!"

"I do not! Give me the file, replacement. I'm serious." Jason wraps his arm around Tim, pulling off the chair and into his arms. Tim squirms, then falls to the floor with the papers still in his hands. He scrambles up quickly, and extends his staff. "This isn't your handwriting...you're working with someone!" Tim exclaims, poking Jason away from him as he quickly reads through the top paper.

"Jason, we should talk before you let anyone else read our case files," Bruce comments as he easily grabs the papers from Tim's hands. "I'm not working with anyone," Jason grumbles, rolling his eyes behind his mask. However, his cheeks are red hot, thankfully hidden by his helmet.

Dick peers over Bruce's shoulder, reading as well. "Tim's right though, this isn't your handwriting," He grins brightly, walking over to Jason with a giddy smile. "Did you make a new friend, Little Wing?" Jason can hear Steph and Tim laugh in the background as he groans.

"It's— They're just an informant, I did background checks and I've known them for a bit. I trust them." Everyone goes quiet for a bit, staring at him like it's hard to believe that he'd let anyone else get that close. "That's good," Dick comments, and everyone murmurs their agreements. It's awkward, because they still step around like he'll snap at them any second.

"I'm leaving." He stomps over to his bike, the engine roaring loudly as he starts it up. There's eyes on his back until he's out of the cave.

After Bruce and Tim read through the papers annotated by Jason's informant, Cass grabs them. Tim had taken pictures to try and analyze the handwriting, and she could see Bruce's silent questions about who the informant could be. Whoever Jason gave the file had insight even Tim missed the first time, and they added funny little comments on the side. When she goes to put the papers back in the file folder, she finds a sticky note on the inside in the same glittery purple pen. You're welcome Jay; I <3 U :).

Cass smiles softly, taking out the sticky note carefully and putting the papers back. When she goes out, she starts in Crime Alley first, even if it's Jason's territory. He finds her quickly.

"What're you doing here, Bat?" Jason asks, arms crossed over his chest. Cass opens one of the pockets on her belt, and pulls out the sticky note. She unfolds it before handing it to Jason. He reads it, then quickly looks at Cass again. "You didn't show anyone, did you?"

She shakes her head and Jason sighs in relief. "Thanks." Cass nods before leaving the rooftop just as fast as she came.

Jason folds the note back up with a smile. He'll have to delete some of his mask footage tonight.

my first time writing for jason, i hope you enjoy ☺️

[1-800-crazy]

Some robins designs so they’re not just “kid with a mask and curtain bangs”

[1-800-crazy]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ᯋ ݁ Filthy child III ݁

⸺ Authors note ; Yandere! platonic! batfam x Neglected! fem! reader. Potential disturbing wordings/descriptions. This is meant to be psychological horror, with angst. Viewers discretion is advised. Usage of Y/N, English isnt my first language. wc: 3,8k Not beta read. pls hmu with questions or smth.. ⸺ directory ; Previous, next

The drive home—if you could even call it that—was shrouded in silence.

You sat curled against the window, forehead pressed to the glass as the car hummed beneath you. The city blurred past in streaks of light and motion, but you weren’t really looking. Just watching. Empty-eyed. Distant. Detached.

Children played on sidewalks, their laughter chasing after kites and bubbles. You watched one stumble and fall—only to be swept into their mother’s arms a second later. Warm. Immediate. Automatic.

You didn’t know what stung more—the jealousy, or the disbelief.

You envied them, yes. The ease with which they were loved. The casual way they were held. But at the same time, a colder thought crept in:

What if it was all pretend?

What if their smiles were bought with silence?

What if their hugs were guilt, not warmth?

That was what you used to ask yourself every night when she was still alive.

When your mother would rock you to sleep in silence—not out of affection, but because her own loneliness couldn’t stand another echo in the house. Because the liquor couldn’t numb out her loneliness anymore.

Love had always come twisted. Conditional. Fickle. Sick.

And now?

Now you couldn’t tell the difference.

The silence thickened like fog until Alfred’s voice finally cut through it, soft and aged.

“Miss [Y/N]?”

You didn’t look at him. Just blinked slowly at your own reflection in the window, half-expecting it to blink back wrong.

“The nurses told me a few things,” he continued gently. “They said you were very polite. Well-mannered. I’m glad to hear you behaved so well.”

It wasn’t cruel. Wasn’t meant to sting.

But still—it did.

Your fingers curled in your lap, voice barely a whisper.

“I wasn’t trying to be good. I was just… being myself.”

The words tasted bitter. Like dust. Like something someone else would’ve said for you.

You hated this. Conversations drenched in softness, in sugar, in that careful pity adults thought they were hiding. You didn’t want kindness. You didn’t want praise. You just wanted truth.

Even if it hurt.

Even if it bled.

Alfred let out a low, quiet chuckle. Not mocking. Not insincere. Just worn down at the edges.

“Then you must have a very kind heart, Miss [Y/N],” he said. “Even if the world hasn’t been kind to you.”

That made your throat tighten.

Because that wasn’t true.

The world had been kind to you—hadn’t it?

You had Mommy.

Mommy who tucked you in. Mommy who told you that no one else would understand you like she did. That the world was dangerous and selfish and full of people who only smiled when they wanted something. But not her. Never her.

She was yours.

You were hers.

And wasn’t that love?

Your throat tightened, mouth suddenly dry.

You tried to swallow it down, but the spiral had already begun—slow, suffocating. You gripped the fabric of your sleeves, nails biting into skin. Alfred’s words echoed again, too gentle, too real.

Even if the world hasn’t been kind to you.

But it had been. It had been.

Hadn’t it?

You had Mommy.

Even when she hurt you. Even when she didn’t look at you. Even when she drank too much and said things she couldn’t take back. Even when she screamed and slammed doors and left you alone in the dark for hours because you’d made her too tired to love.

That was kindness, wasn’t it?

That was love.

It had to be.

Because if it wasn’t—if the world hadn’t been kind—then everything you survived meant nothing.

And that couldn’t be true.

So instead of responding, you stared harder out the window, eyes stinging with something you refused to name.

And Alfred, kind as he was, said nothing more.

Just drove.

By the time you arrived home—the sky had already dulled into a shade too grey to be called night, too lifeless to be day.

The car ride had continued silently, save for the occasional clink of the engine cooling or the subtle sigh from Alfred at the wheel. He hadn't spoken much after that small conversation.

Not because he didn’t care, you thought.

But because he knew silence was a language you understood better than any half-hearted condolence.

Most of the time you didn’t look at him.

Couldn’t.

You just watched the world slide past the window. Rain-streaked glass blurring the shapes of children and dogs and tired mothers clutching too many bags. Families. Faces. Motion. Laughter.

The gates of Wayne Manor opened with the groan of old secrets, and you felt your chest tighten with every foot the car pulled closer to that grand, looming house.

You stepped out when Alfred opened your door, the umbrella held like a shield above you, but the rain had already kissed your hair, trailing down your neck like ghost fingers.

"Let me help with your things, Miss [Y/N]," he said gently.

You nodded, but the weight in your chest didn’t shift. You followed him up the steps. The doors opened.

And the house swallowed you.

Inside was warm, yes. But only technically. The kind of warmth manufactured by fireplaces no one sat beside and heating systems that worked too well. It didn’t chase the chill from your bones. It only pushed it deeper, made it linger.

There were no greetings. No welcome home. No voices calling your name.

Just polished floors. Portraits that watched too closely. And silence.

The silence was the worst part.

Your footsteps barely made a sound as you were guided down not-familiar halls. You were led to a room you were told was yours now. It had soft pillows. Too many blankets. Books on a shelf you hadn’t read and wouldn’t touch. A window with a view of the garden. All of it carefully curated, thoughtfully arranged.

None of it felt like yours.

You stepped inside and stood there for a long time. Not moving. Not thinking. Just breathing. Slowly. Carefully. Like even that had to be earned here.

And then—

The room shifted.

Not physically. Not visibly. But something in the air tugged.

Your throat tightened.

You felt it once more.

The arms.

Not grabbing, not dragging like they did in the past. Just holding. Comforting. Curling around your shoulders and waist like a memory that hadn’t rotted yet. There was no pressure. No pain. Just presence.

You couldn’t see them. Not fully. But the mirror caught their outline. Just enough. Shadowy impressions, arms you knew too well. You didn’t turn. You didn’t run.

Because part of you—a part you hated—missed this.

The feeling of being wanted. Even by something that didn’t belong to the world of the living.

'You were a good girl,' it seemed to say. 'Mommy always knew that.'

Your lips trembled.

You had always believed the world had been perfectly kind to you. Why wouldn’t you? You had Mommy. That was enough. That was everything.

And now?

Now, when someone called you kind, or brave, or good, it didn’t make you feel warm.

It made you spiral.

Because no one had ever said that to you before. Not like they meant it. Not like they believed it.

And if they were saying it now, it had to be a lie. A trick. A mistake.

The world doesn’t hand out kindness for free. It doesn’t offer safety without a price.

The embrace tightened.

Not cruel. Just firm.

Like it knew you were about to run.

You closed your eyes, and for a moment, you let yourself lean into it.

Because Bruce hadn’t come.

Because no one real had.

So you laid there, smiling for once.

You woke up to voices downstairs.

Muffled, distant—just far enough to sound like a dream, just loud enough to remind you it wasn’t.

For a moment, you didn’t move.

The unfamiliar ceiling above you loomed like a stranger’s gaze. The sheets beneath you were softer than anything you’d ever slept in, and that alone made your skin itch. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. You hadn’t even remembered lying down.

It was dark now. The sky outside your window was the kind of heavy black that made the stars seem like wounds. The soft hum of electricity crawled along the walls, machines embedded in the architecture like quiet lungs.

The voices floated upward again. Laughter. Forks against porcelain. Warmth where you hadn’t been invited.

You slipped out of bed, the carpet quiet beneath your bare feet, and crept toward the door. It opened without a sound. Of course it did. Even the hinges were trained here. This house didn’t creak. It didn’t groan. It didn’t speak unless spoken to.

The hallway was dimly lit, golden sconces trailing a path like breadcrumbs. You followed them.

You didn’t know who was downstairs. You didn’t care. You just needed to see it—whatever “it” was. Proof that the world was still moving. That people still gathered around tables and talked and laughed like they meant it.

The staircase yawned open at the end of the corridor, curling like a spine. You reached it quietly, slowly, heart ticking like a bomb in your throat. And then you saw them.

Down below. At the dining table.

Three men—Two older than you. One was laughing. Another rolled his eyes, nudging his glass with too much grace to be casual. The third—the one with the darker stare—only listened, nodding every now and then. Their faces were familiar in that newspaper kind of way. Pretty. Polished. Perfect.

You didn’t know their names.

They didn’t know you existed.

And yet, there they were. Eating. Talking. Living.

A family.

Something inside you curled inwards.

You stayed in the shadows of the staircase, gripping the banister like it could keep you tethered. The light didn’t reach you here. The warmth didn’t either. You watched them from the dark like a ghost still deciding whether or not it had the right to haunt.

They didn’t hear you. Didn’t glance up. Didn’t pause.

Why would they?

You were a stranger in a stranger’s house.

You weren’t introduced. You weren’t expected. You were… absorbed. Quietly. Tucked away in a spare room like an afterthought wrapped in hospital sheets.

One of the men laughed again—too loud this time. For a moment, your ears rang. It was the kind of sound that made you ache. Not because it hurt. But because it was real. So real it pressed up against your chest and made your ribs feel too small for your lungs.

You should’ve gone back upstairs. You should’ve turned around. But you couldn’t move.

Because they looked like a painting.

One you weren’t in.

One your mother had torn you out of long before you were ever born.

Your fingers trembled on the rail. You squeezed harder.

Eventually you began to calm down.

And you stayed still.

But you knew the longer you listened, the colder your hands got.

No one had told you they were having dinner. No one had come to get you. You hadn’t even known it was evening until you opened your eyes to the sound of it.

Your stomach ached—not from hunger, but from something lower, heavier.

Why hadn’t they invited you?

You stood there too long. Long enough that footsteps finally reached you from the other side of the hall. They were soft, measured. Familiar.

Alfred.

He noticed you the moment he rounded the corner. His eyes softened, as if he already knew what you were about to ask. That made it worse.

“Miss [Y/N],” he said gently, stopping a few steps from you. “You’re awake.”

You didn’t answer. Just looked past him—toward the voices, the light, the warmth you hadn’t been offered.

He followed your gaze, and something shifted in his expression. Regret, maybe. Guilt. A weariness older than this house.

You looked back at him. Quiet. Careful.

“…Why wasn’t I invited?”

The words hung in the air like fog—thin but impossible to ignore.

Alfred didn’t flinch. But he didn’t answer right away either. He glanced toward the stairs, then back to you, folding his hands behind his back.

“Master Bruce is…” he started, then paused. Adjusted his tone. “…He’s not ready yet.”

You didn’t blink.

“Ready for what?”

There was a long silence.

Alfred’s eyes softened again, though this time it felt more like an apology than comfort. “He’s grieving, in his own way. You must understand, child. You weren’t expected.”

A beat passed.

Then he added, more gently, “But that’s not your fault.”

Your fingers clenched the banister tighter. You could feel the sting behind your eyes, but you refused to let it show. Not here. Not in front of him.

“So I’m just supposed to stay up there?” you asked quietly. “Like I’m not real?”

Alfred didn’t look away. “Bruce lost someone very dear to him. And now, suddenly, you’re here—someone he didn’t know existed. Someone who reminds him of a past he never truly let go.”

You looked down at your feet. Your toes curled against the cold wood.

You’d been here less than a day, and already the house felt like it had rules no one would say out loud. You didn’t belong in the room with the lights. You didn’t belong at the table with the laughter.

You were the echo of something no one wanted to remember.

Alfred stepped closer, lowering his voice like he didn’t want the others to hear. “This isn’t permanent. I promise you, things will shift. They always do in this house.”

You stared at him.

Then, very softly, “Is that why she left?”

His expression flickered.

For the first time, Alfred looked like he didn’t have an answer. Or maybe he did—but he didn’t think you were old enough to survive hearing it.

He simply said, “You should rest. Tomorrow… we’ll talk more.”

You didn’t move.

You didn’t answer.

Just watched him turn and walk away—his steps echoing against polished floors as he disappeared back down the hall.

The dining room was still full of noise, of voices that didn’t know you, of warmth that wasn’t meant for you.

You stood there a little longer.

Then turned away. Quietly. Like a ghost retracing steps it was never supposed to take.

After a long while in a room that didn’t feel like yours, you heard a knock.

Soft. Muted. Polite in the way that only someone like Alfred could be— never too loud, never demanding. Just a presence, gently reminding you that time still moved, even when you didn’t.

It snapped you out of whatever fog you’d let yourself sink into.

You hadn’t meant to disappear inside your own head. It just happened — easy as breathing.

The walls of the room had blurred hours ago, melting into a dull, gray sameness. The light from the window had long since faded, taking the last hints of color with it.

You sat up from the corner of the bed, muscles stiff and sore from curling into yourself too long. The air was still. The kind of stillness that didn't feel peaceful, but hollow. Like the room was waiting for you to either scream or settle. Like it was testing you.

Alfred’s voice followed the knock. Gentle. Weathered.

“Miss [Y/N]... I’ve prepared something for you. It’s in the kitchen, if you’d like to come down.”

There was a pause. Just long enough to suggest that he almost said something else — but didn’t.

Then silence again. His footsteps padded away down the hall. He didn’t wait for your answer.

You didn’t move at first.

The idea of leaving the room felt heavier than it should have. Like if you stepped outside, the world might shift again. Tilt. Breathe down your neck. Remind you that it hadn’t stopped turning just because yours had.

Still, after a few more moments of sitting in the dark — of listening to the quiet press in around you like cotton stuffed in your ears — you stood.

The hallway outside was low-lit and warm in a distant, manufactured way. Light spilled from sconces along the walls in muted golds and soft yellows, casting long shadows across the polished wood floors. They flickered slightly — not from age, but from the quiet draft that haunted old homes. The air carried the faint scent of something savory, something cooked slow. Something unfamiliar.

Your bare feet made little sound as you padded quietly through the corridor, passing doors you hadn’t opened and portraits you didn’t recognize. Some of the faces were stern, others proud, others just tired. Painted ghosts lining the walls, watching another stranger walk through halls they'd already seen too many people disappear inside.

The house didn’t feel cold — not in temperature. But it was not warm, either. Not in the way that meant belonging. It was curated. Maintained. Lived in by people who knew their place inside it. You weren’t one of them.

You were an echo. Just passing through. A shape made of questions.

The kitchen was down the corridor and to the right — far enough that the house had already swallowed you before you realized it.

And when you stepped inside—

You froze.

It was quiet. Still. Only the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint creak of pipes somewhere behind the walls reminded you that the house was alive at all.

A single light was on. Dim. Warm. It hung low over the far end of the kitchen table, casting a small circle of gold onto the wooden surface — like a spotlight over something sacred.

And there, in the middle of it, was a place set for you.

Just one.

A bowl. A spoon. A small glass of water. A slice of bread laid carefully to the side of a linen napkin, folded so neatly it almost made your chest hurt.

Steam still curled gently from the surface of the soup.

You stepped in slowly, unsure if you were meant to. The moment felt delicate — like one wrong footstep might shatter it.

But no one stopped you.

There was no one here.

Not Alfred. Not Bruce. No stiff introductions. No sideways glances. No pity. Just this table, this light, this meal.

It took you longer than it should’ve to sit.

The chair scraped gently against the floor when you pulled it back, and for a second, you hated that sound. It was too loud. Too real.

You sat. Slowly. Like a guest in someone else’s memory.

The soup smelled like something simple — carrots, potatoes, something earthy. Real food. Not a microwave hum. Not a paper plate. Not leftovers scraped from someone else’s plate. It smelled… warm.

You picked up the spoon.

It was heavier than you expected. Not clunky. Just real. Solid. The kind of spoon used by people who made meals on purpose. You dipped it into the bowl and took a small bite.

And it stunned you.

Not because it was extraordinary. But because it wasn’t. It was exactly what it looked like. A warm, hearty soup. Seasoned just enough. Made just right. You could taste the hands that made it. The patience. The care.

It wasn’t meant to impress you.

It was meant to feed you.

You didn’t realize how badly you’d needed that difference until your throat closed up.

You took another bite.

And another.

And with each one, the knot in your stomach pulled tighter — not looser. Like your body didn’t know how to accept kindness without bracing for the slap that should follow.

No one had ever cooked for you like this before. Not quietly. Not without being asked. Not like it was normal. Not like it was love.

You ate slowly.

Not because you weren’t hungry.

But because it felt like if you finished too fast, the warmth might vanish. The moment might end. The chair might disappear from under you and the light might blink out.

And the silence — the one that had always felt cruel before — now held you like a blanket. No one was watching. No one needed you to say thank you. No one needed you to earn this.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, then caught yourself — glancing guiltily at the napkin beside your plate.

But you didn’t reach for it.

You weren’t ready for something that gentle yet.

So you sat back instead, spoon laid gently across the empty bowl, and stared at the light above you.

The warmth you tried so hard to kept had settled somewhere deep in your chest now — but not in a comforting way. Not fully. It pooled there thickly, uneasily. Like a memory trying to grow roots in the wrong soil.

Your eyes stung before you even realized why.

At first, it didn’t make sense.

You weren’t sad, exactly. Or scared. Or angry. Not in any way you could name. But something about the quiet — this still, careful quiet that had made space for you without asking — it began to crack something open.

You pushed the chair back. Stood quickly. Like maybe if you moved fast enough, the tightness in your throat would dissolve.

It didn’t.

Your fingers gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white, breath shallow. The dim kitchen light flickered faintly above you — not broken, just old. Familiar, maybe, in its imperfection.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

Then it happened.

Hot tears slipped free.

One, then another. Then too many to count.

You weren’t even making noise — just standing there, chest trembling, shoulders curling inward as the weight of it all crushed down.

You hadn’t meant to cry. You hated crying. It made you feel too big and too small all at once. Like something messy left out in the open.

“I shouldn’t be here,” you whispered hoarsely to no one. “I came too soon. I… I didn’t mean to.”

You weren’t sure if you were apologizing to Alfred, or Bruce, or the house itself. Or maybe to her.

To your mother.

To [M/N].

You pressed your hand to your mouth, trying to stop the sob that rose next — sharp and sudden like a wound reopening.

Bruce hadn’t even seen you.

Not once.

No knock. No hello. No eye contact.

You weren’t angry about it — not really. You told yourself you understood. He was mourning. He lost her too. Maybe even more than you did. Maybe she had meant more to him than she ever did to herself.

But still.

You were here now. You were breathing. You were hurting.

And he hadn’t even looked at you.

Your lips trembled.

“He could mourn her,” you whispered bitterly, “and still not forget I exist…”

Another tear hit the floor.

You wiped your cheeks with the sleeves of your shirt, angry at yourself for letting it all spill out now — when no one was even watching. When no one would ever ask.

You shouldn’t have come.

But you had nowhere else to go.

And for all the things Bruce Wayne had lost — for all the grief and heaviness he carried like armor — he wasn’t the only one who’d lost her.

You were just the one left behind.

Unchosen. Uninvited. Unspoken to.

You turned from the counter, throat raw and eyes swollen.

And for a moment, you just stood there — in the golden spill of kitchen light, empty bowl behind you, tears still clinging to your chin.

Silent.

Still.

Alone.

@ TTDAMIAN. pretty please, translate and rewrite any of my works, or repost my works in any other platform without asking. (ts a joke get out)

Taglist: @cssammyyarts @wendee-go @sadeem575 @c4xcocoa @time-shardz @whaaaaaaaaat111 @noone1233nobody @justanerd1 @bbmgirll @bakuraloverr @myjumper @cupid73 @lordbugs @cheappremingerfromdelululand @lovebug-apple

[1-800-crazy]

𝐀 𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒓 𝐕𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Azriel x Summer Court Princess!reader

Summary: Azriel is forced to take a vacation periodically. It isn't his fault that he is allowed back at the Summer Court and Cassian isn't.

A/n: Haven't written in a few months so I am dipping my toes back in. Unsure how I feel abt this one. Also I usually don't give descriptions when it is an "x reader" but I made the reader Tarquin's cousin and she is described as having dark skin and stark white hair.

Warnings: Suggestive, Az pinches reader's ass once and vice versa, the Inner Circle is nosy (what else is new), Tarquin is soooo hot and sexy (not a warning I just thought it should be restated)

The Spy Master’s job was demanding. It required his mind and body to be focused, agile, adaptable, and strong. After centuries serving under two High Lords of Night, Azriel had seen and been through a lot. And sometimes, even the most trained of warriors simply couldn’t continue on without a break.

When Rhysand had first become High Lord, he suggested the idea to his shadowsinger. 

“A simple break, every once in a while, just so I don’t have to worry that you are going to lose it and damn this court to Hel.” Rhysand had teased. He knew better than to doubt his brother’s ability to protect his court, but he did doubt Azriel’s ability to know when he had had enough, when it was in fact time for a well deserved break.

Azriel had sent a scathing look to his brother, mumbling something about not being in the mood for Rhysand’s nagging, before disappearing into his shadows. 

Neither had given much thought to the idea, until a few years later. 

Cassian had gotten drunk, belligerently so. Rhysand and Mor not far behind him. What had turned into an exciting trip to the Summer Court to strengthen political alliances had soon turned into a drunken revelry. Instead of tightening said relations, the Night Court’s General had gotten to drunk he had leveled an entire building, one far older than Amren herself. In the end, the alliance between Night and Summer was hanging by a thread, and Cassian had been banned from the court for the rest of his life. 

Rhysand and Mor, upon hearing the news, had drunkenly promised Cassian that they would never return to Summer for any reason other than court politics so long as he was banned. While the rest of Azriel’s family pouted and begged him to join the pact, Azriel had realized the opportunity that presented itself at the end of the escapade. 

Maybe he will take that vacation after all.

Many years later…

“Is Azriel joining us?” Nesta asked as she sat down, extremely late, for family dinner. Her mate, who can be blamed for the couple’s lateness, tried to nonchalantly adjust his clothing, as if the smell from the two of them alone wasn’t proof enough of what just exactly the two had been up to that had caused their late arrival. 

“He is off in Summer for the next two weeks.” Rhysand replied, grimacing at the stench of sex coming from his sister-in-law and brother. 

“He just returned from a mission! You are sending him on another right after?” Nesta pointed an accusatory finger at Rhys. “I haven’t seen him in almost a month, do you know how hard it is to deal with him,” she gestured to Cassian, “with no one to mock him with me?” 

Cassian’s offended gasps were ignored by both his mate and brother. “He isn’t on a mission, Nesta. He is on vacation.” Rhysand answered. Nesta was always quick to accuse Rhysand of less-then-stellar decision making when it came to his family, but for once her claims were baseless. 

Rhys’ answer just made Nesta laugh. “In what world would Azriel take a vacation? Much less to a place like the Summer Court.” 

Cassian, still hurt by his mate’s previous comments, grumbled as he replied: “Rhys makes him take them periodically, and he goes to Summer just because he knows I am banned for life and gets a kick out of rubbing it in my face.” 

That sounded more like the shadowsinger Nesta had grown to adore. 

“It is not just you he is escaping from, Rhys and I are still not allowed because of that dumb pact.” Mor whined. She had justified her decision to join Cassian in his banishment from vacationing because she had thought it wouldn’t actually last for life… and because she had been so severely inebriated when she had made that promise. But 200 years later with not a single vacation to Summer since, Mor had grown to resent Cassian for his own banishment. 

“If it makes you feel better, Cassian, Azriel probably isn’t doing more than staying in his room and reading. I don’t think he is one for the Summer sun.” Feyre spoke up as she tried to comfort the Illyrian. 

Everyone seemed content with that answer, until two distinct laughs were heard from the end of the table. 

“I think the boy is doing just fine in Summer.” Amren snickered as she glanced at Varian, who was trying to hide his laugh behind his napkin. 

When neither of the two offered any more information, the High Lord spoke up.

“And what exactly do you mean by that, Amren?” 

“Did you see him before you left, Varian? I can’t imagine he was enjoying the sun on the beach.” Nesta asked. 

Varian gave Amren a look, blaming her for the situation she put him in, before replying: “No, I can’t imagine he was having much fun in the sunshine. But the female who was shoving her tongue down his throat certainly was.” 

There were about four seconds of silence at the table before the entire Inner Circle erupted in questions. While Amren rolled her eyes at their inquisitive eagerness, she too had been shocked and equally intrigued when Varian had told her of his findings last night. She had even gone to bed with a smile on her face, imagining the scenario in which she got to drop this bombshell on her family and then give no answers to their questions. 

Seeing it in person, though, was so much better than she could have ever imagined. 

Two weeks had passed by painfully slow for the Inner Circle as they awaited their Spy Master’s return. Since that fateful night, neither Varian nor Amren had been willing to share any more information. 

When Azriel finally arrived home, having been warned ahead of time by Varian that his family would have more than a few questions for him, Az felt all of the time he spent relaxing disappear in an instant as his family threw question after question at him. 

He let their interrogation go on for a few minutes before he started to get a headache from the noise. So much for those two weeks off.

Putting up a hand, Azriel let out a breath when they all instantly shut up. 

He could go about this a few ways, but he knew what his preferred method was when it came to dealing with his friends and their need to know everything about his life, especially the things he wasn’t quite willing to share. 

“I have no idea what you all are talking about. You shouldn’t believe anything that comes out of the mouth of those two. They just wanted to get you all riled up.” And with that, he disappeared into the shadows. 

For the next few weeks, Azriel had skirted every attempt to bring up his vacation beyond giving “it was relaxing. Maybe I need a vacation away from you all more”, until the Inner Circle eventually gave up. 

“With all of that said, I believe all of us would rather be anywhere else, no need to keep torturing ourselves.” Helion said as he effectively dismissed the meeting of the High Lords and Ladies.

As the Night Court got their bearings together, ready to winnow back to Velaris, Tarquin quickly stopped them. 

While they had helped save Adriata in the war, Tarquin hadn’t yet been willing to forgive Rhysand and Feyre for betraying his friendship, no matter how noble their intentions, so the entire Inner Circle had been surprised to see the young High Lord trying to speak to them. 

“Tarquin? What can we do for you?” Rhysand asked, hoping he could finally win over the Summer Court fae.

“Azriel, I have a letter for you. I had told her to send it herself, as playing messenger is not a part of my duties as High Lord, but she insisted she couldn’t trust it going through other networks.” The High Lord sighed as he handed the rather bulky letter to the shadowsinger, completely ignoring the rest of the court standing around them. 

Though he schooled his face, there was the slightest hint of blush on Azriel’s cheeks as he took the letter into his hand. Not waiting around for the rest of his family, Az disappeared into the shadows after giving a quick nod of gratitude to Tarquin. 

When the rest of the Inner Circle had gotten home, Azriel was nowhere to be seen. 

Rhysand quickly scribbled a note, seemingly delivering it to wherever Az had gone off to. A quick reply came a second later. 

I believe I am owed a few more days off. If you need me, don’t. - Azriel

“Oh come on! Is he seriously having Tarquin deliver letters from whatever fae female he is having an illicit affair with? Then disappearing to gods know where? Rhys, I got to know what the fuck is going on or I’ll lose my mind.” Cassian begged. 

“We all know where he is, Cassian. And if I remember correctly, none of us can visit because of you.” Rhysand replied. 

“That's not fair, Feyre can’t visit because of her own actions.” Cassian replied, pointing an accusatory finger at his High Lady. 

“My actions were for the sake of the entirety of Prythian, you all got drunk and made stupid decisions. They are not comparable.” Feyre argued. 

Amren, who had been silently enjoying the argument, snickered from her chair. 

At once, everyone turned to the small female, a clever smile adorning all their faces. 

Suddenly, Amren was no longer amused. 

“You” Morrigan wielded the word like an accusation, “have grown close to Tarquin through your… romantic entanglement with Varian.” Amren growled at the phrase. “Any chance you could get Cassian unbanned?” Mor asked, hope laced in her tone. 

It had been another High Lord who had banished the general. While Tarquin made it clear he wasn’t ready to be friends with the Night Court, she knew that he had enjoyed his time with them before and that he was all too forgiving. 

But could she ever use her amicable relationship to sway Tarquin into lifting Cassian’s banishment all so her family could torture Azriel while he was enjoying his time spent with one of Summer’s very own princesses?

…

Turns out, Amren could very well do that. 

While Tarquin had needed quite a bit of convincing, he had grown to like both Amren and Azriel through their visits to see their lovers in Summer. He didn’t know Cassian very well, and while Rhys and Feyre had deeply betrayed his trust, he couldn’t help longing for the friendship they almost had. 

After a long meeting, where tensions were squashed and penance was paid, the Inner Circle brought up the matter that had plagued them for months. 

Tarquin laughed at their anguish as they explained what little they knew of their brother’s rendezvous with a Summer Court female, or at least, as far as they knew, a female in the Summer Court. 

They truly knew nothing. 

“Come to dinner at my palace in Adriata tonight. I think you will enjoy the company you find there,” was all Tarquin offered before the Night Court took their leave. 

Begrudged didn’t even begin to describe what Azriel was feeling when he walked over to the dining room where he knew his family was waiting impatiently for answers he had been keeping for over 200 years. 

“You are such a baby.” The female at his side replied to his angry mumbling. “Gods forbid your family knows you are capable of love and happiness.” She teased.

“They are nosy. Forgive me for wanting to enjoy you in peace.” Azriel stopped, pulling her by the waist as he kissed her. 

Acting against her true desires, she pulled away after a few seconds. “I think you have enjoyed me just fine, Az. And I think you will continue to do just that, but this time your family won’t be worrying about if you are lonely or not.” She replied, turning her head before he could distract her with a kiss on the mouth again. Unfortunately, she didn’t think about the fact the action just gave him better access to her neck. 

“I will stop complaining.” He said, trailing kisses down her neck. “If I get to enjoy you just one more time before dinner.” Azriel hadn’t thought he could actually sway her into arriving late for dinner, that was until he heard a gasp come from her as he found her sweet spot. 

The two did make it to dinner, just an hour later than they were supposed to and with their clothes and hair rather disheveled.  

The quiet chatter had seized the moment they saw the couple enter the room. Rhysand and Tarquin grimaced at the smell coming from the two lovers as they tried (and failed) to act like nothing had happened. 

Tarquin shot the fae at Azriel’s side a sharp look. 

“It was his fault! He distracted me. And how can you blame me when he looks like this.” The female teased, gesturing to Az.

Tarquin sighed, “I would like to introduce you all to my sister.” 

“I didn’t know you had a sister! It’s an honor to meet you, princess.” Feyre spoke up. 

“I am actually his cousin from his mother’s side. I was raised alongside Tarquin, but I’ve got no royal blood in me, so no need for the formalities. I only force Azriel to address me as such when he has pissed me off. ” The female quipped, earning a pinch on her ass from Azriel in response. 

As the late arrivals sat down, Nesta spoke up: “How long have you both been…?” she trailed off, unsure of what to label the relationship between the two. 

“-fucking?” “-seeing each other?” The two replied at the same time, the Summer Court princess having a far more vulgar mouth than anyone had expected from the female. 

“He has been in love with me for over 200 years. We have only been fucking for about 150. I made him work for it.” She grinned, this time pinching Azriel’s ass in response. 

The Inner Circle looked around at each other, undeniably delighted by the princess in front of them. 

“Wait, when exactly did this happen? Where were the rest of us?” Rhysand asked.

“You three,” Azriel gestured to Rhysand, Cassian, and Mor, “were far too drunk, and far too busy getting banned from this court, if I remember correctly.”

200 (ish) years before…

Rhysand, Mor, and Cassian had disappeared to gods knew where. They had been belligerently drunk and while Azriel, far more sober than the rest of his family, should have followed them, he knew they would be fine. Hopefully. 

Plus, as much as he loved his family, he was not drunk enough to deal with their antics. 

In the meantime, the Spy Master sat on the beach, looking up at the stars he knew all too well as he listened to the waves. He had been so entranced by the combination that he hadn’t heard someone come up behind him. 

“You must be the famed shadowsinger of the Night Court.” A voice spoke up, causing Azriel to turn. The fae female was… ethereal. Dark skin beautifully framed by stark white hair, dressed in the softest of pink Summer style dresses, Azriel found himself at a loss for words. 

Unfortunately, the words he did eventually find weren’t as smooth as he would have liked. 

“How could you tell?” He asked earnestly. The female just stared at him, then his shadows, then the Illyrian leathers he was still wearing. As Azriel scanned the rest of the beach, he realized just how much he stuck out. 

Okay so maybe he was extremely drunk.

“A lucky guess.” She teased, sitting next down to him.

From that moment, Azriel knew it was over for him. Not many had the bravery to approach the shadowshinger, much less tease him, then choose to sit down next to him. 

They had spent the rest of the night talking, eventually watching the sunrise together. When Cassian, Rhys, and Mor, who were somehow still drunk, had informed him about Cassian’s banishment and their pact, all Azriel could think was that he couldn’t afford to lose what he had just found in the Summer Court. 

Then he thought how easy it would be for him to visit her now with his family none the wiser. 

It wasn’t that he was ashamed. How could he be when he had found a fae like her, but he liked to keep the few good things he had in his life close, even if it meant hiding it from his family for the time being. 

From then on, Azriel wasn’t as upset about his “forced” vacations