knoxious-existence

[knoxious-existence]

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐈𝐈 || 𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 seeing familiar faces where you expect the least and every piece falls into place, and everything comes to light.

[Previous] | [Masterlist]

GOTHAM CITY | MARCH 27, 12:12 EDT

You weren’t expecting to thrive here in Gotham.

Truly, you didn’t.

But it was getting ridiculous.

It’s like the universe hates you or something, maybe the universe just loves to see you suffer

Ever since you set foot in here nothing good had happened to you, you practically went through all the scenarios you never imagined you will be in.

And this one takes the cake.

Shortly after that chase you had with the two vigilants, the big bad bat of Gotham decided to make his appearance.

Fighting with dark knight was not a part of your agenda, it's like they're able to sniff you out like a bloodhound.

The fight didn’t even last long, in ten minutes you were tied to a building’s gargoyle, dangling from it, upside down, your ego smarting at the position you’re in.

Apparently You didn’t stand a chance.

And now he was glaring at you through his cowl, blank white eyes almost piercing through your skull.

You glare back at him with the biggest scowl you can master, hoping that it will deflate the feeling of humiliation that crept in your chest.

It’s not your finest moment. It’s just—you’re good at planning, strategy, and observation…and yet, you got your dignity handed to you on a platter by the one and only, the caped crusader.

Safe to say, your ego may never recover from this.

“What? Just gonna stand there and stare at me all day?” You jab at him, in situations like this where you’re feeling totally cornered, humiliated, sarcasm was your defense mechanism, something you had developed over time as an assassin to help you stay composed or hide vulnerability.

But at this moment even sarcasm is not enough to soothe your nerves when you’re literally facing the nightmare of Gotham’s criminals in front of you.

And it seems like your biting retorts served his curiosity even more.

You don't miss the way eyes narrow further at you.

After a few agonizing minutes of silence he spoke up “I’m assuming you’re the same assassin who ambushed red hood and Nightwing. Am I right?” His dead serious tone and piercing gaze makes it clear that he’s not playing around.

“Ding ding ding, we have a winner. Get this man a prize!” you joke and tease, even in the face of danger, you try to maintain your composure.

You continue, ignoring how unsettling his glare is.

“Trust me, as of this minute, I wish I wasn’t, and believe me, I don’t just randomly go and poison people for the fun of it, it’s just that your minions were being a nuisance” Despite your clear sass, the man remained unfazed as a statue, he did nothing more then narrow his eyes at you, from the lack of his reaction, he was probably used to deal with attitudes like yours

“Besides, it was them who attacked me, I was simply just resting on a rooftop” you added.

“You’re wearing an assassin garb, on a rooftop in the crime alley." Your shoulders tensed as you heard his stern voice, his tone made it obvious that he won't tolerate nonsense. "Don’t play dumb.” he contradicted, sizing you up with his appraising gaze

That made you swallow your words.

Honestly, who were you even trying to fool?, batman? You’re pretty sure this might end up with one of his batarangs through your head if you try.

But the real question is, what is stopping him? Gotham’s vigilants seem merciless, ruthless even, and yet, he chooses to talk it over like a rational adult instead of tearing your head off and get over with it, nothing is preventing him from taking the easier route, I guess that’s what makes him Gotham’s light of hope.

And you're definitely going to take advantage of it.

Stealthily, you reach for one of the blade you hid under your sleeve, a little thing for emergencies like this, using it, you carefully cut the ropes that tied you up while he continued to interrogate you. Making sure not to break eye contact.

“If I told you the actual reason why I’m here you wouldn’t believe”

“Care to elaborate?” he demanded an explanation.

“I’m looking for someone, he’s family and I got separated from him due to some circumstances, and I need to find him” you tried to sound as sincere as possible as you explain to him your situation while also not giving too much information on your whereabouts.

"So, if you would just—let me go, I promise I will leave as soon as I find him."

"Keeping the people of this city safe and exterminating criminals is my job, what makes you think I will allow you to wander freely?" He said, feeling mildly affronted.

"That's too bad," your lips twist into a mischievous grin, looking like the cat who caught the canary "I'm going to do things my way, regardless." At that exact same minute, the ropes that had been restraining you got torn.

You land swiftly on your feet, not missing a beat, you throw smoke bombs near his feet creating a foggy cloud.

The sound of the ropes being ripped, and the cloud of smoke alerted him, Batman instinctively shielded himself using his cloak.

You take advantage of the minute of distraction and quietly make your escape.

And by the time batman had lowered his cap, you were already out of sight.

It didn't show on his face, but the man was perplexed, he hates to admit this, but your exit had thrown him in for a loop, he got too busy psychoanalyzing you to notice you making an escape route, he doesn't know whether to feel impressed or embarrassed that you so readily escaped from his grip.

It's not often that a criminal slides through his fingers that easily.

Batman sighs as he titled his head down to the ground, his eyes instantly lands on an all too familiar piece of fabric laying on the dirty ground.

Carefully he kneels down and picks it up to examine it, after putting two and two together he realizes; that it was a piece from your suit.

It must’ve gotten torn off during your attempt to escape.

Holding the cloth, he studies it closely, once he gets a clear look at it, he immediately recognizes the material.

"Is that?..." It didn't take him long to piece things together, The material was so similar to the one the league of assassins used to create their suit. He had seen Damian and Talia wear costumes that has the exact same texture.

If your story is true, then he might already have an idea who you're looking for.

The concerning part is, what did you mean by "family"?

"Hn..." A part of him has a feeling that he will find out pretty soon.

CRIME ALLEY | MARCH 28, 3:12 EDT

You know being here especially at this time of the day was a stupid idea, it was like asking to get a bullet in your head.

Coming here, and asking around wasn’t your brightest idea.

But you really had no choice, this was practically your last resort, you were basically running out of options.

And you’re pretty confident that you will be able to find any sort of information in here, any clue that will lead you to your brother, after all this is where all the illegal activities and knowledge gather. There are for sure useful information looming around.

While you were too deep in your thoughts, you didn’t notice the man who was walking your way and walked straight into him

“Oof sorry sir I didn’t—”

“Watch where you are walking kid”

Wow, rude.

You weren’t expecting to meet anyone decent in here but still, the sheer audacity that some people had here agitated you.

The man looked like he was in his 40s, he had white hair and a full beard, and wearing an eye patch

He looked like a predator, or those abusive husbands who come Back home drunken and beats his wife and kids. Which isn’t unlikely considering that this place is filled with drug dealers, thugs, and wife beaters.

Before you could walk away, the man had snatched your hand with such a force making you freeze.

Maybe you weren’t wrong, he might be a predator after all.

The rational part of your brain was screaming at you to toss the man across the alley and run for it, however you remain glued to your place, the man doesn’t make a move, as his gaze is fixed on you.

After a few intense minutes of silence, he finally speaks up “do I know you?...You look…oddly familiar”

That question caught you off guard, surprise showed on your face before you could stop yourself.

That’s it?

You expected something more violent, considering the standoffish atmosphere he was giving.

Snapping back to reality, you politely, shook your head at him “Sorry, sir, I’m afraid I have never seen you before, perhaps you mistook me for someone else” you say trying to calm down your rampaging pulse.

He studied you with his eyes momentarily before releasing your wrist with an eye roll and a scoff, the man certainly didn’t bother hiding his annoyance, and as much as you wanted to give him a piece of your mind, right now isn’t the best timing to start an argument with a stranger.

Then a thought came to you, this guy might know something.

This is a terrible idea, you think to yourself, there’s a slime chance that he might or might not have the information you’re looking for.

You hesitated for a moment, considering your options, at the end you found yourself sighing in defeat, what is there to lose?

Clearing your throat you successfully manage to get his attention. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself before asking. “Sir, If there’s no trouble can I ask you something? It’s urgent and I’m—”

“No” he answers instantly, his tone was dismissive and final, without even sparing you a glance, he turns on his heels and attempts to straddle away.

“What—but—wait!” You reach out and grab his arm to prevent him from leaving.

He turns to you with a death glare, his gaze sends electric shivers through your body, however you remain unperturbed

“I just want to ask something really quick!" You pull out a photo of Damian and show it to him before he snatches his arm back and walk away.

"I said no—" the man was about to yell something However it came to a halt as soon as his eyes landed on the picture in your hand, he stops dead in his tracks.

"Do you...know where he is?... I've been trying to figure out where he's but I end up going in circles"

Instead of answering, The man continues to glare at the photo in your hands, his gaze shifts between you and the picture you were holding between your fingers.

His expression was unreadable.

Something about the eerily look he held in his eyes was unsettling.

The urge to run was getting overwhelming, but you fight against it

Finally the man broke the silence "how do you know him?" He asked a rather nosy question.

And truth to be told, you were not in the mood to deal with an interfering busybody sticking their nose in your business. You were already nearing your wit ends by now.

So you decide to play along with him a little, "you can say, he's...someone dear to me, and I lost him not too long ago, I'm looking for him." It wasn't entirely a lie.

You did lose him to God knows whatever reason it is. And you're going through hell to find him, it's almost pathetic how desperate you are.

Shortly after giving him a vague answer, you wait for the man to answer your question, however the unconvinced look he gave you made you falter a little.

He didn't seem satisfied with your answer.

When he broke the silence, you thought he was going to tell you off or dismiss you; however, what he said next surprised you.

"He’s at the Wayne Manor, he’s that old man’s newest ward, just not announced in public yet” he states "ya can say that he's stayin' with Bruce Wayne"

You blinked “the Wayne manor?...Bruce Wayne?...”

“Yep, the man shelters pretty much every single kid he comes across” He says gruffly

Oh.

So mom sent him to a person who has a habit of collecting strays, so no one could suspect a thing.

Smart woman.

Well at least you came out with something, the interaction had been nothing short of unpleasant to say the least, but at least you now know where your brother being kept

"Thank you sir, have a great night." With you nod at him and turn to walk away.

You can still feel his glare at your back, but you ignore it anyway and try to focus on finding your brother.

"..."

Slade watches you, disappearing into the distance, blending in the shadows. his gaze lingers for a bit, staying rooted in place with a blank expression, not moving an inch.

She might come in handy, just not now, he thought to himself before turning on his heels.

“…kids” he snarled.

It was late past midnight, You have arrived at the address where the stranger had told you your brother is in.

Sighing, you never thought that an accidental encounter with a stranger will lead you In front of the Wayne Manor.

After the stranger had told you about who's housing your brother, you decide to run a little background check on him before seeing him in person.

And according to your investigations, this is the house of Bruce Wayne and the recent man your mother had an affair with, however there were no much information on him.

Other than the fact that he’s a rich and massively charming player who can easily make his way into any woman’s arms.

There's a huge chance that this man is your father, the fact that he's willingly keeping Damian in feeds into your theory, He's not an ordinary child and he doesn't behave like one and you doubt he's capable of acting like one, keeping him with a regular civilian who can't protect him would be a stupid decision.

Besides, Your mother is not so stupid as to choose some random snobby rich playboy to have a child with. There's definitely something more into that man than he lets on.

“…Gee, mom sure knows how to pick ‘em” you roll your eyes at your mother's basic taste in men.

Well, whatever. There's an important matter to worry about more than rating the men your mom had an affair with.

After a few minutes of pondering about what should your next move be, you finally mastered the courage to reach for the wooden gates and give it a knock, the sound echoes loudly in the night air.

Almost on cue, the gates crack open revealing an old man in a classic uniform, he appeared to be either a servant or a butler.

“Greetings young miss, how may I help?” He asked in a polite demeanor, almost like a royalty—which is not far off, considering that this is a 'manor' he just came out from—he had refined manners and a composed posture.

Shaking your head to snap out of your thoughts, you reminded yourself to be polite and on your best behavior as to not arouse any suspicion.

“Is someone named Damian here? I’m looking for him” You refined from mentioning ‘Al ghul’s name, You’re still unsure if this is actually where they live, It would be risky, so for now you just stuck with just the basic information.

The butler stared down at you for a minute before raising an eyebrow at you "and who's asking, may I intervene?"

Ugh, you hated this question. You had no choice but to lie. You hated lying.

"He's...someone close to me...he disappeared a few months ago and I'm looking for him." Another half lie, yet again, you were starting to get tired of repeating.

at this point, you were reconsidering just telling the truth, had it not been for the consequences that might come with it.

The butler continued to blankly stare at you, you can very clearly tell that he was weighing his options.

“…very well then” after a few minutes of silence, he nodded politely, and without asking any further questions, he held the door open enough for you to enter, his voice is gentler now “This way, follow me.”

With the grace of a well trained and experienced servant, the butler guided you through the grand halls of the manor. The marble floor shone beneath the maroon rug you walked on. Regal paintings lined up the walls giving the room more luster

You might've had an affluent childhood at the Nanda parbat, but still, you can't help but admire the alluring sight nonetheless.

Shortly, you both reach the common and The man ushers for you to sit down. "Here, take a seat."

And you gladly compelled "Thank you, sir" after immediately sitting down, you can feel your joints screaming at you, the pain of the previous nights of searching tirelessly was starting to sink in.

The butler simply shook his head at your overly polite way of addressing him "you may call me Alfred, no need for formalities"

too busy diffusing the tension in your limbs, you hadn't even noticed that he had disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a tray of tea, the man was quick on his feet, setting the teacup down on the coffee table, he started pouring the tea "I would like to apologize for the inconvenience, however master Bruce and master Damian aren't here at the minute, but I assure you, they return soon enough."

Having finished pouring tea for you, he straightened his posture, and spoke again "now, if you excuse me, I will be back in with refreshments"

"Oh, no. no need to, I just want to see—"

“who is it Alfred?” before you could finish your sentence, another gruff voice that joined the room interrupted you.

Jason came limping into the living room, he still hasn't healed from the other night.

Before the Alfred could answer him, Jason's jaw had dropped in disbelief as soon as his eyes landed on you, recognition slammed into him.

“you!” Jason bellowed, jerking a finger at you, not taking into consideration that he might've just blown their cover “What are you doing here!?” he shouted barely restraining his anger.

The butler who was standing there a second ago, was now gone. Apparently he had more important matter to attend to.

But you didn't even notice that he disappeared, too perplexed by the stranger’s reaction.

Why is this man reacting like this? You're sure you have never met this guy before, at least that’s what you think.

You squinted your eyes at his furious expression, trying to remember if you had met him before.

In response, the man scoffs at you, crossing his arms When you gawk at him for too long. He clearly didn’t appreciate you staring “Didn’t your parents tell you that staring is rude, kid”

He mocked, making your eyes widen in realization.

You recognize that voice, even with how distorted it was under that helmet

It was red hood, this guy over there is the freaking red hood

The cuts on his body is further proof that this man is the same vigilant you have fought a few days ago.

And he was clearly irritated

“what’s with all this commotion—”

Richard entered the room dragging his feet, apparently neither had recovered from your last encounter, the man froze as soon as he caught the sight of you, but immediately shook his head.

"well, will you look at that?" Dick asked calmly, but you can tell that he was seething under that calm façade "what are you doing here?"

You raised both of your hands in defense, this is worse than you had anticipated “Hold on, hold on! Will you both hear me out first? Please, like I said before, I’m not here to fight, I promise”

“You literally drugged us with some sort of a stimulant!” Jason yelled.

making you bristle at the sheer audacity.

“You both LITERALLY attacked me with your weapons, when I obviously didn’t want to fight, seeing a gun-toting man twice my size with his partner who has an escrima stick in each hand is not exactly a comforting sight. How was I supposed to react to that!?”

“That’s—ugh.” Jason wanted to protest further but you do paint a bleak picture, you didn’t make any attempts to attack them when they had found you, but he was still livid,

“fine fine, you made your point, Forget about that, mind telling me what are you doing here in our house?” he said the words vehemently, and even though he was infuriated, he patiently waited for you to explain yourself.

You blinked and then let out a deep sigh.

This is gonna be a long night.

Still, you were glad they’re willing to let you explain yourself to them, that had ignited a spark of hope in you.

The butler and the snacks were now long forgotten.

And so you explained everything from how you escaped the league, to how you ended up in Gotham, while they listened intently.

“…alright I’m a little lost here” dick says, his face morphed into a dumbfounded expression, unable to fully grasp what you had just told them.

“let me get this straight, You’re saying you’re Damian’s twin?"

They both give you a once over, and now that you mentioned it, they do notice the resemblance. The mannerism and signature Al ghul air you held in your appearance.

You look like a perfect mixture of talia and bruce, the stoic expression that was all Bruce, the imposing aura. But still, they didn't believe you.

They needed further proof "Then how come talia didn’t send you along with him?”

You sheepishly scratch the back of your neck “I was away on a solo mission, and it was a pretty long one and by the time I had returned Talia was already back at the league repairing the damages slade and his men did”

A logical explanation, Still, that doesn’t make you any less of a potential threat.

there’s a huge possibility that you’re lying.

Jason narrowed his eyes, locking it onto yours, studying your face closely, his gaze was skeptical. The silence that fell between the three of you was thick

They were on high alert

Are bats always this paranoid?

After a few minutes of analyzing you, he asked. “Alright, how do we know you don’t have any bad intentions or some sort of an ulterior motives? You could be one of Slade’s proteges sent here to assassinate him—or any of us for that matter?”

“We can always run a DNA test once our mentor comes back, but that alone will take a while. And we’re definitely not going to wait” he stated firmly

Right.

He does have a point, You can’t really blame them for being cautious.

“Well, Since you both are vigilants, I’m gonna assume that you two are familiar with Damian’s... origins, right?”

“That he’s an Al ghul? Yeah we do.” dick emphasized, careful not to say too much information, since he was still wary of you.

You sigh in relief, good to know that they can read between the lines without you having to blurt it out for them.

"Okay, I'm not really sure how to prove that I'm Damian's sibling to you, it's just—the thing is—ugh." Right now, you were at a loss for words. Your mouth wasn't cooperating with your brain.

"Why do you want to know? He's my brother, not yours, I don't see why do I have to explain myself to you!?" You finally blowup, you didn't mean to lash out at them. You were just too tired, you just want to see your brother and everything was starting to get on your nerves, your patience finally wore thin.

And much to your dismay, Dick's expression transforms into a smirk "Well, sorry to break it to you, but he's our baby brother too" his words edged with subtle mockery more than he had intended.

"WHAT!?"

Shock.

Utter shock.

The words hit you like a bucket of iced water. What did he mean 'he's their baby brother too???'. You don't remember having more brothers?

Unless—no that can't be it. "Don't be absurd, Damian only has one sibling, and it's me. There's no way he would replace me with a nobody like you!"

Both men tensed up at your sudden outburst, they hadn't expect you to take it that hard. Dick was the first to speak up and try to smooth things over before it gets out of hand. "Whoa there, calm down, we never said he replaced you—"

"Then how came you both never heard about me from him!? Was trying to forget about me? I understand why would he want to forget his past and everything about the league, but why would he want to forget about me!?" Your outrage was genuine.

You understand why Damian would want to move on from his past, you really do. What you don't understand is why would he want to forget all about you too, were you a bitter memory for him that he wants to forget as well?

How could he? Why would he?

Thinking about it was difficult. You can feel the men in the background trying to calm you down, but you don't care about them. Too busy with the storm of emotions spiraling inside of you to pay attention.

"Listen we—" dick started and was immediately interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming from the hall.

"Well you imbeciles tone it down?" The new voice that joined the conversation, was obviously displeased with noise.

Everyone looked over at the source of the voice.

Damian.

He walked in, still his robin custom.

As soon as your eyes met each other, you both froze. For a second he thought that his eyes were deceiving him.

"(Name)?..." He muttered your name, voice barely above a whisper, but loud enough that everyone was able to hear it.

"Damian?..." you when first saw him you almost didn't recognize him duo to his current appearance, but you will always recognize that voice anywhere, It feels so weird to see him now after being apart for so long, and even weirder with turmoil you're still feeling inside of you, you want to hug him, yell at him, punch him in the face.

But instead, you just remain glued to your place.

The tension that was built in the room was broken by dick

"Boy, you have a lot of explaining to do here." He said crossing his arms, shooting Damian a disapproving look, looking like a parent who's about to scold his child for screwing up.

By now Alfred had returned from the kitchen carrying snacks on a tray. He instantly paused, feeling like had just walked into a scene, seeing how alerted everyone is. "Why do I get the impression that I may have missed some sort of an important event?..."

〢 𝕬𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑❜𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ⦂ BOOM CLIFFHANGER! cuz I lost motivation and I'm gonna make it everyone's problem/hj Between ya and me this was unedited and kinda rushed, sorry I was in hurry to post the next chapter, I'm not exactly proud of how it turned out, i don't think it's bad, I just wanted to write more scenes lol. Anyway, hope y'all enjoy this <3 No seriously, This crap took me more than it's supposed to I'm actually gonna kms if it flops

Like reblog & comment if u think it's worth sharing!^^

[MASTERLIST]

❴ 𝕿𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ❵ @venomsvl @shqyou @cqerrz @nisarelle @bunniotomia @iansimpsforeveryone @cssammyyarts @unreasonablerobin @91-kya @pix-stuff @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni @jjoppees @angwngss @tenshi444 @mallowryblog @0sunnyside01 @hearts4mica @v3vina @zomqiez @sbrewer21 @sadeem575 @icryat2 @lettucel0ver @cruzerforce4256 @timebomb1101 @alishii @c4xcocoa @bongwaterflavoredgatorade @rashoemon1 @1abi @bbmgirll @br0ke-b1tch @krys0210 @nessielovesfood @scarletdfox @dandelion-delusion @iamapotatoe @time-shardz @Velovicy @justafank @dubidumzy @arrozyfrijoles23

[knoxious-existence]

NOT WITHOUT APPROVAL

Pairing: Kyle Rayner x Reader ft. Batfam

divider by: @cafekitsune word count: 2.8k synopsis: Kyle Rayner gets interrogated by your overprotective bat brothers. a/n: This was my first time writing Kyle, so go easy on me if he feels a little off—I was also running on zero sleep while doing it 💀

You knew this day would come.

It was inevitable, really. No matter how much you tried to fly under the radar—normal dates, low-key outings, minimal PDA—the moment Kyle Rayner became a regular in your life, your brothers soon found out after that.

Jason was the first to notice. Of course he was.

You weren’t even with Kyle at the time. Just texting him during patrol, your face lit faintly by your comm screen. You hadn’t even realized you were smiling until Jason’s voice cut through the silence.

“Who the hell keeps making you smile like that?” he asked, eyes still scanning the rooftop across the alley.

You blinked. “No one.”

He slowly turned to look at you unimpressed. “That’s a lie. You only smile like that when you’re watching dog videos or texting someone who shouldn’t be texting you.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, tucking your phone away.

He told the others that night.

Which is why, a week later, Kyle found himself in the deeply unfortunate position of walking into a coffee shop and realizing—with the slowness of a man watching his life flash before his eyes—that your four uninvited brothers were there and you weren’t.

Dick was the first to spot him, his smile a little too bright to be genuine. “Kyle, buddy! Glad you could make it. Sit. Want anything? Coffee? A muffin?” His tone was sweet. His eyes were not.

Tim had an iPad in his hands, his usually sleepy gaze sharp and hard for once. “Just a few questions. Basic background check. You know, standard sibling procedure.”

Jason sat across from them, arms folded, expression carved from stone. He didn’t say a word.

Neither did Damian, who lounged beside him, one leg crossed over the other, fingers steepled like a villain as his emerald green eyes narrowed into the infamous bat glare.

Kyle hesitated in the doorway, scanning the table as if gauging whether to run. But it was already too late. He walked toward them with the same reluctant grace of a man stepping into a den of wolves wearing bacon-scented cologne. His usual confident smile twitched, faltered, then gave up entirely as he looked from face to face—each one offering a different variation of the we will end you look.

“So…” Kyle offered, his voice pitching higher than usual, “does this count as a family brunch, or…?”

“Just sit,” Jason said flatly.

He cleared his throat and did just that. 

You arrived late. The bell above the café door chimed softly, but the scene that greeted you brought you to an abrupt stop.

Kyle sat in the centre of the corner booth, hunched between your brothers who flanked him on either side, like a panel of parole officers.

Your eyes narrowed. “You ambushed him?!”

Dick was the first to respond, flashing a grin that was far too wide, far too cheerful to be genuine. “Hey, baby bat. We were just getting to know your… friend.”

Jason leaned back in his chair, arms crossed tight over his chest. “Boyfriend,” he corrected. “She told Steph and Cass he was her boyfriend.”

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “You little eavesdropper!”

Turning to Kyle, your tone softened with exasperation. “You should’ve just left.”

Kyle gave a sheepish laugh and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Sorry. I should’ve texted you. But I walked in and they were already here, and honestly?” He glanced toward Damian with a grimace. “I was afraid if I ran, Damian would chase me.”

Damian scoffed, clearly offended. “As if I would lower myself to such a humiliating display.”

You turned your glare on each of your brothers in slow succession, the kind of look that said try me. Your finger jabbed toward Jason. “I swear to God, if you threatened him—”

“I haven’t even pulled out my gun,” Jason replied with mock innocence. Then, after a beat, added, “Yet.”

Tim, seated across from Kyle with a tablet in his hands, cleared his throat. “Kyle Rayner. Green Lantern. Former graphic designer. Lives in Metropolis. Mild arrest record for trespassing—art-related. Consistent League presence, decent intergalactic diplomacy score.” He paused and looked up at Kyle with narrowed eyes, “So far, not bad.”  

You shut your eyes and exhaled slowly. “…You ran a background check?”

Tim didn’t even glance up. “I cross-referenced League records, public databases, and pulled his social media footprint. It’s hardly invasive.”

Kyle shifted in his seat, as he sheepishly said with a nervous laugh. “It sort of is invasive.”

Dick leaned forward then, arms resting on the table, hands loosely clasped. He wore that trademark easygoing smile—and despite looking the friendliest, he was probably the scariest. “Look, kid. We’re not here to scare you. We just want to be sure our sister isn’t wasting her time with someone who can’t handle… well… us.”

“That’s rich coming from the guy who cried when she dated that paramedic,” Jason muttered. 

“He had a moustache like Commissioner Gordon!” Dick snapped. “It was weird!”

Your mouth dropped open. “He did not!”

“It was curling,” Dick insisted. “He looked like he should be directing traffic outside GCPD!”

Before you could respond with the scathing remark forming on your tongue, Damian cut in, his voice calm and infuriatingly cold. “I still have a few questions.”

You blinked, already feeling your temper rise. “Absolutely not. My relationship is none of your business—especially not yours, Damian. You’re twelve!”

“Incorrect,” he said, completely unbothered. “With Father off-world on League business, the responsibility of vetting potential suitors falls upon us. And as the only competent one in the room, it defaults to me.”

A chorus of protests erupted immediately from the others that Damian ignored. His gaze flicked to Kyle with practiced disdain, like he was gum stuck to the bottom of his combat boot. “What exactly makes you worthy of my sister, subhuman?”

Kyle blinked, visibly thrown off, still debating whether or not he should take offence to being called subhuman. 

He frozen in place. His mouth opened, then closed. “Uh…” he began, uncertain, the word trailing off as he tried to form a coherent sentence.

Apparently, the hesitation was answer enough.

Damian’s eyes narrowed into sharp green slits. “Drake,” he said, voice clipped, “what else have you found?”

“Continuing with my findings,” he said, voice casual, “Kyle’s record is mostly clean, aside from the minor trespassing incident involving an unauthorized mural I mentioned earlier. Risk level: moderate. Noted to have a saviour complex. And he also cries during Pixar movies.”

Kyle straightened abruptly, scandalized. “I do not cry at—okay, Up doesn’t count,” he admitted, then looked around in disbelief. “How the hell did you even find that out?!”

“Don’t humour him,” you muttered under your breath, shooting Kyle a warning glance before turning your full attention back to the pint-sized menace sitting across from you. “Again—you are twelve, Damian. What the hell makes you an expert on relationship vetting?”

“I’ve read three psychology textbooks,” Damian began coolly, lifting his hand to tick the points off with deliberate precision, “studied the behavioural profiles of over twenty romantic serial offenders—one of which includes Grayson.”

Dick jolted upright, visibly affronted. “Excuse me?”

“Your pattern of failed relationships is both statistically and psychologically alarming,” Damian continued, undeterred. “I’ve even made charts.”

You and the rest of your siblings snorted in unison. Across from you, Kyle gave a small, nervous laugh—the kind of sound a man makes when he’s not entirely sure whether he’s in on the joke or about to be murdered for blinking wrong.

Dick’s voice shot up. “What charts?!”

“And,” Damian went on, ignoring him entirely, “I once successfully diffused a volatile courtship between two League assassins with conflicting kill orders.”

You opened your mouth to speak—possibly to tell him how utterly deranged that sounded, how Leagueassassins should not be part of any romantic case study, much less one led by a twelve-year-old—but he wasn’t finished.

“Your track record, on the other hand, includes crying over someone who ghosted you for a week and then posted a thirst trap.”

Whatever amusement you’d had vanished in an instant. Your jaw dropped, your face flushed. “That was one time!” you snapped, your voice pitching higher than you intended, voice cracked halfway between defensive outrage and and sheer mortification.

“To be fair,” Jason grumbled from his seat, voice laced with judgment and absolutely no sympathy, “she only dated him because—and I quote—‘he had killer abs.’”

Your head snapped toward him so fast it was a miracle you didn’t pull something. “Jason!”

He shrugged. “Don’t look at me. You did say it.”

Tim nodded in agreement.

“Will you idiots please stop listening in on my conversations with Steph and Cass—” you began, only to be immediately cut off.

“Exactly!” Damian exclaimed cutting you off, throwing up a hand. “We cannot afford another lapse in judgment,” he declared, gesturing toward Kyle like he were Exhibit A in a courtroom trial, “simply because this new lover happens to look marginally appealing in low lighting and owns a sketchbook.”

Kyle blinked, the sentence hitting him a beat too late. He processed the insult, then the strange half-praise buried beneath it.

“…Was that a compliment?” he asked, genuinely unsure.

“No!” four voices of your brothers barked in unison. 

The sheer force of the response made him flinch slightly, hands rising halfway in surrender. You sighed, long and loud, dragging a hand down your face in exhausted disbelief. 

Damian’s full attention had returned to your boyfriend now, gaze cold and assessing.

“So,” he said, tone chillingly level, “let me repeat—what makes you worthy of my sister?”

Kyle swallowed, shoulders tensing under the weight of every glare trained on him. He cleared his throat, trying to will some confidence into his voice.

“Uh… right. Well. I guess… I care about her?” he offered.

Damian’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You guess?”

“No—I do! I do care,” Kyle corrected quickly, sitting forward with more conviction. “She’s smart. Amazing. She’s—she’s brave. She makes things feel… clearer. Like I know who I want to be when I’m around her. She makes me better.”

Jason leaned back in his chair with a groan. “Jesus. That was such a Hallmark line that I think I got a cavity.”

“Do you value your kneecaps?” Damian asked flatly, not even bothering to blink.

That was your cue.

You stepped in at last, exasperated beyond belief, you planted your hands firmly on the worn surface and levelled a withering glare at your brothers. “Okay, this—whatever this is—is over.”

“We’re just doing our due diligence as your brothers,” Tim said, completely unapologetic as he tapped something casually into his tablet.

“No,” you hissed, voice low and livid. “You’re not. You’re all insane. I swear, Duke is the only normal one left in this family.”

Jason shrugged, unfazed. “Your boy toy is still alive. That’s considered restraint.”

Kyle, to his credit, only subtly shift a few inches away from Jason at the his statement.

“I bought him a muffin,” Dick chimed in, as if that excused the interrogation he and the others forced Kyle under.

Kyle nodded quickly, hoping he could help diffuse the tension. “It’s true. He did buy me a muffin.”

You turned to your boyfriend with narrowed eyes. “Stop trying to make light of this. For all you know, these idiots poisoned it.”

The colour drained from Kyle’s face. He looked down at the now-empty muffin wrapper with dawning horror, then slowly turned his head toward Dick, who merely grinned wider and winked—completely refusing to confirm or deny the accusation.

Damian, meanwhile, was still watching Kyle with unnerving focus, arms folded, lips pressed into a thin line. Then, finally, he spoke again, “If you hurt her,” he said, voice firm and cold, “the Green Lantern ring won’t save you from me.”

You let out a sharp breath, pinching the bridge of your nose. “This is insane. I’m not fifteen. I’m not sneaking out to meet a boy behind your backs. Kyle and I are seeing each other. End of story. You do not get a vote.”

Jason leaned back, arms crossed, expression smug. “Actually, we get four.”

“For fuck’s sake,” you muttered, rubbing your temples.

Across the table, Kyle had gone still. Damian’s words had clearly hit their mark. But rather than shrink away, he reached for you.

His hand found yours hesitantly, fingers brushing your skin like the simple act of touching you might trigger a full-on brawl with the others. His gaze flicked to your brothers—who had suddenly gone quiet, watching with interaction with sharp, unreadable expressions—and then settled back on you.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “Really. I get it. If I had a sister like you… I’d be worried too.”

You froze and softened at the fact he wasn’t completely bothered by your family.

Kyle turned back to your brothers, squaring his shoulders as he looked between them one by one. Then his eyes found Damian again. He held Damian’s glare, steady and unflinching.

Then, with a slow nod, he spoke—his voice calm, steady, and utterly sincere.

“Okay,” he said. “Like I said—I get it. I respect it. But I’m not going anywhere. And I’m not going to hurt her.” He let the words hang there, heavy and unflinching, and then added—more quietly, but somehow more resolutely, “You don’t have to like me. Hell, you can threaten me all you want. I’m not here to fight you. I’m here because I really do care about her deeply.”

There was a long silence. Then Jason sighed like it physically hurt him. ““Well… he’s not the worst you’ve done.”

“I still don’t like him,” Damian added swiftly, as if he needed to get it on the record before anyone mistook him for soft. “But… I suppose if he hurts you, we’ll just make him disappear.”

Kyle blinked. “Wait, does this mean you all approve?”

All of them snorted at the question.

“Don’t push it, buddy,” Dick said, rising from his seat. Tim followed suit, both of them stepping aside to let Kyle escape the booth

You didn’t bother replying. Instead, you grabbed Kyle’s arm and tugged him up with more force than necessary, already heading toward the door with determined steps.

“Okay. We’re leaving,” you announced, throwing one last glare over your shoulder. “Next time, we’ll do dinner off-planet.”

Tim blinked. “You know we can just hack the satellites.”

You only flipped your brothers the bird. Kyle turned to you as you stepped outside, the door swinging shut behind you with the soft jingle of the bell. His expression was a mix of awe and mild terror.

“…You know,” he said slowly, “I suddenly understand why you have trust issues.”

Before you could respond, he leaned in a little closer, voice dipping into a whisper like he thought your brothers might still be listening. “Just so I know… are there more of them?”

You sighed, the sound long-suffering but laced with something almost—almost—fond.

“Technically?” you said, casting Kyle a sideways glance. “Barbara’s neutral. Cass and Steph like you—so far. Duke too. But he also told me to pass along a message.”

Kyle raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“If you break my heart,” you continued sweetly, “he’ll ruin your credit score.”

Kyle blinked, visibly thrown. “That’s… a very specific threat.”

You only smirked, slipping your hand around his arm and tugging him gently forward. “Welcome to my family.” There was a beat of silence before you added, far too casually, “Oh, and remember—you still haven’t officially met my dad yet.”

Kyle stopped cold in his tracks.

You felt the sudden halt in his step and turned just in time to watch all the colour drain from his face.

“Wait. What?” he said, voice a little higher than usual. “I thought… I just survived the Four Horsemen of Gotham. Can’t they just pass along a message or something?”

You turned to face him, your expression amused. “They were the warm-up.”

Kyle blinked. “The warm-up?”

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, nodding. “Bruce prefers one-on-one conversations. Private. Controlled. Somewhere quiet, and… less likely to leave evidence.”

Kyle ran a hand down his face, visibly distressed. “I’ve fought aliens. I’ve stared down gods. I’ve survived being trapped in a black hole with Guy Gardner. But this…” He trailed off, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.

And yet—he didn’t step back. He didn’t run. He just stood there, eyes wide, shoulders tight. Then, with a sharp breath, he straightened, lifted his chin, and gave a shaky nod.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Okay. I can do this. I’ve got this. Probably.”

You grinned, looping your arm through his. “That’s the spirit.”

From the café window behind you, a small figure stood watching—arms crossed, green eyes narrowed, a satisfied smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Fool,” Damian murmured, his breath fogging faintly against the glass.

Jason, standing beside him and sipping what was left of his coffee, let out a low chuckle.

“Dead man walking.”

[knoxious-existence]

I CAN TRY BUT I CAN'T HIDE IT

requested by: @amoebadue

pairing: kyle rayner x batsis! reader

summary: You want Kyle to bond with Damian through their shared interests. The Green Lantern is too interested in Damian's opinion.

Kyle watched you from across the room, fingers twitching absentmindedly for his sketchpad, wanting to memorialise the expression on your face for eternity.

You were helping your youngest brother with his schoolwork, the scowly one, Robin. It made for an admittedly comical sight, the young boy still dressed in his full hero regalia, his katanas resting casually on the table like harmless decorations and not the deadly weapons they are. Yet you were still as radiant as ever.

The look on your face was nothing short of complete adoration as Damian grumbled crankily at his English assignment. You were so good with him, with kids in general, and unbidden, his mind conjures up the image of a little girl with your smile and his hair, or a boy with your eyes and his nose...

Perhaps if he'd been a little less entranced with fantasies of your hypothetical future children, then he would've noticed the mutinous glare currently being thrown his way by a murderous Damian.

The Lantern was staring again. The dopey one, with the stupidly soft smile that no doubt hid nefarious intentions, and paint stains on his cheap clothes.

Kyle Rayner. His lower lip curled in distaste; even the man's name was offensive, as offensive as whatever delusions he'd conjured up regarding you. That someone as amazing as you, his beloved big sister, would ever settle for someone like Kyle.

Sensing your brother's sudden inattention, you look up to see what he's staring at, your brows furrowing a little before you smile, "Oh, Damian, did you wanna ask Kyle something?"

Both boys falter at your words, staring at each other in alarm, but you've got the idea in your head now, and you won't let it go. "You've got an art assignment with you, right, Dami? You should let Kyle take a look, he's an artist." You beam, as if it's the best idea ever.

Damian thinks he'd rather shoot himself. He doubted there was anything Kyle could provide assistance with.

To his dismay, the blithering fool was already ambling towards them, tripping over his own feet at one point in his eagerness. The scoff Damian lets out earns him a disapproving side eye and a gentle elbow to the ribs, your silent warning clear: be nice.

Ugh.

You'd already taken it upon yourself to pull out the series of sketches he'd been working on, spreading them across the table for Kyle to see before Damian could protest.

He didn’t want Kyle's opinion; he didn’t need Kyle's opinion, and he most certainly didn't agree to Kyle leaning over your shoulder, close enough to brush against you to critique his art.

"Wow," Kyle breathed, his eyes briefly skimming across the papers before settling back on you with that idiotic, awestruck glimmer in his eyes. "These are actually—"

Damian growled, forcing Kyle to startle away from you a little at the abrupt reminder that he had an audience, "Choose your next words carefully Rayner."

Kyle paused, then smiled that infuriatingly sincere smile again. "—really good. I mean, like, legitimately good. Your colour composition is stunning, and the shading is phenomenal, controlled, smooth." His fingers brush against one of the drawings gently, his gaze contemplative.

Any cutting retort Damian could have conjured dies on his tongue at the unexpected praise. It's disgustingly genuine, and Damian hates the way he unconsciously preens. His cheeks warmed, and his chest puffed out until he realised that the troglodyte was touching you again!

Bristling like a wet kitten, he prepares to make his immense displeasure known when he notices Kyle's now lax grip on his own sketchbook.

A wicked smirk crosses his face as he reaches across the table, easily stealing the desired item and flicking it open, preparing to deliver a scathing review.

You and Kyle are so sickly engrossed in each other that you don't notice what he's done until the sound of pages turning breaks through whatever black magic Kyle's attempting to work on his sister.

"Damian, don't be rude! I'm sure Kyle would let you look if you just asked."

"Yeah, I don't mind I—" Kyle pales, his smile dropping into a look of unmitigated terror, "actually wait, some of those are private—"

But the damage is done, Damian twists away from him victoriously, only to freeze as the miscellaneous sketches stop being random and suddenly revolve around a single theme: you.

He sputters, rapidly flipping through the pages, occasionally throwing an accusatory glance at the now statuesque Lantern.

His grip turns slack in his shock, and you use the opportunity to tug the book from his hands, curious as to what's got the two of them in such a tizzy.

"It can't be that... bad..." you trail off as you lay eyes upon the first of what you would later discover to be hundreds of drawings, all of you.

"I can explain!" He whimpers weakly.

"Please do." Damian snarls, already pointing one of his blades at the flustered Lantern.

You're too busy staring at the drawings to scold your brother, trying not to focus on the butterflies that have erupted in your stomach as you study the various iterations of you. Some sketches were just of your face, close-ups of your smile, but there were some of you in the heat of battle, even one on the last page of you smiling down at Damian.

Yet they all held one thing in common: they were beautiful and crafted with clear care.

"I'm waiting." Damian snaps and it's enough to drag you back to the present as you push his blade away from Kyle.

"Well, if you'd let me think of one that doesn't make me seem like a total creep, I could give you one!" Kyle's sure he's gone bright red, mortification flooding his veins as he already prepares to disappear off the face of Earth and never be seen again.

"I think we're well past that." Damian glowered, trying to step around you in his newfound quest to maim Kyle.

"I think it's sweet." You cut in, still feeling a little giddy.

"You... you do?" Kyle croaks, trying not to cry in relief and hope.

You giggle a little, and Kyle nearly passes out from how adorable it is, even as Damian gags loudly. There's something nearly shy about the way you step closer, "They're all so beautiful, is that really how you see me?"

"Of course it is, how could you even ask that? You're the most beautiful woman in the galaxy." He's so earnest, nearing aghast, as if the thought that you disagreed with him was sacrilegious.

Damian watches the train wreck in disgust, teeth grinding as he fights the urge to disembowel the presumptuous Lantern where he stood.

As if reading his mind, you swiftly turn to deliver a glare that would give even his grandfather pause before you turn back into a giggling embarrassment, all for a man, and a Lantern at that.

It was blasphemous. Disgraceful even.

Though, as he watched the two of you flirt painfully, Damian supposed you could do worse. At least you hadn't gone after the redhead, like so many of his siblings seemed wont to do.

[knoxious-existence]

YOUR WHAT?!

pairing(s): dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake, stephanie brown, cassandra cain, kyle rayner, wally west, hal jordan x fem! reader.

summary: their reactions to the "current partner" trend.

a/n: mute Cass you are canon in my heart <3

DICK GRAYSON

[You step backwards from the camera, showing off the outfit you'd coordinated with Dick, trying to prevent yourself from bursting into a fit of giggles as you anticipate his reaction.]

"He wanted us to match, isn't my current boyfriend so cute!" You smile as you watch his reaction through the phone screen.

[The camera zooms in on your boyfriend, who immediately stumbles mid-step like you punched him, as his smile drops into a horrified stare.]

"Current???" He gasps, a hand clutching his heart dramatically. "I’ve met your family. I fold your laundry. I shared my dessert with you last night, willingly!"

You brace your hands on your knees, hunched over as you burst into laughter. You go to speak, but Dick's on a roll.

"No. No, no, no. I’m not some temporary man. I’m not a placeholder! I’m..." He sputters, trying to articulate his point as he waves an acussing finger at you "I'm an endgame boyfriend. The endgame boyfriend!"

He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest and turning his back to sulk.

"Aw, is the endgame boyfriend gonna cry?" You hug him from behind, resting your cheek against him.

"Maybe."

[The camera cuts to a sulking Dick, drinking poutily from a mug you bought him earlier that says "#1 Boyfriend." Just managing to pick up his mumbled words.]

"Current boyfriend… ridiculous… I’m soulmate material"

JASON TODD

[You prop your phone up, resting it against your mug to show off your still groggy boyfriend who is currently mid-sip of coffee]

"Breakfast with my current boyfriend."

This instantly catches Jason's attention, making him cough a little as he lowers the mug. "…The current what now?"

"Boyfriend." You beam, as if nothing in the world is wrong.

He squints as you, his coffee long forgotten. "See that's what I thought I heard, current boyfriend, but I must be wrong. What happened to 'ride or die'? What happened to you’re it for me, Jay'? Did I hallucinate all of that?"

"Hon, relax."

But he cuts you off, "No, no, no. See, now I’m wondering if I need to get my duffle bag and my helmet and hit the road. Am I getting replaced? Are you conducting auditions behind my back?"

"Oh, here we go." You mutter under your breath as Jason stands and begins pacing.

"I’m tall, I give the best hugs, I'm rich." He pauses and just when you think he's done he spins to face you. "I read! I literally read books. That's like a dreamboat hobby. What more do you want from me?"

"Babe. It’s a tiktok trend. It’s literally a joke." You giggle.

[You pick up the camera, zooming in on his squinting face as he freezes]

"…I better be the final boyfriend. I swear to God." He grumbles and your heart melts a little.

"You are, honey. You're the last one." You stand, leaning in to kiss him softly.

"Damn right I am. Put that in the caption. Tattoo it on your forehead. I will not be dethroned by some stupid trend." He huffs, but doesn't hesitate to recieve your affection.

TIM DRAKE

[You're leaning against the headboard, Tim resting his face against your stomach, his arms wrapped around your waist as you hold your phone out to the side.]

"Y'all wanted him in more content, so here he is, the current boyfriend."

It takes a few second for your words to register, but when they do he lifts his head to stare at you so quickly he nearly snaps his neck.

"A, wha? ah!" He sputters, his mouth taking even longer to catch on.

"Ah, wha? Lipstick in my Valentino white bag?" You mocked and the glare he threw you was mutinous.

"You're such a bitch."

You raise a brow, "Oh, so we're updating that status to ex-boyfriend?"

"You wouldn't." When you simply stare at him, his face drops a little. tone turning more uncertain, "...would you?"

You let the charade continue for a few more seconds before his deadly puppy eyes do you in and you drop a kiss to his forehead.

"No, baby. Never."

With your confirmation that no, you weren't breaking up with him, the brattiness abruptly returns.

"Ha, knew you didn't have the balls to leave me." He crows, and you roll your eyes, shoving him off you and consequently the bed when he tries to snuggle back into you.

STEPHANIE BROWN

[The video starts selfie style, with you standing behind Steph, still dressed in her fuzzy hello kitty pyjamas, as she pours herself a bowl of cereal.]

"So, here she is, the current girlfriend."

[Stephanie freezes mid-bite, turning to look at the camera in sheer disbelief]

"…Current?" You try not to laugh at her reaction but a few giggles slip out and Steph launches into a tirade.

"CURRENT?! Like I’m a seasonal limited-time offer?! Babe, what is this, a McRib romance?!"

"Would you prefer ‘temporary live-in menace with nice legs’?" you tease.

"Okay first of all, accurate. Second of all, current?! Babe, I’ve already picked our wedding colors. I’ve named our hypothetical cats! I have a whole pinterest board dedicated to our future life together!"

"Steph—"

"CURRENT?!? I'll kick you in the fucking head!" She grouses, forgetting her cereal as she storms off in a dramatic huff.

CASSANDRA CAIN

[You and Cass are cuddled together on the couch surrounded by fluffy pillows and blankets. She smiles softly and leans into your side when she notices the camera.]

"Date night with with my current girlfriend."

You feel the way she stiffens against you and instantly regret your words. The TikTok long forgotten, as you turn your full attention to your girlfriend.

"Hey, love, I didn’t mean it like that. It's a stupid TikTok trend. You’re not just some current flavour of the month, you’re my person. Always."

[Cass blinks, the tiniest smile breaking through her usually serious expression. She reaches out and squeezes your hands softly, before pulling back to sign an "I love you"]

You beam, leaning your forehead against hers, you're stomach erupting into butterflies as you thought about the ring you had hidden inside your pillow.

KYLE RAYNER

[Kyle sits across from you, paintbrush in his hand as he focuses intently on the canvas in front of him.]

"Painting the cats with my current boyfriend, look at him go!" You laughed as he looked up at you with a dopily in love grin, before he registers what you've just said.

"Wait. Current Boyfriend?" His brow furrowed as he put down his brush. "Current boyfriend cause we're gonna get married and then I'll be your husband right? Right?"

He looks like a kicked puppy and you stand, moving around to slide into his lap.

[The phone's discarded on the table but it still records the conversation]

"Yeah, baby, we'll get married." You hum, hokking your arms around his neck.

"Oh, that's good, should I go and get the ring I bought a few months ago then?"

"Kyle?!"

HAL JORDAN

[You’re walking through your apartment, filming, Hal is in the kitchen wearing sweats and an obnoxious tank top that says 'welcome to the gun show.' He's making pancakes while humming something off-key.]

"Fit check with my current boyfriend!"

Hal smirks, turning to face the camera. "Damn right. Look at this—pilot, sexy, short stack master... wait." He squinted, analysing your previous sentence. "Hold on. Back up. Current?"

[You try to keep the camera steady as he turns around fully, eyes squinting like you just told him Batman’s funnier than he is.]

"Current boyfriend?? Excuse me?? I—I live with you. We have two cats together, is that what you're telling our sons I am?"

You practically howl with laughter at his meltdown, "It’s just a trend!"

But it's like he doesn't even hear you, too busy on his warpath. "I fixed the leaky faucet. That’s not ‘current boyfriend’ behavior, that’s husband energy."

[He points dramatically at the pancakes sizzling in the pan.]

"That right there? That’s commitment. That’s ‘I’ll be there in your 80s cutting your meds into quarters’ energy."

[The camera cuts to show you sitting with your face resting against your palm as Hal continues to pace in the background, widly gesticualting.]

"Just a current boyfriend... The betrayal..."

WALLY WEST

[You're sitting on the couch, flipping the camera to show off an unsupecting Wally sitting cross legged on the carpet as he works on constructing the $1000 Lego Millenium Falcon you'd gifted him.]

"Y'all look what a nerd my current boyfriend is."

[Wally pauses. His head turns slowly like a confused golden retriever.]

"...Current?...Current?! Babe. Babe. What do you mean current? Did I miss a breakup?! Are you firing me?! I just bought us matching toothbrushes!”

"Well, technically you are the current one." You tease.

"That makes it sound like there could be a next one! You think you can upgrade from this?" He runs a hand down his body. "Limited edition! No returns!"

"You're right. Nobody wants to take the model back anyway." You snort.

[He clutches his chest like he's been shot, fake-sobbing as he collapses against the carpet.]

"We made a spreadsheet for potential baby names just for fun! What about Wallace junior huh?"

"No child of mine will be named Wallace." You deadpan, humour momentarily forgotten until he suddenly crawls toward you, making it impossible not to laugh.

[He buries his face into your lap, and you burst out laughing, pulling him into a hug while he dramatically clings to you like dead weight.]

[knoxious-existence]

Canvas

summary: prompt fill. there's something truly special about the soft moments Wally spends with you in the Art Room. (request)

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: fluff. drabble. slice-of-life. being dead isn't so bad.

bon reading, frens

___________________________🎨

Canvas

Sunlight pours through the large windows, music softly playing in the background, the Art Room empty at 7AM in July, apart from you and Wally and the army of Josés—the tabletop mannequins used for anatomical illustration.

Wally's topless, on his stomach across the table in the middle of the room, head pillowed on his arms and his eyes closed. Breaths slow and even. Relaxed even though you're straddling his hips, your weight both calming and exciting.

Every brushstroke sends little tingles shooting under his skin, and he hums or sighs or comments—feels nice—to encourage you to keep going, don't stop, this is the most at peace he's felt since the last time you let him keep you company.

This isn't the first time you've used his body as a canvas, and hopefully won't be the last.

He doesn't know what you're painting. Could be anything. Could be nothing but smears and squiggles. Could be lewd words. Wally doesn't really care much. He simply enjoys spending time with you. Being there for you when you're so deep in your head, you're about to collapse in on yourself and disappear.

Sometimes you have him model for you while you share quiet secrets about your life. Former life. You never have much to say about your death, and Wally respects that. Doesn't pry. You'll tell him eventually. Or maybe you won't, and that's okay too.

He probably shares too much, has a habit of babbling when he's nervous and, the first few times he found you in the Art Room, he couldn't shut himself up. Sat there nattering on while you painted the ocean right on the wall, never saying a word unless Wally stalled. Then you hummed or glanced at him and repeated the last thing he said to coax more of his story from him.

You listened in a way he wasn't used to people doing.

After several intentionally "random" encounters, Wally stopped trying to make it seem like he happened to be there at the right time. Just started showing up when he knew you wanted to purge your latest existential crises with acrylics on whatever surface made itself available.

During crisis six or seven, his arm became that available surface. From wrist to shoulder. A pastel horrorscape with forked-tongued demons in their lacy Lolita best.

Then his leg. His chest. His arm again, both. And both legs. Feet. Hands. Cheeks. Shoulders, neck, eyelids, hair. Now his back.

It soothes something in him, too, if he's being honest. Every sweep of the brush is like the swing of a pendulum, pulling him deeper into a meditative trance. For however long you need him to be still, his mind shuts down and he just...is. Existing without pressure or expectation or a need to react, respond, rebut.

Like a tree, he thinks to himself. Planted and immovable, accepting what comes, growing through the good and the bad, no thoughts, just reaching toward the sun because that's what they're designed to do.

Wally likes being a tree in the soft moments you gift him. He wishes he could be a tree all the time instead of fighting the noise in his brain that otherwise doesn't shut up until it exhausts itself.

Moments like this were sparse for Wally before you joined the afterlife in 2013. Rhonda isn't exactly a calming presence, and Charley's neuroses trigger Wally's more often than they don't. He loves his friends, but they aren't who he seeks out when he needs space to forget he's dead and can't leave school property and everything sucks, he just wants to go to the next block, to the store, to the mall, home—

"Stop twitching," You murmur, face so close to Wally's ear he can feel your breath tickling his skin.

Without looking, he knows you've got your lip between your teeth, eyes narrowed, both hands guiding the tiny brush you use to outline whatever image you've painted on Wally's shoulder.

He doesn't respond. Sinks back into that sweet, easy headspace, half-asleep and comfortable.

When you finish, it takes him several moments to find the energy to lift himself up and check out your work in the nearby bathroom. You follow him, critical of yourself, but, as usual, Wally's impressed. Amazed. Fucking awestruck.

He has no idea what it's supposed to be, but it's layered and deep and colorful, and he loves it. Wishes he could keep it on his skin forever. When he turns around to tell you as much, the words catch in his throat because you've got that look again. Eyes tracing the contours of his chest, and he can see the gears turning in your mind, another idea blooming.

You reach forward, bold, unabashed, and let your fingertips trace an invisible sketch as if trying to calculate the dimensions. Wally swallows when you brush over his nipple, his muscles twitching under your touch.

You purse your lips, consider something, and then, "Come on, I wanna try something else."

Wally nods, breathless, and follows obediently after you as you traipse back to the Art Room. This time he's on his back, hands on your hips, thumbs stroking the skin just under the hem of your shirt while you paint his chest.

He's too relaxed to be turned on by the position; there's time for that later. He just wants to coast on that calm sea and soak in the gentle attention you dote on him when you get like this.

Whatever is on your mind keeps Wally a half-naked evolution of your artistic expression for most of the day. Well until the sun begins to sink below the horizon and you've emptied every tube of blue and purple paint on hand.

When you finally declare that you feel better—"Done," and your smile is soft and a little relieved at the edges—Wally sits up and rolls the stiffness from his shoulders. You stay in his lap, his hands on your hips, thumbs still stroking your skin beneath your shirt.

"Feel better, baby?" He asks, and gazes at you through eyes heavy from dozing.

You nod, lean forward to peck a kiss to the tip of his nose. "Thanks for this." You murmur.

Wally gives you a lazy smile, "Anytime." And, no, really, any. time. because this is always the best he feels.

He looks down at himself, at the forest fantasy you made of his chest and belly. It's beautiful, of course it is, and haunting, and Wally tries to memorize it before it disappears. Either to a reset or—

"Shower?" You ask, your voice low and suggestive, clearly feeling like yourself again.

And as much as Wally loves what you paint on his skin, he loves the idea of having you under a hot spray, paint smearing from his chest to yours, the colors swirling at his feet as he holds you in his arms, against the tile, his lips on yours as he worships your body.

Touches like brushstrokes, kisses like dapples of paint. Making you his own work of art in the way you do to him.

🎨___________fin.____________

also on AO3!

Order Up! MASTERLIST

if you enjoyed this, you may also enjoy Marshmallow Miles.

fluff. smut lite. Wally needs to get the hell out of Split River. thankfully, he finds the perfect excuse and takes you along for the ride.

[knoxious-existence]

Obsessed!!!

ix. the fall and the cage

SYNOPSIS: "Alright, let's do this one last time. My name is Y/N Kyle. I was bitten by a radioactive spider, And I've been the one and only Spidey in Gotham. I’m pretty sure you know the rest." PAIRING: Older! Damian Wayne/Fem! Reader TAGS: MILD SMUT (will put indicators if people want to skip), Established relationship, Wounds, Violence, Suggestive jokes, Doppelgangers AO3: yenwayne SERIES LINK: gotham's only spidey

<- PREVIOUS | NEXT ->

 ༻⊰───⋅

His glare locks back to you. “What are you?”

You meet his eyes, the mask you usually wear cracked open by exhaustion and fear.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “But I do know I’m not your enemy.”

Bruce stares. The silence stretches again.

Then, he pulls out a small cylindrical device from his utility belt, something that clicks with a low, mechanical hum. “Then you won’t mind proving it.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

"It's just me."

Bruce doesn’t react immediately.

For a moment, the rooftop is silent. Eerily so. The wind whistles around you, the tension crackling in the air like an approaching storm. Damian’s breath catches in his throat. He watches his father closely, prepared to move the second things go wrong.

Bruce’s eyes, what little of them you can see beneath the cowl, widen, ever so slightly. His jaw tenses. 

It takes him only seconds to put the pieces together. 

He is, after all, the World’s Greatest Detective.

The voice. The presence. The way you stood beside his son, not as a stranger, but as someone who had always belonged.

“…You,” he says at last, his voice low, almost disbelieving.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Me.”

Bruce takes a slow step forward, not in aggression, but something more cautious. Measured. “How long?” he asks, and there’s something raw beneath the steel of his tone. Hurt, maybe. A sense of betrayal.

You hesitate, “It hasn't been long. Around homecoming."

Bruce’s expression darkens again. “And you or Selina never thought to tell me?”

“I didn’t want to lie,” you say quietly. “But I also didn’t want to be locked in a cell before I had a chance to prove I wasn’t your enemy.”

“And this—” Bruce gestures around, to the aftermath of the fight, to the blood still drying on Damian’s lip— “This is how you prove that?”

“You attacked me,” Damian interjects sharply, his voice clipped, sharp as the blade at his hip. “You didn’t ask questions. You just assumed the worst, as always.”

Bruce’s eyes flick to him, briefly, sternly, but it’s not anger that rises in him. It’s fear. Tightly bound, fraying at the seams. It spills out as aggression because that’s the only way he knows how to hold it.

His glare locks back to you. “What are you?”

You meet his eyes, the mask you usually wear cracked open by exhaustion and fear. 

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “But I do know I’m not your enemy.”

Bruce stares. The silence stretches again.

Then, he pulls out a small cylindrical device from his utility belt, something that clicks with a low, mechanical hum. “Then you won’t mind proving it.”

Before either you or Damian can react, the device hisses. A wave of high-frequency sound and dark energy explodes outward.

The world goes black.

Not just dimmed. Obliterated. The lights of Gotham vanish. The stars are swallowed. The moon flickers out like a candle. And then, worse, your senses vanish too.

Your balance fails. Your skin prickles. Your vision spins even in darkness. It's as though the air is being stripped of meaning, every nerve ending short-circuits. You stumble back with a sharp gasp, clutching your chest as something inside you twists. It’s not pain, exactly. It’s violation. Something ancient and unnatural brushing too close to your core.

Damian curses beside you, struggling to stay upright. 

“It’s a blackout field,” he growls, teeth gritted. “Father! Don’t you dare—”

You drop to one knee, gasping as something inside you pulses off-beat, involuntarily. The organic webs in your system shiver. Not physically. Metaphysically. Like they’re being mapped, indexed.

The device Bruce activated is a diagnostic emitter, one of his more aggressive ones. It scans for foreign particles, unusual bio-signatures, multiversal residue. It’s designed to extract information from metas, especially those with unknown origins. You realize, with a spike of fear, it’s not just trying to detect what you are, it’s trying to expose it.

Your breathing quickens. You feel seen in a way that’s not comforting at all.

“No,” you rasp, clutching your side. “Hurts—”

Bruce's silhouette, ghostly in the blackness, remains motionless. Cold. Watchful. “If you’re telling the truth, you’ll survive the scan.”

“And if she’s not?” Damian’s voice slices through the dark, sharp as the blade still clenched in his hand. “You’ll kill her just to make a point?”

“I’m not killing her,” Bruce snaps. “I’m making sure she isn’t a walking bomb waiting to go off in your bed.”

That word, bomb, stings more than any blow. Damian flinches at it, too.

Bruce’s emotions flicker now in the quiet: anger, yes, but beneath it, fear.

Deep, ancient fear.

The kind that digs in like a parasite and doesn’t let go. You’ve seen it before. It’s not about you, not entirely. It’s about what you represent. Something unknown. Something he can’t control. And if Batman can’t control it, he has to neutralize it.

His voice is lower now, almost strained. “I’ve seen too many people die because I hesitated. I won’t risk it again.”

You force yourself upright, swaying slightly, every cell still buzzing with residual static. “I’m not asking you to risk Gotham. Just... trust him.” You tilt your chin toward Damian. “Trust your son.”

Bruce doesn’t even blink.

You gasp again, eyes wide as a final jolt of energy hits you like lightning to the spine.

And then everything tilts. The rooftop sways. Your head slumps forward. The last thing you feel is Damian grabbing you before you hit the ground, his voice warping into a panicked blur.

Then... nothing.

༻⊰───⋅

??? - ???

You wake up cold.

Metal surrounds you. Fluorescent lights above. A containment area. Sleek, clinical. No visible seams or exits, just smooth, reinforced panels and a faint energy field humming at the edges of your vision. 

“Hey,” a voice says urgently. “Habibti—! Eyes on me. Open your eyes.”

You blink. The world swims into focus. Slow and fragile. The hum of the emitter is gone. The dark has lifted. But your limbs feel like they’re made of concrete.

“Wh—” Your throat is raw as you turn your head, eyes still unfocused. The dim shape of Damian looms close, his silhouette familiar but strange in this sterile, harsh light. You're in a containment cell. A forcefield buzzes faintly, locking you inside, making the space feel smaller with each passing second.

“Wh-what happened?” Your voice cracks on the words, pain flaring in your chest. You shift slightly, the movement slow and deliberate.

Damian is there, his usual intensity replaced with something closer to frustration and... concern. He’s not wearing his mask, and you can see his eyes.

Green, sharp, and cold. 

His nails dig into the forcefield, his jaw clenched tight. 

“Father employed a diagnostic emitter. High-level blackout field,” he says, his voice laced with venom, as though he couldn't bear the taste of the words. “Nearly obliterated your nervous system. The bastard didn’t even flinch.”

You shift, wincing. “He’s scared of me…”

Damian scowls, his lips curling in distaste. “That does not grant him the right.”

Across the batcave, you catch the silhouette of Bruce standing still, like a statue, his posture rigid, unmoving. The device is in his hand, the embedded screen lighting up with data. His face is grim, his lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line as he scans the readout.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of silence, he speaks, his voice subdued but edged with something you can’t place. “No radioactive residue. No multiversal degradation. No artificial structure. You’re not a clone. You’re not a weapon. You’re...” He trails off, as if uncertain how to finish the sentence.

You blink slowly, your mind catching up to the words. “Not normal.”

Bruce’s eyes shift ever so slightly, acknowledging your response. “No,” he agrees quietly, almost as though the admission is a reluctant concession. “You’re not.”

But there’s something in his posture that changes, subtle but unmistakable. A slight loosening of his shoulders. Not trust, not yet, but something far closer to hesitation.

You attempt to move again, your head pounding with the remnants of whatever Bruce used to sedate you. Your body feels foreign, your limbs sluggish, like you’ve been asleep for too long. But it’s the ache in your head that consumes you. You blink hard, trying to clear the fog, but it doesn’t help.

Bruce finally speaks again, his voice softer than before, though still carrying the weight of an unspoken decision. “You left me no choice.” There’s no apology, no anger. Just that same, infuriating calm that always manages to get under your skin.

“This isn’t punishment,” he continues, his eyes hardening slightly. “It’s a precaution. You’ve seen what happens when powers go unchecked.”

You grit your teeth, lifting your head as best as you can despite the ache that pulses with each movement.

"I’m not a weapon," you rasp, your voice hoarse and desperate for him to understand.

“That’s not your decision to make.” Bruce’s words are like a blade, cutting through the air with finality.

Damian growls low, slamming his palm against the barrier between you, his frustration boiling over. “You could have just talked to her!”

Bruce meets your gaze briefly, unreadable. “I am talking to her now.”

Damian doesn’t let up, his fury now a raw shout, almost echoing in the silence. “You kidnapped her!” He gestures toward you with an elegance that seems out of place in the intensity of the moment. “You employed a blackout charge on someone you know personally, someone you know does not mean this family harm—”

“She lied,” Bruce counters, his tone quiet but resolute, his eyes locked on you, unflinching. “She could be lying to you. She put the entire family at risk.”

Damian’s lips curl with contempt. “She protected this family. You simply couldn’t see it, because she did not come with a Bat on her chest.”

Bruce doesn’t respond. And that’s what makes it worse.

༻⊰───⋅ An hour later, Selina arrives.

Damian’s posture tightens immediately, his whole body coiling like a spring, ready to strike. His eyes narrow, scanning the room, searching for a threat.

When he sees her, his muscles relax just slightly, but his scowl doesn’t waver. His hands are still clenched, his anger simmering beneath the surface.

Selina stops just before the forcefield, her figure smaller than usual. She’s hunched, like she’s holding herself together by a thread.

When her eyes find you, they widen with concern, and for a split second, her usual mask cracks. The woman who cares more than anyone knows is there, and it’s almost painful to see. She takes a few cautious steps forward, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

“Dammit,” she mutters, voice rough with barely contained emotion. Her hands press against the forcefield like she could just push through it and hold you. “You’re okay, right? They didn’t hurt you? Tell me they didn’t hurt you.”

You shift, wincing. You feel like dead weight, but you try to reassure her, your voice barely a whisper. “I’m fine. Just... tired.”

Selina raises an eyebrow, the disbelief clear in her eyes. “Tired? Bullshit,” she snaps, stepping closer, her fingers pressing harder against the barrier. Her eyes flick to Damian, then back to you, burning with protectiveness. “I know you better than that. You think I can’t tell when you’re not okay? They locked you in here like a criminal... for what?” She scoffs, throwing her hands up. “Bruce... sometimes I swear he forgets what it’s like to care about anyone.”

Before you can respond, she cuts you off, raising a hand. Her sharp features soften just a little, but there's still frustration in her voice. “I just need to know you’re okay,” she whispers, her hand trembling against the forcefield. “I should’ve... I should’ve been here sooner. I should’ve known better.”

“I...” you try to say, but she shakes her head.

“Shh.” Her forehead presses gently against the barrier, a soft breath escaping her lips. “I’m not leaving you here, okay? I’ll figure this out. I’ll get you out of here. Bruce... he doesn’t get it.”

Her voice is steady, but there's a tremor in her hands, a crack in her resolve. For all her strength, seeing you like this has brought her to the edge.

The guilt hits you like a tidal wave. Your head drops, and you blink hard to stop the tears from falling. You were supposed to listen. Selina warned you.

“I should’ve listened to you…” Your voice breaks, barely a whisper, and the weight of it all crashes down on you. The isolation, the fear, the mistake—it floods over you and you can’t hold back anymore. The tears fall, hot against your skin.

Damian watches, his expression darkening as he notices. He leans in, brow furrowed, his forehead resting gently against the forcefield near yours.

Selina watches in silence, her hands still pressed to the barrier, lips tight in a thin line. She wants to reach out, to do something, anything, to make this better. But she can’t. All she can do is stand here and promise she won’t let go.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, your voice thick with guilt. “I didn’t mean for this to happen… I didn’t—”

“Shh. I know,” she murmurs softly, her voice full of understanding, but also an undercurrent of something stronger. “But it’s not over. I’m here. We’re getting you out. Just hold on.”

༻⊰───⋅

The hours stretch on, heavy with silence. It's thick, suffocating.

Upstairs, Selina is no doubt locked in some heated argument with Bruce. You can almost hear her voice rising above the din of the Batcave, cutting through the tension. But here, with Damian, the world beyond feels like a distant memory.

Damian hasn't moved. Not really. His body is a taut wire, ready to snap at any moment. His forehead rests gently against the cold forcefield beside yours, the harsh chill of it matching the ice in his veins.

He's still angry—too angry, in fact. 

You're not sure how much time has passed, but you can tell he's exhausted.

The anger, the worry, the helplessness.

All of it is wearing him down

"Damian," you whisper, your voice soft and almost too quiet to hear. Your eyelids are heavy with exhaustion, but you force yourself to keep your gaze on him. "You should go to bed. You haven’t slept since this started."

He doesn't answer immediately. His jaw tightens, the tension in his body practically radiates off him. His hands twitch, like he’s fighting an instinct to destroy something—anything—that will release the pressure building inside him. There’s a simmering fury beneath the surface, something raw and dangerous that’s been festering for too long.

"I don’t need sleep," Damian mutters, his voice low, gravelly, like it’s been dragged through a storm. His eyes never leave the barrier that separates you, dark with something he won't let you see fully. "I know how to micro-sleep. But I won’t close my eyes while this is happening. Not with you stuck in there."

“Damian…” you whisper again, softer, laced with a hint of pleading. “You don’t have to stay like this. It’s... It’s not your fault. I’m fine.”

He scoffs, a sharp, bitter sound that cuts through the air like a blade. His eyes narrowed, the raw emotion within them flaring like an exposed wound. When he speaks next, his voice shakes with a deadly mix of pain and fury.

“Not my fault?” he spits, turning his head sharply to face you, his words coming out like a snarl. “I can’t watch this anymore. I can’t watch you in here.”

You try to hold his gaze, but it feels like staring into the sun.

“I can’t stand seeing you locked up,” he growls, the frustration practically radiating off him. “You’re not some criminal. You don’t belong here.”

The weight of his words presses into you, and you know, deep down, that if he had any way to tear through this forcefield, he would’ve already done it.

“I hate this,” he mutters, voice quieter now, but there's still a burning anger in it, twisted inward. His forehead presses harder against the cold, unforgiving barrier, a cruel reminder of the distance between you. "Hate seeing you trapped, helpless. I don’t care what Bruce thinks. I don’t care what anyone thinks."

His gaze flickers to yours, raw and desperate, and for a split second, you see him—just Damian. Not the stoic, hardened boy with a mission, but a kid who’s barely holding it together. The weight of the world pressed down on him.

“… I need you to be okay."

“I will be,” you promise him, voice stronger despite the exhaustion that threatens to drag you under. "As long as you’re here."

Damian doesn’t respond right away, but you can feel the shift, the slight easing of the tension in his body, like he’s finally letting out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper again, though this time, it’s less about anything you’ve done and more about the weight of it all. The burden of everything that’s happened. “I didn’t want to drag you into this.”

Damian's lips curl into a strained smirk, but it’s tired, sad. “I chose this. You didn’t drag me in.” His voice drops, low and dangerous. “I knew exactly what I was getting into. Don’t you dare blame yourself for this. Not when it’s my father who’s too blinded by his damn paranoia to see what’s right in front of him.”

Suddenly, there’s a sound. The hiss of a hidden seam opening in the paneling. You blink, shifting weakly toward the noise.

“Alfred?” your voice is rough, barely above a whisper.

The butler steps through a narrow passage concealed within the far wall. The shimmer of the forcefield adjusts slightly to accommodate the entry. He’s holding a covered tray in his hands, a soft towel draped over his forearm. Calm, collected, and somehow solemn.

Damian’s head snaps toward the movement, eyes narrowing. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

Alfred doesn’t even flinch. “And yet, Master Damian, here I am.”

Damian’s scowl deepens. “You shouldn’t risk this. If Father finds out—”

“He will find out,” Alfred replies calmly, his gaze unwavering. “But he will not stop me. Not when someone I care about is being treated like an enemy in their own home.”

He steps up to the edge of the forcefield and looks to you, his face softening. “I thought you might want something warm to eat. The kitchen has been dreadfully quiet without you stealing things when you think I’m not looking.”

Despite everything, a fragile smile tugs at the corner of your lips. “You always knew?”

“I always know,” he says, with that faint spark of amusement that only Alfred can manage, even in the darkest of moments.

Damian steps forward, eyes locked on Alfred’s tray. “She needs to be freed. This is absurd—”

“Master Damian, if you too do not eat or sleep soon, you will collapse,” Alfred interrupts smoothly. “You are no good to her like this, and you know it.”

Damian hesitates, visibly torn.

Alfred softens again. “Let me sit with her, just for a few minutes. Go. Rest. When you come back, she’ll be here. I’ll make sure of it.”

There’s a beat of silence. You watch as Damian wrestles with himself. Finally, he gives you a look, still fierce, but there's a hint of reluctant trust there, too.

“…Don’t let him near her,” Damian warns quietly, a final glance toward the ceiling, toward Batman.

“I have no intention of allowing fear to masquerade as justice,” Alfred replies. “Now go. I’ll call you if anything changes.”

Damian lingers a moment longer, eyes on yours. Then he steps away. His footsteps echo up the stairs, quiet, but still filled with fury.

When he’s gone, Alfred finally kneels at the edge of the forcefield. He sets the tray down and pulls out a thermos, unscrewing the lid to let the scent of real broth waft into the air. “It’s not much, but it’s better than intravenous fluids.”

You smile tiredly. “You’re risking a lot coming here.”

Alfred’s gaze is gentle. “I’ve served this family for decades. I’ve watched it grow, fracture, and, on rare occasions, heal. But I will not sit idle while it lets fear dictate cruelty.”

Your breath catches slightly.

He continues, his voice lowering with a weight of years behind it. “Master Bruce… he isn’t thinking clearly. You mustn’t take it personally. He’s terrified. Terrified of what he doesn’t understand. Of what you might become.”

You press your lips together, trying to force the tightness in your throat to ease. “I know, but I want him to know that I would never hurt anyone—”

“I think he knows,” Alfred interrupts gently, his voice warm yet firm. “But logic rarely wins against fear. Especially for a man who’s lost as much as he has. He sees threats in shadows, and you, my dear, have always cast long ones.”

You look down, shame pressing like iron on your chest.

Alfred’s fingers brush the edge of the forcefield, reverent but firm. “But I’ve seen your heart. And I believe in it. Which is why I will find a way to help you."

Your eyes widen. “You’d… betray him?”

“I would defy him,” Alfred says calmly, a fire in his voice now. “Because loyalty should not be blind. And because this family should never forget what it means to protect its own.”

He presses the thermos closer to the barrier, and a small opening appears as if the system itself recognizes Alfred's authority, just enough for the steam to escape, just enough for trust to pass through.

A mechanical click sounds softly, and a hidden seam in the forcefield parts for only a moment, allowing Alfred to slide the thermos and a small, foil-wrapped bundle through. The opening seals again with a quiet hum.

“Rest, if you can,” he says, adjusting the towel on his arm with practiced ease. “Eat what you can. The body cannot weather storms when it’s starved of warmth. Neither can the soul.”

You reach out with trembling fingers, taking the thermos gently, cradling it as if it might disappear. The heat seeps into your palms and travels up your arms, grounding you. The smell, simple, comforting, familiar, brings tears to your eyes before you can stop them.

“…Thanks,” you whisper.

Alfred nods, his face unreadable but his eyes unbearably kind. “There is no need. If anything, I should apologize. For not intervening sooner.”

You shake your head. “It’s not your fault.”

“Perhaps not,” he murmurs. “But that doesn’t mean I’m absolved of responsibility.”

“I will speak to Master Dick,” he continues. “And Barbara. Perhaps even Tim. There are lines forming in this house. If Bruce refuses to see reason...”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.

You nod faintly, holding the thermos to your chest like it’s a tether. The food is a small act of rebellion, but it means everything.

Alfred rises slowly, smoothing the front of his coat. “Try to rest. If not for yourself, then for Damian. You know how reckless he gets when worry takes hold of him.” He pauses, a flicker of affection softening his tone. “And make no mistake... he's deeply worried about you.”

You manage a faint smile, weary but genuine. “Yeah. I can tell. He’s already halfway to batshit crazy.”

Alfred chuckles once, a dry and quiet sound. “Then I shall hurry back with something to slow him down. A full stomach and a cup of tea may buy us both a few moments of peace.”

༻⊰───⋅

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Bruce—she’s a kid!”

Bruce didn’t stop walking.

His boots were nearly silent on the stone floor, but Selina heard them anyway. Each step a countdown. Each second, a verdict being prepared.

He moved like someone who’d already made a decision hours ago and had been replaying its consequences ever since.

When he finally stopped, the only sound was the low hum of the elevator leading from the Batcave to the manor behind him, and the soft whirr of the security locks re-engaging in the distance. Still clad in full armor, he raised a gauntleted hand, calm, practiced, and slid the cowl back from his face.

His eyes, when they met hers, were flat and cold. Suspicion lived in their corners, but it wasn’t wild or paranoid. It was the kind that had been earned, honed over years of betrayal and hard choices.

“She’s not who you think she is.”

Selina’s jaw clenched.

Her heels struck the carpeted floor of the lavish living room with sharp, angry purpose as she crossed the space between them, the hem of her coat trailing like a shadow behind her. She grabbed his arm, nails digging into the fabric of his suit.

“Don’t do this,” she snapped. “Don’t pull the Bat-act on me right now.”

She leaned in, eyes narrowed. There was heat in them, rage, but also something softer beneath. The memory of small, stolen moments. Of whispered truths and painful choices.

“I know her, Bruce. I know what she’s been through. And so do you.”

There was a flicker, just a flicker, in his expression. A tightening around the eyes. A breath held just a second too long.

But it was gone before she could say his name again.

“She has enhanced abilities—arachnid in origin. She’s not registered. Her presence in Gotham is unaccounted for.”

“She’s also not blowing up buildings or turning people inside out with her mind,” Selina said, stepping in front of him. “You know what she is? She’s scared. She’s a teenager. She’s my girl.”

At that, Bruce finally met her gaze. His eyes, steely and guarded, held something deeper. A trace of doubt? A flash of guilt? Selina couldn’t tell. It was quickly masked, but it was there.

“She has enhanced abilities. Arachnid-based, if the scans are accurate. She’s a meta. That changes things.”

Selina let out a short, disbelieving laugh, bitter at the edges.

“Seriously?” Her arm shot out, gesturing toward the shadows just beyond the Batcave entrance. “Changes what? That she can stick to walls? Swing from buildings? Your kids are vigilantes too!”

But Bruce wasn’t looking. He stood still, cloaked in silence. The kind that meant his mind was already made up, whether he said it aloud or not.

“I can’t fucking believe you would even consider—”

“Selina, she could be a threat. You know I can’t ignore that.”

“She’s not a threat,” Selina snapped. “I told you—she’s my girl.”

“You’re emotionally compromised.”

“And you’re emotionally constipated,” she fired back. “You’ve known her for years, Bruce. And now one blip on a scanner, and suddenly she’s on your damn watchlist?”

“I’m doing my job—” he began, but Selina stepped in closer, her voice low and lethal.

“Bullshit.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, deadly, deliberate. “You’re doing your usual thing. Treating people like problems instead of people.”

There it was. The quiet truth, laid bare between them.

Bruce didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. His silence said everything Selina had feared: that even now, even after everything they’d been through, his first instinct was to see the girl as a variable in one of his plans.

As a threat. Not a person.

“You hurt people when you forget they’re not just names in your case files,” Selina said finally. 

“Don’t make me pick sides, Bruce.”

She held his gaze, unwavering.

“Because you know I’m choosing her.”

༻⊰───⋅

The thermos in your hands is still warm, its metal surface radiating a quiet comfort that doesn’t reach your chest. You’re halfway through a sip when it happens. 

Click.

Soft, almost silent, but enough to slice through the silence like a whisper against glass. The Batcave’s security systems are shifting.

You freeze, thermos hovering just below your mouth.

Footsteps follow, measured, deliberate. Not the kind that rush or hesitate. No scrape, no stumble. Just the steady rhythm of someone who knows they belong here, even if their presence wasn't expected.

A faint glow arcs across the far side of the cave, catching the edge of her hair. She steps forward slowly, shedding the shadows with every step, until the overhead light hits her face.

“Morgan?”

She grins. Casual and sharp, hands tucked into the pockets of her sleek jacket like this is just another late-night run. “Hey, sunshine.”

Your heart stumbles. “How—how did you get in here?”

She steps closer to the field. “Please. You think I’d let Bruce lock you up without a backdoor?”

Your eyes narrow. “But the system—”

“I rewrote parts of the failsafes months ago,” she says easily. “Just in case someone got… paranoid.”

A seam hisses open in the forcefield, something only Bruce—or, hell, Alfred—should be able to do.

You scramble to your feet, clutching the thermos.

Morgan just smiles.

“Relax. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to get you out. Let's go!”

“Now?” Your voice is low, uncertain. “I thought...? Damian—Alfred—they were trying to—”

Her smile tightens. Something colder flickers beneath. “You really think you’re safe here? Batman locked you up. Damian couldn’t stop him. Alfred had to sneak you food. That’s not safety. That’s a cage.”

You hesitate.

“I’ve been watching,” she says gently. “And trust me—if you stay, they’ll turn on you. Batman's fear spreads. It always does.”

You shake your head. “That’s not true. Damian—he—”

“Can’t protect you if he gets locked out. Something that's bound to happen,” Morgan’s tone sharpens. “And Selina? She made a deal. She was supposed to get you out. But Bruce pulled rank. So I improvised.”

You blink, frowning. “How do you—You’re... you're not messing with me, right?”

“Why would I?” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. 

You glance toward the stairs.

Morgan’s voice softens again. “Look. I get that you're confused right now, but I’m the only one not treating you like a threat. I’m here. Now. That has to mean something.”

You stare at her. At the forcefield now lowering. At the ease with which she bypassed every safeguard Bruce ever designed.

Then again, Morgan was always good at this stuff. It’s no surprise she did it this fast.

“I…” You take a step forward, uncertainty creeping into your voice, your hands trembling. “What about the others? When do we tell them?”

Morgan’s smile returns, sharp and clean. “We can’t risk it. Not yet.”

Something about her tone makes your skin crawl. But you push it aside.

You’re tired. You’re scared. And part of you wants—needs—to believe her.

Reluctantly, you follow.

Behind you, the Batcave’s lights dim just slightly, the system blinking in silent confusion, as if even the walls are beginning to suspect something is wrong.

Morgan doesn’t look back.

Her hand hovers near her waist, where you now notice a sleek device you’ve never seen before. Not Bat-tech. Not yours. Too polished. Too… alien. Her fingers twitch over it with ease.

You step into the shadows beside her.

Something stirs in your chest. Not panic. Just a flicker of tension. Your instincts are trying to whisper a warning you can’t quite hear. The air hums strangely. The cave itself feels warped around her.

!!!

You feel it.

!!!

But you shove it down.

Now isn’t the time. She’s here. She came for you. That has to count for something.

“Morgan?” you ask, voice soft.

She doesn’t turn at first. When she does, her smile is easy. Reassuring. Familiar.

“Yeah?”

You pause… 

DANGER.

... then smile back. “Thanks. For getting me out.”

“Of course,” she says, already turning away.

“We had a deal, didn’t we? You and me—we always look out for each other.”

You nod, forcing the knot in your gut to loosen.

Just nerves. Just stress.

And you follow her into the dark.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Sooo... I'm back, and I’ve decided to finish this once and for all!

It’s been over a year, hehe... My bad! My senior year really took a toll on me.

I’m currently working on college applications >< I got accepted into everything I applied for, but next year, if all goes well, I’ll be transferring to Auzzieland!

Also... Sorry about the taglist... Kinda lost the list & It's been so long I'm not too sure people are still interested!

[knoxious-existence]

SAME SIN

pairing | frank castle x reader

summary | in your darkest hour, matt doesn't answer the phone. but frank does.

warnings | blood, death, violence, attempted robbery, religious trauma, possible infidelity, matt's lowkey kind of a bitch in this but that's ok, probably deviates from canon at times but fuck it we ball, MDNI 18+

word count | 3.5k

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

Blood wept from your fingertips, dripping onto the asphalt.

It had soaked through the man’s shirt. Oozed from the scattered holes in his chest, pooling around his torso. His lungs breathed no air. His eyes didn’t blink, gazing sightless up towards the Heavens. 

Sickness hit in a crushing wave. 

You doubled over, clutching your stomach as bile surged up your throat, burning over your tongue. The gagging continued long after there was nothing left, saliva dribbling from your bottom lip. 

Then there was stillness. 

Not the stillness of calm, or peace. But punishment. Sentencing. The solemn gaze of an all-forgiving Father as he stands before you, stone in-hand.

[To kill is a violation of Faith—] 

{—You or them?} 

The gun had still been smoking when it’d clattered at your feet. 

Regret felt like a wet blanket on your shoulders, suffocating in its weight. You couldn’t stand it.

Couldn’t stand.

Asphalt dug into your knees, crumpling at the man's side. Your hands had been shaking as you grabbed his wrist, searching for a pulse, praying for it in the way a sinner prays for absolution.

You found none. 

No pulse. No absolution. 

Still, you tried. Locked your fingers over his chest—pressing and pressing, trying and trying. Until thick ribs cracked and caved, until your palms were drenched in warmth and death and–

Rain. 

It was raining. 

Little drops, softly pattering all throughout the alleyway. You watched, dazed, as they slid down the lit-up screen in your hands. 

You didn’t remember pulling out your phone, but you remembered making the call. 

Calls. 

In the Bible, the number seven is considered sacred. Symbolic of divine oaths and promises, of perfection in the purest, most angelic sense. 

Seven times you called the Devil. 

Seven times he didn’t answer. 

You tilted your head back. The rain fell faster, cool drops steady rolling down your cheeks. The sky was a yawning, starless expanse. In the past, you’d always said that’s why you hated the city. The lack of stars—veiled by pollution and human selfishness, replaced by a twinkling skyline made of artificial hope. 

But tonight was different. Tonight, you were glad for their absence. 

At least the stars hadn’t seen what you’d done. 

Blood smeared across the phone screen as you dialed your eighth call. A different tone than before; a number not saved but remembered. 

A number you’d promised Matt you’d never call again. 

{In case you ever need it—} 

[—I don’t trust him.] 

What is trust? 

Once, it felt like the comfort of sunlight pouring through stained glass windows. Sitting amidst the oaken pews with a man at your side—a soft man dressed in a sharp suit, his glasses tinted red and his heart pure gold. 

Now, trust felt like the relief of a call that rang only once. Of cold fear melting into the gruff warmth of another’s voice, heavy with concern as they answered: “You alright?” 

You almost laughed. 

No. Of course not—because why would you call Frank Castle if you were anything other than desperate? 

“Are you busy?” you asked, awkward and hesitant. 

In hindsight, the question felt stupid. There was a body lying in front of you, and certainly no amount of busyness took precedence over that. But then, Matt must’ve been busy. Playing dutiful layer or God’s lone soldier. That’s why he hadn’t answered. 

Unless… 

[Elektra’s just a friend—] 

{—That what we are?} 

On the other end of the line, Frank urged, “C’mon now, doll, you gotta answer me, alright?” Had he asked something? You hadn’t noticed. “Where’re you at?” 

“An alley.” 

A rough, humorless chuckle. “Little more specific, sweetheart.” 

Five blocks from Matt’s apartment, you thought. 

“Off West 51st,” you said. 

“Don’t move.” There was the sound of a door slamming, of boots pounding down a flight of stairs. “I’m on my way.” 

Panic thrashed in your veins, anticipating the sharp click of a call gone dead. “Wait!” A cry, a plea—but for what? You had no clue what to say next. 

You hadn’t told him about the man, or the gun, or the sin. 

And Frank hadn’t asked. You knew this was because the Why? for your call hadn’t mattered to him. 

Only that you had. 

{You call, I come—} 

[—Frank Castle is a murderer.] 

Your eyes squeezed shut. You went to rub them, then remembered the blood dripping from your hands. 

So am I, you thought. So am I. 

Frank said your name. Once, twice. 

Quietly, you asked, “Will you stay on the phone?” 

The sound of another door pushing open, a great whoosh! of air as the city unfolded around him: sirens screaming, traffic blaring. With your eyes closed, you could almost see—shoving from his apartment building, marching down darkened sidewalks with a determined clench in his jaw. 

It wasn’t a man coming to save you, nor a vigilante. 

It was a soldier. 

After drawing in a breath, Frank uttered, “‘Course.” 

Time dragged. 

Hell’s Kitchen droned around you. Occasionally, Frank would ask: You good? to which you replied: How far are you? At some point, you drifted further from the man’s body. Ended up sitting on the ground, your back pressed to a brick wall. 

Your emotions were still fuzzy, as dull as the blunt edge of a knife. But your nerves… those were razor sharp. 

You watched both ends of the alleyway. Vigilant, afraid. Your muscles tensed whenever a car door shut too loud, whenever a stranger passed beneath the distant, buzzing streetlights. 

What if someone noticed? 

Gunshots weren’t such a strange thing in the Kitchen. The Devil couldn’t be everywhere at once, and the cops were either too busy or too lazy to investigate every bang! in the night. 

But if someone noticed you like this—curled on the ground, a dead man at your feet and violent red on your skin… 

He started it, you reminded yourself. Self-defense is absolvable. 

[To a judge? Or to God?—] 

God doesn’t matter. 

[—Why didn’t you call 9-1-1?] 

Why didn’t you answer? 

Your grip tightened around the phone. “How far now?” 

“Check your nine.” In the second it took for you to envision a clock, Frank had already amended, “Left, sweetheart.” There was the barest hint of a smile in his voice. “Look left.” 

You did. 

Frank was little more than a formless figure approaching. He was dressed in all black, his hood up against the rain. You couldn’t see his face, but you didn’t need to. His presence was enough to ease the frantic beat of your pulse. 

When he was close enough to hear, you hung up the phone. Wiped your nose on your sleeve and sniffed, “Took you long enough.” 

Cool and calculating—two descriptors that fit Frank best as he scanned the scene. He took note of the discarded gun, the puddle of watered down blood, the man with three bullets in his chest. 

You were the last thing he noted, and the only one to put a crack in his stern exterior. 

“Smart enough to practice law,” Frank lightly joked, “but not to read a goddamn clock, huh?” 

A laugh sputtered past your lips, melding into a broken sob. 

“Paralegals don’t practice,” you argued, ignoring the tears wetting your cheeks. “And I can read a clock just fine, asshole.” 

There was a softness to his face, one brow raising. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” So long as it’s in front of you, and you’re telling time and not direction. 

Frank hummed, his knees popping as he crouched down beside you. “Well I ain’t got a watch,” he said, “so I guess I’ll have to take your word for it.” 

Another weak laugh faded into quiet. 

Then, more hesitant than you’d ever heard him before, Frank asked, “You wanna tell me what happened?” 

Something about the way he said it struck you as odd. Like it was a choice—that you didn’t have to explain. If you wanted, the secrets of tonight could remain just that: Secrets, known only by you and a man who had no voice to share them. 

[Do you remember Psalm 80:9?—] 

Even secret sins are exposed in His light. 

{—How do you deal with it? All Red’s Catholic bullshit?} 

By believing in it. 

Frank took your silence for an answer. Shifted as if he might reach out, offer comfort. Instead, his fingers curled into loose fists. 

“How ‘bout you go wait around the corner,” he offered, “and let me take care of all this?” 

You weren’t sure what Frank’s version of ‘taking care of this’ entailed, but you knew you were comfortable with never finding out. 

Frank followed suit as you pushed off the ground. His movements were precise and easy, while yours were graceless and weighted. Standing, the world seemed to shift beneath your feet. Your mind was still hazy, your bones tired. 

Existence had become an arduous task. 

“When you’re… done,” you managed, your arms curled tight around your waist, “what then?” 

You didn’t want to go home—or to Matt’s. 

You didn’t want to feel alone. 

As if he understood this, Frank simply answered, “I’ll take you back to my place. Get you cleaned up, let you rest awhile.” His head tilted slightly. “You like pizza?” 

The world was ending. 

And yet here stood Frank—no Bible quotes or Hail Mary’s, no judgement for the sin you’d committed or the mess he had to clean. He offered only calm, only patience—and pizza of all things. 

[What do you see in him?—] 

{—Let me take care of all this.} 

You nodded. 

Frank’s apartment was bleak. 

One room total—unless you counted the cramped shoebox of a bathroom, which you did not. The front door opened into a shoddy kitchenette, connected to a living room that clearly doubled as his bedroom. 

He owned minimal furnishings. There was a lumpy couch, a small table with one chair, an old doormat that read Stay Awhile! except the Awhile had been all but completely rubbed off. You assumed that’s why it was inside instead of out—because even indirectly, Frank Castle wasn’t the type to ask anyone to Stay. 

Behind you, Frank grunted as he kicked his boots off onto the mat. You wondered if you should do the same, but didn’t. 

It felt strange to be in Frank’s apartment. Not because it made you uncomfortable, but because it didn’t. You felt fine. Still shaken, still a little sick—but safe. 

Would Matt be able to tell? Would he smell the gunpowder and Old Spice clinging to your skin and know that you’d been with Frank? 

That’s how you knew when he’d been with Elektra. You didn’t need super senses to smell her perfume—a heady mix of cloves and something citrus, lingering on his shirts as plain as if it were lipstick on the collar. 

Unthinking, you said, “You should get a bird.” 

Frank chuckled. “Yeah? And why’s that?” 

You weren’t sure. It was just the first thing that had come to mind, a means of evicting Elektra from your thoughts. 

“It could liven the place up,” you suggested. Though, after taking another glance around, you realized that might be asking too much of one little bird. 

He’d need a flock. 

Frank slipped past you, warmth crawling up your spine at the slight brush of his hand against your back. You told yourself it was unintentional—no more intimate than someone scooting past you in a crowded bar or a grocery store aisle. 

Still, the warmth lingered. 

“Don’t think I’m much of a bird guy,” Frank admitted from the kitchenette. Then, nodding towards the couch, he added, “Sit.” 

You drifted that way and sank into the cushions. The springs were practically nonexistent, and the brown leather peeled like a bad sunburn—impossible not to pick at. 

“What kind of guy are you, then?” you asked, more interested in a distraction than his answer. 

Frank dug around in the cabinets, grabbed a plastic mixing bowl, and went to the sink. “I like dogs,” he told you, loud enough to be heard over the running water filling the bowl. 

You pretended not to hear him anyway. 

After starting at Nelson & Murdock, you’d planned to get a dog. It seemed like the right time. You had your own place, your own income—and you knew Foggy would love having something cute and furry around the office. But then you got closer to Matt, and the dream died before it ever began. 

Dogs were too much for Matt. Too many smells, too many sounds, too many textures. Back then, you’d thought it was a reasonable sacrifice. No dog in exchange for an incredible boyfriend. 

You knew better now. 

You should’ve picked the dog. 

Dragging the lone chair from the table, Frank settled in front of you with the bowl of steaming water and a thin cloth. His eyes went straight to your hand. You assumed it was because of the dried blood until he said, “You’re fucking up my couch.” 

You stopped picking, dusting the flakes of leather onto the floor. “It was already fucked,” you defended. 

“So you gotta make it worse?” 

You fixed him with a blank stare. “Nothing could make this couch worse.” Short of setting it on fire, that is. 

“That how we’re gonna play this?” Frank looked like he was holding in a laugh. “I let you in, offer you food—and you pay me back by talkin’ shit about my couch?” 

“It’s not just the couch,” you stated plainly. “It’s the whole apartment.” 

It reminded you of prison—a place that you, Foggy, and Matt had worked hard to keep Frank out of. Even if the trial hadn’t gone as expected, you hated the idea that all that fight had been for this: A peeling couch, a faded doormat, a lonely little chair. 

Frank deserved better than that. 

[Have you forgotten?—] 

[Castle was charged with 37 counts of murder] 

[—Why are you so attached to this case?] 

With the bowl balanced on top of his legs, Frank dipped the cloth in and wrung it out as he joked, “Guess I need that bird.” 

Your lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. 

“Guess so.” 

Frank held out an open palm. Without thinking, you laid your hand against his. 

The water was too hot. Not quite burning, but still uncomfortable as he pressed the cloth to your wrist. But you didn’t flinch, utterly motionless as he wiped in slow, circular motions. 

His touch was far lighter than you’d imagined. 

Not that you ever had imagined it. 

As the cloth moved down to your fingers, Frank’s focus grew more intent. He was meticulous in cleaning every line of your knuckles, the dried blood caked under your nails. 

Only when the water in the bowl had turned the color of rust, the cloth stained and your skin spotless, did Frank trade one of your hands for the other. 

Only then did you confess. 

“He had a knife.” 

Half a second—that’s how long Frank’s movements faltered before he kept on cleaning. You were thankful he didn’t try to look you in the eye. That he didn’t have to for you to know he was listening. 

“Foggy has a deposition in the morning,” you continued shakily. “He always forgets to print his motion, so I stopped by the office to do it for him and… I don’t know. On the way back home, I could just feel it, you know? That someone was there. That they were following me.” 

An understanding nod as Frank moved the cloth to your index finger. 

“I know it’s stupid,” you told him. “But I thought if I cut through the alley, got closer to Matt’s, then–” 

He’d hear it, if the worst happened. The Devil would come. Your boyfriend—if you could even still call him that—would save you. 

But that had been a stupid, childish thought. 

“I figured I could lose him,” you said instead. “That I could turn the corner and just run in circles until he gave up. But he was fast. I wasn’t even halfway down the alley when he ran up behind me, when grabbed my shoulder and–” 

Your breath caught. Frank’s touch moved slower, gentler—a feat you wouldn’t have thought possible. His eyes caught yours in a concerned glance. Only then did you remember how to breathe. 

“It was just a knife, Frank. A knife—and I pulled out a gun!” A short, hollow laugh. “I should have let him rob me,” you rationalized. “At least a wallet can be replaced. But him, his life–” 

Frank cut you off. “How do you know?” 

Your brows furrowed in answer. 

His hand went still against yours, holding the cloth wrapped around your ring finger. “That that’s all he wanted,” Frank gruffly clarified. “To rob you.” 

“I don’t, but–” 

“You remember what I told you? When I taught you how to shoot?” 

{You or them?—}

Frustrated, you insisted, “It’s not that easy, Frank. It’s not my choice!” 

[—It’s up to God, who lives and who dies.] 

Frank shook his head. “That’s the Catholic in you,” he argued. 

“I’m not Catholic,” you snapped, low but harsh. Frank looked confused, and you fought to keep the shame from your voice as you muttered, “Not anymore.” 

Religion, you’ve learned, is a funny sort of thing. Even when you stop believing, it never truly goes away. God becomes a ghost under your skin, a divine haunting that borders on insanity. You will always think in terms of Sinners and Saints. You will always know that no amount of repentance will ever mold your soul into something more like the latter. 

Frank wasn’t the type to pry any further. 

Instead, he adjusted your hand. Carefully dragged the cloth along the curve of your fingernail. The water had cooled, now too cold where it was once too hot. 

“It doesn’t matter what he was going to do,” you decided. “It only matters that I killed him.” 

This time, it was Frank’s breath that hitched. 

“No you didn’t,” he said, and you had never heard someone tell a lie so matter-of-fact. 

“I did–” 

He looked up. A muscle feathered in his jaw, and when he spoke, it was with the steely resolve of a Marine.  

“No. I did.” 

You blinked at him. 

“I gave you that gun,” he continued. “Gave you that goddamn advice, too. That no matter what, you always gotta pick you. And see, I don’t regret that shit either because all that? It kept you alive. Kept you breathing. And if some no-good prick’s gotta so you get to live? Fine. Good.” 

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything but stare at him. 

“But if someone’s gotta bear the weight of that guy’s miserable life,” Frank told you, “then let it be me, alright?” His gaze fell, lingering on your lips a moment too long before he uttered, “‘Cause I ain’t gonna let it be you.” 

[You care about him—]

[—Don’t you?] 

Do you care about her? 

[Elektra’s just a friend—] 

… 

[—Can you say the same about Frank?] 

You studied the man before you. 

Frank Castle. The Punisher. 

The one you shouldn’t call, shouldn’t trust. A murderer and a felon, a crack in your already crumbling relationship. Someone you tried to stay away from, tried to forget. 

A number not saved, but remembered. 

No, you thought, and wondered if Matt already knew. I can’t. 

Swallowing, you looked down at your joined hands. The blood was almost all gone now, washed away by someone far more damned than you. 

“Okay,” you said. There was no need to say anything else, no need to keep bearing the crushing weight of your newly acquired sin—not when God was a ghost and the Devil had abandoned you, not when a Soldier was so willing to bear it for you. 

“You know,” you said, deftly changing the subject, “my brain’s a little hazy, but I’m pretty sure you promised me pizza.” 

Frank fought the subtle curve of his lips. “Did I?” 

You nodded, and he chuckled. 

“Fine–” he refocused, back to cleaning off the last of the blood–“but you’re placin’ the order.” 

You mocked him, Fine!, while sliding your phone from your pocket. The screen lit up with two missed calls and one text. 

Matthew: Sorry, got caught up with something. Everything OK? 

Your thumb hovered over the message. 

In the Bible, the number eight is symbolic of many things. Resurrection is one of them; something dead brought back into eternal life. Once, you would’ve seen Matt’s text—a string of eight words—and wondered if that meant something. If maybe there was something left of your love to be resurrected. 

Now, you stole a glance at Frank—your eighth call—and thought of new beginnings. Of choosing your own path. 

You cleared Matt’s message. 

Tapped on the Safari icon and asked, “Do you want somewhere specific?” 

“Ever been to Lombardi’s?” suggested Frank. 

You shook your head. “Is it good?” 

Frank cut you a look. “‘Course it’s good. But knowin’ you, you’ll probably shit talk it the same way you did my couch.” 

A smile tugged at your lips. “Keep it up,” you teased, already typing the restaurant into the search, “and your only company’s gonna be the couch and the bird.” 

He chuckled. “I ain’t gettin’ a bird.” 

You'd just pressed the phone to your ear, already listening to it ring when you built up the nerve to ask, "What about a dog?"

Frank set the cloth in the bowl. Gave your hand a gentle squeeze. 

“Maybe a dog.”

a/n - this has been sitting in my drafts literally since january. i can't decide if i like it or hate it, but i've gotten into too much of a habit of writing, overthinking, and then never posting---so, here it is! thank you to anyone who takes the time to read it <3

[knoxious-existence]

October Moon

summary: in the fallout shelter, horrifying discoveries had been made. some had been worse than others, and one reaction had put Aurora in the wrong place at the wrong time.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: smutty smut smut. mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER MOON pt.13

The fallout shelter somehow felt more ominous than it had when you'd been with Maddie and Simon. Granted, you'd been distracted by Dave and then a fingernail at a creepy tunnel entrance, so who could blame you?

You felt it now. An imperceptible shift in the air. Spooky and...other. Like stepping into liminal space.

"I'm beginning to really hate this school," You murmured as you stepped deeper into the crammed space. "We should just burn it down."

"Someone tried that, remember?" Charley quipped, one eyebrow raised.

"Maybe the symbols aren't just to trap ghosts in here," Ajay suggested, distracted by the various items lining the walls and filling the center of the space. He looked up with a mock-spooked look, "Maybe they also protect the school from harm."

Wally snorted, "I can't believe the Something-Something chose to protect a high school," and he turned to shut the door securely. "Just in case," He winked at you when you gave the door a wary look, unhappy about the idea that you were closed in.

You understood why it needed to be shut, though. On the way through the basement, Ajay had explained how he'd learned that the fallout shelter was where their teacher, Mr. Martin, found his privacy. His little corner of the school, like the other ghosts had theirs.

Strange how he'd never mentioned it before, Wally had muttered, dark and suspicious. You got the feeling his trust in Mr. Martin was eroding.

Turning around to take in the space, "This place looks like it hasn't been touched in years..." Wally uttered, placing a steady hand on your lower back to guide you forward.

Moving around a stack of unmarked barrels, Charley muttered, "I can relate," which tickled a chuckle from your chest.

If you were going to be stuck in a bunker under the school, at least you were in good company, you thought, fingers dancing across the dashboard of one of the clunky pieces of equipment. The buttons blinked; the narrow screen was blank, but illuminated.

"Do these work?" You asked aloud, squinting at the warning label as you tried to figure out what it was for.

"Probably," Ajay said, "That one's for the ventilation." He turned and pointed toward a fuse box, "Generator," and then another machine, "Most likely the mechanism for the door to keep it sealed."

"They're massive." You said as you knocked the surface of the one in front of you, "They really needed something this huge to make one thing work?"

Wally chuckled, gazing at you like you were the most adorable little thing.

"Babe, one computer used to take up a whole room back in the day." He said, brushing a strand of hair off your cheek. "This actually seems pretty sleek in comparison."

You stuck your tongue out at him, "You're such a closet nerd," and proceeded to continue inspecting the machine. He pressed a kiss to your temple, pinched your ass cheek, and then shifted by you to inspect something that'd caught his eye.

Everyone spread out.

Ajay drifted to the tunnel entrance. Wally to the shelves to the right of the door. Charley around a pile of boxes. You stayed by the machines, wanted to understand their purpose.

"The article said that this was built where the old Science Wing was after the fire," Charley said as he scanned the first stack of boxes on his way around them. Moving toward the shelf that lined the back wall, you sensed him stop midstep, "Wait..."

You looked up, held your breath as you waited for Charley to announce if he'd found something pertinent. Wally and Ajay both turned to face Charley as well, Wally trotting closer to see what had brought Charley to a halt.

Tense, "Looks like someone's touched this," Charley said, his face twisted in confusion as he dragged his forefinger through a thick layer of dust.

You approached cautiously, strode into the space between him and Wally, and noticed a strip of clean metal that the box Charley indicated had obviously occupied before it'd been pushed deeper into the shelf.

Wisconsin Safety Rations, the label read.

"What?" Before you could touch it, Wally nudged you gently out of the way and assumed your spot beside Charley, his hand a comfortable weight between your shoulder blades.

"Well, this looks like..." Charley began, pointed, explained his reasoning, "This looks like it's been moved."

It couldn't have been a ghost, you thought, since they couldn't disturb the living world, and, after grazing your fingers over the clean strip of shelf, you knew you weren't looking through the veil. The box had been shifted in the living world.

"Mr. South?" You wondered aloud, believing that to be the only explanation that made sense. "Simon and I were way too busy freaking out about the fingernail to look around last time."

"Probably," Ajay agreed, though he sounded uncertain. "It has to be him...right?"

"Or someone else who knows about the not-so-secret fallout shelter," Wally offered with a slight shrug of one shoulder.

No one wanted to say it, but Ajay did, "Amelia?"

You shivered, a cold rivulet of fear dribbling down your spine, "She'd have to know it exists, at least."

Wally didn't hesitate, removed the box from the shelf, and placed it on the low bench below to inspect the box's contents. You peered over his arm as he pulled a thin leather briefcase from inside, flipped the flap to reveal loose sheets of paper you didn't have a chance to scan because Charley drew your attention back to the shelf almost instantly.

"What are these?"

Ajay crept around you and Wally to Charley's other side, leaned forward to get a look at what had been hidden behind the box. You and Wally turned as well, and, holy crap, there was a selection of notebooks stuffed against the wall.

"This is like...some Raiders of the Lost Ark action," Wally said, smiling at you though you could tell he was unnerved, just trying his best to keep your mind at ease.

"You a big Indy fan?"

Wally shrugged, kissed your forehead, "Sort of. I wanted to be an archaeologist for a while after I saw the movie. He made it look so cool."

"You mean you wanted to go on adventures and save the world with a whip and a fedora." Ajay chuckled, following Charley's lead and reaching in to pluck one of the notebooks from the cache.

"Maybe. Who cares, it would've been awesome," Wally grinned.

He shifted and returned to finger through the contents of the briefcase while you examined the notebooks along with Charley and Ajay. There was quite the collection. One, two, three—

Twenty-two notebooks.

The number nagged at you.

You reached in and picked one at random, opened it to a random page near the front, and began to read: "Subject: Stephanie Russo. February 2006, Subject shows remarkable shift in presence since last session. No longer has spells of awareness after dark and can now successfully participate in band practice without anxiety."

Stephanie Russo...you knew that name. It'd been in your family's files. The ones you'd studied before your first day of high school. She'd been the Blue Devils' trumpet player.

The atmosphere turned sour instantly, pressed in from all sides, cold and dense and suffocating.

"Wh-what are these?" Charley stammered. His hands shook as he continued to scan the page of the notebook he'd been reading.

Behind you, Wally scanned a sheet of paper he'd pulled from the briefcase, his tone shaky when he answered, "These are our obituaries."

Wait. Their what?

"Like, from the newspaper?" You asked as you placed Stephanie Russo's notebook on the shelf to grab the paper out of Wally's hand.

It was not, in fact, a newspaper clipping. You didn't need to know it to understand that that was Wally's handwriting. You grabbed the next sheet of paper Wally pulled from the briefcase, and looked it over as well. Katelynn Miller. And the next, Bernadette King.

You felt sick.

"Why are you guys writing obituaries?" You asked, breath caught in your throat, "That's sick."

Wally cocked his head, his expression one of genuine confusion, "It is?"

"According to Mr. Martin, it's supposed to help us move past our deaths and accept being in the metaphysical world," Ajay muttered. Your reaction to the situation made him pause, his eyes boring into yours as if trying to gauge why you were so upset. "I assume that's a little misguided."

"A little? You're fucking with me, right?" You were rapidly becoming more incensed at the knowledge that the ghosts—that Wally—had been tasked with such a heinous assignment.

Sure, the ghosts lingered in what was basically Limbo. But their lingering was, under normal circumstances—sans evil symbols—a choice. If they wanted to move on, they could. In rare cases, if a ghost didn't find the clarity they lacked in life upon entering the metaphysical world, okay, they could spend their earthly time doing some heavy self-reflection.

Writing their own obituaries? Didn't sound like self-reflection. It sounded like someone making a sick joke out of death. As you were about to lay into a tangent, Charley's voice penetrated the fog of your mounting rage.

"Subject displays paranoia and alleged memory loss..." Charley read aloud. "Unclear if Subject is aware of cause of death. Requires further study..." His head shot up, eyes desperate, "It's about Maddie."

Heart hammering a war tattoo in your chest, you spun and began pulling the remaining notebooks off the shelf at random. Flipped each one open to the first page where the subject of each analysis was written.

Subject: Tyler Montgomery. Subject: Mina Volkov. Subject: Erin French. Subject: Rhonda Rosen. Subject. Subject. Subject. Subject—

In a frenzy driven by angry curiosity, you grabbed the next box, yanked it from the shelf, and placed it unceremoniously on the bench. Next notebook; you flipped it open to the first page and—

Everything stopped. A high-pitched ringing rose in your ears, your hand trembling as you stared down at the name in the notebook you'd just opened.

"Isn't this Mr. Martin's handwriting?" Wally asked Charley and Ajay, but you could hardly hear him, because it didn't matter whose handwriting it was.

"Guys," You choked, all breath. You felt Wally's hand on your lower back and looked up at him, terrified, "This one's about Xavier..." Again, you dropped that notebook and pulled another off the shelf, flipped it open, and read the Subject's name, "And Mr. Anderson..."

"What the hell?" Wally grabbed another, flipped it open, "This is your sister, isn't it? Aurora?"

Ajay took another, "Andrew. Same last name."

"And..." Charley's mouth shut with an audible clack.

You didn't want to hear him say it, even though you already knew.

Wally took the notebook from Charley, pressed his lips together before lifting his head. Closed his eyes to center himself, to tamp down whatever fear or rage or combination thereof threatened to spill out.

"This one's about you..." He murmured, eyes sharp and bright as he stared at you, and you could see the slight tremor in his shoulders. "What the fuck is this?"

You felt like a lab rat. Some kind of specimen. Violated and gross and tainted somehow. The world felt sick, and you released a weak, horrified sob. Just one, just enough to purge a fraction of the chaos inside you to make room for more.

"It's Amelia. It has to be." You wheezed, grateful when Wally banded his arm around your waist and drew you firmly into his side.

He turned to the last entry, held the page open for you to read yourself, and you just about collapsed when you saw the date: September 27th, 2023.

Two days before Maddie was forced into the metaphysical world.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Madison Nears.

She truly was a fascinating subject.

Everett had been watching her for some time. Observing. Studying her even before she'd been cast into the metaphysical world by mistake. And though Maddie's presence had made his life difficult thereafter, especially when it came to keeping his students close, he couldn't ignore his interest in her.

Nothing untoward. Simply, she was unique.

Important, too, he'd learned, pointed in Maddie's direction at Amelia's behest.

Like Xavier. Like Mr. Anderson. Like you.

Maddie was the most special, however. Everett wasn't entirely sure why, couldn't examine her close enough to uncover what it was about her nature, her chemistry, that made her what she was.

After Janet's...after Janet, he amended in his head, Amelia had given Everett the responsibility of keeping Maddie on a short leash. Keep her away from the truth. A command Everett had taken as seriously as the grave.

Even still, he couldn't have helped how Maddie's very being seemed to repel the idea of falling in line. She'd persistently rebuked him, all his efforts sliding away as she blazed her own trail through the metaphysical world.

He knew about Simon. Hadn't at first. Suspected more than had been certain, but the way Maddie watched her friend from the spectator seats above the gym, Everett knew.

Fascinating.

He wasn't sure if his students knew about Simon. Or you, for that matter. He'd been kept busy putting out the fires that Janet's decision had started to properly examine them. And despite accepting his help, opening herself to Amelia's influence, Rhonda continued to display her normal resistance and hadn't told him whether or not he had to worry about his students discovering how the veil could be thinned.

Admittedly, Everett was proud of Rhonda.

He was beholden to Amelia for all that she'd given him, and he would continue to do as she asked in order to maintain his position in the metaphysical world, surrounded by his flock.

But he couldn't help himself. He wanted to keep Maddie.

Truly, sincerely, Everett wanted to help her. Profoundly. He wanted Maddie to succeed in the metaphysical world. Her body was gone, Janet along with it, and there was no sense in dwelling on a life she'd never live. He wanted her to thrive as his other students had been thriving before she'd shaken things up.

Maddie was unique. The most unique individual Everett had ever encountered.

Janet had been the result of circumstance. Had died at the right time to be needed and had done her part.

Maddie, however...she would be a victory Everett would cherish for the rest of his eternity.

Perhaps it was time to take a different avenue in obtaining her.

After several minutes of quiet observation, Everett approached Maddie in the spectator stands. Her mother had just taken her seat beside Simon, who tried to comfort her in her grief.

Everett joined Maddie against the railing, folded his arms on the bars, and gazed down at the crowd.

"You know," He began, tone gentle, "It might not seem like it, but you're lucky, Maddie."

He felt her turn her head toward him, giving him her attention.

"Lucky that you got this," He clarified and offered her a timid smile, hoping against hope that, if he approached things from a new angle, she would accept his leadership. "This goodbye."

She appeared to process what he said before she spoke.

"Yeah, I don't know if any of it will ever make any sense." And she shifted to face him fully. A good sign. A sign that she trusted him. "But maybe if my mom's ready to say goodbye...maybe so can I."

Everett hid his relief well. Years of practice in calculating his demeanor. He studied Maddie for a moment and then nodded, patted her shoulder.

"Have you given any more consideration to writing your obituary?" He asked. Maddie didn't respond, merely regarded him. There was an edge of wariness he needed to dispel. "It helps, you know," He began kindly, placing his hand on her arm, "Sometimes it can unblock what we need it to." Placid and warm, "After all, you might be here a lot longer than you want to be, Maddie. It would do you a lot of good to find a way to accept that, even if it means remembering."

"I thought you said that looking back and remembering was a waste of time," Maddie said, peering at him skeptically, though he noted with delight that she didn't pull away.

He took a breath, gave her a small smile, "You know... I forgot one of the most important things about being a teacher."

"What's that?"

Everett stared out at the crowd again, wistful, "That I learn more from my students than they learn from me." He squeezed her arm and released her. "I think I may have been...too hasty in shutting you down."

There was a lull filled with uncertainty that only alleviated when Maddie declared, an expression of appreciation on her face, "Then I think I'm ready to write my obituary."

His soul gleeful, Everett told her, "That's wonderful news, Maddie. I'm proud of you."

She would be his greatest achievement yet.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

You and Wally, Ajay and Charley; everyone was frantically tearing through files, aghast.

"Final moments are a source of great despair in the Subject. Hypothesis, reliving final trauma to greatest extent possible may increase thinning and provide access point. I don't..." Wally paused as he flipped over a loose sheet that'd been tucked between the pages of the journal.

He went completely still, a weak sound punched from his throat as his face slackened in horror.

"Wally?" You murmured, reaching out to comfort him.

"This was the play that killed me..." He stated, face pinched in anguish.

Your heart shattered.

Wally handed the paper to Charley. "Mr. Martin's been documenting us. And he's been documenting our deaths."

"What?" But Charley was distracted. He pulled yellowed pages from the briefcase, held them up for you and Wally to inspect. "Look, this is another article about the fire. Grieving parents of Split River sophomore Janet Hamilton demand administration be held accountable for daughter's death after surviving students say fire was started at the hands of her late educator, Mr. Everett Martin..." He trailed off, glancing warily between you, Wally, and Ajay, "This says Mr. Martin caused the fire, but he told us it was a student's fault."

You couldn't remember what your family's file had said about the fire, whether or not it was intentional. It should've said, though, right? If there were official, printed documents to suggest it.

"Charley, none of these even mention Janet. We have to confront him; he owes us an explanation." Wally insisted, pacing a short path as his anger and confusion mounted.

He seemed unstable, ready to burst, and it was all you could do to grab him by the arms and hold him still for a moment.

"And we will," You vowed. "He isn't keeping this shit for nothing. He has to be up to something."

"Death cult something?" Ajay mumbled, taking the paper with '83 Homecoming game plays scribbled on it.

And then the door to the fallout shelter opened with a metallic clank. Your heart jumped into your throat. Ajay and Wally shifted so their bodies were in front of yours, protective and tense. Ready to fight.

"What are you guys doing in here?" Rhonda demanded in a harsh whisper, closing the door behind her immediately. She looked skittish, sneer still in place, but her body was tightly coiled. She marched up to Charley as she barked, "I told you to let this go."

Stunned, you began to stutter, "H-hey, wait a sec—"

Charley interrupted, his own disbelief palpable, "You...you knew about this?" He glared Rhonda down, clearly unable to reconcile that she'd been keeping secrets of this magnitude. "You knew that he was treating us like test subjects and never really helping us? You-you knew."

Rhonda looked guilty for a moment, and then resigned, "Look, when Maddie got here and there was all that stuff with her friend on the outside... I just had this feeling," She explained, for the first time appearing truly unsettled. "And then I went to him to ask for his help."

Wally opened his mouth to speak, and you shushed him with a gentle hand on his chest. Shook your head, "Let her speak, big guy."

Rhonda seemed grateful for your interference and nodded, "Something's going on with my head. I can't explain it. Ever since the theater, it's like I have moments of...complete disconnect."

"Like drinking the cult tea?" You wondered, a little smarmy, yet honestly concerned.

"If I knew what that was like, I'd tell you," Rhonda said before she continued, "I started following him, Mr. Martin. Something didn't feel right about the things he told me, stuff he asked me to do..."

"What did he ask you to do?" Wally wanted to know, his frown deepening.

"Nothing serious. Just to keep an eye on Maddie." She turned to one of the barrels behind her, tried to move it with a struggle as she spoke, "But it was how he would ask me. I don't know how to explain it."

Wally stepped in to help her, picked the barrel up easily, and placed it on the ground.

"I figured if there are people out there who can do rituals and steal bodies..."

"Maybe there are people who can make you obedient?" You ventured, and you hated that you understood the logic. "Except, ghosts don't have connectedness."

"But psycho bitches who carve magic symbols into trees to trap ghosts do." Rhonda said, folding her arms after she popped the lid off the barrel and stepped aside. "I've been going through this place to see if I could find anything...and then I found this."

You, Charley, Wally, and Ajay leaned over to peer inside the barrel. It was a collection of seemingly random objects that didn't make sense to you until—

"Is that...?" Wally reached in and pressed his fingers into the football that sat atop the items.

"Your game ball?" Rhonda said, jeeringly light, "Yep."

Aghast, Charley found, "My letter to Emilio?"

"Sure is. Right next to my acceptance letter from Berkeley." Rhonda picked it from the pile. "He's been hoarding all the objects we had with us when we died." She pinned you with a stare so dark and unmoving that you flinched. "I think Mr. Martin's working with your cult leader."

"She's not my cult leader." You retorted, a little ruffled by the accusation, because, seriously, what the hell?

"Rhonda," Wally warned, but his face was pale and his tone was hushed. Wrist over his mouth, "I'm gonna throw up," he gulped.

You took his hand to soothe him, not that it did much good. You were also still reeling over the discovery of the notebook with your name in it. Xavier's. Aurora's. Andrew's...

"Are we sure it's him?"

"Who else knows everything about us?" A rhetorical question Rhonda posed for the group. "Who have we sat with for decades, baring our souls to? Who else has some deep, secret connection to this stupid fallout shelter?" She stopped, flustered, regrouped, and then said, "You know, I've been fooled by someone like this before, and I'm not gonna let it happen to all of us again."

At that precise moment, the door clanked again, the sound of the lock mechanism shifting into place loud in the small space.

"What just happened?" You breathed, marching toward the door. "Why did it do that?"

You tried to wrench it open. It wouldn't budge.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Simon was... He was a lot of things right then. His blood surging, his heart soaring, his nerves frayed. He'd bid Sandra goodbye, a gentleman who'd walked her to her car, had listened to her as she'd spilled her heart about Maddie while clutching Maddie's award to her chest.

Then, just as Sandra pulled out of the parking lot, he'd received Nicole's text.

He couldn't believe it when he saw it.

Maddie's body behind the wheel of Xavier's truck. In motion. Active and alive and alert.

Someone had stolen Maddie's body in the way you and Xavier and Simon hadn't wanted to entertain. Whether or not it was Amelia remained to be determined, but, frankly, right then, Simon didn't give a shit. All he needed was directions and he would hunt the fucker down, expel them from Maddie's body himself, and get her back.

He'd tried texting you, but it hadn't gone through. Xavier, obviously, wasn't able to run after his own truck after having been hit by it. Which meant Simon was going on a one-man crusade. And he was ready do it. For Maddie.

Finally. Jesus Christ, finally, the end of all this bullshit and terror and stress was in sight.

He found Maddie in the theater, hunched over a notebook. She looked solemn yet...at peace somehow. He regretted having to disturb her, but, hello, there was no time to waste.

Simon hurried inside toward Maddie, phone in hand, video already pulled up and stilled on the frame that proved Maddie still had a place in the living world.

Maddie's head popped up, "What are you doing here?"

He slowed, unsure where to start. Might as well start with, "I have to talk to you," he said, both nervous and excited, practically vibrating out of his skin.

Unaware of the magnitude of the moment, Maddie stood and said, "I have to say something first..."

She walked toward him, met him halfway.

Simon almost grabbed her and shook her, didn't want to wait another second. But something in her demeanor made him slow down. Her eyes were fixed on his, her hand lifting to curl her fingers through his, a serene little smile on her face that he hadn't seen since she'd risen in the metaphysical world.

"When I first got here, I was asked to write my obituary. To help me move on." She explained.

Not where Simon saw this going. At. All. His stomach twisted, because wasn't that kind of sick? More so since Maddie wasn't dead.

"And I was finally able to write it tonight."

"I don't get it, Mads. We know you're alive." Something he had irrefutable proof of in his hand and eagerly needed to show her.

Once again, however, her voice slowed his brain all the way down. "I know, but... It's supposed to help me unblock things. And it has."

That was actually, "Great...do you remember who took your body?"

"No." She chuckled, "But it did help me realize something." Shyly, she looked down, squeezed Simon's hand, and drew him closer. "I realized I haven't exactly been...fair."

"Maddie—"

"No, please, Simon, I need you to hear me out. I feel like if I say this, it really will help unblock things."

And, as much as he wanted to protest, he needed to know who the fuck had kidnapped her body. So, if speaking her truth would unlock those memories, fine, he could wait another minute.

"I wanna read it for you," She said in a whisper. Intimate. Vulnerable.

Simon took a deep breath to settle himself, but otherwise didn't say anything.

Maddie glanced down at the notebook in her hand, and then began.

"I was born. It was all really hard." Her chin quivered, tears springing to her eyes, and Simon's stomach lurched. "But I had Simon."

Tone hushed, "Maddie—" Simon choked, the sentiment behind her words rattling his bones. It was so dense, so intense and real and everything he'd ever wanted to hear, he didn't know how to hold it within himself. Too big, too deep, too much all at once.

She interrupted, "I know why we have this connection. Why you were the only person who could see me and hear me when I got here."

Soul-tie echoed in his head.

"Because you're the only person who's never asked me for anything. You've never taken more than you've given. You're the only person I can count on. And you're the only person I can trust. And you've only ever loved me unconditionally. And, I need you to know that I love you, too, Simon."

It was the first time she'd said it. Simon's world narrowed down to this moment. Him. Her. Nothing else needed to exist.

"In a way that's bigger than high school," She continued, "It's bigger than family, bigger than life or death. You know, nobody makes it out of life alive."

Simon couldn't help the wet snort he released. His eyes stung, but his heart was light. "You're not dead, Mads." He reminded her.

"I know," Maddie nodded as she wiped her eyes with her sleeve, "But I'm really grateful that I didn't have to figure out being dead, even temporarily, alone, because I have you."

Simon didn't know what to say, what words to use, how to express how immense his feelings were, growing rapidly inside him that he was afraid he was going to burst.

"Say something," She pleaded when he forgot he was supposed to respond.

Still, he couldn't. Simon didn't do words when he had to talk about emotions. He used blunt sarcasm to avoid being vulnerable.

No, Simon wasn't a talker. He was a doer. He acted. That was what he was good at: finding solutions to problems. And right now, he had the solution to Maddie's problem and would fix it for her to show how fucking much he loved her.

He held up his phone to show her the still from the video.

"What is that?" Maddie asked, her face twisted in confusion, which quickly morphed into surprise.

"That's the person who's been breaking into houses across town," Simon said. "It's who attacked Xavier tonight." He looked at her, held her gaze, a watery smile on his face because he knew he was about to go to war for her, and he didn't know who he was up against.

This might be goodbye and, somehow, that didn't bother him at all.

"I don't know what's going to happen," He confessed, hoarse, "But I love you." He pulled her into a tight hug, soaked in the feeling of her weight in his arms, and allowed it to further his resolve. "I'm going to get you back, Maddie."

He kissed her. Hard. Short. Not enough to impart everything he felt for her, but exactly right for her to decipher his intentions.

Before she could try to dissuade him as he knew she would, he turned on his heel and left.

"Simon, wait!"

He hurried, kept pace, didn't look back because he had to look forward. All the way to his bike by the bus stop and then off school property.

"Simon!" Maddie yelled, urgent, but when he turned for one last look, she wasn't there.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

"Jesus," Wally hurried behind you to the door to try where you failed. It wouldn't open. "It's locked."

"Just...give it a second," Charley scurried over, "It'll...it'll reset." Unfortunately, "Why didn't it reset?"

You felt the walls closing in. The air shallowed, the room dimmed. And yet, that wasn't where your attention stayed. Instead, it was drawn to the back corner where the student's desk sat. Specifically, to Ajay, who'd taken a seat at some point to read one of the notebooks.

"I'm checking the hatch," Rhonda announced while Charley and Wally continued to struggle with the door.

You shimmied out from between them to step closer to Ajay. Slow, guarded, worried when you noticed his body trembling. A barely visible vibration in his shoulders and arms.

"Ajay?" You asked in a whisper, as if he were a bomb about to detonate and the smallest noise would set him off.

He stood abruptly and slid out from behind the desk on wobbly legs, wild eyes still on the page. One step, two, and you rushed forward just as he collapsed to his knees. As you tried to reach out, he reared back.

When it happened, it was gut-wrenching. Animal. Torn from deep within the very depths of his soul and rent outward in an eruption of pure, unfettered emotion.

Ajay's fingers gripped the page of the journal so tight that the paper tore from its binding. Face twisted, eyes closed, head back.

He s h r i e k e d.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Aurora had followed Austin's cruiser to the school. Just as he was about to turn into the parking lot, however, something changed. The lights began to flash, siren blaring, and he unexpectedly corrected his course, cruiser charging down the road and around the corner.

Aurora couldn't feasibly pursue the cruiser now.

"Fuck."

She sat for a moment before deciding to turn into the parking lot and gather her thoughts. There were a few cars around, some adults—parents, she realized, when she saw them accompanying students from the school—milling about.

She just needed a second to think. Staring ahead, she recalled where Austin had gone. Where she'd followed him into Split River's quiet corners.

The old factory. The public library. Now the school.

Needing air, Aurora got out of the car to rest against the door, arms folded, head spinning. It'd been strange in the worst way. The feelings she'd experienced in the old factory had been matched at the library. Haunted as hell, though she'd never known it before.

Haunted like the school, she realized, wondering if that was the connection she'd been having trouble making. As she turned to look at the building, it hit her. A powerful surge of emotion that almost knocked her backwards.

God have mercy.

She didn't know how she knew, but she did.

"Ajay," She whispered, limbs shaking when another wave of nightmarish emotion crashed into her. Then, as if coming to, "Ajay!"

Aurora sprinted into the school, ignoring the looks that followed her from the parents and students in the parking lot. She had to get to him. She had to help.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

Everett chased the noise. No. No. This couldn't be happening. Not now. Not tonight. He took the stairs two at a time, rammed through the door from the stairwell to the first-floor hallway, and ran to the basement entrance. He appeared in the doorway just as Maddie positioned herself in front of the fallout shelter door.

"Please, somebody help!" Charley's voice yelled from behind reinforced steel.

It settled over him in stages as he watched Maddie try to find the latch. A sense of resignation and calm. His foot clicked on the metal step when he descended one and then another, grabbing her attention.

He could see it in her eyes.

Behind the confusion and loss.

Memory.

She turned, moved to stand at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes wide as she slowly began to put the pieces together.

"I tried to protect you," He said, subdued. "I couldn't stop it."

And then the pounding renewed, the voices of his students—his flock—begging her not to believe Everett. Warning her. Telling her she couldn't trust him when she could. She had to.

"Maddie," Rhonda yelled, "Please, be careful! You can't trust him!"

Another scream, ripped from someone's core—from Ajay, Everett recognized, and he couldn't do anything to soothe that pain. Mina's second death flashed behind his eyes, and he almost buckled under the weight of it.

They'd found his journals.

"What do you mean?" Maddie's voice cut through the image of Mina's final moments, through Everett's despair, through the knowledge that he wouldn't be able to repair this, and Amelia would seek retribution.

"You weren't supposed to be here. Not like this." He said, his expression truly sorrowful.

He felt the basement door open at his back, cool air from the school wafting in as someone entered.

Serendipity, he thought, offering Maddie one last regretful smile.

"I'm truly sorry, Maddie." He said and then turned, pushed up the stairs at speed toward his salvation. "I'm sorry!" He called out again, body angled forward, prepared to ambush as he'd seen Janet do to Maddie all those weeks ago.

Propelled off his back foot, Everett leapt into the air and launched toward the woman standing in the doorway just as Ajay released another harrowing scream from within the fallout shelter.

‗‗‗‗•‗‗‗‗

In the hospital, Derek Anderson's eyes flew open.

💀___________________________

PART TWELVE - PART FOURTEEN

note: so, this is the last chapter that follows canon. i have been trying to get here for a year. longer 💀 holy crap, guys, we made it to the last leg of this series! i can't believe it! thank you. if it wasn't for you all, i know in my bones i wouldn't have been able to see this through 😭

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ABOUT THE TAGLIST: we're not about that life around here (•¯ ∀ ¯•) things got too outta hand and i'm still cleaning up the mess left behind by the demons i accidentally summoned trying to get the damn thing to work 🕳️👹......there's a dustpan over there if you feel like helping 🧹💨 or, if you just wanna stay up to date, please FOLLOW ME and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS

[knoxious-existence]

Crush

summary: prompt fill. you and Wally are buddies. friends who share mutuals; occupy the same social circles, but have never spent any time just you and him, exclusive and alone. that? is something Wally is desperate to change. and it seems you feel the same way... (request)

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: smut lite. feelgood. oneshot. AU - everyone's alive. getting together.

joyeuses Easter, fam 🐰🐣🥕

___________________________🌻

Crush

Wally's head lifts as soon as the door opens. The little bell tinkles; the breeze carries your perfume through the space. He closes his eyes, inhales deeply, not more than a fraction of a second, but he still feels exposed.

Cue vibrant, colorful background; glitter and hearts; slow-motion and strings. You step through the door and into frame, looking like a vision. Crisp against the fading world behind you.

God dammit, Wally has a problem.

Not that anyone seems to notice. Whatever crush Wally has on you is explained away by his excitable nature. His touches sweet, but not exclusive. His attention cute, but equally spread amongst those he loves.

Wally doesn't feel like it's equally spread. At all. Not even a little. He feels like you're the only thing he can see, hear, smell, touch. You occupy more brainspace than his own personality.

Does he even remember his address? His birthday? His name?

You plop down in the open seat beside him—saved just for you, and no one argued because, at this point, it's expected—and smile brightly at everyone, offering greetings and apologies for being late.

No. Wally doesn't remember anything about himself, but he sure as shit remembers everything about you, including your ridiculous coffee order which the barista kindly delivers to the table upon Wally's signal.

You turn sideways in your seat, patting a rhythm on Wally's leg, imparting your giddiness as you rev yourself up for Sunday Trivia. Wally's heart practically erupts from his body, Alien chestburster, fucking wrecked and melted and soppy the instant your hands and that gorgeous smile land on him.

"We're gonna win this week," You declare, ruffling his hair as you correct your position to take a sip of your coffee. "I can feel it."

"That's what you said last week," He chuckles, desperately hoping his cheeks aren't as pink as they feel.

As casual as can be, he swings his arm up and rests it on the back of your chair, thumb stretched to swipe the soft skin of your shoulder. Wally's eyes are glued to the blank trivia answers sheet as he pretends to be totally normal about you, not hyperventilating on the inside at all.

"Yeah, but last week Rhonda brought Quinn. This week, Rhonda and Quinn are busy. We're gonna win," You explain with a grin, eyes sparkling when you wink at him.

Fuck your kissable smile, your lickable skin, your soft shapes that Wally wants to trace with his fingers and tongue and teeth. You can't look at him like that.

Somehow, he manages to play it cool; holds up his end of the conversation like a champ, teasing you as much as flirting, and making you laugh so suddenly, you almost spit-take all over poor Charley, innocently sitting across from you.

"You guys are the worst," He grumps, "You need to be separated."

"Absolutely not," You say without hesitation, "We're too good a team."

Wally agrees around the girly squeal lodged in his throat. Thankfully still in there, and not out in the wild for everyone to hear and judge.

Trivia starts minutes later, the emcee upbeat as always, and you and Wally kill it. Through cackles and competitive rants and good-natured heckling, you and he take home the prize: A weird-looking, multicolored crocheted monstrosity with too many arms. Made lovingly by one of the baristas. Or made in spite.

You name him Samuel.

Wally falls more in love.

"We need to think up a custody agreement," You say through a chuckle as he escorts you to the bus stop, squishing Samuel to your chest.

Wally studies Samuel with an ill-concealed look of disturbance, "Nah, it's, uh...he's all yours."

You burst out laughing, "Do you hate our child, Clark? He can hear you, you know."

"I love him with my whole heart," Wally defends, eyes wide in mock-surprise that you would accuse him of such a thing. "But I think he'll be happier with you," another look of distaste at Samuel, "I'm willing to sacrifice my legal rights."

"You're a shitty liar," You shove Wally's arm playfully and he just about swoons. Your touch, no matter how innocent, is like fire.

And then that's it, all done, Sunday over. You're on the bus, blowing an exaggerated kiss at Wally as you board with Samuel and leave Wally standing on the curb like a lovestruck idiot.

He's so gone for you, it's not even funny anymore.

‗•‗

Wally hates weekdays. This isn't new. He hated them before you transferred from the fancy school to Split River High last year. Only now, he hates them more. Because you're a social butterfly—not unlike him—who bounces from group to group and spends lunch on a rotation.

See, thing is, while you and Wally are inseparable during group activities, you and he don't actually hang out. You aren't besties who make one-on-one plans unless it's to hit every antique store in the radius of town to hunt down something haunted for Maddie's birthday. Usually with Simon and Nicole in tow.

So, not one-on-one, but that's as close as Wally's come to it. And, God, does he savor those moments. When the group is smaller and he doesn't have to split his attention; can keep it squarely on you where it belongs.

You're fun and flirty and dynamic, always up for an adventure. Creative. Silly. A positive influence who drives Wally to be a better person. You make him ambitious. Force him to see things from new perspectives, even in the small bursts he gets of your sunshine soul.

He's not obsessed, you are 😒

Doesn't matter how much more time Wally wants to spend with you; you've never indicated that you want the same. You seem content bouncing into his arms when circumstance brings you and he together, and you merrily leave it at that.

Wally's going fucking crazy thinking about you from dusk 'til dawn, while you flutter between friend groups, none the wiser, animatedly waving to him when you catch his eye across the cafeteria. And, Jesus, you're gorgeous, eyes squinted up like that to accommodate your megawatt smile.

Sometimes (often), Wally wonders what your face looks like when you're not smiling at him. When you're feeling something that isn't bright and buoyant. Say, for example, desire. Do your features slacken? Do your eyes go heavy? Do your lips part on a sigh as Wally's hand glides lightly up your spine, fingertips skipping between the vertebrae, his mouth centimeters from yours, humid breath mingling—

Shit. Fuck. He's hard. Shifts his hips under the table and prays no one notices.

They don't, thank Christ, Rodney and Ajay arguing about who should've won the Mock Trial last week while Charley complains that none of it matters, it's fake, and they'd be terrible lawyers anyway.

When Wally looks up again, you've vanished, likely breezed off to Art Club or Robotics or to get ready for gym. He doesn't know your schedule, can only guess, but he knows it involves people who aren't him and, yeah, so what, he's jealous.

He wants your attention all for himself. Wants you to want him as much as he wants you because it's killing him being the only one to exist in this state of desperation and delusion. He needs you to notice him. Needs you to trip over yourself because you caught a glimpse of him. Needs you to blush and stammer and giggle nervously when he pins you with his gaze.

Honestly, Wally probably needs a new hobby.

‗•‗

"Samuel misses his daddy," You tell him, right in his ear, above the music blaring from Xavier's shitty truck stereo.

Wally's brain bluescreens so hard—...daddy...—he thinks he passes out for a moment. You're pressed up against his side, a hot line of flesh his hand itches to touch, squeezed like a sardine between Wally and Simon.

It's another outing. A day trip to Bradford Beach. Carpools and highway games and, now, godawful karaoke that Claire's DJing from the passenger seat, a wicked grin on her face as Simon belts out that part from Bohemian Rhapsody for the third time in an hour.

Wally still can't breathe when he chances to look you in the eye, sees you grinning manically in your seat as you blink those sweet, faux-innocent eyes up at him. You know what you did, naughty little girl. And you're clearly not sorry at all. You clearly want to get Wally flustered and tight-collared and hot.

Or he's misreading you completely, and that's your regular teasing look, Wally's just so fucking horny for you he sees what he wants. Confirmation bias or whatever.

"He does?" Wally manages to put some volume behind his voice. "And what do you think I should do about it?"

You shrug, "Whatever you want."

I want to fuck you against a wall about it, Wally thinks, but outwardly smiles, toothy and cheerful. "Maybe I should take him next weekend. You know, make sure he knows his daddy loves him." And he stares intensely into your eyes when he says the last part.

He isn't sure, but he thinks it works. A beautiful pink blossoms on the apples of your cheeks, and Wally has to hold himself back from punching the air.

This is new. This sort of intense, almost intentional flirting. Winding you up for the sake of getting you flustered. Ohhh, Wally's going to have fun with this. Is determined to coax that blush out of you again and again until you snap.

Does this count as a new hobby?

‗•‗

Okay. So. Apparently, you lock in, challenge accepted, because things aren't going exactly how Wally planned. He's at his wits' end, vibrating out of his fucking skin, ready to explode while he watches you gyrate to the music. Nothing too nasty-filthy-dirty, but your body moves like liquid, and your hips give Wally too many ideas to keep track of.

You're dancing with Claire, bodies tightly fitted, both wearing big smiles, and smeared in glitter and rhinestones. The second weekend of Summerfest. A handful of the group pitched in to stay from Friday to Monday morning at a cheap Airbnb not too far from the park.

It's sundown, the air finally cool, the bass shaking the earth beneath Wally's feet, and he's totally enraptured. The past month has been heaven and hell combined as you and he played flirty chicken. Who will take it there.

Maybe you think it's a game, maybe you're serious about seeing him fall apart for you; he doesn't know and, frankly, doesn't care at this point. Gone too far, in too deep. And, fuck, you fill out those tiny denim shorts so well, that beaded top barely clinging to your tits as you rub your ass against Claire's thigh.

He tries to focus on the music, on the crowd and the atmosphere, but it's so hard—he's so hard, thank God his shirt is long and boxy—and you're throwing your head back, smooth neck on display, singing along like a wet dream.

Wally isn't going to make it to the end of the night.

Next stage, next band, lake air doing a shit job cooling Wally's skin when you shimmy into his space after shooing Claire toward the cute guy who's been falling over himself for her since noon. You and he mimic each other's goofy dance moves, safe, silly, to the first three songs.

And then, the air punched out of his chest, you fit yourself so neatly against him, back to chest, head on his shoulder, twisting and writhing to the sexiest song of the summer. His hands clench your hips, keep you pinned, and he doesn't have the mental power to care if he's being too obvious anymore. He has to feel you against him, right on his hard-on.

You must feel it, there's no way you don't, but you aren't pushing him away, your fingers instead kneading his thigh so nicely his eyes close and lips part and he's panting like a dog into your neck. His lips graze the shell of your ear, breath tickling your skin.

"Fuck," He chokes when your ass hitches against his cock, stars exploding behind his lids, his fingers so tight in your flesh he's sure he's going to leave marks.

He feels you shiver, feels your gasp on his cheek as he gazes down at you, and he knows his eyes are dark, blown greedy in a need he can't ignore like he used to. Your eyes are equally as heated and, yep, that's fucking it, he has to touch you, taste you, make you beg for him to take you apart and piece you together again.

The night is cut short. An Irish exit. The journey back to the Airbnb is quiet, stifling, thick with desire that neither you nor he acknowledges until he pushes you through the door and presses you against it once it closes with a resounding click. His hands on your ass as he lifts you so he can grind his cock against the imprint of your pussy through those sweet little shorts.

Your legs wrap around his waist, your fingers tug his hair, and Wally's vision whites out.

"Jesus, babygirl, I've never needed someone so bad in my life," He rasps, teeth sinking into the join of your neck and shoulder, "I want you so bad, baby, please."

And you keen, head thrown back, hips matching his movements, perfect body tensing and releasing in his arms as you hump into him.

"Wally~."

It's a plea and a command that he's only too happy to oblige. Carries you into the one room with a lock and throws you on the bed you and Claire were going to share while Wally and Diego took the pullout couch in the main space.

So much for that. Claire probably isn't coming back tonight, anyway, and who knows what Diego got up to, most likely with Nicole and Charley and Yuri, deep in the crowd at the final performance of the night.

You were looking forward to it. Guess you changed your mind, Wally smirks into your throat, even more turned on at the thought that you needed to put him first. So hot for him. Desperate for his hands on you. His lips. His tongue. Don't worry, baby, he won't disappoint.

It's a struggle to get that beaded top off you, laced and knotted so intricately, Wally's tempted to just rip it off you. So he does. Beads fly everywhere, showering the bed, oops. But, you laugh, roll him onto his back to straddle his hips, and then surge into him to kiss him for the first time.

God yes, this is exactly how he imagined it. Your soft lips yielding to his, wet and deep and slow, in stark contrast to his frantic hands trying to touch every inch of your body at once.

You bear down as he grinds up, his cock straining, dribbling, and there's a damp stain at the front of your shorts that tells him what he needs to know.

"Gonna be such a good girl for me, aren't you?" He says, voice wrecked, hand fisting your hair to hold you still so he can have your attention. "Aren't you, baby?"

Fuck, so that's what you look like when you're foggy with desire. That's how you sound. Wally's convinced he's not going to last much longer under those eyes, hearing those noises; weak and wanting and just for him.

He flips the position, loves how you feel under him, body so soft it fits into his lines and angles perfectly. Shorts and panties and boxers go flying, and then he's on you, in you, deep as he can get, moaning wantonly with your nipple between his teeth.

"You're such a good girl," He praises, "Taking all of me."

You arch, bearing down harder, taking him impossibly deeper, and your pussy is so perfect he thinks he meets God. He can't keep himself still anymore, as much as he wants to savor the sensation of having you so completely around him. He begins to move, sharp, hard strokes that force those sounds he's getting addicted to from your chest.

"Oh, fuck, Wally," You whimper, meeting his rhythm, over and over and over, stoking the fire, making his brain smoke and his belly tight and his body so hot he'll combust, he knows he will, how can he not.

"That's it, baby," He pants, moving faster, harder, testing angles until you scream in ecstasy, pussy gripping him tighter because he found what he was looking for. "You like how I feel inside you?"

You're a mess beneath him, and he can't get enough. Is fucking starving for more. He rears back, takes you with him as he settles on his haunches, you held in his lap, your arms around his shoulders as he bounces you on his cock.

He can't stop, can't slow down, can't fathom anything outside of this moment as he beats his cock into you from below. Sweat on his brow, licking into your mouth when you begin to tremble and warn him, you're gonna make me come, and, fuck yeah, he is.

Holy shit, you're a goddess when you let go, screaming his name like rapture. That's all it takes, pussy convulsing around him, and he's gone. Plummeting over the edge headfirst into pure, absolute euphoria.

Wally collapses on top of you, head between your tits, sucking in gulps of air as his hands smooth down your sides, thighs, up again and along your arms so he can lace his fingers with yours above your head.

When he lifts his head to look at you, he goes soft as pudding. The smile you're wearing is completely lax, blissful and sweet, and he has to kiss it.

Minutes later, the afterglow thinning, "So," you say quietly, gazing up at him with a sparkle in your eye, "That finally happened."

Wally cocks his head, "Finally?"

"Yeah, Clark. Finally." You snicker, "I've only wanted you to do that to me forever." You fix him with a look, one that tells him he's an idiot, "You're not very good at picking up hints, are you?"

He chuckles, shakes his head in disbelief, "Seriously? No. I'm more of a direct-communication guy."

"You suck at that, too, then," You decide, smile growing, "Because you never directly communicated that you liked me like that."

"Nor did you," He points out, one eyebrow lifting. "So, you suck just as bad."

You lean up and lip his earlobe, "Trust me, Wally, when I suck, it's not bad."

Ah, so this is how he's going to spend his night, huh?

This definitely counts as a new hobby.

‗•‗

The next morning, cuddled close and feeling affectionate, you murmur, "Samuel's gonna be happy that his daddy's back in the picture."

You have got to stop using that term if you want to walk normally again, baby, please.

"Just Samuel?" Wally grins as he licks and nips your pulse point, his big hand gliding down your side to your hip. He rocks his hips forward so you can feel exactly where calling him daddy gets you. "No one else?"

"Can't think of anyone," You say, but your voice is breathy and high.

"That's too bad. I was really hoping you wanted me around." He plays at detaching from you.

Immediately, you cling to him, expression grouchy and words fierce, "You're not going anywhere, Wally, I waited way too long for this."

He melts, eyes going all soft and tender, his hand finding your jaw, thumb on your cheek, dipping in for a short, fond kiss.

"Me too, baby."

"No. Really," You implore, "I had to get new hobbies, Wally, it was driving me insane. I couldn't think of anything else," and you say it so easily. So direct and honest, his heart swells.

"Pick up anything interesting?"

You snort, "No. Just long drives to the sex shop in Cedarburg."

Blue. Screen.

"That counts as a hobby?" He wheezes, mind already churning out images of you indulging in your new pastime. Yep, yes, yeah, Wally could see himself partaking in that one, no resistance.

"It occupies a lot of leisure time, and I do it for pleasure. Pretty sure that's the definition of a hobby."

Wally squeezes your ass, drives your hips into his to show you how interested he is in hearing more about how you spend your free time.

"You know," He starts, lowering to graze his nose up your neck, dry lips following, hips beginning to grind at a slow, lazy tempo, "I heard that couples who share hobbies stay together longer."

"Yeah?" Said in a breath, your back arching and your chest pressing into his. "I definitely wanna make this last." Then, sultry and playful, "When should we start?"

Wally smirks. He doesn't bother to respond, simply spends the first hours you and he are supposed to be at the festival memorizing your body: where to touch, bite, kiss, lick.

Mastering the craft, as it were, because Wally Clark takes his hobbies very fucking seriously.

🌻___________fin.____________

also on AO3!

Order Up! MASTERLIST

if you enjoyed this, you may also enjoy Cuddle Bug.

fluff. smut lite. a flashfic exploration of Wally's inability to be anything but a plural image when you're within reach. aka: he's codependent as fuck and neither you nor he care.

[knoxious-existence]

Hot For You

summary: prompt fill. Wally is horny as fuck and can't keep his hands out of his pants. who are you not to help a friend in need? (request)

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: smut. flashfic. masturbation. pre-canon. accidental interruption. very mild daddy kink.

bon reading, frens

___________________________🫦

Hot For You

It's your fault, Wally thinks, fucking hand down his pants, fondling himself as he remembers what you were wearing. Those teeny tiny little gym shorts, t-shirt snug to your body—knotted at the front, a strip of smooth skin on display—those knee-high socks that give the impression of schoolgirl innocence when Wally knows (he fucking knows) you're anything but.

He's hidden away in the Home Ec. room, the school empty on Friday afternoon, but he thought he had football practice, so there he is. And then he'd seen you come out of the girls' locker room, ready for volleyball, chatting and giggling to Sarah Miller as you winked at him on your way by.

He watched your hips sway, your ass cheeks flex—one two, one two, one two—as you walked down the hall.

Wally was hard in seconds. So quick his vision spotted.

He made himself scarce as soon as Rodney informed him that practice was cancelled. Booked it to the first place he could think of for privacy. The Home Ec. room is at the back of the school. Second floor. No one goes near that area, especially on a Friday.

Except maybe the janitor, but Wally can't think straight enough to give a shit. Using spit for lube, he strokes himself slowly. He should probably hurry it up, but he can't bring himself to fast-forward through the fantasy.

You looked so good. Fucking edible. What Wally wouldn't give to sink his teeth into you and make you his. Sadly, you don't seem interested, always coy, but aloof. Flirting until you've had your fill and then walking away to leave Wally panting and hard in your wake. Tease.

He groans as he pictures you, those sweet tits out for him, your hands rubbing and caressing them, showing him how you like to be touched. His grip tightens at the tip, his thumb smooths over the slit, collecting pre and slicking his hand back down the length of his cock.

Wally spreads his legs wider and sinks deeper into the chair. Fuck, you'd look so good in his lap. He groans. Face hot. Lips parted. Eyes clenched shut so he can watch the show unfold in his brain. He bets your pussy would be his favorite. Pink and glistening for him. Sweet as honey and sloppy when he fucks you.

Oh God. His head falls back as he releases a moan. Too loud. He doesn't care. You're so fucking hot. And he'd take such good care of you, baby; make sure you come at least twice before he spills inside you. Gets you nice and bloated with his come.

"Fuck, baby," He hisses, hand moving a little faster, though he's still taking his time. Focused on stripping the head, other hand cupping his balls. Shit. Fuck.

"Wally?"

Jesus, no.

Wally's hand stills, but he doesn't remove it. Doesn't even have the wherewithal to think about how he looks and how he should probably change that image. His eyes widen and he gulps, staring at you in pure horror.

And then he notices. You don't look shocked or disgusted or embarrassed.

You bite your lip, closing the door and locking it behind you—God, had he really been that dumb to forget to do that? You take slow steps forward, hips swaying, gaze locked on where he's holding himself. Where he's flushed and hard. Just for you, not that you know that.

He doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything. Slides his hand down to grip the base of his cock, shamelessly showing off what could be yours if you ask nicely as he leans back in the chair with a cocky smirk.

He watches as you step right up to him and then grin. Sultry and Cheshire. You plant your feet on either side of his legs, your hips hovering over his, and, in one sensual motion, you peel off your top.

Wally's brain explodes.

"Need some help?" You purr, taking a seat in his lap like you've done it a thousand times.

He pulls in a shaky breath, his eyes falling to your lips, "You gonna give me a hand?"

Your grin turns wicked. Leaning in to whisper in his ear, "I was thinking something else. If you want it."

Yes, he fucking does.

In an instant, he has his hands on your ass, his mouth on yours, tongue down your throat as he stands and walks you to one of the tables. Drops you hard and shoves you back with his body, his lips never leaving yours.

His fingers hook into those teeny tiny shorts, and he drags them down your legs and off. Tosses them somewhere for you to find later because, right now, he needs to see all of you.

You moan, the sound making him dizzy, and wrap your legs around his waist as soon as he's back on you, pinning your wrists to the table as he humps his cock against your hot pussy. Fuck, you're wet for him, slicking him up so good he can't think beyond it.

"So fucking hot, baby," He groans, releasing your wrists long enough to strip off his shirt. Then he's all over you, chest pressed to yours, skin to skin, the sensation so heady he has to take a second to breathe.

"Daddy~." You coo, and, shit, fuck, yeah, okay, he can get into that.

He grunts, "God," and bites your bottom lip, soothes it with his tongue before licking into your mouth again. "You want it, baby?" He asks, hips dragging in a slow stroke, pushing his cock between your folds.

"Please," You whimper, your eyes glazed and heavy, cheeks such a pretty pink that Wally thinks that's his new favorite color.

Leaning in to nip your ear, he whispers a dark, promising, "Gonna be my good girl? Gonna take all of me?" And he grinds forward again, losing himself to the friction for a moment.

"I'll be so good for you, Daddy," You gasp, and he's done. Control snapped in half from the way you sound so greedy for him.

Part of him wonders if this is a dream. If he smacked his head somewhere along the way and he's in the best coma ever. But, it's real; your skin too soft, curves too perfect under his hand. He's got you under him for real, and he intends to take advantage of it. You know, since you're willing.

Wally lines himself up. One powerful thrust and he's completely enveloped in you, groaning in ecstasy as your pussy grips him nice and tight. Fuck. God. He could die now and have no regrets.

You struggle against the hold he has on your wrists, but he doesn't give in. Moves his hand to your throat instead as he starts moving. Beating his cock into you. Sharp. Hard. No time or patience to slow down. He wants and he's going to get.

"Fuck, you're so perfect, baby." He moans. "So good for Daddy. So fucking hot." He watches your tits bounce with every thrust, nipples so pretty he needs a taste. His tongue flicks one, his teeth close around it, and then he's suckling with a hot groan. "So fucking perfect," His breath on your wet skin raises goosebumps.

Wally's mind has melted, lost totally to his lust. An animal for you, on you, in you, fucking your pussy so hard the sound bounces off the walls in the quiet space. He feels you tremble beneath him, your throat convulsing under his hand when you swallow or whimper or sigh. He tightens his grip slightly, keeping you there.

"Gonna make me come so fucking hard, baby," He pants, hips wild, he's never felt anything this good in his life, Christ, he can't get enough. "Do you want it? You want Daddy to fill you up?"

You arch your back and keen.

He takes that as a resounding 'yes' and picks up the pace, wanting desperately to paint your fucking insides with his come. To make you his.

Pounding into you, five, six, more times and you tense, pussy clenching around him, your voice weak and raspy when you tell him you're coming, and, hell yeah, he can feel it. His eyes roll back, his brain short-circuits, and then, holy fuck, he's coming, heat punching out of him like a freight train.

He grunts, hitches his hips, grinds into you as he spills everything he's got into you, pussy squelching as some of it leaks out around his cock. He knew he was pent-up, he just didn't realize how bad until the wave breaks and he collapses forward, barely catching himself before he crushes you under his weight.

You and he lay there in silence as the afterglow creeps in. Soft and vulnerable and perfect, just like Wally knew it would be. He lifts himself up on one arm and gazes down at you with a crooked smile.

"Hey," He says, belated and cheeky.

You smile, "Hey."

Wally can't help the chuckle that escapes him. He's elated. Giddy. Got the girl of his dreams naked, his softening cock still buried deep, and he wants to shout from the rooftops how good you made him feel.

You stare up at him, sweet, gorgeous as Venus, "We should see if it's that good in a bed."

Wally's smile widens, and he nods, "Definitely."

But right now, he has plans to bend you over and fuck you against the counter before you ride him into the sunset on that chair over there.

After that, you and he can discuss whose bed you were suggesting.

🫦___________fin.____________

also on AO3!

Order Up! MASTERLIST

if you enjoyed this, you may also enjoy Alphabet Soup.

the journey of a clandestine love affair at several stages because Wally Clark craves what he can't have and refuses to keep his hands to himself. and you live for it.(Janet and Wally are dating to increase their social value. meanwhile, Wally wants to get closer to her step-sister. you.)

[knoxious-existence]

Tags: [mlw][mdni][fingering][passionate][ex!fwb][quiet reader][slight breeding kink][light choking][hair pulling][quiet sex][no nudity][nipple play][nipple sucking][promise of pregnancy][low-key right person; wrong time][not proofread because my beta reader's asleep]

"I have a fucking kid and you didn't think to tell me?!"

Dick's voice is low, frustration bleeding into his words and his fingertips dig into his palms, blunt nails leaving crescent indentations in the flesh as he stares down at you.

The worst part is, you look so fucking nonchalant about it too.

Sitting crossed legged on the couch, a mug of steaming hot chocolate cradled in your hands and a plate of cookies resting on the surface of the coffee table. The TV plays one of the older episodes of Keeping Up With The Kardashians, and God, the sight of you so relaxed while watching trashy TV makes Dick falter in his anger.

"How do you know he's yours or even mine?"

You speak, your voice soft and gentle, despite the way your eyes burn with annoyance at the fact that Dick's just.... Standing there, in your space, his suit clinging to him like a second skin in the way it always has.

Dick leans forward, his breath fanning across the surface of your face and he gives you the opportunity to see the stormy rage that swirls in brilliant blue irises, darkened by the sense of betrayal at the fact that you've kept his son from him for so long.

"Because he looks like me. He looks fucking just. Like. Me." Dick grits the words out like they're liquid sulphur, burning his throat on the way out.

Before he lets out a breath, dropping onto the seat beside you and he cards a gloved hand through his hair.

"And he told me I look.... Romani. And proceeded to call me a 'gypsy bastard'."

Your apartment looks different from when he was here last.

Warm, pale blue walls, a dark leather sofa and a bigger TV mounted on the wall. Fuzzy blue throw pillows and the bowl of fruity gummies on the coffee table is a fun new addition, just like the drawings that line the walls of the living room, and clutter on top of the fridge.

On each drawing, Dick can make out the scribbled out 'Mommy And Me', usually in a colour that has no match in the palette and he can't deny the heaviness in his heart when he reads that.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Dick speaks softly, hands moving to carefully remove the mask from his face, tossing it onto the coffee table and he grabs one of the throw pillows, resting it on his face.

You can practically smell his emotions.

Confused, hurt, betrayed. Frustration's a big one though, and you purse your lips.

"I didn't wanna have the 'is it mine' conversation."

You speak so softly, so sweetly and it reminds Dick of how much motherhood's softened you. It reminds him of the way that you'd have pushed him out the window for showing up unannounced, but instead, you're letting him sit on your couch, and you talk.

Not argue.

You just... Talk.

"I'd know he was mine." Dick murmurs. "We were... Exclusive."

The way Dick says it makes you feel like it was more than just occasional hookups, more than the odd movie date that ended with your ankles touching your ears.

The silence between you is comfortable.

The soft pitter-patter of raindrops dropping against your aluminium window, pot plants on the terrace watered so gently and the TV continues to play, although at a much softer pace.

Dick lowers the pillow, looking at you with big, almost teary blue eyes. Eyes framed by long, inky lashes, full brows and striking hues that make you feel like your breath is dying in your throat with every passing second.

"He's beautiful."

Dick's voice is soft.

"A little bit of an asshole, but he's beautiful."

Before you can answer, before you can even fathom properly what Dick's saying, you hear the crack of a door and the shuffle of tiny feet as Riot stumbles into the living room, fists balled and rubbing at his eyes.

"Mommy, my eye." He sniffles, continuing to scratch at his eye before you let out a quiet hum, your hands hooking underneath the little boy's armpits before you tug him onto your lap.

And you open his eye, the sclera just a bit red and you hum softly.

"Dickie, can you put on the light, please?"

Dick doesn't question the nickname, because it makes his heart swell in a way that has him internally screeching, even as he reaches for the overhead lamp and switches it on.

And your lips purse as you blow on Riot's eye, watching the way his lashes flutter and his eyelid twitches before a teary droplet plops down his cheek.

And you wipe it away, feeling the distinct strand of cat fur against the pad of your thumb.

"We don't even own a cat." You mumble, before using your index knuckle to wipe the watery eye.

"All better?" You muse softly and Riot nods his head, before glancing at Dick with sleepy eyes, lashes fluttering even as he clambers across your lap, and into Dick's.

And his tiny arms wrap around as much of Dick's midsection as he can, his chubby and rosy cheek pressed against Dick's chest.

And the man's expression crumples.

Brows twitch and eyes begin to sting as one of his long fingered hands move to rest on Riot's back, feeling the soft fabric of his pajamas through the glove. And Riot lets out a content sigh.

"Deadbeat gypsy." The words are muffled, but they're audible enough for Dick's lips to part in shock, brows raising before letting out a bark of laughter.

Before he glances at you.

"He's just like you." Dick murmurs, before watching as Riot climbs from his lap, and heading back to his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

There's a still silence in the air, only filled by the sound of Kim's voice and rain droplets crashing down outside before Dick clears his throat.

"My— uh...— my patrol ended early." He murmurs softly.

"Do you wanna watch a movie?"

The way you're slot under Dick's bicep, your head against his chest and your legs tossed across his lap makes him feel 4 seconds away from crashing out. Because God, you're so warm and so much softer.

Dick stares unabashedly at the way your plush thighs brush against his when you shift to make yourself comfortable, he feels the way heavier breasts push against his side as you snuggle closer, before ultimately decided to pull the quilt over the both of you.

Your eyes remain glued to the TV, occasionally letting out snorts of laughter as you watch Grown Ups for what you could guess would be the 60th time on your lifetime.

But you can feel Dick's eyes.

Following the curve of your face, watching the way your lashes fan out and watching the way breaths leave your soft, glossy lips. And before Dick can even fathom it, his arm behind you is shifting, hand moving to wrap around your neck, long fingers stretching effortlessly and he brushes his thumb along your pulse, the action causing your head to tilt up and you meet his gaze.

And Dick's lips are pressed against yours, his fingers twitching against your neck before leaving the column of your throat, instead, shifting until you're resting back against the sofa.

You can't refuse. Well shit, you don't want to refuse.

Dick's kissing you like he's dying tomorrow. Lips pressed against yours, his hips nestled between your thighs and his arm moving to support his weight, elbow braced on the armrest above your head, and his other hand cradling your face.

His thumb strokes along the soft skin of your cheek, his hips pushed against yours and his tongue brushing along yours, but his movements stutter when your thighs wrap around his waist, arms around his neck and bringing him down to deepen the kiss.

Dick swears he sees heaven when your fingers card through his hair in that way.

Starting right at the nape of his neck, before dragging those manicured nails, up up up, before they disappear beneath silky raven strands and he sighs into the kiss, before pulling away.

Dilated pupils, and heavy breaths are exchanged between the two of you, and Dick swallows hard.

"Is he a heavy sleeper?" Dick whispers softly, gaze darting towards the bedroom he saw Riot disappear into and you nod your head.

"He is but you're pretty loud." You tease softly and Dick pushes his hips into yours, his bulge prominent beneath his suit and you can feel the way his tip brushes against your clit, even through the layers of fabric between you.

Dick always could find it in record time.

"Fair point." Dick whispers softly, a breathy laugh slipping past his lips, just a bit reddened from the intense kiss and he speaks again.

"But you never were loud."

Two digits bully their way into your cunt, your shorts and panties tugged to the side and Dick's lips are pressed against yours, muffling any sound you could even think of letting escape from your lips.

His tongue is buried in your mouth, thumb rubbing sloppy circles against your throbbing clit and your nails dig into Dick's biceps when he prods at a particularly sensitive spot. Your lashes flutter, and you take a shaky breath when Dick's fingers curl, his glove abandoned on the surface of the coffee table, and Dick pulls away from you, a thin, glossy string of saliva between the two of you before it ultimately breaks.

Landing across your chin and he giggles.

The man fucking giggles, as he uses his free hand to wipe away the mess, before ultimately moving your hair out of your face, staring down at you with pretty, big eyes that look at you so adoringly.

"You're so pretty." Dick murmurs softly, pressing a peck to your lips as he stares at you.

And fuck, you are.

Pretty eyes fanned by long lashes, perfect eyebrows and rosy cheeks, wet and parted lips (both pairs), and a few strands of hair clings to the thin sweat on your forehead and Dick sighs softly.

You're perfectly spread out too.

Hands gripping at him like you're scared he'll disappear, thighs spread messily and your panties and shorts tugged aside. Gummy walls thrum around his digits, pulsing at the intrusion and all he does is he continues to tease your clit, the rough pad of his thumb circling the sensitive and swollen nub as he continues to look at you with those heart eyes.

"Can I take you out tomorrow?" Dick's question is unexpected but he can't lie and say he hasn't been thinking about it since he saw you.

Plush, squishy, and so soft.

And he'd do anything to see you pregnant.

To watch you move around in oversized shirts, a belly swollen and heavy breasts that he could tease because they're just so sensitive and pretty.

And God, he can't even imagine the way your perfect, plump pussy would look, nestled between even rounder thighs, clit completely hidden until he uses his thumbs to spread the lips.

Dick swallows.

Hard.

And he doesn't even notice that his fingers begin to move, curling and prodding, nudging at that little fleshy spot that has your toes curling in your mismatched socks and your nails dig into his forearms.

And Dick remembers just what a sight you are when you come.

Brows pinching into the cutest little frown, lips forming a little 'o' and that gasp that leaves you has him leaking in his suit and he's so glad it's dark.

"That's it, princess, come on my fingers." Dick coos softly. "Use my fingers to make your pretty pussy feel good."

Your eyes roll back, you hide your face in your shoulder and your body freezes, the only movement being the rhythmic spasm of your cunt around his fingers.

His stupidly long, incessant fingers that keep dragging out your orgasm even as you nod your head, a silent answer to his prior question.

And Dick gleams, dimples in his cheeks and brilliant blue eyes lighting up in a way that can only be described as cosmic.

Blue eyes flecked with silvery stars and the gleam of the moon, dilated pupils and pretty lashes and Dick nods.

"Okay." He breathes out. "We're gonna go to the museum, okay? He's a little artist so I think he'd like looking at the paintings?"

You nod meekly, chest still heaving even when you watch as Dick licks his fingers, cleaning them up like he's just licking syrup from his fingers. His long tongue swivels around his digits before he carefully tugs up the fabric of your T-shirt, exposing your torso to the cold air.

Perfect tits, dotted with pebbled nipples and Dick swallows.

He never thought he'd be someone to have a kid out of wedlock but fuck, is he happy to be your baby daddy.

"Come on, princess." Dick hums sweetly. "Let me worship those pretty fucking tits before I leave."

Dick leans down, breath fanning across your chest before his tongue drags along one of your sensitive nipples, and he watches the way your face screws up, biting your bottom lip to stifle any sounds.

And you look at Dick from beneath your lashes, bleary eyes and rosy lips and he groans low.

A rumble in his chest that has your needy pussy pushing out a trickle of slick.

"Keep looking at me like that and I'll get you pregnant again." His lips latch onto the sensitive nub, his free hand moving to palm your other breast, thumb brushing over your nipple.

"Fuck that, I'll get you pregnant anyway."

Taglist:

@allycat4458 🪻

@lucky-beheaded 🌻

@fayethefaerie 🦋

@jasontoddswhitestreak 🌸

@moristhesecond 🍓

@anesthesia-4rizzle 🎀

@feral010 ✨

@mgarcia4130 🐚

@blckbarbiedoll 🌷

@custardpuddingprincess ⭐

[knoxious-existence]

I like the Batman references with the pet names 🥰

Climbing Trees

Steve Rogers x Single Mom! Reader

Steve enjoys days like this. These are days when the skies are open, when the winds are soft, and the city is quiet ( or as quiet as the city could be). On days like this, Steve would find a quiet moment and go to Central Park, take a seat with a book or his sketch pad, and just enjoy it. Or try to at least sometimes he'd get company.

"Why hello there?" Steve said as he put his sketch pad down, opening his hands up to pet the Great Dane that approached him. He got a few pets in before the doggy snatched his bag off the bench and took off. "Hey," he shouted and gave chase.

The dog took him a good way through the park and didn't stop until he stopped dropping his bag in front of a woman who stood in front of a large tree with a German shepherd by her side.

"Not now, Titus." the woman scolded the dog, more focused on the big tree.

"Hello?" Steve called

The woman turned around in shock and joy. " Oh, oh yes, good Titus, Good boy." She cheered. " excuse me, sir, could you help us?"

Steve took a moment to take in the woman's appearance. Disheveled clothes, jeans and hoodie covered in grass stains and leaves, dirty and cuts on her face, a wrist brace on her right arm, and very clearly distraught.

"um, sure."

The woman pointed to the top of the tree, where he spotted a little girl clinging to a large branch. She looked scared.

" She's stuck. She got her leg stuck on one of the branches, and she can't get out. I've tried, but I can't get to her." The state of her appearance and the broken branches around them clearly showed that she had definitely tried and failed. " Please, please, can you- can you please -"

"I've got it, ma'am," he said, handing her his ballcap and started making his way up the tree. He talked to the little girl as he made his way up to her.

" What's your name?" the girl said her name. " That's a beautiful name. How did you get up here?"

"I climbed. I like climbing." She watched as Steve carefully moved between the branches and up the tree.

"You must be an excellent climber, like a Squirrel," he said, noting the acorns on her shirt. " I'm going to call you baby squirrel," he said as he finally made it to the branch underneath her

"Baby Panda, do you know who I am?"

"Captain America," she whispered, still clinging to her branch.

"That's right, and I'm here to save you." She gave a small smile, but she was still gripped by fear. Taking a look at her stuck foot. He found it wedged tightly between the branch she was clinging to and a smaller one. " You look pretty stuck, but don't worry, I'll get you out. Alright, I'm going to need you to stay still." she confirmed with nod.

Taking the smaller branch, he pulled it back until it snapped then helped her pull her foot free. " Ta-da"

"I thought I was stuck forever," the girl said as she sat up on the branch, fear completely gone.

"That would have been terrible. How about we get down now?" Steve opened his arms to her. She smiled as he helped her climb into his arms, and he made his way down with her.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you." the woman said as Steve handed her daughter to her.

"you're welcome."

"No more climbing; we are staying out of trees, aren't we." she said as she checked her daughter for any bruises or cuts. " Thank you again. You're a lifesaver. Honey, don't you want to say thank you to Mr...."

"Steve"

"Why don't you say Thank you to Mr. Steve?"

" Wanna sandwich?" the little girl pointed to a picnic blanket and basket not that far away.

"We were having lunch before she decided to join the squirrels in the trees. We have extra if you want to join us."

" I wouldn't want to intrude."

"nonsense. You saved my darling from living life as a squirrel. Come on." She started to make her way back to their blanket. Followed by her German Shepherd and Great Dane, who once again had Steve's bag in his mouth.

Sitting on the blanket, she was once again fussing over her daughter,r making sure there were no unseen injuries.

"I never got your name, Mrs. ?"

"Oh no, (Y/n) (L/n) never got the Mrs," she said as she pulled out some hand sanitizer, giving her daughter a few squirts before passing it to Steve. " Car accident when I was 4 months. Lost him, nearly lost her, and nearly lost my arm too." she motioned to the wrist brace. " Nothing but metal now."

"I'm so sorry,"

"It's already. Things happen. We're still here. Now, chicken or ham?"

"Chicken, please." she passes him a chicken sandwich and a water bottle.

"We also have mixed fruit, cheese and crackers, nuts, chips, and little lemon cakes." Steve watched as she unloaded their basket. This looked more like a meal for Thor and his bottomless pit. " I always bring extra in case she makes friends."

"I did see. Captain America." the girl said as she leaned against her great dane, who sat next to her.

(Y/n) She rolled her eyes for a moment, but then she saw Steve smirk and put a finger on his lip and his ballcap back on his head.

"I-I didn't notice."

"It's okay. Actually, I appreciated that you didn't."

"Where's your shield?" her daughter whispered loudly.

"I left it at home."

"Are you spying?"

"No, I came to draw in the park."

"We draw in the park, too. Can I see your pictures? I'll show you mine." Steve chuckled, offering his sketchpad to the girl. Mom was smart enough to wipe her hands before allowing her to take it. And offered him her coloring book.

"Pretty," she said, touching the pages.

"Yours are pretty, too." and they were. She stayed between the lines, and although she chose the strangest colors, they worked together. Pink and purple zebra, who would have thought.

"She is a very artistic six-year-old. A star in the making." (y/n) praised her as she blushed and hid behind his sketch pad.

"Oh, hello," Steve said as the German shepherd put its head in Steve's lap.

"Sorry about Ace. He likes human pillows for his naps." (Y/n) tried to shoo him, but he claimed Steve to be his and didn't move. Steve didn't mind. Cute puppier.

"How'd you get these guys?"

"My fiance- Her dad. They were his, and he also has a cat. Alfred is no doubt enjoying the peace and quiet at home."

"He comes with his own suit."

"Really?!" Steve said astonished

"Mommy, show him."

(Y/n) pulled out her phone and showed him a pic of their back and white cat. His fur did indeed look like he was wearing a suit. He wasn't really focused on that. He was more focused on the pretty lady holding the cat. There was a small kitten curled up on her chest as she laid back, smiling at the camera. It was a beautiful smile; she was gorgeous. Not that now she wasn't gorgeous, but she was still covered in a fair amount of nature to hide that beauty, and he had yet to see that smile. But considering how her day was going, that made sense.

"Beautiful,"

" He is,"

"Not talking about him." she blushed and put her phone away.

"Thank you."

"Mommy, it's you." Her daughter showed them the sketchpad, which had a sketch of (Y/n) sitting on a bench with a book in her lap.

"Sorry," Steve quickly went to apologize.

"This is beautiful. When did you?" he pointed to the date at the bottom of the page. " On my lunch break. I didn't even see you."

"The power of the ballcape."

"How about you come to join next time you see me?" she passed his sketchpad back.

"Yes, ma'am." There was that gorgeous smile he was hoping to see. It was far more brilliant in person, and he couldn't help but smile with her.

" He can join us at our next picnic, Mommy."

"I mean, if he'd want to."

"I'd like that very much." He had no doubt that he was in a deep blush. " Maybe I can get your number, and you can call me when you have your next picnic."

"Yeah," he handed her his phone. Her daughter started quizzing him on his favorite foods so they could have it for their next picnic.

"Oh," (Y/n) said as his phone started buzzing just as she finished putting her contact in.

He quickly took his phone back. " I'm sorry, I have to go-"

"Save the world"

" That's right, baby squirrel." the little lady giggled.

"Here you go," (Y/n) said as she stood up, handing him a small bowl of fruit. " Fuel for the road." Titus was kind enough to pick up his bag and give it to him., that earned him some pets.

"Thank you, thank all of you."

"You're welcome."

"Until next time? I'll call you? You little Lady, stay out of trees."

"Oh, she will, bye."

"Bye, bye captain."

"Bye, bye"

[knoxious-existence]

BATBOYS JEALOUSY HCS ── .✦

a/n: I just ate which like now my stomach hurts because I ate this spicy burger (10/10) and my stomach is hurting so let’s hope i don’t die from a burger😭 also request from anon (here) tysm!

(Tags: batboys when jealous of crush!reader)

BRUCE WAYNE ── .✦

Internally Brooding, Externally Stoic: Bruce keeps a calm, composed exterior, but inside? Full-on brooding mode. He watches every move, his jaw clenching just slightly whenever the other guy laughs a little too much.

Passive-Aggressive Moves: Bruce subtly but effectively tries to interrupt. Maybe he’ll walk by and offer you something he never does, like coffee or water, just to make his presence known. “You looked thirsty,” he’ll say, while the guy looks confused.

Petty Rich Guy Move: He’ll ‘accidentally’ mention something about Wayne Enterprises, as if to remind everyone just how wealthy and powerful he is. “Funny, we were discussing corporate acquisitions the other day,” he’ll drop casually, as if it relates. (Let’s hope he doesn’t drain his bank 😞🙏)

The Comedy: When Alfred catches him glaring, he’ll dryly say, “Master Wayne, perhaps you should try blinking before you permanently furrow your brow.” Bruce will immediately deny he’s bothered, even as he side-eyes you again.

DICK GRAYSON ── .✦

Charm Dial Up to 100: Dick doesn’t even try to hide his jealousy. He’ll swoop into the conversation, throwing in his most dazzling smile. “Hey, I didn’t realize we were letting random guys have all the fun,” he’ll say with a teasing grin, while subtly nudging the guy aside.

Over-the-Top Compliments: He’ll suddenly become your biggest hype-man. “You know, she’s literally the smartest, funniest, and most beautiful person in the room, right? No offense to you, man.” The other guy feels awkward, and you just laugh while Dick grins smugly.

Puppy Dog Eyes: If you keep talking to the other guy, Dick’s smile might falter just a little, and he’ll stand in the background, clearly pouting. It’s so obvious that even you can’t help but laugh.

The Comedy: He’ll mutter, “Didn’t even know jealousy could feel this personal,” under his breath while side-eyeing the guy like it’s a soap opera.

JASON TODD ── .✦

Grumpy But Trying to Play it Cool: Jason’s jealousy is obvious in how stiff and silent he gets. He leans against the nearest wall, arms crossed, glaring like the other guy just insulted his whole family.

Blunt Interruptions: He doesn’t have the patience to be subtle. He’ll walk up and ask, “So, who’s this?” in the least friendly tone possible, with a fake smile that could curdle milk.

Accidental Intimidation: Jason’s sheer presence is intimidating, so the poor guy talking to you will probably start feeling uncomfortable as Jason looms over, cracking his knuckles or adjusting his jacket dramatically.

The Comedy: If you don’t notice, Jason will mutter sarcastically, “Oh sure, talk to Captain Chit-Chat over there. Not like I’m standing right here or anything.” Roy, nearby, might add, “Jason, you’re doing that ‘death stare’ thing again,” and Jason will growl, “I’m not jealous.”

TIM DRAKE ── .✦

Awkward and Overthinking Everything: Tim doesn’t get jealous often, but when he does, it’s a mess. He watches from a distance, wringing his hands, thinking, Should I interrupt? Maybe she likes him? Maybe I’m reading too much into it…

Accidental Sulking: He tries to focus on something else, but his mind keeps wandering. He sits down nearby, pretending to work on his laptop, typing nonsense just so he can stay close without being obvious. “Haha, yeah…no big deal…” deletes everything he just typed.

Passive Observing: Tim eventually tries to casually stroll by, acting like he just happened to be there. “Oh, hey… didn’t see you there. Weird, right?” He’s so awkward it’s endearing.

The Comedy: If Kon or Bart sees him sulking, they’ll tease him mercilessly. “Dude, go talk to her.” Tim panics, “I can’t. She’s busy… laughing… with him…” Kon: “You’re hopeless.”

DAMIAN WAYNE ── .✦

Silent Judgment Mode: Damian watches with narrowed eyes, judging every aspect of the guy talking to you. He might even mutter things under his breath like, “He stands like a fool,” or “He can’t even articulate properly.”

Direct Interruption: Damian doesn’t have time for subtlety. He’ll walk up and flatly say, “Are you finished with this conversation? It’s becoming unbearable.” The other guy is usually too shocked to respond.

Unintentional Comedy: He’ll start critiquing the guy’s conversation topics. “She doesn’t care about your opinions on sports,” he’ll state matter-of-factly, as you try not to laugh.

The Comedy: If you ask if he’s jealous, he’ll scoff. “Jealous? Of that imbecile? Hardly.” But the tips of his ears are turning red, and you know he’s lying.

[knoxious-existence]

Every year during the Olympics Jason calls Dick and it's just

Jason:..

Dick:..I-

Jason: THAT COULD HAVE BEEN YOU!! And what did you do instead?

Dick: I became a cop 😔

Jason: YOU BECAME A COP!!!

[knoxious-existence]

You Say Goodbye to Soap (18+)

Pairing: Simon Riley/Fem Reader/Johnny MacTavish Content warnings: Verbal child abuse, she/her reader Word Count: 3.5k

Service Dog Johnny Part 19 (full part list here)

Simon doesn’t do crowds. 

Well, he does them, he’s just on pins and needles the whole time. He turns into something granite and hyper-aware, covered as much as he can be with a medical mask and long sleeves, so you try not to force him through it too often. Sometimes though, there’s a good reason for suffering.

“Fuck you,” Johnny mutters, arms crossed while you both watch your boyfriend seamlessly plink through targets, with that mini rifle tucked tight into his shoulder. “Right prick.”

“Eight out of ten is still really good,” you remind him. Johnny only missed the first two targets, and that’s understandable considering the carnival air guns can’t possibly be accurate.

“Used my go to sight the weapon, is what he did. I’m goin’ again.”

You’re not entirely sure that it’s possible to aim a gun just by watching someone else shoot it, but then again, Simon is finishing up the last target right now, dead center.

“C’mere, you.” Your man motions you over with a jerk of his head, handing the pea shooter back to the bored worker. 

Simon watches your face as you hurry over to him, as if your delighted smile is all he wanted in the first place. You quickly scan the prize options as his hand settles against the curve of your lower back. Unicorn… cat… sloth… raccoon… teddy bear. 

You choose the pillow-sized raccoon because it’s fluffy, and it reminds you of Simon before he washes off his eyeblack. 

“Thanks,” you chirp, hugging your prize and stepping out of the way for Johnny’s turn. 

“Someone had to pick up the slack,” Simon mutters, turning his eyes to the determined set of Johnny’s shoulders.

Horrified, you shoot him a look that conveys, ‘You’d better shut the fuck up, or else.’

Plink. Plink. Good start. 

“Better hurry up, Johnny,” Simon drawls. “Too slow, you’re gonna miss it.”

“Simon,” you hiss at him, only to observe a devious light in his eye while he pretends he can’t hear you. 

Plink, plink, plink.

“Two, ten, seven, reload,” Simon barks. “Oh look, Graves is here.”

“I’ll fawkin’ kill ye,” Johnny growls against the stock, nailing the last few targets in rapid succession. 

Your face is burning by the time Johnny sets the gun aside. Of all the days for Simon to antagonize him, why does he have to pick this one? You’re not even sure there will be another chance to see Johnny after today, and instead of minding the delicate balance of things, your boyfriend’s decided to stomp all over it. 

Yet somehow, you seem to be the only one concerned. Johnny merely spares his friend a passing glare before turning back to the prizes, selecting a sparkly unicorn for himself. 

“Do you want me to carry that for you?” you offer with a shocked laugh.

He hugs it against his chest. “Aye, when I’m good and dead. No one’s separating me from my unicorn.”

Right. Okay, then. 

The sun has just gone down, and taken the last of the warmth with it, so you thread your fingers in with Simon’s and look around for things to do before the nighttime crowd fills the park.

“What kind of rides do you like, Johnny?”

He winks at you over the fluffy rainbow mane. “Fast ones.”

“Bloody hell,” your boyfriend sighs. “I’m gonna be stuck holding the toy shop for the pair of you.”

“We can take turns,” you suggest. “Look, this one’s the biggest roller coaster they have. You and Johnny go, before the line gets too long.”

Simon doesn’t disagree, but he starts squinting up at the ride the closer you get to it, as if he’s inspecting the track for defects. You’re just about to reach for the unicorn Johnny’s passing to you, when Simon makes a grunt of disapproval. 

“Fuckin’ back brace on him, I’m not going.”

Sure enough, one of the workers is gingerly crossing the platform to unstrap riders, while encased in a turtle shell of a brace. 

Johnny scoffs. “Didn't break it on the ride, you dobber.”

“Fuck are we supposed to know that?” 

“He’d be dead then, wouldn’t he? Puddle on the pavement.”

“No one is dying on these rides,” you insist, snatching Johnny’s toy. “It’s perfectly safe.” 

Simon smoothly plucks both animals from your grasp. “Seeing as you’re not worried, you and Johnny go.”

Okay, well, now you’re worried. 

You find yourself spectacularly stuck next to Johnny in that stuffy queue leading up to the platform, feeling like a total idiot for getting so easily conned into it. Why couldn’t you have thought of an excuse to avoid this? You only suggested the ride to give the guys a chance to have fun together without stepping on anyone’s toes, and instead you’re left scrambling for small talk. 

It’s not that you don’t want to be alone with Johnny, it’s just that you weren’t expecting it to happen so suddenly. You were perfectly fine with using Simon as a buffer for the night, and never bringing up that whopping pile of confusion until Johnny was at least willing to open up a little. But now he’s alone with you, acting fairly happy and normal, as if he never walked out that door. 

Is that what he wants? Is this going to turn into some horrible game of evasion, where he wanders back into your life and you’re forced to pretend nothing ever happened, and just hope he doesn’t do it again? Can you live like that?

You tried winging it before. You never made him explain himself to you or communicate, and all it did was blow up in your face.  

“So why’d you pick the raccoon?”

You blink yourself out of your thoughts, focusing on his face in the cheery glow of Christmas lights. “Oh, um. They’re cute. And I guess I like wild animals.”

For some reason Johnny laughs at your genuine answer. “Makes sense.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You know what it means.” He rests his elbows back on the steel railing and gives you this irritating smirk, so you roll your eyes in return. Okay, Flirt MacTavish. Nice to see you again, it’s been a while. 

Thankfully the line moves forward right when you need it to, and you sidestep his teasing eyes to poke your head around the beam and scan the waiting area for Simon.

“Oh my god, Johnny,” you whisper. “Look.”

His body presses to your back as he looks over your shoulder, and is greeted by the same sight you are — Simon, with one enormous plushie wedged under each arm, engaged in apparent conversation with some random, gray-haired grandma. You can’t see his mouth moving behind the mask, but he’s inclining his head the same way he does when he’s talking to you. 

“She’s stealin’ your man, hen.”

“Let her. He likes the attention.”

The stuffed animals have absolutely shattered his carefully constructed standoffishness. They’re like a beacon of cuteness, inviting in questions and curious looks, and honestly it serves him right for abandoning you to Johnny like this. You hope he’s suffering, but from the relaxed slouch of his shoulders, you kind of doubt it. 

Finally you get buckled into the ride next to Johnny, and the nerves you have about him give way to your more pressing fear of heights. When was the last time you rode in one of these things? All of a sudden the pattern of loops spreading across the open air in front of you look a lot more serious than they did from the ground. 

“Don’t let Simon see you scared,” Johnny says, nudging your shoe with his. The ride starts forward with a reverberating clunk, clunk.

“I’m not,” you lie. 

“Hold my hand then, or you’re full of shit.”

That doesn’t make any sense whatsoever, but you mold your palm around his and squeeze it tight, right before the drop. 

Holy shit.

Johnny wasn’t kidding about liking fast rides. He whoops and laughs through most of it, and you’re not sure if it’s the actual rush that’s getting to him, or your terrified shrieks. The loops hit rapidly one after another, and you just try to hang on as you pass through your threshold of fear and beyond. By the time you finally hit the end of the ride, your heart is slamming in your chest, and Johnny’s hand seems to have permanently fused with yours. 

As the ride cars slowly chug up that loud conveyor belt to the platform, you unlock your spine and glance over at your friend to make sure he’s all in one piece. 

He’s gorgeous. Ruddy-cheeked from the cold, breathlessly grinning at you, as if he’s exactly where he wants to be right now. Beautiful, human, completely impenetrable and emotionally closed-off.

It makes you want to hit him. 

You’d go to town on his stupid chest if you could, punching and slapping those perfect muscles on up and down his shoulder. You want to scream in his ear until he understands how much pain he’s put you through, because maybe then this hold he has on you would finally release. If you burned all your bridges and told him never to come back, maybe you’d stop wanting him quite so fiercely. 

Because even after all of that, you do want him. You want to own him. You want to ruin him. You want him like Veruca Salt stomping her foot and shrieking, ‘Daddy, give him to me!’

You want your heart to connect with his, and that craving is so intense that you’re almost jealous of anyone who’s ever deeply known him. Jealous of Simon, who always seems to understand what Johnny’s thinking before you do. It feels wrong, existing so close to Johnny and not touching, not staring, not knowing. 

Not allowed to know. 

This was all a mistake. A combination of oversights from all three of you, until you’ve reached this point of pain that was so, so preventable.

Johnny leans towards you as you pull your hand away from his. “Hungry?” 

The line for the concession stand is annoyingly long. You’re waiting here by yourself because you really needed some space to clear your head. You mentally repeat your food order to yourself, as if it won’t evaporate out of your brain the second you step up to the window.

Three pretzels, two cheeses, two hot chocolates, and do you have any hot tea? 

You’re being idiotic about Johnny. Look at them over there, holding a conference at the picnic table with two stuffies propped up next to each of them. How could you dare be jealous of the most important friendship Simon’s ever had? You’d have to be some kind of selfish monster to deny either of them that comfort. 

Three pretzels, two cheeses, two hot chocolates, and do you have any tea bags, and packets of sugar?

You just weren’t prepared for how unsatisfying this night would be. You’re giving Johnny space, and Simon’s giving you space, and it all makes you want to cry. 

“I hope you’re fucking happy.”

Your heart begins to race, hearing those words spat with such hate from somewhere behind you. Instinctively you twist your face around in search of the threat, hoping it’s just some old person berating a server who will never have to see them again. But no, it’s much worse.

An older man sits across from a boy who looks to be about nine, his lip curled up in contempt as he stares the kid down.

Looking away, the boy mumbles something you don’t catch, but the man doesn’t even let him finish before sneering, “You’re a pansy, is what you are. ‘Fraid of a little roller coaster. Don’t know why I bother taking you anywhere nice like this, when you’ll just wimp out.” 

Outrage pushes blood to your face, as you glance back over at Simon. He’s too far away to hear what’s going on, still shooting the shit with Johnny. It’s just you and the couple in front of you who seem to notice, the woman giving you an exasperated look, and the man determinedly staring straight ahead. 

You know that tone of voice. That kind of disrespect has is etched into your bones, and you know exactly what it leads to. It’s the voice Simon grew up with, the one he has in his head every day, and has to convince himself to ignore. 

Helplessly you take another step forward in line, watching the boy in your peripheral vision when he at last decides that the tirade is over, and raises his head. The direction of the kid’s sad gaze shouldn’t surprise you, but it does, as he peers over at your two soldiers across the way. 

You look as well, wondering what he sees. Two large men, built strong enough to hurt anyone who talks down to them? Friends who are comfortable with each other, happily performing for no one? Or maybe he’s seeing the innate self confidence they have, to be able to hold their heads high while lugging around stuffed animals in public. It’s almost a display of power, if you look at it through the boy’s eyes. Or at the very least, it’s freedom.

Maybe it’s because you know about Simon’s childhood. Or maybe it’s your own memories growing up that flood you with righteous anger, the firsthand knowledge of how it is to live in fear. How the wrath of your ‘trusted adult’ is absolutely inescapable at that age. You know that weight. You can see it on that boy’s shoulders, suffocating him. 

You know what, you’re going to say something. You’re not going to just turn your head away, like that man in front of you. You’re going to walk right up to that awful dad and chew him out, for your sake and for the sake of every kid who’s ever had to listen to words like that. 

Clutching your purse tighter and squaring your shoulders, you’re just mustering up the anger you need to go through with it, when— 

“Next in line? Next in line?”

“Oh, uh…” you step forward, trying to remember what you came here for. “Do you have… pretzels?”

The worker gives you a deadpan look and gestures over to the very obvious display of soft pretzels under heat lamps. 

“O-okay, yeah, two of those, please. No, wait, three, and cheese.”

“Three pretzels and cheese,” the guy recites, giving you the total. 

You’re obviously not going to cuss anyone out while holding a bushel of pretzels, so once you’ve paid you stuff your wallet back into your purse, and head towards your table to unload. 

“Can’t believe there’s no smoking here,” the horrible man grumbles as you pass by, fishing into his pocket. “Go get your old man a Coke, and don’t be keeping any change.”

The hatred churns in your chest but you keep walking, certain that you’re about to get your revenge. You’re a marginally attractive person, and you’re here with a couple of meatheads who can squish pretty much anyone. There’s no risk involved, you can just unload, and that man… will… take it out on the kid. 

Simon gives you a puzzled expression when your face falls, as soon as you reach them. 

It’s useless. There’s not a single thing you can do for that boy. Any way you tear down his father would only result in him getting the punishment for it. 

You’re just as stuck as ever, helpless and stupid and no one important, same as you were as a child. You might as well still be that little girl, realizing that nothing you could ever do would make the adults in your life see you as human. 

All you are is taller now, with tits.

“What’s wrong?” Simon asks, as you push his pretzel over to him. 

“Um…”

They’re both concerned now. Dammit. 

Your gaze drops to the sparkly unicorn, its horn twinkling in the lights. 

“Johnny?” you prompt, blinking at him while your form your thoughts. 

“Hmm?” 

You rest your hand on the head of his unicorn, tugging at the ear. “Can I have this? For keeps? Will you give it to me?”

He blinks rapidly in surprise, glancing down at his prized plushie. “Yeah, alright. Sure.”

Before you can second guess yourself, you scoop both animals up into your arms and head straight for the boy’s table. 

“Excuse me,” you chirp, giving that disgusting man your most sunshiny smile. “I got these prizes here, and I just can’t take them home. They won’t fit in my car. Would you like to have these?” You turn your eyes on the boy for the last question, hopeful. 

He doesn’t look at your face, just darts his eyes to his dad, and then to the unicorn. 

“Tryin’ to run a hustle?” The man asks suspiciously.

“Nope, they’re free! Just hoping you could help me out.”

The boy glances over at Simon and Johnny, and the man says, “Aww, why not. We’ll take the brown one, don’t need no girl stuff.”

“Oh, come on,” you practically flirt, setting both animals on the bench. “Can’t you take both? I’d really appreciate it.”

Yeah, you’re laying on the charm for the old guy. You’re crooking your shoulder up and smiling a little saucy, and you don’t even feel bad about it. You have tits now. 

“Well, alright,” he allows, seeming pleased to have you begging him. 

“Thank you so much.” You finally bend down a little towards the boy, who hasn’t looked at you at all. His brown eyes lift hesitantly to yours. 

“I’m very happy,” you tell him honestly, “that these guys got to go to someone really special.”

You leave before anyone can change their mind. You just turn right around and prepare to explain why you just Robin Hooded Johnny’s special—

Smack, slosh.

Instead of the clear path back that you thought you had, you run right into someone’s body, and frigid wet instantly coats your thighs.

“I’m so sorry!” the girl gasps, as you both stare down at your legs, completely saturated in some cold, fizzy drink. 

“I— it was my fault,” you stammer, brushing droplets off the bottom of your coat. “I’m sorry.”

You’re so frozen in shock that it’s not until Simon materializes next to you that you even think to move away from the puddle. 

“Come on,” he murmurs, “let’s get you home.”

What? Home? 

A breeze runs through the place then, and you shivery violently at how frigid it feels when your leggings are soaked. You do have to go home. That’s the only option. 

“I’m sorry,” you tell Johnny, when Simon’s hand on your elbow urges you to start walking. “I didn’t mean to… for it to be like this.”

“Ehh, it’s alright.” He offers you one of the pretzels he’s carrying. “There’ll be other times.”

No, there won’t. You had this one opportunity to prove to him that you should be in his life, and instead of doing what you needed to do to secure that, you were awkward and you stole his unicorn and you made everyone leave early. This was a disaster.

Fuck, don’t cry. You cannot cry right now. 

You stop up your tear ducts through sheer stubbornness, numbly traversing the park and passing all the things you never got to do. 

You’re a ruiner, you didn’t even get to talk with Simon tonight, just made him stand around everywhere you went and not have any fun. 

Don’t cry. 

By the time you make it back to your car, the only thing keeping the tears at bay is the surface tension on your eyeballs. You’be got patches of frostbite on the front of each thigh, and even your hair feels a little sticky from stray droplets of soda. It’s the most you can do to just mutter an excuse to Simon, and escape into the back seat of your car to strip off your leggings. 

As soon as you’re alone in that quiet, frozen car, the tears come. Silently they stream down your face, bringing with them the rising tide of your own inadequacy. The guys’ voices are a low hum from somewhere outside while you yank your shoelaces undone and fail to come up with a single glimmer of hope. 

There’s nothing you can do. You did your best, and it wasn’t enough. 

One shoe off, you’re forced to stifle a sob with your hands, as you come to the painful realization that you have to say goodbye to Johnny. Not just tonight, but in your heart. You’ve been clinging to that control, the idea that if you just perform everything perfectly, you can decide the outcome of the relationship. 

But that’s false, you know it now. No amount of flawless behavior will make him love you, if it’s not meant to be. 

The side door opens before you've managed to make progress on the second shoe, the task of removing your leggings now utterly cast to the side with the flood of emotion. 

You already know it’s Johnny, even before he scoots himself into the backseat with you and wraps you up in his warm arms. Somehow you can tell even without looking, but you know it for sure when you bury your wet face into his shoulder and get a lungful of his scent. 

“I missed you,” he says.

Next Part

Dividers by the-aesthetics-shop

[knoxious-existence]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 40: Where Do We Go From Here?

Summary: Things aren't going as smoothly as anyone would like. Maybe they can fix it. Maybe they can't.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 5,970 words

Warnings: Angst, discussion of nightmares, PTSD, discussion of death and killing people, emotions, so many emotions, angst, a little sliver of comfort

A/N: And it is back!! not super proud of this one but I'm starting out on a filler so...yeah. Really just setting up for the next part where some action starts again. You'll see. Anyway, glad to be back at it and I hope you enjoy!

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

John stands at the door, gazing out at the yard. It’s pouring rain, dumping buckets on the roof. The water has pooled on the planks of the deck, splattering with every big drop that pours from the sky. The weather once again mirrors your mood, your sobs audible from your room over the pounding on the roof. 

John holds his mug in his hands, staring at the reflection in the window. Kyle and Johnny are sitting on the couch, both looking like kicked puppies. They’re itching to enter your room and go comfort you, but they’ve been kicked out for now. You’re not in the state of mind to be around any of them right now, no matter how badly your sobs tear at their heartstrings. 

You haven’t been in that state of mind for a few hours now. 

Whatever nightmare had plagued your mind last night, it was particularly awful. You’ve been up since the early hours, waking from a nightmare with a terrified scream that had continued until Kyle finally got you to stop and breathe. His ears are still ringing with it, his mind still pulsing with that fear. Something happened. Someone got in. Someone hurt you. 

Nothing happened. No one got in.  

The only threat was still just in your mind. 

Graves. 

He knows that’s at least part of your nightmares. Christine had disclosed that to him quietly on the side. Even she doesn’t know everything that plagues your dreams, but Graves seems to be a common specter in the darkness of your mind. 

It makes his blood boil, and not just out of anger for what Graves did to you. 

It boils with anger at himself too. 

It’s his fault you’re in this state in the first place. He should have known, he should have seen, he should have suspected. He should have never left you there. You should have been his priority over anything else. 

How badly he’s failed you. 

He lets out a sigh, turning away from the window to move over to the couches. He sinks down with a sigh, resting his elbows on his knees. The little progress you’ve made has regressed with this new string of nightmares, the fear pushing you further and further back into your mind. He’s resolved himself to only get worried when Christine is worried, and right now she’s beginning to look worried. If you regress back again, the chances of bringing you out of that are slim. Sure, there are plenty of options to help, but you have to want them to help. 

He knows exactly what will help, you just don’t want it. 

He runs a hand through his hair as your sobs begin to quiet. It’s longer than he’s let it get for a long time. They’re all a bit scraggly and ragged looking, worn down and lazy now that there’s no strict rules guiding their lives. None of them quite know what to do outside of the regulations they’ve spent the better parts of their lives living under. He’s been in the military longer now than he hasn’t, and he’s been finding himself itching for that structure again. He can never bring himself to relax and put the job aside even on leave. He only takes it when he has to and usually spends it training and keeping his skills sharp. 

Now...now things have changed. 

They have no return now. There’s no clear, set time that they have to return to base. They can’t return to base. It would leave them too open to a possible retaliation from Shepherd. They were betrayed by one of their own already, who's to say someone else wouldn’t be just as eager to become a traitor for a chunk of cash? They’re not even truly safe here. 

How are they going to go back to base after this? Can he bring himself to take you back there, a place you never felt comfortable in the first place? 

Where do they go from here? 

He’s been trying not to think too much about it. That’s a dilemma for a different day. That’s thinking too far ahead. Day by day is as far as he dares to take it now. 

The door closes quietly, John’s head lifting to watch Christine as she approaches the couch. There’s a slump to her shoulders, something that’s been getting lower and lower as the days have progressed. She’s struggling with this just as much as they all are. 

She sinks down on the couch, letting out a long breath. Your sobs have quieted, no sound coming from the room now. The silence is almost eerie after days of constant sounds, good and bad from your room. You were doing better. You were looking more alive and well. 

Then this happened. 

“She’s asleep.” Christine says, her voice strained. “Finally calmed down enough to nap.” She covers her eyes with a hand, sitting there still for a moment. 

“The nightmares?” John asks, glancing at Christine out of the corner of his eye. 

“Worse.” She says, her gaze far away. “She's remembering what happened.” 

John stares at Kyle and Johnny for a moment, the betas returning his worried gaze.

“Those shadows she killed...” Johnny says.

Christine nods. “She's, uh, not taking it well.” 

John runs a hand over his face. He knew it was possible you'd start to remember what happened during the time your omega took control. It wouldn't remain a dark spot forever, though he hoped it would. The things you were forced to do are coming to light now, the things you did to survive because they failed you. Taking the life of someone who deserves it is nothing to them. Taking the life of someone who would take yours just as quickly isn't so much as a second thought. 

You're not like them. 

You've never had to face that reality before, and you shouldn't have had to. 

“One of us should talk to her.” Kyle says.

“I don't think that's the best idea right now.” Christine shakes her head. “She's...regressed a bit. Pushing that on her, while well intentioned, might do more harm than good...” she trails off, her gaze still far away. 

The three of them sit there, waiting for what she’s going to say next. He’s not even sure Johnny or Kyle are breathing as they wait patiently for whatever solution Christine might be able to come up with, whatever move she thinks is the best one to take next. 

“I want to take her out.” Christine says. 

“What?” John asks in surprise. 

“She needs to get out of the house. It’s not doing any of us any good sitting in here all day.” She rubs her eyes. “She expressed interest in going for a walk a couple days ago. She needs to get up and moving, start regaining some of her strength.” 

John lets out a breath leaning back against the couch. He’s tempted to say no. His knee jerk reaction is to refuse. The world outside isn’t safe. If anyone is watching, if anyone sees them...

There’s always going to be that risk though, and Christine is right. Sitting in the house all day isn’t doing any of them any good. They’re at the mercy of the rain, but even then, he doubts it will keep any of them trapped inside for long. 

“When the rain clears up.” He finally says. “We'll discuss it more. But, I think that might be a good idea.” 

“What can we do?” Kyle asks, staring at Christine. 

She lets out a sigh, covering her eyes with her hand. “I don’t know. I’ve helped hundreds of omegas in crisis and yet I don’t know why this case is so hard.” 

“This has become more personal than those cases.” John says. 

Christine’s shoulders slump even more. “I know. I try so hard but she’s just so...different from other omegas.” 

“This entire situation is different from what you’ve done before.” Kyle says. 

“You’re right.” Christine sighs. “The best we can do is let her lead. Do what she needs, give her what she wants. The worst thing that can happen right now is regression. If she regresses too far, we might never get her back.” 

“What is it? Tell me what ye need.” 

“Can you make me forget?” 

“I wish I could.” 

“Hit me hard enough on the head I might forget everything. Then we can all just start over.” 

“That’s not funny.” 

“It wasn’t supposed to be.” 

“Kitten,” Johnny sighs, leaning his elbows on his knees. “I wish I could make those thoughts go away. I wish I could make them mine.” 

“I killed people.” 

“I know.” He reaches out, touching your hand. “I wish ye didnae have to. Ye were just defending yerself. Those Shadows would have done worse to ye if ye hadn’t.” 

You curl up in your chair, turning away from him. “That’s not helpful.” 

“Sorry.” He says, letting out another sigh. “We just want to help ye.” 

You’re silent for a moment, sitting there listening to the waves. It’s cold this morning, not even the thick blanket draped over you offering much respite. It’s the first morning it hasn’t poured rain in days and you were determined to take full advantage of it despite the objections of your pack. 

“I know.” You finally say, staring out at the grey clouds looming on the horizon. The rain will return, just like the dark thoughts constantly swirling in your mind. They make you sick, nausea constantly churning in your stomach and threatening to rise. 

Johnny wraps his hand around yours, his palm warm against your cold skin. “Should head inside. Gonnae catch a cold.” 

“You know that’s a myth right?” You say, tilting your head to stare at him. 

“No it’s not.” He says, pulling your hand between his. “It’s not good for ye being out in the cold.” 

“I’ll live.” You say, trying to pull your hand from his, but he holds you firm. He’s stubborn, but so are you. 

“Kitten...” He says, almost whining at you. “Go inside please.” 

You let out a sigh, staring out at the horizon again. The clouds promise more rain soon, another downpour on its way. You hate it, how much it’s been raining. You just want to be outside, down at the beach, going on walks. Your pack won’t let you though, not while it’s raining, even though they often leave no matter the weather. 

It’s not fair. 

You’re not a fragile flower and you’re tired of being treated that way. Even though your brain feels like it’s in a blender constantly. Even though the pain of what happened still drives into you like a knife, you just want to be treated like a normal human being again. 

“Fine.” You sigh, pushing yourself up to stand. “I’ll go inside.” 

Johnny grabs your arm before you can head back in the door. “Ye know we just want the best for you.” 

You stare at him for a long moment, emotions swirling in your mind. They are trying. You’ll give them that credit. They’re trying, but not hard enough. “What you think is best and what’s actually best isn’t always the same.” 

He looks like a kicked puppy as he lets you go. You turn away before you can feel guilty, heading back inside the cottage. 

You pull the blanket tighter around you as you stare at the flickering flames in the hearth. The heat is intense so close, but it’s warming the chill under your skin. It’s getting colder at night, foretelling the upcoming winter. All the blankets in the world couldn’t fight off the chill that’s settled in you at night. You know what might help, but you’re not brave enough to approach that solution. 

The footsteps on the stairs don’t startle you in the otherwise silent house, the creak of them audible over the crackle of the logs in the fire. 

“I’d add another one.” A voice says from behind you. 

“I’m going to.” You say, reaching for the stack next to the fireplace. 

“Careful. Put it on the side.” 

“I know how to make a fire, thank you.” You snap, shoving the log in before moving it into place with the poker. “I’m not useless.” 

“Didn’t mean to imply you were.” It’s silent for a moment as you settle back into place. “What are you doing out here?” 

“I’m cold.” You answer simply, not feeling up to giving an entire expose on your current state of mind to the person you want to speak to the least right now. 

“We can turn the heat up more.” John says. “Whatever you want to be more comfortable.” 

I want you to leave. You bite your lip, suddenly not brave enough to say it out loud. 

They are trying. 

“Why are you down here?” You ask instead. 

“Couldn’t sleep so I came to get a snack.” He says. “You want anything?” 

“No.” You say quickly, wrapping the blanket tighter around you. “I’m alright.” 

“You sure?” He presses, standing off to your right. 

You hesitate for a moment, curling your toes under the blanket as one of the logs snaps. It’s not food you need from him. Your appetite has decreased again with this new wave of horrible things plaguing your mind. “I want to know why,” You say, swallowing the lump in your throat. “why you left me there.” 

John shifts behind you, silent for a long moment. 

“I got too caught up in the big picture.” He finally says. “I thought that taking out Shepherd would end everything before it went too far. It’s the only way we’ll ever be safe, and I didn’t consider the lengths he’d go to, the lengths he’d let Graves go to, just to cover his own ass long enough for him to escape. I was wrong in making that decision. You’re not like us. You’ve never been left behind, tortured, had to fight your way out of an impossible situation. You shouldn’t have ever been put in that position. We all failed you. Every last one of us.” 

Tears burn your eyes as you stare into the fire. “You left me.” 

“I know.” He says, his voice thick with emotion. “It’s the worst mistake I’ve ever made.” 

“I can’t do this.” You whisper, your knuckles white where they’re gripping the edges of the blanket. The words are coming out and you can’t stop them. Maybe it’s because deep down you remember the better times, when he was a comfort. Someone you could trust to catch you when you fall. “I keep seeing them, seeing what I did, what happened. I killed people.” 

“People that would have killed you without a second thought.” He says. “You were defending yourself in a situation where that was unavoidable. It’s not your fault. None of it is.” 

“Can we ever move past this?” You ask, your voice quiet and broken.  

“I like to think we can.” John says. “It won’t be easy, but if that’s what you want, we sure as hell will work to make it happen. Things won’t go back to the way they were, and they shouldn’t. You deserve better than what we gave you.” 

You don’t respond because you can’t. His words float around in your mind, replaying over and over. You want to believe him. You desperately want to believe him, but a deep part of you can’t. He’s made promises before and then broke them. How can you trust this time will be different? 

The creak of the stairs wakes you. It’s jarring, pulling you out of a sleep you didn’t know you were in. You’re on the couch in the living room, bundled under a blanket with a decorative pillow under your head. You don’t remember moving to the couch. The fire is nothing more than embers now, but it feels warmer in the house. It’s dawn, the grey light streaming in through the window, chasing away the shadows of night. 

“What are you doing out here?” A gruff voice asks you. 

You groan, rubbing your eyes. “Fell asleep.” 

“On the couch?” 

“Think I was on the floor first.” You yawn, pressing your face back into the pillow. “Don’t remember getting to the couch.” 

“Why?” 

“Got cold.” Your voice is slightly muffled as you pull the blanket up higher. 

Simon lets out a sigh before moving around the couch to the fireplace. He adds a couple logs in before lighting it again, the fire crackling back to life. You’re half asleep already as another blanket is draped over you, tucked up around your neck. There’s a feeling of a hand brushing over your head, but that may have just been your imagination as you drift off back to sleep. 

You don’t get to sleep long, more footsteps coming down the stairs waking you. A hand does brush over your head this time, the scent of the beach filling your nose. You let out a groan, trying to snuggle deeper into the blankets. 

“Sleeping out here this morning?” Kyle’s soft voice reaches your ears. 

You grunt, chasing the quickly fading edges of sleep in your brain. 

“Breakfast is ready, if you want to get up.” 

You are hungry. There’s a quiet rumble of your stomach as you begin to register the smells coming from the kitchen: bacon and eggs and coffee. Johnny is making the coffee most likely. Maybe you’ll have some this morning. You might need it with how groggy you feel. 

You stretch out on the couch, trying to breathe some life into your limbs. It’s not the most comfortable couch, definitely not for sleeping, but it’s better than the floor. It was likely John that moved you. He was the only one that knew you were out here last night. 

You're not sure how that makes you feel. 

It's nice on one hand, that he saved you from the pains of sleeping on the floor. But at the same time it feels like an intrusion. There was a time you wouldn't have thought twice about it. There was a time it would have been normal and expected and you would have thanked him for it. 

Now...now you're not sure. 

You push yourself up to sit, joints cracking from being stuck in one position for so long. You blink slowly as you sit there for a moment. It’s warm in the house, almost too warm now with your body warmed from sleep. Dr. Keller is sitting at the table, a steaming mug in front of her. Tea, most likely. Maybe coffee. You’re not quite sure. She gives you a soft smile as you rub a hand across your face. 

You feel groggy as you push yourself up to stand, letting your stomach and feet guide you towards the smells coming from the kitchen. Kyle guides you to the table with a promise of making you a plate and you take your usual seat at the end of the table facing the kitchen. Dr. Keller is to your left this time, coffee in her mug judging by the smell. 

“How did you sleep?” She asks, her hands wrapped around the mug. 

“Fine. Got cold.” You say, resting your head in your hand.

“John turned the heat up a bit. We can get you more blankets if you need them.” Dr. Keller says. 

You hum, letting your eyes close for a moment. You won’t complain about more blankets, more soft things to lay with. There is one thing you wish you had, though. You’re not quite sure how to ask for it, or that it would even be possible to get. 

You jump when a hand touches your back, not realizing you had even dozed off sitting there. 

“Sorry.” Kyle says, setting a plate on the table in front of you. “Food’s hot. You want coffee or tea.” 

“Coffee.” You say instantly, earning a wide grin from Johnny as he takes his own seat at the table. 

“Even split this morning.” He says cheekily, setting his own mug down. “Three against three.” 

“Tea is still the superior choice.” Kyle says from the kitchen. “Better for you anyway.” 

“Coffee has a lot of health benefits as well.” Dr. Keller says. “So long as you don’t add too much sugar into it.” 

“See.” Johnny says, giving them a victorious grin. 

“She said so long as you don’t put too much sugar in it.” Kyle says, carrying over your mug of coffee. “You’ll get diabetes from how much you add in.” 

“Two spoonfuls isnae too much.” He turns to look at Dr. Keller. “Is it?” 

Dr. Keller gives him a worried look. “You might be pushing it there.” 

Johnny’s grin turns into a pout. “What do ye mean?” 

A ghost of a smile tugs at your lips as you quickly shovel a forkful of eggs into your mouth. As much as the deep pain of betrayal still aches in your chest, as much as you still want to hate them, you have to admit you missed this. It’s the least tense you’ve seen all of them in the last few weeks. Even Dr. Keller’s shoulders don’t seem quite so squared as they have been. 

A part of you feels guilty about it. It is your fault deep down. You’re the one keeping them all on edge, driving that wedge between them over and over again. Deep down you’re the one causing the heavy weight that’s settled over the house. You wish you could just go back to normal, you wish you could just wave a wand and make yourself okay again. You wish you could ease their pain just a little bit. 

The eggs suddenly don’t taste quite so good anymore. 

You force them down regardless in favor of causing another scene, in favor of dragging the mood down. They deserve a little lighthearted moment after everything. They don’t need to know the inner turmoil plaguing your mind. 

Simon shifts next to you, his eyes darting to glance at your face. You can feel them, the intensity of his gaze just as sharp as it had been back in the beginning, back before he looked at you with fondness. He’s stiff as he sits there, almost as if he can sense the storm raging inside of you as you force yourself to pretend that you’re fine in favor of keeping the bright mood that’s settled over the table. 

Maybe he can sense it. He is an alpha after all. It’s his job to know, to understand. You glance across the table at John, his eyes on his phone as he sips his tea. 

Your gaze drops down to your plate as you pick up a piece of bacon, your heart shattering just a little bit more. 

“‘S too early.” You whine as hands pull the blanket off of you. Cold air nips at your skin, making you curl up in a ball. 

“It’s noon. Come on.” A hand closes around your arm, gently shaking you. “You want to get up.” 

You let out a whine, pinching your face up. “No.” 

“Trust me. It’ll be worth it.” Kyle says, brushing the hair back from your face. 

“Why.” You say, letting out a huff. 

“We’re going on a little trip.” Kyle pulls you up, forcing you into a seated position. “Dress warm.” 

You’re alone in the room again, the door left open. Light streams in, making you squint against the harsh intrusion. A quick glance at the clock reveals it is, in fact, a little past noon. You took a nap to make up for a night of tumultuous sleep, one of the few things you have to do here in this prison. Nap and read. It’s a lot like your life before the cottage, before everything that happened, except now you’re stuck with your pack around you at all times. 

You almost miss the times they were away. 

You maneuver yourself so your legs dangle over the edge of the bed as you try to blink the drowsiness away. The nap hadn’t been nearly long enough, but judging by Kyle’s eagerness, they let you sleep a bit longer than they wanted. 

You let out a sigh before pushing yourself off the bed, moving to the dresser. You pull out warm clothes, quickly changing. You have no idea what they have planned, what’s going on. There was no frantic rush, Kyle’s energy more excited than anything. It makes you a bit worried as you step out of the room into the living area. 

They’re all waiting by the door, watching you as you approach them, rubbing your eyes. 

“Come on,” John says, setting a pair of shoes on the floor. “Boots on.” 

“What are we doing?” You ask, moving forward automatically. 

“We’re taking a little trip.” Kyle answers. 

You look at him cautiously as you step into the boots, pulling them on. You haven’t been away from the cottage since you arrived two weeks ago. You’ve barely been let outside, weather permitting. It’s an overcast day today, the world grey outside, but grey is better than rain. 

“Ready?” John asks as you stare at him. 

“I guess.” You say, still a bit hesitant. 

They make no effort to ease your discomfort and nerves. 

You’re led out the door and towards the cars by Dr. Keller. Her face is brighter than it has been lately which doesn’t help your nervous energy. She’s excited too, just like the rest of them. You’re not sure why you’re so nervous. Maybe it’s the anxiety of leaving after being trapped inside for so long. You just want to know where you’re going, what it is you’re going to be doing. 

Dr. Keller ushers you into the back seat of one of the cars, getting in the other side. Kyle and John climb into the front while Johnny and Simon get into the other car. 

You watch the green pass by as they drive, taking in the new landscape. You don’t remember arriving at the cottage. You don’t remember most of the trip at all. It’s all a blur in your memory, much like the events that transpired after your omega took over had been. You wish you could remember the trip over those events. You’d take green rolling hills over your own hands taking lives. 

It had been jarring waking in the cottage for the first time. A new place, a lack of memories getting there. You’re beginning to get tired of the pattern. You half expect to fall asleep and wake up somewhere new again most nights. You wouldn’t know any better. A slip of a pill into some food and you’d wake up somewhere halfway across the world. 

You like to think they’d at least warn you beforehand. 

John pulls the car into a parking lot, parking near a line of trees. Johnny pulls into the parking lot behind John, parking near the entrance. It’s on purpose, you know that much. Everything is about safety and making things look as inconspicuous as possible. Anyone could be a rat. Anyone could be watching. 

It’s windier here as you step out of the car, even though you haven't gone far from the cottage. Walking distance, if you were up for a hike. You’re not. 

“Come on, kitten.” Johnny says, guiding you through the parking lot and towards a path. 

You still don’t know what’s happening as you follow them, Johnny holding your hand as you step onto the rocky path. He leads the way, the others following. John is behind you, hovering in case you slip in the gravel. You do your best not to, despite how quickly Johnny is leading you. He’s more eager than Kyle had been, and you’re sure he’d be running if you could keep up. 

You begin to figure out what’s happening as the sound of waves crashing on the shore gets louder and louder. Your chest starts to constrict with emotion as the trees start to get sparser and sparser, a cliff edge visible over Johnny’s shoulder. You want to run now, you want to break ahead and race your way to the edge of the cliff. Johnny, even in his excited state, would catch you before you could take off and potentially hurt yourself. 

You might hurt yourself just trying to run. 

You hate it. 

The land opens before you as you reach the edge of the cliff. The expanse of the sea seems daunting so close, grey and choppy from the wind. Salty air blasts you in the face, rustling your jacket as you stand there above a small beach. It’s empty, but that’s expected for the middle of fall. All the tourists have gone home, those with vacation homes back in better weather for the winter. 

You’re glad you’re alone. You wouldn’t want anyone else ruining this moment. 

Kyle’s fingers wrap around yours as you stand there, staring down at the beach below. “Come on.” 

The gravel turns to dirt as it winds down the side of the cliff, getting steeper as you near the beach. You do nearly slip as you follow Johnny down to the sand, your boots quickly getting muddy. You’re glad for them, understanding why John chose boots over more comfortable shoes. 

You pause as your feet sink into sand. You stare out at the water, at the white crests of waves crashing onto the shore. It’s real. It’s not just some mirage, some painting in the background of your life. It’s really here. You’re really here. 

No one says anything as you take a few steps forward before squatting down. You scoop up a handful of sand, letting it slip through your fingers. It’s coarse against your cold skin, thicker and rockier than the sand you’re used to, but it’s still sand. It’s still a beach. 

You’re at the beach. 

You scoop up another handful of sand, letting it run through your fingers again. You want to put some of it in a jar and set it on the nightstand at the cottage. You want to stare at it and remind yourself you’re really at the coast, you’re really just a short drive away from the sea. You want the sand to sink into your skin and flow through your veins and fill every crack that’s formed in your mind.  

You’re really here. 

You stand up straight, staring out at the water again. Your pack is still behind you, silently watching you. You shuffle forward a couple steps, waiting for one of them to stop you, to grab you and keep you from getting closer, but none of them move. You widen your steps, treading through the soft sand until you reach the edge of the wetter sand where the water was earlier. It’s easier to walk on as you continue to approach the water, the sound of your pack treading through the soft sand disappearing behind you as you get closer and closer to the water. The waves flow up the beach, your feet getting closer and closer to where that water stops. 

You half expect them to stop you as you step forward, letting the waves hit your feet. The salty water washes away the mud and sand clinging to your rubber boots, rushing up over the tops of your feet. You stare down at the water, watching it surge upward and around your ankles. You’d keep walking if you were brave enough, let it get higher and higher until it soaked your clothes, but you know they’d stop you. It’s far too cold to risk getting wet. You can feel the chill of the water through your boots as it flows over your feet. 

You’re not sure how long you stand there, watching the water rush back and forth, feeling the pressure of it against your boots as you stand in the waves. You’re really here. You’re really standing in the sea. 

You finally turn after what seems like an eternity, making your way back up to the softer sand. All of them are standing in a line, watching you. You wonder what’s going through their heads, what they feel standing here. Relief? Happiness? Guilt? Shame? The wind whips at your back, coming right off the water, blowing their scents away from you. What you wouldn’t give to be able to smell them right now. 

Tears burn your eyes as you make your way up towards John, trudging through the sand. His cheeks and nose are pink from the cold wind, his beard longer than you’ve ever seen it. You don’t remember the last time you’ve really looked at him up close. His gaze is uncertain as he stares down at you, trying to gauge your next move. He can’t. You know he can’t and it makes you feel powerful. 

It shouldn’t, but it does. 

“Thank you.” You say finally, a tear sliding down your cheek. “Thank you.” 

You can hear them. They don’t know it, but you can. They think they’re speaking quietly, but in the silence of the morning, you can hear almost every word. Dr. Keller’s protests, John's quiet insistence. 

Leaving. 

That’s the word that caught your attention. Leaving. Someone is leaving. Someone is separating themselves from the pack again, and not just for a trip to town to go to the store. This meaning is different, it hangs differently in the air. 

“I don’t think this is a good idea right now.” Dr. Keller says, her voice just barely audible through the open sliding glass door. It’s open just a crack, just enough to hear what’s transpiring inside. 

“We won’t have another chance.” John says, his voice insistent. “We have to do this. She deserves it.” 

She. You. Whatever it is, it involves you. It always does. You can’t remember a time over the last few weeks when it hasn’t been about you. It’s always about you and you hate it. You almost wish things would go back to the way they were before, when you were a second thought, the one left behind.

You’re going to be left behind again. 

“John-” 

“I know.” John’s voice is louder again. “We have to do what’s best for our pack, and right now this is it.” 

The sliding door opens, the conversation over. Your stomach is churning, nausea eating its way up your esophagus as John crosses the deck towards where you’re seated. His steps are slow and quiet, almost like he’s approaching a wild animal. He might be, depending on how this conversation is going to go. 

How are you going to react? You expected it eventually. They’ll always leave, they’ll always put you last and think about themselves first. Are you upset? Are you angry? Is it a relief? 

You wish you could feel something right now. Instead you feel numb. Another promise broken, another lie told. 

“You’re leaving again.” You say, staring out at the horizon as John takes a seat next to you. You need to get it out first, say what you know before he can say it and break your heart again. 

He lets out a quiet sigh, leaning back in the chair. “We are, but you’re coming with us.” 

You turn to glance at him, taken aback by his words. You’re leaving too? You hadn’t considered this. The cottage is your prison. You are Rapunzel trapped by the Mother Gothel that is your pack, stuck in the tower for the rest of time. 

Leaving? 

“There’s something we need to take care of back in the states.” John explains. “You’re coming with us.” 

Back in the states? What could possibly be there that is left for you, for your pack? 

You don’t like the sound of that. You don’t like the sound of that one bit. 

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[knoxious-existence]

Simon pats his lap, signalling for his little slut to come sit on it. His sub blushes, as a shy smile takes over their face as they scurry over to Simon in their pretty little skirt and mesh top before softly settling herself on his lap, straddling him. Her eyes wide as she looks up at Simon excitedly, as she wonders what he's going to do.

Right at that moment, she's pulled by the nape of her neck and all of a sudden her lips are crashed against Simon's. One of Simon's hands slides down his subs chest and to between her legs where he teases her.