the little things
Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Medic!Reader
Synopsis: Five times Soap questions the relationship between Ghost and the 141's Medic, and the one time he gets an answer.
Word Count: 2.9k
Warnings: mentions of blood, mild swearing
Disclaimer: I do not own modern warfare or any of the modern warfare characters.
part two. part three. part four.
The first time is purely by accident.
It’s not like he’s trying to eavesdrop; it isn’t his fault the infirmary doors were left wide open, and it doesn’t seem like you and Ghost are trying to be quiet. Price called everyone for a meeting in twenty and, since the infirmary’s on the way, Soap figures he’d swing by and grab you. He’s walking towards the doors, paying attention to nothing in particular, when your unmistakable laugh echoes into the hallway. Soap stumbles slightly, caught off guard by the sudden noise.
Someone’s enjoying themselves, he thinks. He’s almost six steps from the door when you laugh again, this time followed by the deep timbre of a familiar voice that makes Soap stop in his tracks.
Price was the one who had brought you onto the team, but it was supposedly Ghost who had recommended you. “Only medic I ever met who actually knew what they were doing,” he had said. Apparently the two of you had previously worked on multiple missions together, and that was made obvious by the way you two worked flawlessly around each other with an efficiency that could only have been cultivated through a deep trust and years of teamwork.
Soap slowly approaches, all his stealth training coming to the forefront as he leans next to the door and focuses in on what you’re saying.
“It’ll only take a day, two tops. I promise.” Soap can hear the smile in your voice. Glancing at the glass panes of the doors, he can just make out your reflection. You’re standing beside an empty bed, behind an overbed table that’s covered in papers, leaning on your elbows to smile widely up at Ghost as he stands against the wall on the opposite side of the bed looking wholly unimpressed.
“You want me to spend an entire day sitting in the corner and watching you give everyone on base flu shots?”
“No, I’m asking if you’ll sit in the corner and look intimidating while I give everyone on base flu shots. The “look intimidating” part’s important,” you speak matter-of-factly.
“I’ve seen you amputate a man’s leg at the knee mid-combat. You’re telling me you can’t handle a few shots by yourself?”
Soap makes a note to ask about that story later.
“I can handle myself just fine, thank you. It’s everyone else that’s the problem here.” Ghost blinks at you, seemingly not believing you. “I get it, you’re all big, tough guys who face death every day-” Soap sinks his teeth into his cheek to fight back a laugh as you try to lower your voice in a very poor imitation of Ghost, “-but the way some of these guys act, you’d think I was coming at them with some kind of medieval torture device. I just think-”
“That’d be a first.”
“-If I had someone that everyone respects, and is a little bit afraid of, sitting nearby then they’d stop with the whining and I can get my job done faster.”
There’s a long pause as you and Ghost stand locked into a staring contest. Soap swears that, for a moment, something like amusement crosses Ghost’s eyes.
“You think people are only a little afraid of me?” Ghost asks, tilting his head ever-so-slightly. You let out a loud, exaggerated scoff, throwing your hands up.
“Fine! Go lurk in a dark corner and scare children, or whatever it is you do, instead of helping me. Just don’t be surprised if I’m suddenly out of painkillers the next time you get shot.” You’re facing away from him, pouting like a child with your arms crossed over your chest. Both Soap and Ghost know you don’t mean it, your flawless reputation is too important to you, but Ghost sighs and nods anyways.
“Just tell me what days-” Ghost is barely done talking when you’re spinning around, nearly knocking the table over.
“Really?”
“Whatever will get you to stop being a brat.” Like water off a duck’s back, the insult runs right off of you as you clap your hands together. “Now, come on. Don’t want to be late to Price’s meeting.” Ghost pushes himself off the wall as you shuffle your scattered papers into organized piles to look through later. Soap leans back, taking a few quiet steps back from the door as you and Ghost start to leave the infirmary.
“Hold on, one sec.” Soap pauses as he hears your hurried footsteps, looking back to your reflection in the glass. Eyes widening, his jaw drops as he watches Ghost let you grab his arm and push yourself up onto your toes to place a quick kiss to the cheekbone of the larger man’s plated skull mask. “Thank you,” you speak softly, taking a couple small steps back.
Soap doesn’t have time to process as you and Ghost step out of the infirmary, immediately spotting him as he stands dumbly in the hallway.
“Hey Soap! You heading to Price’s office, too?” Soap blinks, shaking off the shock and giving you a quick nod.
“Yeah, I was just about to come get the two of you.”
“Let’s go, then,” Ghost says, turning and walking away without waiting for you or Soap. You fall in step behind him almost instantly, waving Soap over. Soap glances between the two of you as he follows. He knew the two of you weren’t strangers. He’d even speculated you might’ve been friends, but he’d never imagined you might’ve been something more. He wants to know more, but also gets the sneaking suspicion that this isn’t something he should be prying into. Ghost has always been a private man.
Either way, he has no time to think on it further as the three of you enter Price’s office.
-
The second time, he’s in far too much pain and far too tired to really remember if it actually happened.
Despite everything, the mission had been a success, though the cost had almost been too much. Your team of seven has two unconscious, three severely injured, and the rest sporting a variety of bullet grazes and knife wounds. None dead, thanks to your quick thinking and efficient work. It’s late and the team’s holed up in an old safehouse overnight waiting for evac. Soap is sat up against the far wall, watching you with drooping eyes as you flit around the safehouse, tending to everyone’s wounds. He had been fortunate enough to only have a few minor wounds, but the adrenaline of the fight is fading fast and the comedown is hitting hard.
Ghost is on watch and is the last person you check on, at his own insistence and much to your annoyance. He bats you away from any of the minor cuts and bruises, so you pull up a chair next to his and focus on the deep gash running across his right forearm. Through his sleep-hazed gaze, Soap watches you expertly stitch Ghost’s arm. He can hear the two of you mumbling to each other, but doesn’t have the energy to try and decipher your words. Once you’ve finished wrapping Ghost’s arm, you glance around at the others.
You must assume everyone is asleep by the way you deflate, running a tired hand down your face and stretching your neck with a grimace. You scoot your chair closer to Ghost’s, shutting your eyes and letting your head fall against his armored shoulder. To Soap’s surprise and not to yours, Ghost makes no move to push you away, instead shifting so your head’s not at such an awkward angle and settling into his own chair. Soap can feel his curiosity creeping up, but sleep wins out in the end and he passes out not long after.
When he wakes, Ghost is in the same spot, but you’re curled up in a beaten up arm chair across the room still asleep.
When evac finally arrives, everyone is awake, and you and Ghost hardly acknowledge each other as he briefs Price over comms and you help load wounded into the helicopter.
-
The third time, he’s sneaking through the rain and blood-soaked streets of Las Almas, Ghost guiding him through his ear as he makes his way to the church.
He knows he should’ve seen it coming, but Graves’s betrayal stings nonetheless. Soap pushes the anger down, instead focusing on reaching the rendezvous point so they can escape and rescue Alejandro. The banter helps, but there’s an edge to Ghost’s voice that Soap understands as worry.
They haven’t heard from you since you all were separated.
They both know you can handle yourself, and worrying about it won’t help, so they talk and sort through their situation: what supplies Soap can pick up, how bad tequila tastes, the tactical uses for dog piss. Everything is as fine as it can be while on the run from deadly mercenaries. Until-
“The mask. Take it off.”
“Show my face?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Negative.”
“Are you ugly?”
“Quite the opposite.”
“Can confirm.” Soap nearly jumps out of his skin at the sudden sound of your voice.
“Holy hell, where have you been?”
“Aw, you worried about me, Soap?” The teasing tells him you’re not in too much danger, or are at least somewhere you feel safe, but something in your voice feels…off.
“What’s your status?” Ghost cuts in.
“Managed to get out of the village,” you groan through a deep exhale, and give a haggard laugh, “can’t say the same for the Shadows.”
Ghost gives a quiet hum of praise, but all Soap can hear is the strain in your winded voice. “You alright, Doc? You sound-”
“Dings and scrapes, Soap. I’ll be fine. Meet up with you later.”
“Wh-”
“Don’t worry about it, Johnny,” Ghost sighs, “just focus on getting to the church.”
“Right,” Soap mutters. He returns his focus back to the mission at hand, rummaging through the drawers in front of him for rope he can wrap around his extra fan blade.
It hits him just as he spots the reflective shine of a shard of glass on the floor. Can confirm, is what you’d said. Did that mean-
“The Doc’s seen you without the mask.” It comes out as more of a statement than a question.
“Let’s worry about you, Sergeant.”
-
The fourth time, he lands hard on his feet in the pitch black of Alejandro’s safehouse. Soap has his back turned as Ghost climbs in the window behind him. Luckily for him, as Ghost sees the laser sight aiming right for Soap’s back.
“Don’t move!” Ghost calls out, before launching a knife into the support beam across the room. Soap whirls around to shine his light at the beam just as someone calls out from behind it.
“¿Quién está ahí?”
Before either he or Ghost can answer, someone else stands and walks around to the front, “About time you two showed up!” Your voice is an instant relief as they both relax while you turn back to let Rodolfo know it’s safe to come out.
“Either of you injured?” you ask, eyes scanning over Soap as Ghost hops down from the open window and Rudy returns his knife.
“Nothing major,” Soap assures you, though your eyes linger on the bullet hole in his arm.
“Found this one trying to climb in through the same window,” Rudy explains, nodding towards you.
“I almost had it,” you laugh, leaning to the side to put your weight on the beam. They don’t miss the way you wince, and it doesn’t take long to notice your right leg is a deep red from the knee up.
“Your leg-”
“Looks worse than it is.”
Soap doesn’t believe you, but the subject changes to Graves and he lets it go. The four of you settle around the table as the guys formulate their plan for Alejandro’s prison break. You set your palms atop the table, leaning forward to take as much weight off of your leg as you can so you can focus on the conversation. It doesn’t help much, but it helps enough and soon the plan is concrete enough to take action. While Rudy leads Soap to the weapons locker, you take a seat on a nearby box to check the haphazard bandages you’ve wrapped around your thigh.
“You’re staying here.” Soap glances over as Ghost speaks. You laugh quietly, leaning back on your hands to stare up at the man towering over you.
“Leaving me all by my lonesome?” You sound like you’re complaining, but even from a distance Soap can see the relief in your face. Your teasing does little to soothe the stress radiating from Ghost.
“Just-” Ghost lets out a long sigh before dropping his voice so low, Soap can barely hear his words. “Be careful. Please.” You sit up straight, face suddenly serious as you set a gentle hand on Ghost’s wrist.
“For you? Always.”
“Soap, can you grab the rest of the guns?” Soap snaps back to attention, nodding at Rudy and collecting what guns he can. It takes all of two minutes, and when he turns back, Ghost is sorting through papers and you’ve set to properly bandaging your leg.
-
By the fifth time something happens, Soap is absolutely sure there’s something between you and the Lieutenant. He notices it everytime the two of you are together: the quiet banter, the dark jokes only the two of you enjoy, the way Ghost always seems to hover near where you’re standing. It isn’t until the 141’s every-so-often night out that his suspicions are confirmed. Gaz and Price stepped away for a round of darts ten minutes ago, and now Soap finds himself sitting alone watching you and Ghost talk at the opposite end of the bar.
“You keep staring like that, and they’re going to notice.” Soap chokes on his drink as Price takes a seat next to him, Gaz snickering as he flops down on Soap’s other side and claps him on the back.
“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,” Soap coughs out, clearing his throat and looking anywhere but the other end of the bar. Price sees straight through his lie, of course.
“Gaz, why don’t you see if the Doc wants to try a hand at darts?”
“Sure thing, boss.” Another clap on the back and Gaz is making his way over to you and Ghost. Soap startles as Price leans close and nudges him in the side with his elbow.
“Keep your eyes on him,” Price whispers, and leans away to sip at his own glass. Soap takes another drink, sneakily glancing up just as Gaz reaches you and Ghost. You smile widely at him, nodding when he gestures towards the darts board. You turn and say something to Ghost before standing from the bar and following after Gaz to the other side of the room. Ghost’s eyes follow you the entire way, never once leaving your form.
“Watches like a hawk, that one,” Price hums, “and I thought he’d be better at subtlety.” Soap turns to his Captain, brows furrowed in confusion.
“You-” Price shushes him, and nods back towards Ghost. Soap looks back, and they watch as Ghost sets down his empty glass, stands, then makes his way over to you and Gaz. He posts up, leaning against the wall closest to you where you can easily smile at him every time one of your throws lands.
“Like a lost puppy,” Price laughs.
“What’s the situation there?” Soap asks, glancing back at Price, but all Price can offer is a lazy shrug.
“Don’t know, but whatever it is, it’s been happening for a long time.”
-
“Alright, just got a couple papers for you to sign and you should be good to go,” you smile, gently turning Soap’s head to examine the area you’ve just pulled his stitches from.
“Thanks, Doc. ‘Preciate it.” You give a playfully dismissive wave, disappearing behind the dividing curtain.
“I’ll be right back!” you call and Soap nods, more to himself than you. He glances around at his sterile surroundings, eyes bouncing from the white walls to the white floor to the white bedsheets. The overbed table sits just next to him, though this time there’s no mess of papers scattered atop it. Instead, there sits a single file and after twenty seconds of solid boredom, Soap can’t help himself.
Lifting from the bottom corner of the file, Soap nearly drops it as he sees your picture clipped to a pile of papers. He looks behind him, pulling the curtain just enough to peer through. He spots you on the far side of the infirmary, waiting patiently at the printer. Letting the curtain fall, he quickly turns back to your file. He flips it open, picking up the paper with your photo attached. It’s an older picture, maybe from three or four years ago, but your smile is still as wide as ever.
Flipping the picture up reveals almost two entire pages of solid black lines. There’s more redacted information here than Soap has ever seen. Soap skims through what few sentences are available, every so often catching things like SIS and specialty interrogation tactics and a slew of words he never would’ve associated with your cheerful demeanor. He gets to the final page that appears to be a printed copy of the photo and his heart nearly stops as he reads the name written at the bottom and everything clicks together in his head.
Your last name is Riley.
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Call to My Bedside - Part 2
Part 1: https://www.tumblr.com/snaileer/733019972168761344/call-to-my-bedside
Danyal wakes the next time with a weight to his limbs. From the moment he opens his eyes, he realizes he is not where he is supposed to be.
This is a medical bay, but it is not in the league, the constant twittering of League doctors monitoring his health is suspiciously gone. No shadows on guard outside the door.
The most glaring thing though, there was no Lazarus Water in his veins.
Perhaps Ra’s had decided he was no longer worth the expense, had decided-
No.
It was something else. That wasn’t an option he would consider.
Danyal tested the feeling of thin metal on his right wrist. Handcuffs, not shackles. It was odd.
But again, this wasn’t the league.
But he’d need to go back before Ra’s became angry. Danyal couldn’t fail.
He glances to the door as it opens, an old man-the one from before- and a younger, slender man standing just behind him.
Danyal stays still, his breathing even, forcing his heart to stay at a constant, stable rate. He watches them, analyzing.
The old man blinks, “It’s good to see you’re awake, young sir-,” He steps into the room, left foot a second slower, old weakness?- English accent, in Europe? the man behind him follows- stiff posture, rib injury, core focused strength, gymnast, combat trained and familiar- Richard Dick Grayson, Nightwing, he’s in America, Batman- “You gave us quite the shock earlier, myself especially.”
Nightwing watched Danyal warily, he saw him as a threat, and by the angle of his feet, a threat to the older man. He remembers now, he’d attacked him before, Nightwing was here to prevent it again.
They are heroes.
He was a part of the League of the Assassins.
He doesn’t fit here, could never.
Danyal considers the merits of speaking English, he wants to, deeply, and perhaps it would even benefit the situation; but his chest clogs with fear before he can even compose a sentence. It’s been too long anyways, the League dialect is easier.
“How long have I been here?” Danyal says, still not moving enough to even jostle the cuff at his wrist.
Nightwing sighs deeply, “We rescued you and Damian from a League of Assassins boat yesterday.” The words of the language are stilted, either by unfamiliarity or awkwardness, and who’s Damian? There’s a pause, “Do you know who I am?” Nightwing asks, caution in the words.
Danyal takes a deep breath, finally sitting up, despite the rattling of the chain on the cuff, “You are Nightwing, Dick Grayson, correct?”
Nightwing nods, his eyes briefly flitting to the elder man, “And you?”
Danyal’s eyes narrow, trying to find the trap, “I am Danyal Al Ghul, Heir of the Demon’s head, Blood of the Batman.”
Danyal watches the eyebrow of the old man tick up in his peripheral.
Nightwing pinches the bridge of his nose, “God I can’t believe Talia did it again,” He murmurs under his breath. In English. And Danyal would be lying if he said he wasn’t happy to hear the language again, even just a little.
“Perhaps it would be best to bring Master Bruce back from his meeting,” the old man says pointedly. Danyal ignores as he changes and resets the IV attached to him, familiar with the autonomous care. With or without his consent.
“I’ve already notified him, he should be here soon.”
“Very good. In the meantime,” he turns to Danyal, “I am Alfred Pennyworth, the Wayne family butler. It seems I did not get the chance to introduce myself the last time you were awake.”
Danyal can’t help but blink at the almost joking tone Alfred says it with, knowing that Danyal had been the one to knock him out. It makes his lip twitch, and he silently huffs, surprising himself with the action.
The amusement vanishes as the door opens once more, footsteps barely audible in the second before.
The man standing there is large, tall and broad shouldered, strong- dangerous, calloused hands from training- his eyes stay glued to Danyal, blue and steady amidst the square jaw and sharp features, black hair tussled like he’d been rushing, just like Dad always-
Danyal feels his jaw wire shut, back straightening.
The thin chain of the handcuff jingles in the sudden silence.
This he remembers. This is Batman. The Dark Night of Gotham. The Detective.
The source of every expectation Ra’s Al Ghul has ever placed on Danyal.
He feels his face try to screw into a sneer, because he hates him and everything he’s done that has ever affected Danyal, but his face remains still. Controlled. Because there’s nothing he can do about it anyways.
Batman had introduced himself before.
As another name. A civilian. His training forces him to remember it.
Bruce Wayne.
It means next to nothing to him. But the man doesn’t stop looking.
It’s Nightwing that speaks next, “Danyal, this is Batman, Bruce Wayne, your father.” The smile is at odds with the weary tone of the words, “He was there when we saved you and Damian a few.. yesterday. God that feels like longer.”
Saved? The sentiment makes him want to scoff. He doesn’t, because Batman’s eyes already narrow with Nightwing’s words, and Danyal doesn’t need to make it worse.
A thousand more questions rush through his head. Each one bitten back with practiced force.
Instead he dips his head briefly, aiming for a show of respect, whatever that might mean here. However little he means it. Danyal can adjust regardless.
“Hn.”
Danyal lifts his head. That was the only response?
They uproot him entirely, chain him, throw him into unfamiliar waters where everything-everyone- is in new danger and all he does is grunt?
Danyal bites his tongue hard, letting his head lift, carefully non-defiant. He’s not quite sure his eyes get the message because he can feel the glare from them.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred pipes in, tone sharp.
Batman sighs, but the set of his shoulders changes, no longer so heavily lined with suspicion.
“What do you know about why Damian was-" There’s an even sharper cough from Alfred. Another sigh, “Fine. What has Talia already told you about me?”
Danyal glances between them, purposefully keeping his eyes from jumping down to the metal around his wrists.
No one else speaks.
“I know that you are Batman, the Dark Night of Gotham. You are also the detective, great enough to impress the Demon’s Head, Ra’s Al Ghul. The Demon’s daughter informed me you were dead.”
There’s a slight twitch on Batman’s face. “I survived Darkseid’s attack, although it led to me being lost in time and assumed dead for nearly a year,” Batman’s eyes flick across the room, almost considering, “Red Robin was responsible for my return just over a year ago.”
Red Robin. Timothy Drake. The one Ra’s favored. The second source of expectations placed on Danyal.
And he was lost in time? What did that consist of, what did it mean for Batman? Did it matter if it didn’t affect Danyal?
“I see.” He says. Silence lingers. They still expect him to speak. He hedges his bets, asking something he actually cares about, “Why am I here, Batman?”
The question seems to be expected and yet still strike with surprise.
“I… regrettably, did not know you were… present at the league. I do not believe in their methods and would not have left you there had I known.”
And that makes it all okay. Danyal wants to scream. But he narrows his eyes instead, only more suspicious, “And why were you there then?”
“We followed the shadows that had taken Damian. He told us who you were.”
Danyal pauses, leaning back slightly. They were willing to answer his questions, to actually talk with him. Of course they were, they were meant to be heroes.
But it had been so long since he’d actually talked with anyone other than Ra’s, and their conversations were a battleground of expectations and tests.
He fights with his conscious knowledge of this and the habits that have been beaten into him so thoroughly.
“Who is… Damian?” He asks, watching their reactions for the answer.
All three seem surprised by the question. But not angry. Of course not, he reminds himself.
“You’ve mentioned him several times like I am supposed to know who he is.” He had barely been told anything since his forceful return, and any knowledge he had from before stopped at Dick Grayson. And then Timothy Drake.
Danyal had purposefully ignored the hero world he had lived in-
He forces his eyes up to meet Batman’s, noting the hesitance in the set of his shoulders.
“Damian is… your brother. He was.. Talia’s son, before he came to me just a few years ago. He was raised in the league.”
Danyal blinks, anger disbelieving in his chest. Is that what she did?
“When.”
There’s no response, save a twitch of Batman’s eyebrow.
“When,” Danyal says again, his breathing controlled, “Did he come to you? How old was he? How long ago?”
They seem to pick up on the way Danyal’s tone has changed. Good for them.
“Nearly three years ago. He was ten.” Batman answers, voice rough. Tinged with curiosity and unfulfilled questions.
Danyal breathes deeply, his heart rate picking up against his wishes. Icy rage flares.
The beeping of the machine at his side matches the pounding in his chest, uneven, unbalanced, uncontrolled.
Keep it under control. Keep it. Under. Control.
Control is power. Control is strength. Control is the only thing that will ever be enough.
He breathes deeper. Holding his breath. Once. Twice.
The beeping is steadier with each tone.
“Danyal?” An old voice asks beside him. It’s Alfred. The butler.
Danyal shifts his jaw from its clench, “I am fine.” His eyes slide back into focus, still on Batman, “Damian is your son then.”
Batman nods solemnly, a heavier sigh through his chest, “Talia and I have had an… interesting relationship. But I loved her. Once. She has never failed to make me regret it.”
That was why she had visited him. Her words. What she had almost said. Talia had wished he was Damian, wished he was Bruce. Just not Danyal of course. The weapon she discarded for a better version. One she could love.
One who would be heir.
Batman continues, “Talia is Damian’s mother, told him he would be my heir, as I’m sure you were but-” Batman stops, looking at Danyal as confusion flicks across his face, “You weren’t.”
“I was never told I would be heir of the Batman, only of the Demon’s head.” This, at least, Danyal is familiar with, “That’s the only reason they needed me: to be their weapon made from the Demon Head’s enemy.” Danyal breathes, “A weapon does not have parents, and I have never been more than a weapon to them, crafted for the league’s purpose. For Ra’s.”
Ra’s is the reason Danyal is alive at all. Is the only reason he has survived the league, but he is also the reason Danyal had to, no- has to survive.
Danyal drops his eyes, tired, so so tired, like he always is. Unerringly, his eyes find the shine of the metal around his wrist. Arm held carefully still to keep from jostling it, even as his other hand has found its way to his lap.
“You can’t really believe that,” Dick says, disbelief in his own voice, unsurety in the frame of an unfamiliar language.
“It doesn’t matter what I believe.”
And it doesn’t. It only matters what he can do. That’s he’s strong. He just has to be strong enough. Ra’s is the reason Danyal suffers, has always been, and Danyal will never let him escape that.
Silence lasts. Danyal quickly grows tired of it.
Luckily, Batman breaks it, “Why were you exposed to the Lazarus waters?” He asks, voice rigid and flat once more.
Perhaps the casualness is getting to him because Danyal manages to lift one lip in a slight sneer, “The only reason anybody uses the Lazarus Pits.”
The Batman stays silent, clearly talking about the unorthodox method of exposure they had resorted to.
Danyal sighs this time, serious, “My heart is damaged. Electricity. The pits are a short term solution for it. Grandfather had said he found a long term one.” Danyal doubts it matters now. Whatever care his grandfather’d had was fragile, dependent on Danyal’s performance.
The palm of his left hand tingles sharply.
Would this be enough to tip the scale against him? What would he lose for being here? Who would he-
Danyal looks into Batman’s eyes, “Am I to be a prisoner here?”
The man glances over him at the two on the other side, Danyal doesn’t follow it, nor the silent conversation he’s sure is happening.
Instead, Danyal focuses his ears, senses sharpened by training, by the pits, by his accident… and turns his attention to the person hiding in an alcove above them.
Low breathing, higher pitched, the scent of sword polish and hair gel. The person was small and armed.
“You’re not a prisoner… but if you leave.. you’ll be in danger,” Batman says, voice deep, “We can’t let that happen.”
So either be followed or don’t leave. What great options.
Danyal tries not to scowl, not to show any inflection at it, “And do I have to stay here? In your…. Cave?”
“It might be difficult to move- uh.. the medical things-” Nightwing starts, but Danyal cuts him off by swiftly removing the IV tucked in the crook of his elbow.
He presses his thumb against the small well of blood as he looks forward.
Alfred shouts, jolting towards him, “Master Danyal! That is hardly sterile-“
Danyal’s eyes snap to him the moment the title leaves his mouth, heart stilling for a second, commands in his eyes. Alfred falls still.
Danyal lets it fall away the next second, barely two beats missed. The beeping starts again.
“I see.” Alfred straightens, stepping forward slowly to turn off the IV and coil it, removing other monitors, “Another one for the dramatics then.”
Nightwing steps up, hands out placatingly, “There’s..mm really no need, Danyal, uh-” He glances back to Batman, “Of course you can leave the cave-,” the next words are in bright clear English, “I’m sure there’s already a room picked out for you.”
“Right you are Master Dick,” Alfred says, “Young sir, do you need any help moving?” He directs to Danyal.
He wants to rip his hand from the metal cuff. Snap the thin chain to pieces.
Instead he looks to Nightwing, then Batman, “The restraints?” He says, voice as empty of want as he can make it.
The click of the key in the lock echoes in his ear and it’s only through practiced calm that Danyal does not immediately jerk his arm away from it. Instead, he calmly retracts his hand, bracing slightly against the bed as he turns and plants his feet on the floor.
The others have already moved out of his way, watching intently, waiting for him to fall- to fail.
Danyal straightens his legs. He stands. He breathes. He controls his heart. He walks forward.
He does not fall. He doesn’t have the option to fall.
“I can go now.” He says, looking at them. His knuckles are white on the edge of the bed.
Nightwing looks at Batman once more. The man grunts, then turns from the room in a way that he can only imagine would perfectly flare a cape.
Danyal’s feet feel like they’re filling with cement. Nightwing stares at him expectantly. Danyal understands expectations- but these ones, it leaves him helpless and-
“Follow me then, dear boys,” Alfred says, stepping in front smoothly, already moving towards the door, “We can go upstairs, I’ll start on a meal and Master Dick can show you the rooms.”
Nightwing goes next, leaving Danyal to follow not quite behind him, the angle purposeful to keep him in sight.
Nightwing casts a wary glance to him every few minutes, continuing a light chatter with Alfred. Danyal stares forward, taking in the cave from his peripheral - computer, showers, training mats, an unfamiliar shadow watching him, armory, swords, knifes, suits, cars and vehicles lined up on platforms, a t-Rex, giant penny, a glass case- Danyal lets his eyes linger on the shadow, never faltering his steps.
His neck itches at the attention.
He looks forward. Nightwing is looking at him again, snapping forward the moment Danyal’s eyes narrow. Good.
The steps are slightly narrow, dark, but they come out to a warmly lit study. Dark wood, papers, books on shelves, a portrait on the wall, pictures on the desk, three black hair boys, another of only a single with stiff posture, a ballet dancer- they keep walking. The door-clock- closes behind them like the clamping of an artery.
Nightwing and Alfred’s conversation continues in smooth, low-toned English. Danyal blinks, slowly, slower than he needs to, for a breath of a second relishing in the almost familiarity of it all, the dissonance from the last three years alone enough to well emotion in his chest.
His eyes open. He continues after them.
“This is where I’ll leave you, I’ll be up with some food young sir,” Alfred says abruptly, turning towards a swinging door that reveals a glimpse of a stainless kitchen.
“So…” Nightwing says, swinging his arms a bit at his sides, “uh… I can show you the room you can sleep in, yes?”
Danyal’s shoulders tighten, rising from a subconscious millimeter slouch. He nods stiffly.
His heart remains under control. Always under control.
“So this is the Wayne Mansion, you can go for food any time, uh…” There’s an unsure pause as they start up the stairs, “You can meet the rest of us soon maybe, a correct introduction to Damian…depends on Bruce really… he can be … over …over.”
Nightwing looks at Danyal properly, “I’m usually better at this, most of the bat kids know the League dialect but… I haven’t exactly practiced it.”
Danyal stares at him. He doesn’t want to hear the sound of the League’s twisting words, he wants to leave. He wants to find his family, protect them, get them as far away from Ra’s al Ghul and the league as possible. He wants to go back to Ra’s convince him to let his family go if Danyal stays willingly. Wants a blade strong enough to run the man through and-
“I know you are probably stressed and this is all unfamiliar but … we want you to stay… you won’t be hurt here. This is different than the league, you’re safe.”
Danyal scoffs, not bothering to stop it, he hasn’t been safe since the day he tripped over a wire and died.
Nightwing doesn’t seem surprised by the response.
“This can be your room,” He says, opening a door in the hallway and gesturing a wide arm to Danyal. “The rest of us are just down the hall.”
Danyal steps in, looking around, counting exits, tactical advantages, possible listening devices- He turns around, giving Nightwing a stiff nod, “Thank you for the room.”
Nightwing still stands at his door, “Anything else I can help with for you?” He says.
Danyal considers staying silent, obedient, but he hates hearing the language at every turn, he never wants to hear it again, the words they forced in his mouth, ripping away what was in their place-
“Can you just speak English?” He says, realizing too late how weak it sounds, “You don’t have to use the league tongue, I can-English is.. fine.” Fine. Better. Familiar. A remnant of a family he’s almost certain he’s lost now.
Nightwing barely quirks a brow, eyes flicking over him.
“Can do,” He nods, “Well then… Welcome to Wayne Manor, Danyal.”
And he closes the door behind him.
'It’s just Danny, please.' He wants to whisper to the silence. But he’s grown too used to shadows and it catches in his throat.
He goes and sits on the bed. Staring out of the window. A window he can’t leave from. Where would he go? He doesn’t have anyone, they’re all in danger because of him. He can’t leave.
He’s trapped.
Always trapped.
Bound. Stuck to one place. One thing.
Emotions well in his chest, in the back of his throat, thick and dark and painful. He wants to cry. He can’t. Emotions constrict around his lungs.
And Danyal sits, staring at the wall, wishing he could cry. But the emotions just twist themselves until they’re tight enough, heavy enough to fall down, settle back like a layer of heavy chainmail over his insides.
Danyal turns on the bed, facing the wall.
It’s empty tan-beige. Neutral colors. No personality. Temporary.
This is familiar to him. This he can do.
Danyal stands again, he strips down his tunic, his shin-guards and pants- notes the lack of his typical weapons- methodically placing it on the dresser. Not his dresser, he already has one, painted blue with yellow stars back in-
Danyal gets in the shower, glad to find soap there, contemplating not using it, not wasting the energy. He watches condensation develop on the glass walls, water droplets collecting until they finally rush down the glass.
His finger lifts, already wanting to trace the letters he knows. Three lines, an H. One. i. Or e, he could write hello. Or ghost. Mom. Dad. Jazz, Sam, Tucker. Write it in English so he wouldn’t forget the way they were meant to be spelled, let the water wash it away.
His fingers ache where they’d been broken for it. For tracing letters in dirt or on mirrors, in the foggy glass at night. A break for every word.
Danyal can see his hand shake, inches from the glass. Pain and fear a leech on his bones.
He drops the hand. Turns to wash away the soap and get out, towels left on the counter.
He doesn’t even glance at the mirror as he goes out.
His tunic is where he’d left it, neatly set on the dresser top… but…
Danyal opens the drawers, changing into the boxers, the next one is dress pants and collared shirts, but in the third-
Rough denim scuffs against his fingertips.
They’re dark wash jeans, fancy and nothing like the ones his mom would buy on sale from the thrift store but…
He doesn’t let himself debate it further, he has to wear clothes and no one is here to tell him which. They put them here so they should expect him to wear it- it could be a test but he doesn’t care, let them do what they want if only to pretend the jeans are stiff from ectoplasm stains instead of fresh starch.
He chooses a white t-shirt, ignoring the collared shirts and polos that are probably meant to go over it.
He breathes, letting his shoulders drop, tilting his head back with his eyes closed, pretending for only a second that he’s getting dressed for school. Jazz is across the hall getting her books together, Sam and Tuck are on their way to walk together, his parents are already downstairs working.
'See?' He wants to say, 'I’m still the same person, nothings changed!'
The metal of the door knob clicks and Danyal’s head snaps towards the sound.
There’s nothing. Danyal doesn’t trust it, eyes narrowing as he scrutinizes the tall double doors.
“I know you’re there!” he calls out, fists ready, “Open the door and show yourself or I will!”
There’s a harsh tutt behind the door before it swings open, revealing a kid standing there. Short, black hair- hair gel-, dress slacks and shirt hiding multiple bladed weapons-
“Clearly I meant for you to know I was here, I am not incompetent,” The kid scoffs. So Nightwing wasn’t lying about them all knowing the league dialect…. Yet somehow, it sounds different coming from the kid, familiar in a way that makes Danyal's skin burn. He looks irritated, arms crossed in front of him even while his eyes wander over the room and Danyal with curiosity. And judgement.
Danyal rolls his eyes at it, “Did you need something from me, or did you just want to stand there looking like a hair gel commercial?”
The boy’s face goes red impressively fast, “How dare you-” he moves- and a knife is flying at his face, Danyal dodges, catching it in a second, shifting to throw it back but stops, half way extended. He looks at the hilt, there’s a League marking engraved on the bottom no larger than a droplet.
Danyal's eyes flick up to the boy still standing in front of him, glaring him down.
That’s all it takes before the boy jumps forward, another knife in his hand.
Danyal blocks it, twisting the arm as he drops his own acquired knife to his other hand and lunges forward.
The boy flips over his arm, and Danyal doesn’t let his surprise show as he reaches to grab the second knife he’d forced the kid to drop.
The boy tutts at him again, “So this was who Mother replaced me with? Street rabble?”
Danyal blinks, Mother? Then it clicks.
So this was Damian. The child the demon’s daughter wanted, beloved by all. Treasured. Preserved.
Danyal grits his teeth against the bitter taste in his mouth. He lunges forward, already expecting the larger dagger Damian uses to block him as he’s forced to retreat.
Danyal doesn’t stop, continuing to press him, “The Demon’s Daughter is no mother of mine,” he spits as he slams a kick against Damian’s elbow, blade dropping once more. Danyal cuts a shallow slash across Damian’s left cheek before dropping his own stolen knives.
He doesn’t stop though, continuing to push Damian back- Damian swerves to the side, grabbing his arm, flipping him, Danyal retaliates, grabbing the others shirt and taking him with him.
He catches his feet a second before the other, using it to pin him face to face with Danyal’s arm at his throat, “Maybe if you were good enough, you wouldn’t have had to be replaced at all and I never would have been forced to be here, this is your fault. I was free,” He grits out, teeth bared, “You got to live these last three years because I paid for it, and you’re angry because they don’t want you!?”
There’s something startling in Damian’s wide eyes, “What are you talking about?” He snaps, “I am Damian Al Ghul, Heir to the League, Ibn al X-“
Danyal slams him harder against the floor, cutting him off. Green simmers, almost boiling, under his skin. He grits his teeth harder against the sharp pain through his chest.
He leans closer to Damian, snarling, his grip bruising, “You don’t even know what you escaped, what Ra’s really wanted with you, do you? What being heir means. You’re nothing more than a -”
Damian jerks his head upwards, colliding with Danyal’s forehead and knocking him back with a grunt. Danyal’s grip loosens momentarily and Damian pulls free.
He slams a palm strike into Danyal’s front, pain lancing through his chest as he gasps, heart convulsing.
He moves through it by force, both rolling off each other with violent hands.
They stand opposite each other once more. Blood drips from the cut on Damian’s cheek. Danyal’s ragged breaths join Damian’s in the silence. He can hear footsteps on the stairs. His heart clenches in his chest painfully. There’s barely enough Lazarus water in his veins to keep it pumping for a week, less if he keeps this up.
The door flings open with a slam, both of them turning to look.
Batman stands there, battle calm in his eyes.
Damian turns fully at the sight of his father, but Danyal doesn’t shift from his stance.
“Father, I-“ Damian starts, but Batman just lifts a hand, silencing him.
“What. Happened.” Batman says, looking straight at Danyal, not even a question. A demand. Green tinted steel shoots up Danyal’s spine and he does nothing but glare back at the man.
Batman doesn’t break eye contact, “Damian.”
“I was determining if he was a threat. He is from the League, Father,” Damian says shortly, standing tall despite the blood on his face.
Batman looks between them briefly, and oh what a picture they must make.
Two kids, both born in the same cage, one trying to claw his way out of the chains and the other trying to fight his way in.
Exhaustion washes over Danyal, and he drops his fists, letting them hang by his sides.
Batman hums, barely a sound, but a muscle twitches in Damian’s jaw.
“Father-“
“Go Damian. Now.”
Damian looks back at him, not-quite-hate in his eyes, before dropping to a crouch to grab the knife closest to his feet with one hand and turning to leave.
Faced with Batman’s sole attention, Danyal lifts his chin defiantly, daring him to take action, to punish him, to do something that he can predict, can defend, can justify the anger he feels when he sees him.
“I know it was different in the league, but here, this is not acceptable.”
Danyal half-scoffs. He finally steps out of his stance, “I could leave.”
“That’s not-” Batman pinches the bridge of his nose, voice like gravel, “I am trying to protect you, the manor is not the league. I understand what it must have been like to be raised like that, but you can’t hurt others, no matter what teachings you’ve had. I can guarantee you won’t be hurt here, I won’t let-”
Danny huffs a dry laugh, “You won’t let?” He steps forward, rage bubbling back up, “Hurt me? I’m not worried about me, Batman. You can’t stop him. Ra’s is going to get what he wants, and as long as that is me, everyone around me is in danger, I’m dangerous. I'm a weapon, a weapon of your enemy. You can’t fix that, can you?”
“We can protect ourselves-”
Danyal scoffs again, “Because you’ve done such a good job of that already? Don’t forget, all of this is because of you, they wanted you, and now they want me because of you, Batman. You.”
Something stricken shoots through the man’s face before it flattens. Batman nods and steps back, a hand on the doorhandle, “Don’t leave.” Is all he says, before the door clicks shut.
Danyal feels the walls closing in on him like a cell.
He looks to his left.
The bathroom door is open. He can see his reflection in the mirror, any condensation gone.
Danyal stares.
When he had been younger, back in- before. Danyal would stand in front of a mirror and pick out parts he thought looked like his parents. Like a Fenton. His shoulders were from Jack obviously. His eyes and hair too. His jawline was from Maddie, his hands from Jack, and the love of engineering and planning from Maddie. He had the same legs as his mom. Same voice as his dad, always loud. If he didn’t look too hard, he could almost convince himself he was really their kid, their son.
But he could never quite place his tanned skin, or the texture of his hair. The shape of his eyes and nose. Always just a little bit wrong.
What had pretending done but put them in danger?
Danyal turns on his heel, flicking the lights off and putting a glass soap bottle on the door handle.
He knew he’d wake up regardless… but he wasn’t taking any chances.
Danyal rubs his chest with the heel of his palm as he lays down on the far side of the bed, his back to the door, staring out at the city beyond the window glass.
How close would he come to freedom before he’d have to give it up again?
And he knew he would.
For his family, he would give the Demon’s Head anything.
Everything.
If that’s what it took.
He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to pretend he would fall asleep.
———
Bruce runs over Danyal’s words again and again during the flight.
'This is because of you, Batman,'
He flicks a switch.
'You.'
The landing gear lowers.
'You can’t fix this.'
He can see the way the shadows of the forest twist around the clearing.
'Dangerous.'
Wheels touch grass. Batman lands at the coordinates, just on the side of the field in front of the woman waiting for him.
'Because of you.'
He breathes.
“My Beloved, how are you?” She greets him as he descends the ramp.
Bruce says nothing. He cannot even begin to fathom what he would say if he did.
Instead, he stares at her. A woman who had once meant so much to him, whom he had nearly thrown away everything for. And who had nearly done the same for him.
But she hadn’t. Wouldn’t. And it had hurt him, but he had recovered.
And then she hurt him again.
She had stolen and lied to him in his vulnerability.
And still, he had found himself loving her.
Had allowed her to continue hurting him. Again and again. Out of a vain hope that she would change. Because he thought that he could change her. That she would change for him.
It was foolish. It was senseless.
Yet he found it just as impossible to stop.
And so she had hurt him again.
“Talia.” Her name grated against his heart, “Why did you not tell me I had another son?”
“The boy is no more yours than he is mine, Beloved,” She says with a roll of her eyes, as if explaining a basic fact, “He belongs to my father. And to the league.”
Bruce is silent. He notices a slight bruise forming on her left cheek.
Talia’s face is tight, “Do you not care about the son I have given you? Has Damian not satisfied you?”
Bruce feels the leather of his gauntlets stretch over his clenched fists.
“I deserved to know,” He near growls, “Just as I did Damian, just as I did with Jason. You cannot continue to keep my children from me-“
“If it was not for that boy, you would not have met Damian at all,” Talia snaps.
Bruce blinks. Hard.
“His return brought Damian into your arms, you should be grateful.” She spits at him like an accusation, “Damian is ours, Bruce. From our love. That boy was made before we truly knew each other, before we understood each other as we do now. He was borne of nothing more than my father’s obsession. Damian is our son, not him.”
“His name is Danyal, Talia!” Bruce bellows, “He is a child, and he is a person! Just like you, and me, and Damian, and he deserves more than to be written off as one of Ra’s al Ghul’s projects! He deserves better than this!” Than us, he doesn’t say. Deserves better than him.
Talia straightens from already perfect posture, “I made a choice Bruce, for Damian. To protect Damian. I knew our son was never meant to bear my father’s hands, he was never meant to be what Danyal is.” Talia pauses, eyes sharp on him, and he can see when she chooses her next words. Already knows they are meant to cut him, to hurt him. He steels himself and listens anyways.
“Perhaps you should ask him where he’s been all these years I’ve supposedly kept him from you, Beloved.” She says coyly, stepping forward.
“What are you talking about.”
She takes another step, “The truth of the matter is that Danyal could have gone to you any time he wanted. He chose not to. Chose to stay away.”
He stays silent.
“Oh- Did the boy not tell you?“ Talia says, barely hiding the falseness, “Danyal was living in America before he returned to his rightful duty. Almost didn’t work, but…” Talia hummed, “His gifts were fortuitous in the end. A risk well calculated, my father’s doing I suspect.”
Talia almost seems blaisé as she talks about it, but he can see the way it irks her. Her father had tricked her. Somehow. Or had manipulated her into some choice she hadn’t known about.
Batman says nothing, analyzing, taking in clues.
“Beloved,” Talia sighs, “Surely you must know, the boy must return.”
“And surely you know: I can’t let that happen.”
Talia glowers at him.
“It’s him or Damian, Bruce, you must choose, just as I did.”
“No.” Bruce growls.
“You cannot have both,” She snaps at him.
Batman stands firm, staring her down, resolute.
“You invite his anger on them both,” She snarls, “You save no one.”
Batman ignores the words. He has made it his job to make sure that’s not true. He’ll die before it is.
“Fine.” She snaps again. But she lingers for a few seconds more. The lines of her face softening.
“I remember I once loved that same unbending drive.”
It feels odd to hear her confirm something he’s not sure ever really existed.
Then Talia turns away and walks into the forest. Shadows contort and reform around her at the edges of the clearing. Slowly emptying until there’s nothing left but the trees and the grass and him, standing alone at the center of it all.
He turns to leave.
He won’t choose between his children.
He climbs the ramp.
He will protect them.
He sits down in the pilots chair, flicking switches and gears.
All of them.
Engines roar to life below him.
He will not fail.
And yet… he cannot forget her words. Twisted they may be, and just as easily lies.. but, her irritation at her father’s plans… he had always been good at telling when it was real.
'Living in America… chose to stay away,'
Living in America?
Had he been secluded at one of their bases here? Had it even been close?
Had Danyal been just miles away, suffering, and Bruce hadn’t known?
But it felt wrong. What Talia had said sat like a jagged puzzle piece, poking and prodding at him, not quite fitting the theories he threw at it.
‘Returned.’
Did she only mean returned to the League’s home base? Closer to their original strongholds in Asia?
It didn’t make sense. She would have crafted the words differently, to drive her point home.
She’d said ‘supposedly kept him from you’ like she hadn’t. Like she hadn’t kept Danyal hidden, the way she had Damian. It didn’t add up.
She could have just been lying. Bruce didn’t think she was. It couldn’t be that simple. No, there was something specific about the way she’d phrased it all, like she was telling him a secret. Like it was something Ra’s had hidden. Like something Danyal was hiding.
Batman narrowed his eyes, staring out at the landscape in front of him as it rushed past.
Whatever it was, whatever she wasn’t telling him, Batman needed to figure it out before it came back to hurt him or his family. Danyal included.
Then there was the rest of it.
The ‘gifts’ that Talia had mentioned.
He knew Danyal had been forced to interact with the Lazarus waters, but he didn’t know to what extent. What it had done to him.
It’d had an effect on him, that much was clear by the acid green of his eyes when he stood off against them in the Batcave. And earlier when Bruce had first interrupted the fight with Damian.
He didn’t even think Danyal had noticed they were glowing then. Too defensive to think about it. Or perhaps he was used to it.
How many times had he been submerged? Had been so injured that Ra’s saw fit to put him in?
How many times had Bruce not been there to protect him from it?
Even if he was only acting out of defensiveness… was that not Bruce’s fault too?
That he still felt unsafe in the Manor. That he didn’t know if Bruce would act the same as Ra’s, as the League.
And Danyal was right, he was responsible for the pain the league caused him, for them hunting him. If he had never let himself be pulled into Talia’s web- or if she was to be believed… even before that.
When exactly? When had Batman become enough of a threat that Ra’s had decided to use him? Was it because he had refused to be his heir? Or before that? Before or after Dick? Jason?
He doesn’t even know how old Danyal is. How long Batman had let him suffer because of h-
“I do hope you aren’t planning to brood like this with your children around, Master Bruce,” Alfred says, cutting through his thoughts, “I don’t believe your pride would survive the repercussions.”
Bruce glances at the monitor Alfred has decided to call from.
“Hn.” Bruce grumbles.
Alfred is right, his children would tease him mercilessly for ‘brooding’ as they called it. If only Dick at least, who hasn’t missed a chance to do so since he’d been a freshly christened Robin.
How would Danyal fit into that? Would he grow to tease like the others? Or remain stoic like Damian?
“I’ll be approaching in 30 minutes, A.” He says. ‘Will Danyal be there?’ He doesn’t say.
Alfred says nothing in response. The engines fill the silence.
He grits his teeth, he just wants to know the situation, to stay updated, he wants to know if something’s happened or anything’s changed.
He sighs, forcefully loosening his jaw, “Who’s going out tonight?”
“Mm, I believe Miss Brown and Master Tim were discussing going together. Master Thomas is in bed, as is usual, though he did mention he’d be out early.. and I believe Madame Cassandra is staying in. She seems to have found a new project.”
Batman hums in confirmation. He wants to know what Cass had found interesting. More than that, he wants to know if Danyal was okay, Damian too.
“It seems it circles around our newest resident, though she hasn’t shown herself to him yet. Master Dick also seems to think the young sir is his duty as much as Master Damian had been.”
Batman feels his lips tug downwards as he grunts in response. Damian’s first year with them was… a regret. His own absence was devastating. He’d have to find some way to assure Dick that Danyal wasn’t his responsibility this time, that he could still be his own person. Perhaps he should encourage Dick to return to Blüdhaven. Affirm the family would be alright without him.
Batman sees Gotham’s cloud of smog come into view. The bay follows soon after, and the buildings next.
“I’m coming in now.”
“Very good sir.” Alfred answers, nodding in his peripheral before the call clicks off.
When the Batplane arrives to the cave, Alfred is nowhere to be seen. The other’s suits are missing as well, meaning they are already out for the night.
Batman doesn’t pause more than to look around, already heading to the Batcomputer with determined steps.
He enters his access codes, running through his security checks unconsciously, mind spinning on theories and clues.
He picks apart his and Talia’s interaction again and again, trying to pull everything he can from it and put it into his report file. Maybe if he can just read over it again, remember something else, maybe it will be enough to protect Danyal, maybe it will be enough to stop Ra’s, maybe it will be enough understand why Talia did this to h-
A gentle hand slides over his just as his finger goes to slam the enter button of the keyboard.
He looks over his shoulder, already recognizing the feeling of stitching against his suit.
Cass looks at him meaningfully. Her gentle hand shifts into a lean against his arm, the pressure a comfort. She stares up at the Batcomputer and reads through his writing piece by piece.
Bruce waits for her. He knows she struggles with so many words. Knows that she gained more from watching him type it than she will from reading an exact account but the details will be helpful anyways.
She nods to him, fingers tapping lightly against his arm as she thinks it over, scanning and rescanning the document.
Cass has been developing fidgets recently, small twitches of movement that don’t serve a purpose than to let her move.
Bruce wants to smile every time. He’s pretty sure they’re on purpose, but still.. it’s freedom for her.
She nudges him, reaching for a button across the keys. It flicks to a camera screen a second later.
The one in Danyal’s room.
Bruce feels a twinge of guilt at the disappointment Cass aims at him before they both refocus on the image.
The empty image.
Danyal is not in the room, and Bruce feels his eyebrows scrunch as he goes to pull up the other camera feeds to locate him, make sure he hasn’t been taken-
“Downstairs.” Cass says.
Batman gets a half turn around, checking the cave for a foreign presence, before Cass stops him again.
She points to the screen, drawing his attention to a bottom square.
Danyal stands in the hallway of the manor, staring at the portraits on the walls.
He feels a light tap on his shoulder in parting before Cass’s presence at his side disappears silently.
He stares up at the figure of his son standing in the hallway, mind still whirring about possibilities and clues and lies and secrets.
Danyal continues to stand in front of the portrait for another minute, clenching and unclenching his fists at his side.
He rips his eyes away from the portrait, turning down the hallway and ducking into the kitchen.
It’s empty when he gets there. Then again, the whole mansion had seemed empty. Aside from the ever constant, ever familiar feeling of eyes weighing down on him.
Danyal considers making himself food.
He considers jumping out of the window and seeing how far he could get.
He wonders if their cabinets have something he’d know and could do himself or if he’d be hopelessly lost.
He wonders how long it will take for the Demon’s Head to find him. Wonders what he’ll do when he does. Wonders if his-
He stops himself short.
“May I offer you some tea and snacks, young sir?”
Danyal turns slightly to face the old butler-Alfred- who’d entered behind him and nods.
Can he even say no?
Alfred gestures to a chair set up by the built in breakfast nook.
He sits. Even as the domesticity of it all throttles his heart in his chest. The way they must eat together every morning, appear together in every photo, smiling. A family portrait. Batman’s family. Batman got to keep his. But Danny’s is tra-
Danyal breathes purposefully, staring down at his hands, clenching them tighter.
Suddenly a hand reaches across his vision, pressing a button on an ancient looking miniature TV sitting just tucked into the kitchen corner.
It flickers to life on some random news channel, low mindless chatter softening the air.
Danyal feels his shoulders lower slightly, just barely, as the silences retreats. He glances up, expecting to find Alfred there staring at him, questioning him, why he’s acting like this, why he-
Alfred’s back is to him. The man busy at the stove with the tea kettle.
“I hope you like lemon ginger tea,” the man says, getting a small jar from a cupboard, “It’s been quite a bit since I’ve had the opportunity to make some.”
Danyal doesn’t quite trust it, still watching the man warily. He doesn’t understand why they would welcome him into their house, Batman or no, he was a threat to them. He was nothing but a threat.
“How about something to eat?”
Danyal watches the man move over to the fridge.
Something moves in his peripheral and his eyes jump to the side.
Narrowed eyes comb over the fancy china case against the wall. But he can’t see anything odd. The glass is clear, refracted reflection shining back him over the china. A dark phone sitting on the ledge. Dark wood pressed against the wall. He doesn’t know what he saw.
Alfred sets a small plate down in front of him with a light clatter, immediately turning back as the tea kettle begins to screech.
The movement makes a small carrot tumble off, rolling across the counter to Danyal.
He stares at it.
He breathes in, out, in out, in out in out too fast. Too fast-
A finger rolls to a stop in front of him and he can only stare at it as strong arms grip and pull him back, keeping him restrained.
Granite counters blend until they are stone floors.
He can’t look away from it. Confusion bleeds in with denial and regret and bloodthirsty stubbornness.
“Look at me, boy.”
Danny’s head is jerked back by his hair, forcing his eyes up to his instructor.
The man glares down at him.
“I have taught warriors better than you by a thousand, and you dare to try to escape under my hand?”
Danny tries to grin, barely managing a crude sneer, coppery blood in his teeth, “You should have kept a better eye on me, you fucking nutcase.”
His eyelid flicks closed automatically as cold gunmetal rests against it.
“Say that again.”
Danny swallows his regret, in for a penny in for a pound. He juts his chin up, forcing the man to follow the movement with his gun.
“What, were you dropped as a bab-” His open eye strains to see his instructor’s thumb press down the hammer of the gun. A warning.
He can feel his hands shake under the assassins hold. His throat burns.
“You scared of a chil-?” He barely has time to register the hand moving before the butt of the gun slams into his nose with a sickening crack.
Pain floods his face. He gets half a shout out before his chin is grabbed by unforgiving hands.
He stares into the man’s cold eyes.
Danny says nothing. Too focused on trying to breathe when his nose is filling with blood and his mouth is clamped nearly shut.
“Better.”
He resists the urge to spit in the man’s face as he steps back, straightening and waving a hand to the assassins. Even without their hands on him he can feel their presence looming behind him.
Danny drops his head, curling in on himself as much as he can, trying to ignore the feeling of blood as it slides down his face.
His eyes are left to stagnate on the finger thrown to the ground in front of him.
Pale skin stands stark against dark floors, contrasted by blood and dirt marring it. He can see the calluses and small scars.
He doesn’t understand.
He might.
He doesn’t want to.
“You are not the only one I can punish to get my point across, boy.”
He looks closer at the finger. At the nicks of careless knives and tools, of a hand that had cradled- no- please no-
“The oaf was very insistent it be him.”
Danny snaps his head up, fear striking through his chest, “No! Please-“ he catches himself, “Please don’t hurt them! They don’t- Hurt me, just me! They don’t deserve it, they didn’t do anything-!”
Sharp eyes stab into him. Fury behind them.
“Hurt me, Master Shrike, just me. Please.”
There’s a pause as the man continues to stare down at him before he lifts one lip in a sneer, “Do you think you command me, child?”
Danny freezes, “I don’t- I- No, Master. I don’t.”
“Then why,” Shrike near growls, “Do you beg me? Why do you plead like you have a right to ask for anything?”
“I don’t-” 'I don’t understand,' he starts to say but he’s cut off by Shrike’s boot hitting his face. He’s learned by now when not to dodge. He can’t give them another reason to hurt his family.
A second kick lands.
“You will be quiet!”
Danny waits for a beat, then slowly pulls himself up from the floor, not lifting his eyes.
He can still see his father’s finger on the floor.
“You do not command me. You are a tool! A weapon in the Demon’s hand! I choose to act, to punish or break you! You do not act, do not speak until you are to be used!”
Danyal stays silent.
He wants to scream, to fight back, they train him and they train him but he can’t fight back because if he does- his eyes flick to the bloodied finger.
He can let them. For his family, he can let them call him a weapon, can let them say he has no will. He can do this one thing.
He’s not giving up, he tells himself. But for his family’s safety, he can let them think he is. Just this once.
Danny stops, eyes shutting for just a second as he bends into a kneel, holding his hands up in front of him.
There’s a pause, cruel satisfaction radiating off the man in front of him.
Danyal licks his lips, steeling himself, “I am ready for my lesson,” Danny forces the words out, “Master Shrike.”
He doesn’t bother to look up and see the man’s sneer.
“Good.”
He sees the kick coming.
He still doesn’t move.
He stays still.
The world moves around him. Voices. Muttering. The sound of dishes, water being poured.
There’s a carrot.. orange and bright in front of him.
His heart is beating too fast. His eyes sting.
Calm down. Control it. Control it. Stop, stop-
A tea cup clatters in front of him.
“Sir Danyal, are you quite alright?” He hears someone ask. Alfred. It’s Alfred. Batman’s butler. He’s not-
He tries to speak, ‘I’m fine’ he tries to say. But his throat constricts. He simply nods, staring down at the carrot.
A freaking carrot.
It’s ridiculous.
He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s. Fine.
Danyal takes a deep breath. He breathes out. Silently.
He does it again.
He holds it until his heart slows down, stops stuttering from beat to beat.
He breathes out.
He reaches for the tea, ignoring the eyes on him-always watching him- ignoring the way his hands shake.
He drinks the tea. Let’s it burn his throat and distract him.
He breathes.
Alfred does not turn to look at him. Staying busy at the sink with dishes that already look clean.
He is thankful.
He breathes.
Low murmurs fill impenetrable silence. Danyal drags his eyes over to the small TV.
His breath stops.
A banner of words crawls across the bottom of the screen.
‘DalvCo factories shutting down after mass destruction.’
He tries to tear his eyes away.
‘Four buildings exploded just after midnight on Saturday in downtown Chicago, Elmerton, and Red Lake. 12 workers dead. Police have not caught the perpetrators.’
And they won’t.
Danyal can recognize a message.
He knows what it means. Who is sending it.
He tries not to let it show how his mind begins spinning. Churning out plans and strategies- If an attempt had cost his father a finger, what would they do to them now, because of Danyal?- he had to fix this.
He looks down to his shaking hands. He stops them. And the tea in his cup stills.
He stops. Pauses. He eyes Alfred still at the sink without looking up.
He places it just on the edge of the counter. Then turns away and lets go.
The cup falls.
It shatters against the floor. Danyal jumps up from his seat at the same time Alfred turns around.
“What’s happened?” He says, already hustling over with a towel. “Are you hurt?”
Danyal steps away and around him, towards the door.
He almost bumps into the display case until the reflection of light off the phone catches his eye. A small ballet sticker sits on the back of the case.
His hand moves before he can think and slips it into his pocket. He looks at Alfred.
“It’s no trouble, Young Danyal,” Alfred says as he crouches over where Danyal had been sitting, “I’ll clean this up and get you more. You can help me prepare for breakfast-“
Danyal considers knocking him out, so he can’t stop him, or alert anyone, but a body is more suspicious. Instead he paints his face with fear and steps out of the room as quick as he can.
He turns down the hallway, trying to remember where he’d walked from the cave.
Mere hours ago.
He goes the opposite direction, following a halls as far to the outer edges of the mansion as he can, typing in Vlad’s number with nervous hands as he goes.
He makes a final turn before he opens a window, glances backwards, and jumps out.
He lands in a roll, already running. His finger presses call and he listens to the phone ringing as he runs.
Once. Twice. He swipes branches out of his way. Three times. Four. Five. Six.
‘We’re sorry the number-‘
Danyal hangs up and presses again.
He doesn’t stop running.
He just has to protect them. He has to warn Vlad. Warn whoever he can. Tell someone.
It rings again. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Five. Six- ‘We’re sorr-‘
Danyal presses it again and runs faster.
If he can get caught by the League maybe Ra’s will overlook it. Maybe he can still protect them. He can fix this. Please just let him fix this.
‘We’re s-‘
He tries again.
And Danyal continues rushing through the woods, wishing his feet would carry him faster, further, higher-
The sound of his steps pounds in his ears. The phantom feeling of eyes on his back.
He slams his finger down on Vlad’s number again, letting the dial tone drown his heartbeat out.
Once. Twice. Three times, Frick! Vlad pick up! Four- the speakerphone clicks.
“Vlad!”
There’s barely a pause, “DANNY!?”
Danny nearly trips, his heart stuttering dangerously, hopefully.
“Dani?…” He says, then jolts to his senses and continues running, a glance thrown behind him, “Dani, how do you have Vlad’s phone, are you okay? Have you been to Amity?”
“Danny, where the hell are you!? I’ve been looking all over for-“
“Dani, you have to listen okay, there’s dangerous people after me- after us-“ Danyal jumps another log, scaling a small stone wall, “You can’t fight them, you have to run, they’ve got my family, Tuck, Sam-“
“Danny wait no listen to me-!”
“You can’t fight them! You can’t, okay!?” Danny scans his eyes back and forth frantically as he runs, mind spinning, calculating how he’s going to get out, away, controlling his heart rate as much as he can, “You have to promise me! Just find Vlad, get out of Amity. Warn him- I couldn’t - my parents- you have to-“
“Danny, listen to me!” Dani yells, stopping him in his tracks.
“Your parents are out, Danny,” She says, voice rushed, but his ears barely hear it. “They escaped, they called us weeks ago to start looking for you- Danny, they’re out.”
She goes quiet. Waiting for Danny.
His parents were-
Danny draws in a deep breath, standing stock still in the middle of the trees, stolen phone still pressed to his ear.
He couldn’t believe it.. they were-
Something clangs against a tree behind him and Danyal whips around ready to-
His head blossoms with pain.
Everything goes dark.
This is included in my one-shot collection(for now) on Ao3, under same name. The collection is Things that Could Exist by Snaileer.
Part 3: https://www.tumblr.com/snaileer/760212137159294976/call-to-my-bedside-3?source=share
Tags:
@thecrystallabyrinth @isnt-that-grape @riverdancingwerewolves @mimblizzy @chaos-deimos-et-eris @miraculousandmore2 @mys-tia @jitteryjuttury @moonlight-opal @nerdypaintbrush @thedragonqueen1998 @luminanightfall @cowarddragon @cyrwrites @kamireadsmcu
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Wolf. (König x Reader.)
!CW! NSFW, Smut, size kink, p in v sex, rough sex, blood, wounds, stitiching, guns (let me know if I missed any.)
(Summary): König likes to admire his little sheep from afar until he has to confront his feelings. Like a wolf stalking it's prey, it has to pounce at some point.
PLEASE FORGIVE ME IF I BUTCHERED SOME OF THE GERMAN I TRIED SO HARD ;') PLEASE CORRECT ME IF IT'S WRONG.
There is this sickly sweet feeling König gets when he's around you.
His mind starts to play into it, and he fantasizes about everything he can do to you. You’re much smaller than him, obviously. He’s a beast of a man, even he knows it.
He thinks about how easy it’d be, to overpower you. Take what he wants. He just knows how small your hands would look wrapped around him, how it’d feel like he’s splitting you apart with his cock. He catches himself, sometimes. He’d be out doing work, daydreaming as he stared at you. His mask helps him sometimes, hiding the way he stared at you. Sometimes when your eyes met his, you’d look down, crimson creeping up your cheeks. He thought maybe you were scared of him. That maybe his glare intimidates you. But that’s not really the case at all.
Because everything he thought about doing to you, you’ve thought about too. Him overpowering you. Doing sinful things to you.
The few times you’ve ever interacted with him, it’s always been short and you usually end up scurrying away quickly. It hurts his feelings a little bit. Knowing that he scared you. You’re on the same side, anyways. He was too shy to talk to you, too shy to make a move on you.
You weren’t scared of him. Sure his size intimidated you just a little bit. The sheer size of him alone probably causes nightmares to some people.
But it only fueled fantasies in your brain.
You’re brand new to the military. Still training as a combat medic. You’ve done nothing but get insulted and grilled for being too soft. You didn’t have a very good start. Most of the time, when nobody was injured for you to look after, you spent it doing research in a back office. The military base you were on was massive. And there are 4 medics including you.
You’d traded shifts and got a couple days off to take a little time to yourself, or so you thought. The other medics were older women, that seemed annoyed by your presence. They only seemed to show you certain things, only when you asked. Most of the information you knew, you got by just doing hours of research. König noticed it. He noticed the way everyone just shrugged you off. And the small look of sadness you usually gave when they did made him wanna rip their heads off for hurting your feelings.
König knew there was a mission coming up. A VERY important mission.
They were reclaiming their own territory from terrorists, it was dangerous.
You sat inside of an office. Typing away at the computer, the door opening brings you away from it. It’s your commander. “There’s 1 medic on duty, 2 are resting. We need you for this mission.” He says sternly. You nod your head, body filling with nerves. You knew the basics, what to load up, your commander directed you with the rest. You sat in the back middle seat of the Humvee. Waiting. The door to your left opens and a man climbs in, sending you a smile. “Hello there sweet cheeks.” He smiles. The door to your right opening.
It’s König. His stomach falls immediately when he sees you. He knows you’re untrained, knows you shouldn’t be out here alone. Who the fuck made you come out here alone?
“First time ah?” The other man beside you breaks the silence. You nod your head.
“Thas’ alright. We’ll help guide ya. Usually you stay in the humvee unless there’s an incident. I’m sure you were taught a different way, but that’s how we like to do it, especially on missions like this.” He explains, and you nod your head. König keeps quiet. It's not how you were trained at all.
It’s about an hour later when the few Humvee’s full of soldiers come to a stop. Everyone climbs out and König knows he should say something to reassure you. But he’s too nervous, he can’t. As everyone leaves, you stay put. Not moving and keeping quiet. Waiting for anything. You watch each of the men disappear into the building. And it’s silent for a while. You notice movement to your right, but as you move to look, a loud boom rattles your brain, sending your hands to cover your ears, rubble and debris fly everywhere, the humvee turning over onto its side immediately. The back of your head crashes into the window behind you, and you have to pull yourself up. You feel water rushing down your face, worried that it might be flammable fluid from the humvee. An arm reaches over through the door, grasping onto you. You hope it’s someone to help you, but your hope diminishes when you see their unfamiliar face, along with a gun pointed at you. Your ears are still violently ringing, and you can’t hear anything he’s yelling at you, but he’s getting angrier and angrier by the minute. You're so disoriented you can't do anything but sit there.
Just when you’re sure he’s going to pull the trigger, you see a gloved hand come into your field of view, pressing a gun to his temple and pulling the trigger. His body goes limp, falling to the ground immediately, and König’s face comes into your view. You can’t tell if he’s said anything, ears still ringing from the sheer amount of noise produced by the bomb. He picks you up as if you’re weightless, moving quickly with you in his arms to get to an abandoned building, before more of them show up.
König is furious. Absolutely mad that they’d send you out here alone like this. You’re brand new, never been on a mission, and this is the mission they choose? This is an important mission, a very dangerous one at that.
He thinks about what he'll do when he gets back to the military base. He feels like he's going to lose his shit on every medic there for allowing this, your commander too. He doesn’t care the kind of trouble he gets into. Once he gets you inside, cloth over the wound on your head, he picks up his radio.
“Why are you giving this to me?” You take the cloth away from your head. “Because you have a gash on your forehead. Don’t move it.”
You listen to him, holding it there.
You thought it was water rushing down your face when in reality, it was your own blood.
“This was an ambush. Our medic is too hurt to walk, stand down.” He breathes into the radio. Voice stern and aggressive. “We’re so close already. We have to keep pushing.” They call back.
“Our ONLY medic is too hurt to offer any kind of aid. If ANYONE else gets hurt, she cannot help you.” His accent is aggressive, you can barely hear it but still hear how aggressive it is.
“That’s just a chance we’re going to have to take.”
König shakes his head, looking through the window and seeing bright bursts of gunfire. This goes on for a few more minutes.
Everything goes silent, and he’s watching. The front doors burst open and they’re carrying a soldier out. He’s bleeding profusely from somewhere, “Hurensohn.” He growls.
“I’m.. I’m okay.” You push yourself off the wall, limping towards the door. You'd been watching it all unfold. He helps you over to the front of the large building he'd already been inside. “Put- him inside.” You point to one of the two remaining humvees. They set him inside and you climb in, grasping the first aid kit. You cut open his shirt, seeing the bullet wound is right in the middle of his abdomen, which is concerning. You raise him up, still disoriented, noticing an exit wound on his back. You apply pressure as hard as you can, trying to get the blood loss to stop. Everyone loaded up and you did your best to address the wound. With an exit wound, there was most likely no bullet fragments still inside. You just needed to stop the bleeding until you could get back to the camp to flush it out.
You held the cloth on him the entire ride back, when you got back, they helped the wounded man, who you didn’t know the name of inside. König followed after you, to make sure you’re okay. “The hell happened?” One of the medic asks, seeing you’re covered in blood. König wants to yell at this woman but he can see the aggression on your face as you push past her, going to aid the other. You’re pulling the cloth off him, examining him more closely to make sure the bullet hadn’t hit any major organs. “Y/N, you need to be treated too, I can take it from here." you roll your eyes.
She grasps your arm, and you rip your arm away from her. “I got it.” You growl. She raises her hands in surrender and König has to hold back a smile. He’s seen this particular woman being mean to you more times than he can count, so to see you fire back at her brought him joy. Once this mans wounds are cleaned, dressed, and the bleeding has stopped, you back off, sitting on a chair. “Need to let her look at you now.” König mumbles. You nod your head. “She’s going to need to put stitches there, Liebes.” He taps his own forehead over the mask. You wondered why he stuck around, waiting for you. Maybe to just make sure you’re okay. You sit down on one of the cots. “König, you mind sitting with her, in case she passes out?” König nods his head, sitting down next to you.
It’s a long process, and it pains him to watch. You flinch and try to hold still but it’s painful. “What happened?” She asks, finishing up the stitches. “Got ambushed. Bomb blew up the Humvee I was in.” You stare straight ahead. “She needs more training. Research on a computer because you and the other medics shrug her off isn’t good enough. Poor girl had no idea what to do, and the rest of us only know the bare minimum when it comes to medical. It’s the blind leading the blind out there.” König’s accent is deep, he’s angry but he’s holding it back. The medic nods her head. The aggression Y/N had shown earlier showed her that. Intentionally or not.
After the medic finishes addressing your wounds, you looked tired. “You okay, Schaf?” He asks.
Blush rises to your cheeks. “I'm sorry. I don’t know what that means König.” You giggle, looking down. “Sheep.”
“You called me Sheep?” You smile. He admires the way your cheeks burn. “Uh.. yeah. Sorry.” His shy self coming out again.
“No don’t be sorry. I think it’s cute.”
You try to repeat it, butchering it miserably. He can’t help but laugh at it. You’re so cute.
And it makes him want to ruin you.
“I need to go to my room to change my clothes.” You frown. He nods his head. “I’ll walk with you. You can’t go anywhere alone, you have a head injury.” You nod your head. He follows you along to your room, his footsteps behind you would scare you if you weren’t on the same side. “You can come in, I’ll change in my bathroom quickly.” He nods his head, ducking underneath the doorframe to get inside. You change your clothes quickly, coming out to sit with him. You’re wearing a baggy t-shirt and leggings, and he loves it. “You saved my life. And.. I don’t know how to thank you enough for that.”
He looks down, he’s smiling but you can’t see it. “I feel like an idiot for having such a slow reaction time.” You blush. “You were stunned, being close to a bomb of that magnitude and surviving with only a gash is beyond me. Don’t beat yourself up Schaf, you did what you could do.” You nod your head. The pet name he'd given you makes your heart flutter, butterflies in your stomach. “I will go check on Sergeant Wilford, you try to get some rest okay?” You nod your head. “Thank you, König. I owe you.” You breathe. “I’ll hold you to that.” He laughs. He loves the drowsy smile you give him. He wants to do nothing but hold you close to him for the night.
He disappears through your door, closing it behind himself. You take a deep breath. You couldn’t help but feel like an idiot.
———
Around 3 in the morning, you’re awake. Your head is throbbing, blood is running down your face. A few of your stitches had gotten torn out through the night and you walked out to the medical area, checking on the solider, picking up everything you needed to stitch up your forehead on your own.
You’re standing in a small mirror that was in the infirmary, hissing in pain as you re-stitched your wound. “sheep, why are you awake?” You jump, dropping the forceps and letting out a groan. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s.. it’s okay.” You try to laugh it off. Heart still pounding in your chest. “Wound tore open in my sleep, I think the stitches were too tight so I’m fixing it.”
“You’re stitching them yourself? That’s pretty hardcore.” He chuckles quietly. “Yeah well. You want something done right, you do it yourself.”
“Sometimes.” He smirks under his mask. “What?”
“Nothing.”
You finish stitching it up and clean up your mess. He once again insists on following you to your room, you invite him in for a few minutes, and this is an opportunity he wants to take.
He’s shy, and he knows he’ll probably fold before he makes a move, but he wants to. So badly.
“What happened to your leggings?”
You’re eyes widen slightly, only just now realizing you had taken them off during the night and forgotten to put anything else on over your undergarments. “oh god. I forgot I took them off. That’s embarrassing.” You stand up going for your dresser. “No need mein Schaf, don’t let me ruin your comfort. I like it anyways.” The words leave his mouth before he can stop them. His eyes widen when he realizes what he’s just said, cheeks burning in embarrassment.
You freeze immediately. “What?”
There’s no going back now. He had to play the part. “I said I like it.” He stands up. He takes a step toward you and he looks down at you. “König..” you breathe, his hand moving to slide up against your cheek. Your eyes shut tightly. His eyes darkening as you reacted this way to him. This tells him you’ve thought about it too. He grasps hold of your hand, sitting back on your bed and pulling you into him. “Get up here.” He breathes. You swallow hard, climbing up on top of him, straddling his waist.
You felt unsettled in your stomach. A 6’10 killing machine beneath you, and he wants you just as bad as you want him.
“Deep in thought ah?” He lays back onto your bed, looking up at you. He runs his hands up your thighs and you breathe out, eyes fluttering closed. He smiles, becoming aware of the sudden power he held over you, how easy it was for you to give in to him. He grasps a tight hold on your hips, pulling you forward, pushing you back until you figured out what he wanted you to do. You drew your hips into him, sliding up and back, grinding your hips into him. He bites his lip under his mask, a small groan leaving his lips. “Such a good girl, sheep. My good girl.” He breathes. His words striking you. You’re in complete shock.
Pants start to slip from your lips, growing more desperate with each pass of your hips, sliding over his growing erection.
He still had cargo pants on, which makes you think it was probably his turn for watch sometime in the night. He sits up, and you look down into his eyes. He grasps his mask, bringing the fabric up and over his lips. Pulling you in to kiss him. The desperation is apparent as you kiss him eagerly. He grips your hips tightly, pulling you into him. He slides his hand under your shirt as you kiss him. Pushing the shirt up and over your hips. His hands playing the with the hem of your panties. “Lay on your back sheep, let me take care of you.” He lifts you off of him, and you obey him immediately, something he notices and loves. “You’re hurt, I’ll take care of you.” He whispers. Pushing your shirt up over your stomach. He slides his fingertips up your front, sliding his hand over your breast, squeezing it gently.
You were amazed by the face that his huge hands could feel so gentle on you.
“Please König.” You whimper. Lifting your hips into his.
You wanted him. Wanted him inside of you.
He reaches down. Unbuckling his belt. He was far too shy to take his pants all of the way off. But he lowers them just enough to free his cock from its restraint, your eyes widening at the sheer size of him. “S’alright. I’ll be gentle with you.” He breathes. Noticing your nervousness. Like a predator, he could hear your heart beating from a mile away.
“At first.”
Your clench your eyes closed, so nervous. He loops his fingers over your panties, dragging them down your legs. Admiring the way your arousal glistens in small amount of lighting. “So pretty.” He breathes, running his fingertips over your opening. A whimper leaves your lips, your legs opening more.
So willing.
“So fucking sweet.” He growls. He lines himself up with your entrance, pushing the tip into your opening. Your eyes widen at how much he stretches you. “You’re alright.” He leans down. “Promise it’ll feel good once you’re used to me.”
When he bottoms out, a gasp leaves your lips. “Oh my god..” you whimper.
He struggles to slide back out of you, you were so tight around him. He wanted to stay there forever. Your eyes prick with tears immediately, feeling so full, so overstimulated already. He starts out slow, but as you get used to him, he picks up the pace. And you’re a mess beneath him, eyes watering, lips parted. He has to cover your mouth to stop the noises from slipping from your lips. He’s holding back, the metal of your bed would hammer against the wall if he’s too rough. But god does he want to be.
“Can you take it, sheep? Can you take me harder?” He asks. You nod your head. “Need you to be quiet for me,” he pulls away, standing on the edge of the bed, pulling you by your thighs to move you where he wants you, sliding back inside of you and picking you up. Arms under your thighs, wrapped around your back. “Don’t care what you have to do. Stay quiet, sheep. Or I’ll punish you.” You nod your head. He starts fast, and he’s fucking into you hard.
He’s bottoming out with each thrust, your eyes rolling back. You wrap your arms around his neck, biting down onto his shoulder and he groans. “Fucking hell. so verdammt hübsch” he growls, he grips you tight, cock sliding perfectly into you. Everything he’s thought about doing to you up to this point, he knows he can. He knows you'll allow him to do everything to you, just by the way you reacted to his touch. The sound of his cargo pants manage to muffle the sounds of skin on skin, thankfully. If he hadn't kept them on, the way he was fucking himself into you would be loud. The only sound throughout the room were his almost silent groans, and the sound of his belt rattling with each thrust he took, it became the sexiest sound you'd heard.
"Fuck me, wolf. Take all of me." You whisper into his ear, all of the hair on his body standing up as you say it. He clenches his eyes closed, hips hammering into yours until you want to scream, but know that you can't. You bite down on your lip until you're sure you draw blood. "Lift my mask, sheep. Kiss me when you cum." He breathes. "Want to cum with you." You mewl. He smiles and the only way you can tell is by the small wrinkles that form around his eyes. "Almost there." He groans. "Going to fill you full." He whispers. "You're mine. All mine, mein Schaf." He growls, latching his teeth onto the skin on your neck, dragging a whimper from your lips. "I-I'm so close." Another whimper has him on edge. Right there. "Cum with me sheep, kiss me."
You lift his mask to the bridge of his nose, kissing him hard, teeth knocking into each other as you kiss him with more force than you've ever kissed anyone before. You cry against his lips and he can feel wetness dripping down his lips. He wonders for a minute, if it's your tears but than he notices the metallic taste in his mouth. It doesn't bother him. His eyes roll back as he reaches his high, feeling you clench tight around him, throbbing against him. He groans out as he reaches his orgasm, filling you full until his cum dripped back out of you. When his thrusts finally come to a halt, he's breathing heavily and he sets you back down onto your bed. Admiring the way your thighs shook violently. "Your forehead." He breathes out, the other side of stiches that you hadn't repaired had broken open. "m'sorry." He breathes. You blush, looking up at him, wiping the blood from your face. "no.. I'm sorry. I got blood all over you." he smiles. "I'm yours and you are mine. A little blood isn't going to change that." He tucks his still hard cock back into his pants, goes into your bathroom, wetting down a cloth and bringing it back out. As he walks out, his belt is still undone and it rattles just slightly, wetness pooling between your legs as you hear it. He sits next to you, wiping at the blood all over your face. "I know how to stitch, sheep. You want my help?" He asks. You nod your head. He grasps a blanket, wrapping you up in it and lifting you up. He once again carries you as if you're weightless, something you loved. Once he reaches the infirmary, he sets you down onto an empty cot, being careful not to wake any others up. He cleans up your wound again, sanitizing and disinfecting everything, even though it stings. He tries to be as quick as he can, stitching up the gash once again. "A few days rest. So they don't break open again." He whispers. You nod your head. "I'll take you back."
When he lays you down on your own bed, he hears something he didn't think he'd ever hear. You look up at him, those doe eyes he loved so much. "Stay." You whisper. "Please stay." He smiles. "I don't have clothes, sheep."
"Than sleep naked, wolf." You smile. He rolls his eyes.
He asks you to turn away as he removes his boots and cargo pants, leaving him in just a t-shirt and boxers, and of course, his mask. He climbs into your bed next to you, pulling you into him. He's huge, and so warm.
"Sleep my sheep."
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