Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You never asked to be saved, didn’t need to be saved, but he thought otherwise. Bruce Wayne took your life and twisted it until it was barely recognizable to you.

Freshly twenty felt like freshly nineteen and freshly eighteen and blah blah, so on and so forth. College had only gotten harder with the passing time, but that was life, getting harder the older you get. Life was quiet, manageable. Virginia was beautiful, the campus far enough out of the chaos of the world to create your own bubble.

. You were painfully normal, you didn't try to stand out and you didn’t draw unnecessary attention. A criminal justice major with a minor in behavioral psych, transferred from Texas, still adjusting to Virginia winters, and still finding glitter in your tote bag from rush week two months ago.
Life was loud. Bright. Fast-paced.

Your world was made of early morning spin classes, sorority mixers, half-finished essays, color-coded planners, and inside jokes shouted across the apartment. You made friends in every class. You could name half the lacrosse team on sight and had a standing coffee order at the café down the street — extra shot of espresso, always iced.
That day, you’d barely made it to the keynote on time. Hair half-damp from a rushed shower, heart still racing from sprinting across campus.

You weren’t even supposed to be there.

But the second you sat down — third row, center aisle, lip gloss smudged from your water bottle — you caught his eye.

Bruce Wayne.

The billionaire.

The philanthropist.

The father of five.

The surprise speaker of the university’s criminal justice series.
You had to admit, he was handsome. A kind of handsomeness that wasn’t only achieved by genetics, there were plenty of guys you had hooked up with that were handsome, you could pick out any generic white boy and the majority would call him handsome.
No, Mr. Wayne was handsome in a way that could only be achieved through time. His slicked back black hair was sprinkled with grays, his eyes weren’t the tired ones you’d see day to day in students, they were hardened and steely, sharp like a hawk looking for prey, his crisp suit and demanding figure gave him an edge that, if you were his peer, would have you throwing yourself in his way.
You raised your hand before he’d even opened the floor to questions. You didn’t mean to challenge him — not exactly — but something about the way he spoke, the way the whole room leaned in like his words were gospel, lit that little fire in your chest.
“You talk about systemic reform,” you said, “but where does corporate influence end and personal interest begin?”
Your voice was bright. Curious. Maybe a little sharp around the edges — but not rude. You could never be rude. He smiled. Then he answered. And then he asked you something. And somehow… you kept talking.

After the keynote, he found you again. Leaving the auditorium, he bounded up friendly and charismatic as ever.
He said he liked your energy. That you had "presence."
You laughed — awkward, surprised, but flattered. Said something about how you talk too much and ask too many questions. Said you were just trying to stay awake after pulling an all-nighter for your comparative politics paper.
He told you he admired your curiosity.
You told him he had a good voice for podcasts.
And that’s when he offered you a position you couldn’t turn down. An internship at Wayne enterprise, sure it didn’t have much to do with your major, but surely the experience and highly cuvetted position would look amazing on any resume, so you accepted.
School ended in May. You packed your summer essentials. Said goodbye to Virginia with a whirlwind of tearful brunches, going-away parties, and one last chaotic Pi Beta mixer that ended with one of the worst hangovers you could imagine.
Your roommate, Jules, cried at the airport. She squeezed your hand too hard and made you promise you’d call the second you landed.

“I know Gotham’s rich and dark and sexy, but don’t get serial murdered, okay? I don’t want to have to get a randomly assigned roommate next year. ” Her whining was met with a soft smile as you squeezed her hand back.

“Please. Bruce Wayne is like… dad-adjacent.”

“That doesn’t make it less likely.”

You laughed. She wasn’t wrong. But still — it was an opportunity.
You were ready for the next chapter.
You just didn’t know that chapter had already been written for you.
The flight was quiet. Private. Arranged entirely by the company. A car met you at the terminal — sleek, black, windows tinted.
You expected to be dropped off at some luxury intern housing downtown.
Instead, the driver smiled politely and said:

“You’ll be staying at the Manor. Mr. Wayne insisted. You’re his guest.”

You blinked.

“Wait — like his house house?”

“Yes, miss.”

“...Is this normal?”

The driver didn’t answer.
Wayne Manor appeared like a silhouette pulled from a gothic novel. Huge. Imposing. Beautiful. The kind of house that feels haunted even when it’s not.
Bruce was waiting when the car pulled in.

He opened your door himself.

You were still brushing yourself off and trying to seem presentable, you didn’t think you’d be seeing Bruce so soon, let alone his family, and had definitely not dressed accordingly. The car door opened and you were greeted by the sight of Bruce, still tall, still demanding, still undeniably handsome.

“Welcome home.”

Dinner was... strange. Elegant. Too formal. The table was set for twelve, but only seven seats were filled — Bruce at the head, you at his right, and the rest of his kids watching you like you were some new animal being introduced to the enclosure.

Dick was the first to speak. All bright eyes and too-smooth charm.

“We’ve heard a lot about you.” He didn’t stop staring.

Jason gave you a nod. Said nothing. You caught him glancing at your hands. Like he was trying to memorize them.

Tim didn’t even look up from his plate. But he sat right across from you. Dead center. Silent. Still.

Cass didn’t look away once on the other hand. “Mhm,” she hums mid chew. “I hear you’re quite the social butterfly, I wanna hear all about your life.”

And Damian — the youngest — didn’t blink once. He just kept chewing like a cat watching a bird through a window. You smiled anyway. Because that’s what you do.

You smiled anyways because, despite the initial awkwardness, it was nice that they made — or at least tried to make — you feel welcomed. Even if it unnerved you that the food was your favorite, despite you never mentioning what you liked. Coincidences happen. That’s what you told yourself.

Just like when Cass corrected a detail in a story you told — one you only vaguely remembered sharing, and definitely not with her.

Small things. Easy to brush off.

But they kept happening.

Little slips. Familiar glances. Inside jokes you weren’t supposed to be inside of. And still — you smiled. Because you were a guest. Because it was polite. Because it was easier to ignore the cold edge curling in your gut than admit something felt off.

That night, you stayed in your room longer than you meant to. Showered. Changed into your comfiest shorts and a faded sorority tee. Tried to text Jules again — still no signal.
You figured it was the walls. Old houses were like that, right? Heavy stone, weird wiring. The sitcom playing on your laptop barely held your attention. Something about the day kept tugging at you. Something you couldn’t name.

Then came a knock at the door.

Steady. Calm.

You hesitated before opening it.

Bruce stood there. Dressed down, but only slightly. Shirt sleeves rolled. No tie. Hair still perfect.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” he said, voice low, almost warm.
You smiled automatically. “No, just relaxing.”

He stepped inside without waiting. Looked around like he’d been here before. Maybe he had. You couldn’t be sure.

“I wanted to check in,” he said. “See how you’re adjusting. First day in a new place can be disorienting.”

You nodded. “It’s definitely… different. Beautiful, though.”

His gaze flicked to you. “You’ll get used to it.”
He moved to the desk, brushing his fingers over your planner. The one you hadn’t filled in yet — or hadn’t thought you had.

Now it was full. Notes in your handwriting. Appointments, tasks, reminders. Even the time you usually woke up, even though you hadn’t told anyone.
Bruce didn’t comment on it. He didn’t have to.

“You’re fitting in well,” he said instead. “The family likes you.”

You gave a cautious smile. “They’ve been… welcoming.”

He watched you for a long moment. “That matters to me.”

Then he stepped closer. Just close enough to feel it.

“You’re important here,” he said softly. “I hope you know that.”

You nodded, unsure what else to do. Your hands were cold.

Bruce tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch light but deliberate. His hand resting on your cheek just a second longer than would’ve seemed appropriate for this already inappropriate scene.

“We want you to feel at home.”

His breath hitched, those hawk-like eyes bore into yours, you finally knew what it was like to be the prey.

Then, just as smoothly as he entered, he left.

The door clicked softly shut behind him.

You stood still for a long moment. Listening.
After a long moment, you slowly walk to the bed and slip into the silk sheets, eyes locked onto the door knob until darkness consumes you and you fall into a restless sleep.

You woke to warmth. Too much of it.

An arm draped across your stomach, pulling you close. Legs tangled with yours.

Breath on your neck. Slow. Steady. Your eyes flew open.

And you froze.

You weren’t alone.

You twisted, heart hammering—

You register that the person behind you was a man, a well built one, much bigger than you, he was curled around you, pressed flush to your back, holding you like he’d never let go. You tried to fling yourself from the bed, a wild and desperate attempt to make it to the door, but alas, it was a futile attempt. His grip tightened when you moved, a vice grip that was next to impossible to break away from.

“Shhh,” he whispered, voice low, thick with sleep. “You were having little twitches… I didn’t want you to wake up scared.”

You shoved against his arm. Hard.

You turn to face the man, slow recognition comes across your face as you realize it’s Bruce’s oldest.

“Dick, what the hell are you doing?”

He blinked slowly, like he didn’t understand the question.

“Watching you sleep.” He smiled, small and reverent, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You look different when you’re not thinking so much. Calmer.”

You twisted harder, panic crawling up your spine. “Let go of me.” You half yell, voice thick with confusion.
He didn’t. Not right away.
Instead, he leaned in, nose brushing your hair, and murmured: “You don’t have to act scared. I’m not going to hurt you. I would never hurt you.”

That made it worse.

You shoved again, and this time he let go — reluctantly. You stumbled out of bed, breath sharp, arms tense, putting as much distance between you and him as you could.
Dick sat up slowly. Watched you with a tilt of his head and something raw in his eyes.

“You’re just not used to being cared for,” he said quietly. “But that’s okay. We’ve got time.”

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

You stumbled to the door, your hand flew to the doorknob. You turned it—

Key locked.
Of course it was locked.

Your skin prickled.

Dick didn’t even look at the door.

“We all just want what’s best for you.” His voice was calm. Sweet, even. “You’ll see that soon.”

You backed away. Body pressed into the thick wood door as you tried to put as much distance between the two of you as possible.
And for the first time, truly — you felt caged.

“Breakfast will be ready soon.”

His voice is low — hoarse, like it’s caught on something in his throat.
He throws the sheets off with slow, practiced ease, like he’s done this a hundred times. Bare feet meet the floor with a soft thud, and he stands — tall, built, calm in the way a snake is calm before it strikes.
He walks toward you. No rush.
You back into the door without meaning to. The cool wood presses against your spine.
“I thought I’d bring you down myself,” he says, stopping just a breath away.
His eyes find yours. Not smiling. Not warm. Just watching.
There’s something simmering in them — dark and deep, lustful. A hunger that sends tingles down your spine.
He lifts a hand to your cheek. Fingers gentle, careful, like you're made of glass.
The touch is tender. Familiar. Bruce had touched you like that. But this is different. This is wanting.
Dick leans in. Slowly.
His forehead nearly brushes yours. His breath is shallow — not from exertion, but from restraint.
You can feel it in the way he’s holding himself back. The slight tremble in his fingers. The too-long pause before he speaks again.
“I watched you sleep,” he whispers. “You looked peaceful. It felt right… being here.”
His thumb brushes your cheekbone.
He’s so close now you can feel the labor in his breath, his heart beating in his chest, the warmth of his breath and the growing hardness barely covered by the thin material of his sweats — he’s trying to stay calm, but it’s slipping, just barely.
You don’t move.
Because there’s nowhere to move to.
Because the air feels too thick to breathe.
Because something about this quiet — this still, heavy moment — is more terrifying than if he’d screamed and lunged for you.
And he’s still watching you like he’s memorizing every inch of your face. Like letting you go would ruin him. Like he wants you to ruin him.

Chapter Text

For a moment, he doesn't move.
Just breathes. Heavy. Unsteady.
His forehead still hovers near yours, his hand still cups your cheek, but something in him seems to flicker. A shift — like a thread pulled too tight, loosening just before it snaps.
He closes his eyes. Takes a breath through his nose.
When he pulls away, it’s slow — deliberate — like it hurts him to do it.
He turns his back to you, running a hand through his hair, his shoulders visibly rising and falling as he tries to get himself under control.
“You should get dressed,” he says after a long silence, voice rough but calmer. “Everyone’s waiting.”

You don’t move.

Not yet.

You clear your throat. “Um, yeah… could you at least look away?”

His jaw flexes. Then, slowly, he walks across the room, facing the far wall, arms crossed — a picture of patience stretched thin.

“I’ll stay here,” he murmurs. “So no one else walks in.”

You hesitate.

“I won’t look,” he adds. “Promise.”

That really makes you feel safer.

“Thanks.” You say sarcastically.

You grab clothes from your suitcase — casual, nothing too fancy — and get dressed as fast as you can, hands fumbling with the buttons.

You’re almost finished when you hear him again.

“You looked beautiful this morning,” he says softly, not turning around. “Still do.”

“Thank you.” you say softly, it would usually make your stomach flip, a compliment from someone as handsome as him, but instead it made you uneasy.

The walk to the dining room feels like moving underwater.

The hallway stretches too long, too soft. Sunlight spills through tall windows in golden smears. The air smells like old wood, linen, and something sweet burning faintly beneath it — like a candle left too long lit. It felt like a dream,
because there’s no way this is actually happening, right?

You drift.

Feet barely touching the floor. Breath shallow.

Dick’s just a step behind you — too close for comfort.

You don’t have to look to know he’s staring. You can feel it. Like fingers brushing the back of your neck, like his presence is stitched into your shadow.

The dream frays when you step into the dining room.

They’re all already there. Waiting.

Bruce looks up from the head of the table, expression unreadable, but his eyes lock on yours like a vice.

Tim grins — wide, easy, too sharp. There’s something wolfish in it.

Jason doesn’t smile at all. He stares like he’s cataloguing your every breath.

Damian noticeably absent.

Cass only tilts her head, watching you with that strange softness she wears like armor — not emotion, but intent.

Your seat is already pulled out. Cass’s hand rests lightly on the back of the chair — a silent invitation. Or a command.

The smell of food hits you like a drug. Warm, familiar, perfect. Everything you like — nothing you’ve ever mentioned.

You sit, slowly.

The cushion is warm. Someone was here before you.

“Good morning,” Bruce says, voice smooth, almost kind. “You’re right on time.”

“Sleep well?” Cass asks, twirling a fork between her fingers. Her eyes don’t leave your face — not even when she smiles. “You looked real cozy.”

Dick takes the seat beside you. His thigh brushes yours. He doesn’t move away.

“Hungry?” he asks. His voice is low, careful. He places a plate in front of you, already full.

Dick pours your drink without being asked. His hand brushes yours as he sets the glass down. The contact is intentional.

You stare at the plate. Steam curls up in delicate ribbons. You can’t remember the last time you were this hungry.

You can’t remember the last time you felt this watched.

Bruce leans forward slightly. His tone is gentle, but every word weighs heavy.

“I hope everything is to your liking.”

You try to swallow. The air tastes like syrup. You’re sinking into something warm and sweet and slow, and it’s wrapping around your limbs like a velvet vice.

And still —

You feel their eyes on you.

Not protective. Not polite.

Possessive. Fixated. Devouring.

Every bite you take is met with approval. Quiet smiles. Subtle nods.

Tim watches your hands. Cass watches your lips. Dick watches your eyes.

Jason watches everyone else.

You wonder if they can hear your heartbeat.

You wonder if they like that they can.

After breakfast you attempt to quickly make a retreat back to your room, giving an excuse of wanting to pack things and needing to think, which of course sets the boys off, Tim clings to, nails dig into your arm like a snake's teeth in its prey. His eyes look wild with worry and a bit of confusion.

“You’re leaving already, you just got here!” His voice comes out louder than what was probably intended, desperation laced every word. You look down, biting back the disdain you feel at the action, forcing a smile as you try and pull
his nails out of your skin.

“Of course not,” You say, voice shaky as you pull up more frantically on his hands, worried it’ll draw blood soon.

Cass, thankfully comes up to Tim, smacking the back of his head lightly and bringing him out of whatever haze he was in, Tim snaps back to reality, letting go of your arm, indents if his nails imprint into the soft skin of your arm.

Her hand drifts to rest where Tim’s hand just was, her fingers are light on your elbow as she murmurs something you can’t make out — her tone too sweet, too steady. It almost makes your skin crawl worse than Tim’s panic did.

You smile — brittle — and step back, pulse rattling under your skin like a trapped insect.

“I’m just going to put things away, I mean” you say quickly, not meeting their eyes. “Long trip and I didn’t get a chance to finish last night, y’know? I just… need a second.”

They don’t believe you.

Cass tilts her head, watching you the way a housecat watches a trembling bird. Tim’s hand twitches toward you again, but you’re already turning — brisk, polite, holding your breath until you're up the stairs and out of the hallway,
shutting your bedroom door with a soft click.

Then you exhale.

Your back hits the wood, eyes fluttering shut.

God.

What is this?

The grunge-haze over everything — their stares, the way every word felt like a secret you weren’t in on. The way they all touched you like you were something soft, a possession. Something to be kept locked away.

Your skin burns in the places they’d held you.

You barely make it to the edge of the bed when the knock comes.

Three soft taps.

Then silence.

You don’t answer. Not right away.

But the door creaks open anyway.

“Fuck” you think mentally, of course you forgot to lock it in a rush.

Bruce steps in like he owns the room — the house — the air between your lungs. He’s in a dark sweater, sleeves rolled, jaw tight. He doesn’t speak for a long time.

Just… looks at you.

Like this moment means something.

“I know it’s a lot,” he says finally, voice low and smooth. “The transition. The move. But you’ll adjust.”

You blink.

“…The move?”

He nods once. Steps closer.

“You’re not going back to Texas or Virginia."

It’s not a question. Or a suggestion. His words held a finality that made your stomach do flips and a cold sweat break out across your body.

Your breath catches. “Bruce, I—”

“You belong here,” he says gently, interrupting. “With me. With us.”

He reaches forward — brushing a strand of hair from your face the same way he did that first night. Only this time, his fingers trail lower… to your jaw, your throat. His thumb rests just under your chin, tilting your face up.

You want to slap him, run and scream about how he’s psychotic and his deranged family can go fuck themselves.

But you don’t. You can’t.

Not just because he could probably snap your neck like a pencil if he really wanted to, but because you’re frozen in place, fear keeping your limbs rigid and your throat dry.

“I’ve already told Alfred to move your things into the master bedroom,” he says, as if announcing the weather. “You’ll be more comfortable there. Closer to me.”

Your mouth opens — but nothing comes out.

His eyes search your face, slowly. He squeezes his hands around you, not hard, but enough to bring you to your senses.

“I know this is new to you,” he continues, voice like velvet and heat and control, “but this is for the best. That school, you were too good for it, and those people didn’t deserve to have you in their presence.”

You try to pull your face from his grasp, but his hand tightens — this time harder.

Just enough to say: don’t.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he murmurs. “You feel it too. I can see it every time you look at me.”

Your chest is tight — lungs struggling to pull enough air. Everything is slow. Heavy. The scent of his cologne is suffocating.

“I’ll give you some time to settle in,” he adds, brushing his thumb along your bottom lip now. “But tonight… come to bed.”

He leans in and pauses with his mouth hovering just above yours, not in hesitation, but more like he’s savoring it. He lingers a second longer before connecting your mouths, his lips were wet against yours and in any other
circumstance you would’ve flung your arms around him and jumped his bones, but instead you felt hot tears prick your eyes as his tongue slid across your bottom lips before he pulls away entirely.

Composing himself he turns and walks out like it’s all settled.

The door clicks shut.

And the silence he leaves behind is deafening.

Later that night, after dinner that felt more like a performance than a meal — all glances and hushed words, forks scraping china and too many hands brushing yours — you’d excused yourself.

Feigning a headache, bidding all of them a goodnight in the nicest way you could manage.

They let you go.

Bruce said nothing. Just watched you leave, eyes following every step like he was memorizing your retreat.

Now, you sit in the master bathroom. Staring at your damp reflection in the fogged up mirror.

It’s the kind of room that was built for people who never raise their voices — all expensive silence and museum-like stillness. The floors are black marble, veined with gold. Tall mirrors are framed in soft antique brass, and the lighting is warm, flattering, like candlelight on velvet. The freestanding tub behind you is the size of a small pool, claw-footed and gleaming. A chandelier — an actual chandelier — glows faintly above, throwing warped gold reflections across the polished floor.

You look out of place.

Like a ghost that wandered into a palace and didn’t know how to leave.

Your robe — silk, deep forest green, complimentary of Bruce — clings to your damp skin, slipping off one shoulder. Your thighs are bare against the cold air. You can still feel the water from your shower dripping from the ends of your

hair, sliding down your back in cold, ticklish trails.

The brush moves slowly through your hair. Mechanical. You're not detangling so much as doing something. Anything so you don’t have to think of your mothers crying face and fathers frantic shouts as they try and find answers to
where you are in three months' time.

But you’re more trying to avoid thinking of the now, of what happens next.

You feel it like a pressure in your throat, thick and hot. The inevitable moment where you’ll hear the soft creak of the bedroom floorboards. The quiet rustle of his breath behind you.

You know he’s coming.

Because he always does.

And sure enough — like the house breathes him in before you can — he’s suddenly there.

Bruce enters without a word. Gliding across the marble floor with a practiced silence.

And just… appears in the reflection, like he always belonged there. Like he’s part of the manor itself — carved into its bones. Like an eighteenth century painting you fit perfectly into, a woman trapped.

He’s shirtless. Bare chest broad and golden in the warm light. Sleep shorts hang low on his hips exposing a V-line that would make most salivate, and his hair, for the first time, isn't perfect, (or perfectly imperfect), instead it curls
messily over his forehead.

You don’t say anything, but your grip tightens on the brush, like it's some kind of lifeline keeping you grounded.

He moves behind you, slow and sure. His footsteps are silent on the marble.

Your eyes track his reflection.

He doesn’t look at the robe. Or the way your legs are buckling slightly. He doesn’t even seem to notice the surroundings.

He only sees you.

He stops behind you, palms resting lightly on your shoulders, pressing his body against your back, framing you against himself. His skin is warm. His thumbs stroke over the silk slowly, thoughtfully — like he’s reading something written into the fabric.

Then, his lips find your bare shoulder.

Soft. Lingering.

You freeze your body tensing up until you're impossibly rigid..

He kisses higher — just beneath your jaw now. The heat of him floods your skin.

And still, you don’t move.

You can’t.

Not out of submission. Not out of want. But because the air has thickened again — like honey — like smoke. Like a dream where every movement feels delayed, uncertain.

“I’ve been waiting for this,” Bruce murmurs into your skin. His breath is warm. Wet. “For us.”

His reflection watches yours — his eyes fixed on you like a man in prayer.

“You belong here,” he says, almost too quietly, his teeth graze over your exposed skin. “You always did.”

His fingers slip under the robe’s collar, tracing the edge of your skin, not possessive — not yet — but reverent.

You don’t recognize the look in your own eyes in the mirror.

You look… gone. You can’t seem to recognize your own face.

Not melted or seduced or even scared — just lost. Disassociated. Like you’re watching this happen to someone else.

The brush falls from your hand with a dull clatter.

You open your mouth.

But nothing comes out.

Bruce hums, like that was answer enough.

His wandering hands drift lower, warm and insistent, while his mouth presses slow kisses into your cheek. His touch is deliberate — large, calloused hands slipping beneath the silk robe clinging to your damp skin. One hand pushes
the robe off your shoulder, baring your left breast to the cool manor air, the other gliding down your stomach with reverence, tugging loose the delicate sash that had been your last pretense of modesty.

What little safety the robe offered falls away like it was never there.

His left hand cups your exposed breast, fingers spreading, kneading the soft flesh while he pulls you back against him — harder this time, possessive. Like he wants to fold you into himself. Like he might if he could.

Bruce leans over you from behind, mouth hot against your jaw, nudging your face toward his. His stubble scratches lightly, and when he captures your lips, it’s all teeth and heat — biting softly, dragging his lower lip over yours until
your knees threaten to buckle. His right hand slides lower, fingers dipping into your panties. The slow pressure of his thumb begins its work over your clit, gentle circles that make your breath catch in your throat.

You try not to make a sound.

But you do. A soft, unwilling groan slips out.

He hears it — of course he does. He always does. And it only spurs him on.

Bruce touches you like he’s memorizing every inch, every reaction. Lips moving messily, wet and deep. His tongue tastes the corner of your mouth before he kisses you again, devouring and deliberate.

“We should move to the bed,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with arousal.

You meet his gaze in the mirror — and it’s obscene.

His hulking frame dwarfs yours, bare-chested and sweat-slick, muscles tensing with every breath. His skin is golden in the dim lighting, broad chest scattered with old scars, abs taut beneath the trail of dark hair that leads below the
waistband of his sleep shorts. He looks like sin incarnate. Like something ripped from a late-night daydream, all hunger and heat and ruin.

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

With practiced ease, he turns you toward him, scoops you into his arms, one arm beneath your thighs, the other firm against your back. You barely register the hallway blurring past before you're on the bed — your back sinking into

soft, perfumed sheets — and then he’s on you again.

His mouth crashes into yours, rough and needy, tongue sliding past your lips before you can breathe, before you can think. His cock grinds against your clothed sex — thick, hot, and insistent — as he ruts into you, letting out a low,
ragged groan at the contact.

You didn’t mean to.

But your hips twitch up, chasing friction. A sharp, humiliating moan slips free before you can swallow it.

Your body betrays you. Burning low in your stomach, pulsing heat between your legs. Slick soaking your panties, aching with want. You hate it. Hate how badly you want him to do it again.

He notices.

Of course he does.

Bruce pulls back just enough to slip his hand between you again. His fingers dive beneath your panties, thumb stroking over your clit with slow, practiced precision. His ring finger dips further — teasing your soaked entrance before
sliding back up to circle your bundle of nerves again.

“So wet for me.” His voice is lower now, more gravel than words, and it sends a shockwave through your body.

You can’t respond. Can’t breathe. You’re clutching the sheets, fingers curled so tight your knuckles ache.

In a few swift motions, he strips you both of the remaining barriers. Your panties, his shorts — gone.

And then he’s kissing you again, all-consuming, while he lines himself up. The head of his cock slides against your folds, gathering your slick before nudging at your entrance. You groan, louder this time, head tipping back into the
pillow.

Bruce moans into your mouth as he presses in, slowly, carefully, but not stopping — not hesitating.

A whine breaks in your throat as he stretches you open, inch by inch. It burns, but it’s good. It’s too much. It’s everything.

Your hips move on their own, needing more, needing him deeper. Shame curls in your gut.

He breaks the kiss, just long enough to look at you — really look.

His eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown, sweat beading at his temple. His cheeks are flushed, lips red from kissing, and there’s something wild in his gaze. He grips your hips, holding you still, thumbs pressing deep into your skin as he
slides in the rest of the way, thick and perfect and devastating.

“You take me so well.” His voice is raw, reverent.

And he doesn’t look away. Not once.

He watches himself disappear into you, watches the way your body tightens, how you whimper and writhe beneath him.

You try — you really do — to hold out. But the pressure builds too fast, too sharp. Your body clenches around him, your back arches, and a loud, unrestrained moan tears from your throat.

Bruce growls — deep and low — and fucks into you harder. His rhythm falters as he reaches his edge, hips stuttering, cock twitching inside you as he spills, hot and thick, filling you in messy, shuddering waves.

He collapses forward, pinning you to the bed, caging your body beneath his.

For a moment, it’s just breath. Heat. Sweat. Your body trembling.

He presses soft kisses to your jaw, your cheek, your hairline. Murmurs praises and promises in your ear.

“I’m so glad you’re home now,” he whispers. “It’s safer here. You’ll see. You’ll be happy.”

His arms wrap tight around you, dragging you into his chest. His face buries in your damp hair, holding you like something precious.

Like something won.

And you lie there.

Unblinking.

Unmoving.

And dread slowly replaces the warmth in your stomach.

Chapter Text

The first time you woke, it was to the weight of Bruce’s arm draped heavily over your waist, the steady rise and fall of his chest pressed against your back. The faint morning light spilled across the rich mahogany walls and heavy drapes, cutting through the dark like a blade. His breath was warm against the curve of your neck as he pressed a slow kiss to your shoulder — a ritual you’d learned was as habitual for him as breathing.
He murmured something low, a rumble you barely caught until he leaned closer, lips brushing your ear.
“I’ll be gone until this evening. Wayne Enterprises business. Meetings I can’t skip.”
You hummed, keeping your eyes shut, pretending it didn’t matter. The mattress shifted as he reluctantly pulled away, the sound of him dressing in the dim light echoing through the quiet. His cologne lingered long after the soft click of the door closed behind him.
You let yourself sink back under, chasing the fragile peace of dreamless sleep.
It didn’t last.
The second time you woke, it was to the sound of the sheets rustling — the kind of sound you wouldn’t have noticed if not for the creeping awareness crawling up your spine. Your eyes opened to see Dick Grayson, crawling toward you on all fours like a cat stalking prey, the early morning glow catching in his dark hair.
“Morning,” he said with a grin that felt too intimate for someone who wasn’t supposed to be in your bed. He slipped under the covers without hesitation, his body warm and solid against yours as he hooked an arm around your waist.
You went stiff. His touch made your skin crawl, bile threatening to rise in your throat, but you didn’t flinch — you’d learned long ago that showing discomfort only made them linger longer.
“Comfortable?” he murmured against the back of your head, pressing a kiss into your hair, then another along the side of your neck.
You forced your voice steady. “Oh, totally. Nothing like waking up to find you breaking and entering.”
He chuckled, unbothered, as if your sarcasm was an invitation. “The door wasn’t locked. Besides, Bruce isn’t here. Thought you might be lonely.”
You didn’t answer. You could go to Bruce if Dick ever crossed too far — he’d put a stop to it. Not because he’d care about you being uncomfortable, but because he thought of you as his. And in this place, that was the closest thing you had to safety.
Dick’s arm tightened around your waist, his thumb rubbing slow circles against your hip. “You’re warm,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.
You swallowed down the urge to tell him exactly what his warmth felt like — a trap, a weight you couldn’t shake. Instead, you lay still, staring at the canopy above and counting the seconds until this day ended.

You tried to pretend you’d drifted back to sleep, counting the muffled ticks of the grandfather clock in the hall. Dick’s hand had stilled at your hip, but you could feel his gaze on you — the kind that lingered long enough to make your skin itch.
A knock, sharp but brief, broke the silence. The door opened before either of you answered.
“Breakfast,” Cassandra announced, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe. She had a lopsided smile that never quite reached her eyes — the kind of expression that made you feel like she was reading every thought you didn’t want her to.
Her gaze slid lazily down the length of you before she stepped inside, her stride unhurried. “You’re slow,” she said, voice lilting almost playfully. Without asking, she perched on the edge of the bed and let her hand trail up your calf in a slow, deliberate stroke.
You pulled your leg back. “Morning to you too,” you muttered, your voice dry as bone.
Dick’s head snapped toward her, his grip at your waist tightening. “I’ll bring her down in a second,” he hissed through his teeth, the softness gone from his tone, replaced with an annoyed one.
Cass tilted her head, unfazed. “Sharing is polite,” she teased, her hand hovering just above your knee now.
“Not with you,” he shot back, sharp enough to cut.
For a moment, they just stared at each other — siblings locked in a silent, simmering argument you wanted no part of. Then Cass gave a little shrug and slid off the bed, her grin curling wider as she backed toward the door.
“Don’t be long,” she said, and the click of the door shutting was far too loud in the morning quiet.
You exhaled, trying not to make it sound like relief.

After breakfast, you slipped out before anyone could suggest spending time together. Not that they ever phrased it like that — with them, it was always follow me, or worse, stay here with me before being locked in a vice grip hug that could rival a bear trap.
The east wing was quieter, far from the constant footfalls and muffled voices that made the manor feel smaller than it really was. You drifted down a hallway lined with oil portraits and half-forgotten sculptures until you found one of the smaller libraries — high windows, the air faintly smelling of dust and old paper.
Perfect.
You ran a finger along the spines of books without reading the titles, just savoring the stillness. Your plan was simple: sit, read something you wouldn’t care about losing interest in, and wait out the hours until Bruce came home. Or better yet, stay hidden and die of hunger. Whichever came first, you supposed.
You were halfway through scanning the nearest shelf when you heard the faint tch from one of the armchairs.
Damian sat slouched in the far corner, legs sprawled in a way that made the chair seem too small for him. A sketchpad rested on his knee, his pencil moving in quick, sharp strokes. He didn’t bother looking up.
“Oh,” you said, hesitating in the doorway. “Didn’t realize anyone was in here.”
“That’s because you don’t realize much,” he replied, voice flat. His eyes flicked up only long enough to confirm it was you before returning to his page.
You stared at him for a beat, then stepped inside anyway. “Nice to see you too.”
“I doubt you care.” His tone wasn’t even hostile — just matter-of-fact, like he was stating the weather. “You’re only here because you’re hiding from the others and they’re too stupid to think to look here.”
You pulled a book from the shelf, not even checking the title. “And what does that make you? My safe zone?”
Damian gave a small, humorless laugh. “Hardly. I’m not interested in whatever game you’re playing with them. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just another one of Father’s… acquisitions.” His lip curled slightly at the word. “A dumb college girl who’s too naïve to realize she’s only here because he finally lost it and needs something other than Batman to obsess over.”
Your grip on the book tightened, but you forced a smile. “Glad we’re clear, then.”
“Good. Now be quiet.” He went back to his sketching, already forgetting you were there — or pretending to.
You sank into a chair on the opposite side of the room, the weight of his words hanging heavier than the book in your hands.

You were halfway through absentmindedly reading when Damian’s voice slid into the quiet like a blade.
“I was looking over Father’s files on you,” he said, almost casually, not bothering to glance up from his sketchpad. “You had a boyfriend. For years.”
The air left your lungs in a slow, involuntary exhale. “That’s… none of your business.”
“I disagree,” he replied, pencil scratching steadily. “The name’s all over your old socials, photographs, text records. Father’s very thorough. The rest of them haven’t seen the file yet, but…” He paused, letting the silence stretch before lifting his gaze. “…I could always share.”
You felt the bottom drop out of your stomach.
Damian watched you, assessing, like a cat toying with an insect. “Don’t panic. I’m not going to tell them. Yet. But you should know… they wouldn’t take it kindly. Especially Grayson.”
A faint burn started in your throat, the sting of bile you fought to swallow back. “What do you want?”
“Nothing. I just like seeing you squirm.” He returned to his sketch as if the conversation were over, his voice almost bored. “Still, you might want to think about what happens if someone else finds out. You wouldn’t want… accidents.”
Your grip on the book tightened, nails digging into the cover until your knuckles ached. You could picture Dick’s face if he knew — the shift from that easy smile to something darker, more possessive. And Bruce… Bruce wouldn’t stop them if they decided your boyfriend was a threat.
You looked at Damian one last time, but he was already drawing again, entirely at ease, knowing he’d planted the seed and left it to grow in you. God, you hated that little bastard.
You’d managed to keep your expression steady in front of Damian, but the moment you were out of the library your legs moved on their own, carrying you down the east wing’s quieter halls. The morning light here was softer, muted by dust-heavy curtains, but it didn’t calm the jittering pulse in your veins. You didn’t even realize you’d slowed until a voice slid in behind you.
“Didn’t think I’d catch you over here.”
Tim.
You turned, already bracing yourself. He was leaning in the doorway you’d just passed, arms crossed, eyes locked on you with an intensity that felt like it peeled through skin.
“You always drift off to the parts of the manor with the fewer cameras,” he said casually, pushing off the frame and stepping closer. “Not that it matters. I’ve still got plenty.”
Your throat felt dry. “Plenty… what?”
His lips curved, faint and sly. “Pictures. Videos. Moments.” His gaze lingered too long on the neckline of your shirt, then traveled deliberately down. “The kind you don’t even know I’ve taken. You have this habit of curling your toes when you’re reading, did you know that? Or the way your skirt rides up when you sit on the third step of the west staircase? God, that one’s perfect lighting in the mornings.”
Bile crept up the back of your throat.
“You should see my room,” he went on, ignoring your stiff posture. “It’s like… a shrine, I guess. Every shirt you’ve left behind, every coffee mug you’ve touched. I’ve even got that lipstick from the first night you came here. It still smells like you.” His voice dipped, warmer, almost reverent. You had wondered what happened to that lipstick. “I like knowing I have pieces of you. Real ones.”
“Do you hear yourself?” you managed, trying to keep the disgust from trembling into fear.
“Every word,” he said smoothly. He was close now — not touching, but close enough you could feel the heat of him. His eyes flicked up to yours. “And every sound you’ve ever made.”
The implication made your stomach twist violently.
Tim tilted his head like he was considering something, then smiled again, softer this time, more dangerous. “You should smile more. It looks better on camera.”
You turned and walked — not too fast, not enough to give him the satisfaction — but his gaze clung to your back the entire way down the hall. You could feel it, the way you could feel a hand pressed between your shoulder blades.
You slipped into the first empty room you could find — dark, cool, and lined with high shelves of untouched crystal and silver. You shut the door behind you, leaning back against it, forcing your breaths to slow. The silence was a balm, fragile and temporary, but you clung to it anyway.
“Rough morning?”
The voice was low, easy, almost amused. Your head snapped toward it.
Jason was sitting in one of the wingback chairs by the window, book in hand, the late noon light cutting across the sharp lines of his face. He looked… normal. Normal in a way no one else here ever did.
You exhaled, letting some of the tension bleed from your shoulders. “Didn’t know you were home.”
“Just got in,” he said, setting the book aside. “Place still feels like a zoo?”
“That’s one word for it.”
He studied you a moment longer before leaning forward, forearms resting on his knees. “You look like you’ve been cornered.”
You didn’t answer, but your silence must’ve said enough, because he tilted his head, considering you. “You need space? Take it. Hell, I can drive you somewhere if you want.”
You blinked, unsure you’d heard him right. “Now?”
“Yeah. Now.”
It was reckless, impossible — Bruce would lose his mind — but the thought of getting out, even just for a little while, was intoxicating. You found yourself nodding before you could talk yourself out of it.
Jason’s smile was slow, almost boyish. “Good. C’mon.”
The next thing you knew, he was holding the door open for you, guiding you down a quieter back staircase. His hand brushed the small of your back once, just enough to steer you without seeming forceful, and you told yourself it was nothing.
“Don’t tell the others,” he murmured as you reached the garage. “They wouldn’t understand.”
You thought he meant the fresh air, the freedom — but there was something in the way he looked at you when he said it that made you feel like you’d just agreed to something else entirely.
The city felt sharper on the back of Jason’s bike — every gust of wind cutting across your skin, every change in speed making your grip on his jacket tighten. He’d shoved a helmet into your hands without a word before you left the manor, and now the world was a blur of traffic, sunlight, and the low, steady growl of the engine beneath you.
“Not bad, huh?” His voice carried back over his shoulder as he turned onto a quieter street.
You nodded, the movement small inside the helmet.
He took you somewhere you never would’ve guessed — a cramped little diner wedged between a pawn shop and a laundromat. He parked the bike at the curb and pulled the keys free, slinging his helmet onto the seat before jerking his head toward the door.
Inside, the air was warm, the smell of frying butter and coffee syrup wrapping around you like a blanket. Jason ordered for both of you, and when the plates came, the food was so good it made your stomach hurt from eating too fast.
“You eat like you’ve been starved,” Jason said, one brow raised as he cut into his own stack of pancakes.
You chewed, swallowing before answering. “I guess I didn’t realize how much I’ve been… holding back. At the manor, I’m never really relaxed enough to—” You caught yourself, shrugging. “You know.”
Jason smirked, leaning back in the booth. “Yeah. I know.” He took a sip of coffee, eyes never leaving you. “They’re… intense. Even for me. And I’m used to their crap.”
You let out a humorless laugh. “Intense? Try suffocating. I can’t even shower without worrying someone watching from the shadows.”
He tilted his head, studying you like he was weighing something. “Sounds like you need more time out here. Away from them.”
You poked at your eggs with your fork. “I used to have that. Before all this. I had this tiny apartment near campus — crappy water pressure, paper-thin walls, but it was mine. I could walk to the corner store at midnight, chill with my friends, whatever I wanted. Now it’s like… I’m always being watched.”
Jason’s expression softened in that practiced, steady way that made you want to trust him. “Yeah, I get it. Freedom’s hard to come by in that house.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The sounds of clinking silverware and the low hum of conversation filled the space.
You finally said it — the thought you’d been holding onto since the first night you’d arrived. “Sometimes I think about just… leaving. Disappearing. I mean, it’s not like they’d let me, but—”
Jason’s mouth twitched in something halfway between a smile and something else. “Careful. You say that to the wrong one, you’ll never see daylight again.”
You stared down at your plate, picking at a piece of toast. “Yeah. I know.”
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “But you say it to me? Maybe I’d help.”
Something in his tone made your stomach tighten. It wasn’t a promise, exactly — but it was enough to make you look up and meet his eyes.

Jason’s bike roared back to life after the meal, the vibration running up your legs where they hugged the seat. The ride to his place was shorter than you expected, winding through streets you didn’t recognize until he slowed and pulled up beside a weathered brick building.
It wasn’t the dingy hideout you’d imagined — no peeling wallpaper or flickering lights. His apartment sat above a tattoo shop, the hall smelling faintly of ink and cleaning alcohol.
“Home sweet home,” Jason muttered, unlocking the door.
Inside, it was… lived-in. Scuffed hardwood floors, mismatched furniture, a leather jacket tossed over the couch, and a half-finished beer sweating on the coffee table. It didn’t have the manicured, suffocating perfection of the manor. It felt human.
Which almost made you want to relax. Almost.
Jason tossed his keys onto the counter and nodded toward the couch. “Water? Coffee?”
“Water’s fine,” you said, sitting where he gestured.
He poured you a glass, handed it over, then dropped into the armchair across from you. The TV murmured in the background, but his gaze was the real weight in the room — heavy, unblinking.
“You don’t gotta look so tense,” he said, a faint smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “I’m not gonna bite.”
You forced a dry laugh. “That’s… not really the problem.”
Something flickered in his eyes. “Yeah, I know. The others make it hard to breathe sometimes.”
Your fingers tightened around the glass. “Sometimes? Jason, they’re insane.”
“Oh, I see it,” he said, leaning back. “Doesn’t mean I’m better. But I’m not gonna lie about it.”
That bluntness made your chest tighten. “Before all this, I had… a life. Classes. Friends. I could go anywhere without feeling like someone was two steps behind me.”
“Sounds nice.” His voice was even, but you couldn’t read the look in his eyes.
“It was. I used to run just to clear my head. Cross-country. Could go ten miles without thinking about it.” You swallowed, setting the glass down. “Now I can’t even go to the mailbox let alone outside.”
Before Jason could reply, his phone buzzed loud against the counter. He glanced at the screen, and you caught the name — Dick.
Jason’s smirk was gone. “Yeah?” A pause. “I’ve got her. She’s fine. No, I’m not—” He rolled his eyes. “I’ll call you back.”
The second he hung up, it rang again. Same name. Jason sighed. “They’re not gonna shut up until I deal with this.” He stood, muttering, “Hang on,” and disappeared down the short hallway toward his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.
Your pulse kicked hard. This was it — maybe your only shot.
No bag. No phone. Just you, your shoes, and lungs that still remembered what it felt like to burn. You moved quietly to the door, each step light and measured, your ears straining for movement from the hallway.
The second you hit the stairwell, you didn’t just run — you launched.

The stairwell spat you out onto the street, and you didn’t think — you ran.
You tried to pretend it was like before. Like cross-country practice after school, when the world was just grass under your shoes, not pavement that scraped skin if you fell. You imagined the air was clean, not choked with exhaust, and that when you finished, your parents would be waiting, your friends cheering, your boyfriend somewhere in the crowd.
For half a block, you almost believed it.
Then the city swallowed you.
You pushed through clusters of pedestrians, shoulders knocking into strangers. Some cursed, others stumbled, but you didn’t stop to apologize. You were too busy running through traffic lights, cutting between cars when the light was red, ignoring the blare of horns.
The gold light of early evening painted long shadows across the street, but you could already feel the clock ticking down to nightfall — the hour when they came out. And you didn’t have to wonder if the family knew you were gone. Jason’s call to Dick would have lit the alarm, and now Tim would no doubt be hacking into traffic cameras, tracking every intersection you passed. Tracking you like an animal.
So you ran harder.
You ducked your head when you spotted cameras mounted to lampposts, sprinting past the blind spots you knew had to exist. You took turns without slowing, every step a gamble — could be losing them, could be heading right into their arms.
No bag. No phone. Just the small weight of coins you’d palmed from Jason’s counter when he wasn’t looking.
By the time your breath started to burn, you saw it — wedged against the boarded-up side of a convenience store, glass cracked and graffiti curling over the frame — a payphone.
You skidded to a stop, chest heaving. It was dark now, you quickly slid into the safety of the phone booth. The receiver was grimy, the cord twisted, but you didn’t care. You shoved the coins into the slot and dialed the number for the university, fingers trembling so badly you almost missed a digit.
One ring. Two. A tired voice answered: “Registrar’s office.”
“It’s— It’s me. I’m—” Your voice cracked. “I need help. Please. I’m in Gotham and I— I can’t get home—” Your voice is frantic, suddenly forgetting all common sense.
Static buzzed. Then: “Who is this? This is the registrars o—”
“I don’t have time, just—” You glanced over your shoulder, heart slamming. The street was empty, but the gold light was bleeding toward orange now, the sun sinking. “Please. My name is Y/N and I’m a sophomore at the university? I’ve been abducted and I think the police here wouldn’t help can you call—”
The woman interrupted. “Gotham PD won’t—”
“NO,” you snapped, scanning the rooftops. “Just— please. Help, I’m—”
BANG.
The booth shuddered, glass rattling in its frame. Something heavy had slammed onto the roof hard enough to make the metal buckle above your head.
You screamed — high, raw — the sound tearing down the open line. Your free hand slapped at the door, shoving hard, but the weight above made the hinges groan.
The voice on the other end was shouting something urgent, but you couldn’t hear past the pounding of your own blood. Shadows slid down the glass, swallowing the light from the street lamps.
And then — he dropped.
The door ripped open, and the booth filled with him. Towering, broad-shouldered, the black cowl gleaming under the streetlight before the door slammed shut behind him.
“NO!” you screamed again, lunging for the gap, but his arm was already around you, pulling you back against the armored wall of his chest. You kicked, clawed, your nails catching in the seams of his gloves, your fists slamming into unyielding plates.
A gloved hand wrenched your jaw open, and cold liquid splashed over your tongue. You gagged instantly, trying to spit it out, but his fingers clamped your mouth shut. You thrashed harder, shaking your head, but the bitter burn was already sliding down your throat.
The fight started bleeding out of you in pieces — first in your hands, your fingers loosening against his wrist no matter how much you willed them to hold. Then your knees began to weaken, refusing to brace no matter how you ordered them to.
Panic spiked, white-hot, as you realized you were losing the fight against your own body. Every kick slowed, every twist dulled. Your vision swam, the edges darkening, his masked face the only thing clear in your sight.
Your final shove was little more than a twitch. He caught you as you sagged, the weight of your limbs no longer your own.
You’d wondered if he’d come for you.
Now you knew.

You came to like surfacing through warm water.
Not rushing. Not panicking. Just… rising.
Everything slow. Everything heavy.
No glass rattling. No roar of engines. No sudden weight pinning you down.
Just stillness.
The kind of quiet that makes you aware of your own breath.
Tick… tick… tick… somewhere far away.
Cedar. Leather.
That cologne that lived in the hallways, in the fibers of your clothes, in your hair. In you.
Bruce.
Your eyes stayed closed, but the shape of the room was already there — tall windows, high ceiling, the deep weight of the four-poster bed beneath you. The sheets were warm, almost too warm, like they wanted to hold you still.
Bruce’s room. Your own personal hell.
The thought curled in your stomach like a fist.
You pushed the blanket off, but your hands didn’t quite listen. Fingers slow, heavy. Your legs followed, swinging down to meet the floor with all the grace of a marionette whose strings had been cut. The sedative still clung to you — not sharp anymore, but thick, like fog in your veins.
You stood, or tried to. The carpet swayed gently, the walls leaning in and out. The lamp’s light spread golden over the rug, but everything beyond it was swallowed in shadow. No figure in the chair by the window. No sound of someone breathing too close.
Empty.
The door was there — dark oak, tall as you remembered. You knew the distance. Knew the number of steps it would take.
Your feet found it almost on their own.
Brass knob, cool under your palm.
Twist.
It stopped halfway.
Click.
You tried again. Harder.
The latch rattled but didn’t give.
A small sound escaped you — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.
You pressed your forehead to the wood. It was solid. Cold.
Locked.
Of course it was locked.
Maybe he was in the Cave.
Maybe he was just on the other side.
You stumble back to the plush warmth of the bed. For a while, you lay there, eyes half-lidded, watching the molding above the bed curl and spiral in quiet patterns you didn’t remember noticing before. Your breathing came slow and shallow, like each inhale had to climb through syrup. The thought came — the door — but it didn’t push you upright. It only lingered, soft and shapeless, dissolving as soon as it touched the edges of memory.
If you’d been clear-headed, maybe it would have startled you. Maybe you’d already be on your feet.
But clarity felt a long way off.
You remembered the weight of him on the phone booth roof, how his arms had locked you still, how the air had left your lungs. Even in the haze, the ghost of that pressure stayed, stitched into your muscles. The sedative kept you sunk too deep, your limbs heavy and warm in a way that made the idea of moving… illogical. Even now you feel its effects.
It would be stupid to try again. To run again.
Not yet.
So you stayed. Staring at the shadows shifting slow along the walls, listening to the silence swell and collapse in strange waves. Time folded in on itself — seconds dragging until they snapped, whole minutes vanishing into nothing. You could’ve sworn it had only been a breath when the sound came.
A slow, deliberate click.
The lock turning.
The door opened. Bruce stepped in, shadow first, then the tired lines of his face. His shoulders had sloped with exhaustion, the black of his sweater rumpled, the faintest edge of stubble catching the low light. He didn’t look at you until he shut the door — and then he crossed the room without pause, like gravity had decided where he belonged.
You noticed the navy of the sky beyond the window now, the kind of blue that clung to the hours before midnight. That meant—
But he was already here, already untying boots, setting them aside. Climbing in without hesitation. The mattress shifted, the heat of him spilling against you before you could shift away. An arm found your waist and closed the gap until your spine fit to his chest. His breath moved over the shell of your ear, slow and steady.
“It’s the next night,” he murmured, like he was telling you the weather. “You’ve been under since yesterday. The sedative is strong… I didn’t want you hurting yourself.”
The words slid into you without resistance, like warm water.
“I spoke with them,” he continued, voice quiet, almost tender. “Jason… he’s still finding his place here. He forgets what’s best for the family. Taking you out like that—” A slow inhale. “You were scared. You didn’t know what was happening. That’s all it was.” He said it in a tired way, like he was trying to convince himself of it and not that his kids were all insane and you took a chance at escape. Jason may have been your safe haven for comfort, but he was still complicit in your confinement.
His hand pressed flat to your sternum, feeling the steady pulse there, as if confirming you. The arm around you drew tighter, until you couldn’t tell where your breath ended and his began.
“You’re here now,” he said, almost to himself. “That’s what matters.”

Chapter Text

You stirred awake to the quiet rustle of fabric and the low murmur of Bruce moving around the room.

Your eyelids fluttered open, heavy and reluctant, just enough to catch the soft morning light filtering through the heavy drapes. The pale beams stretched long, casting shadows across the dark wood paneling — the same walls that had witnessed your slow unraveling.

The air smelled faintly of cedar and leather — his scent, constant and suffocating even now.

Bruce stood near the window, pulling on his shirt with that practiced ease, the taut muscles beneath his pale skin moving smoothly under the fabric. The subtle rise and fall of his broad shoulders felt like a reminder — of what you’d lost here, what you’d been forced to surrender. Your throat tightened, but the exhaustion was stronger. You parted your lips without thinking, barely a whisper, as he turned your way.

His eyes held a quiet tiredness, but there was a gentleness there, and before you could protest, he crossed the room, pressing a brief, almost tender kiss to your temple. You didn’t resist — too drained, too hollowed out by the lingering haze. The softness felt strangely out of place, like a flicker of warmth in a room that was supposed to be cold.

Then, a soft, measured knock broke the fragile silence. Bruce’s brow furrowed as he cracked the door open just enough to let in Alfred’s calm, deliberate voice.
“Master Bruce, pardon the interruption. There are visitors at the front door asking for you.”
Bruce’s jaw clenched ever so slightly. His tired gaze flicked back to you — a silent apology, or maybe a warning. “Thank you, Alfred. I’ll be down shortly.”

His voice was low, rough but careful, like he was trying not to shatter the stillness. “I have to go downstairs. There’s something I need to check.”

You nodded wordlessly, your mind still foggy, your body too sluggish to argue or plead. The heavy oak door swung closed with a soft click, swallowing the last thread of warmth in the room. Silence settled like dust.
Minutes dragged on, the quiet so deep you could hear your own breath. You lay still, muscles aching, heart thudding erratically beneath your ribs. The sedative’s weight still clung to you, dulling the sharp edges of fear, but beneath it all, a restless pulse stirred.

Then, faint voices began to filter through the hallway — low, urgent, but unmistakably real. Your pulse quickened, anxiety stirring beneath the haze. They were close. Too close.

Something inside you tensed, a flicker of resolve breaking through the fog. You couldn’t just lie here. You needed to know. You pushed yourself up, legs shaky but willing, and crossed the room, each step slow but determined. You pressed your ear to the cold, unforgiving wood of the door, straining to catch the words, to make sense of the murmurs that twisted through the air.

But before you could piece anything together, the door creaked open.

Dick stood there, his presence immediate and unyielding, eyes sharp and unreadable as they locked onto you. Your breath hitched, surprise slicing through the haze.
“Hey,” his voice was calm, firm — but it carried an edge, a quiet command. “No need to be eavesdropping.”

You blinked, caught off guard, stepping back, but refusing to look away.

Something about the way he stood—so steady, so controlled—made your chest tighten with a mix of fear and frustration.
Behind him, the hallway framed more voices — low, measured. Bruce’s voice, unmistakable, and then another — your parents. Reality slammed into you with icy weight.

Dick closed the door quietly, moving closer, his calm presence pressing in on you like the manor itself. “Bruce asked me to keep you company while he’s busy,” he said, flat but laced with something darker, “Let’s keep things calm, yeah?”

Your heart hammered against your ribs like a frantic prisoner. The walls of this place closed in again, suffocating and unyielding. You nodded slowly, exhaustion and dread folding over you like a heavy shroud.

Trapped.

Not just in this room — but in everything that had become your life.

And for now, there was no escaping it.
You blinked, caught off guard, stepping back but refusing to look away. Panic surged, raw and urgent — your throat tightening as you opened your mouth to scream, to demand answers, to call for help. But before a sound could escape, Dick’s hand shot up, clamping firmly over your mouth. The rough pressure muffled your protest, cutting off the air like a vise.

His other hand pressed against your back, pushing you hard against the cold, unforgiving wall nearby. The wood pressed into your spine, solid and unyielding, pinning you in place. His gaze locked onto yours, steady and unblinking — a silent warning that resistance was useless.

Your breath hitched beneath his grip, panic twisting your insides, but there was no fight left in you. Only the sinking realization: you were utterly trapped.

Dick leaned in, his breath hot and heavy, brushing against the bare skin just beneath your ear. Your eyes snapped wide open, panic flooding through you like icy water, your heart hammering so violently it seemed to shake your ribs.

The air felt thick and suffocating, every shallow breath catching in your throat as the distant murmur of voices drifted up from downstairs — your parents, reminding you of everything you wanted to flee.

Your gaze locked with his, and in that terrifying moment, you saw what lurked behind those dark eyes. His pupils were blown wide, black and shining — not with desperation or fear like yours — but with a fierce, feral hunger. A fire burned beneath his calm exterior, possessive and insatiable, igniting a cold shiver that crawled up your spine and settled deep in your belly. Where you felt caged and small, Dick’s eyes gleamed with dark, relentless desire, like a predator savoring its prey.

You tried to scream, a sharp, desperate sound clawing at your throat — but before it could escape, his hand shot up, rough and unyielding, clamping firmly over your mouth. The rough texture of his palm pressed hard against your lips, muffling your terror. The cold, unforgiving wall pressed into your back, unforgiving and close, every muscle in your body tensed and trembling.

His body pinned you tight, heat radiating through your clothes and sinking deep into your skin, a burning pressure that made your pulse thunder louder. The sharp scent of woodsmoke, sweat, and something darker—something dangerously close—wrapped around you, thick and suffocating. His breath, ragged and warm, stirred the fine hairs at your neck, sending an involuntary shudder through your frame.
His fingers dug slightly into your cheek as he held you, the pressure firm, almost claiming. His voice dropped to a low, predatory whisper, every word sliding over your skin like a knife. “You’re not going anywhere,” he murmured, his hand still sealing your mouth, his grip unrelenting.

“Not without me.”

A cold dread seeped into your bones, icy and raw, as your body trembled under the weight of his hold. Your limbs felt heavy and powerless, the fierce pounding of your heart drowned out by the thunderous beat of helplessness. His obsession wasn’t some shadow lurking in the dark anymore — it was here, crushing, real, and terrifying. In those wild, hungry eyes, you understood with brutal clarity: there was no escape.
Not now.
Not ever.

Dick’s hand loosened at last, though not without lingering. His fingers ghosted over your lips, slow and deliberate, as though memorizing the shape of them. His gaze followed the movement with rapt attention — not casual, but almost reverent, as if touching you was some sacred act.

There was a roughness in the way he held you, the restrained force of someone obeying limits they didn’t set themselves. You knew — with a strange, bitter clarity — that if it were up to him, he’d smother you in roses and silk, keep you pressed beneath him until the day he died, lips stealing your breath until you had none left to give. But he wouldn’t.
Not while Bruce still claimed you as his.

It was twisted, but you almost found his loyalty, his devotion, to Bruce… endearing. In the same way you could pity a wild animal that had only ever known life in a cage. None of this was really theirs — the kids. They were echoes of him. Learned behavior wrapped in finely tailored suits. Bruce had shaped them, molded them, and if this was the result… well, “parenting” was hardly the word you’d use.
His grip softened on your cheeks, palm sliding down the curve of your jaw, tracing the slope of your throat before settling, lingering far too long at your waist. His touch was weighted — not in force, but in intent — and his eyes wandered in a way that made your skin feel too tight.

You held his gaze, but inside you were screaming. You wanted to run, to shove past him and tear down the stairs before he could blink. You wanted to reach your parents, who you knew — knew — were somewhere in this house, their voices faint but real. But no matter how gentle his hands, how carefully they tried to “tame” you like a half-feral pet, you couldn’t love them. You wouldn’t. Not when you were a possession on display — something they could admire, touch, take, as though you belonged to them.

And even if you tried… what were your odds? Outrun a vigilante? Someone trained to dismantle armed men twice his size? You’d have to cripple him in less than a second, and there wasn’t a weapon in reach.

So you let him guide you — step by reluctant step — toward the bed. He eased you down onto the edge and moved in, caging you with his arms, a lover’s embrace that was really a lock and key.

“Bruce talked about you a lot,” he murmured, voice muffled against your hair as he inhaled deeply, greedily.

“What?” you breathed. But your mind was already scattering, spiraling — what was Bruce telling your parents? Were they still searching? Had they been convinced you were gone for good?

“After he came back from Virginia, he told me about you,” Dick continued, his voice quiet, almost dreamlike. “How smart. How full of life. How beautiful.” His lips brushed your cheek in a fleeting kiss.

“I was sent for surveillance,” he said, mouth pressing lower, to your jaw. “At first, I didn’t understand what Bruce saw. But then—” a kiss at your neck, “—I saw you. The real you. Your care. Your love.” His fingers swept your hair over your shoulder, lips finding the newly bared skin, teeth grazing in a delicate threat. “Your body,” he added, voice dipping into something husky, dangerous.
The heat of his arousal was impossible to miss. Your heartbeat stuttered and climbed, breath hitching as you squirmed away from him. To your relief, he let you go.
You crawled backward until your spine hit the headboard, curling into yourself, knees to chest, trying to shrink into something unnoticeable. If you could just fold in enough, maybe you’d vanish.
He turned toward you, unhurried, eyes locked on yours in a quiet, unblinking standoff.
“And what about now?” you asked, your voice low but steady despite the shaking in your chest. “You all killed the real me.”
His mouth quirked in a small, almost pitying smile. “I still see you. Beautiful as ever.” He tilted his head, studying you like a painting he’d memorized a thousand times. “But I see something new.”
He began crawling toward you, deliberate, closing the distance. You pushed back, but the plush pillows only gave beneath you, offering no escape.
“When I look at you,” he said — and in his mind, you could tell, this was love. This was devotion. But in yours, it was pure predation. To him, he was a lovesick fool. To you, he was the fox, and you the rabbit, heart pounding in your throat.
“I see a mother,” he murmured, eyes flickering with some delusion you couldn’t track. “I see a wife.”
You wanted to gag. They were insane, but apparently also idiots.
His hand caught you, pulling you into his arms with a finality that made your stomach twist.
“Dick, I’m—”
“Shh,” he hushed, his voice low and coaxing. “It’s okay. You’re a bit young, but you’ll grow into the role.”
You didn’t fight beyond a few token pushes. His arms were a vice — suffocating, warm, unyielding.
Time bled together after that. An hour, maybe more, until Alfred’s knock broke the air.

“Master Bruce wishes to see you in the cave.”

You loathed that voice, that calm civility. The way he helped keep this machine running.

Dick sighed, finally pulling away. One last look, and he was gone.

You sat in the silence, breathing too hard, trembling too much. Thoughts crowded in like vultures. Your mother’s tears. Your father’s panic. And Bruce — lying to them without flinching.

Heat swelled in your face before the tears came, hot and heavy. Your breathing hitched and splintered until the whimpers escaped.

This was agony. A hollow gnawing in your chest that chewed through every shred of hope.

Eventually, you pushed yourself up from the bed, feet touching the icy floor. The door creaked softly as you cracked it open and peeked into the hall.

You slipped out, not quite sneaking — but careful, deliberate. Down the staircase, through the living room, past the yawning dark of unfamiliar halls.

A lone mouse, loose in the fox’s den.

You hugged the hallway wall, breath shallow, heart hammering. Every polished floorboard echoed your careful steps, every archway a shadowed trap. Almost to the back staircase…
The air shifted. You felt a pair of eyes on you.

Cass.

Leaning casually against the wall, one hip popped to the side, arms crossed, her grin too wide, bright enough to hurt.

“Found you,” she chirped, voice lilting, the cheerfulness masking something sharp beneath.

You froze. “…Hi.”

She stepped forward before you could react, her boot scraping softly against the wood. Her body pressed into yours — shoulder brushing, chest grazing your arm. Her fingers trailed up your spine before settling at your hip, gripping lightly but firmly. You stiffened, instincts screaming.

“Relax,” she teased, voice low and playful. Her fingers didn’t leave you — sliding over your hip, down the small of your back, brushing the curve of your side. “You’re so tense.”

You tried to step back, but she mirrored every movement, keeping your chest and back pressed to the wall. Her hair brushed your neck, her breath warm against your ear. She leaned close enough that the scent of her shampoo filled your senses, sharp and sweet, making your skin crawl and burn all at once.

“Where you going?” she asked, chin tilted, gaze sharp, scanning you like she owned this hallway.

“Back to bed,” you murmured, but she didn’t release her hold.

Her fingers traced your waist, lingered near the small of your back, then drifted to your hip again — playful, teasing, invasive. Every touch was deliberate, claiming you in a way that made your stomach clench.

She pressed closer, chest to back now, and whispered, “Oh c’mon, you just came out.” She whined.

Her hand slid along your side, brushing against the curve of your ribs, then back to your hip as if she were just casually holding you — but every movement was intimate, teasing, a soft pressure that made your blood pound and your pulse spike.

“Come on,” she murmured, nudging you forward with her hand on your back. “Before anyone else sees, or they’ll try and intrude on our time.”

Every step was invasive; her warmth pressed into you, her fingers brushing too far, her body a constant reminder that she chose when to let you move, when to stop, when to tease. Her playfulness was a mask, but the possession under it was real — her eyes watching you, a spark of hunger behind the bright, carefree grin.

Even the bubbly ones didn’t let you go completely.

Cass pushed the door closed behind you, the click of the latch echoing in the stillness. She didn’t give you a chance to back away. One hand pressed lightly, insistently against your shoulder as she guided you to the plush sofa in the center of the room.

The moment your back hit the cushions, she sank beside you, sliding close enough that your thighs brushed. Her fingers trailed up and down your arm, over the curve of your side, lingering along your waist. She rested her head near your shoulder, letting her hair brush your cheek as she pressed in, warm and impossible to ignore.

“Relax,” she purred, pressing a little more of her weight against you. “You’re too stiff.”

You stiffened, every nerve on fire, heart hammering. The proximity was maddening, her fingers deliberate in their teasing, almost claiming. Her warmth pressed into you, the softness of her body against yours a constant, intrusive
reminder that she was choosing to invade every space you had.

“You can’t run,” Cass whispered, the words playful, but the grip of her hands on your side was possessive. “Not yet.”

Her fingers danced along your ribs, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt for just a second before pulling away teasingly, tracing the edge of your clothing, every touch calculated to make you squirm. You wanted to shove her off, to leap to your feet, but her weight pinned you, and the combination of her playful insistence and the softness of the sofa made it almost impossible to move without drawing attention to your panicked pulse.

She laughed softly, a lilting, mischievous sound, as if she were sharing a secret with the shadows. “See? I told you, I’ve got you now.” She shifted, letting her leg brush against yours, fingers lingering at your waist and hand resting on
your breast, pulling you subtly closer, but always with a teasing pull-back that left you aching, tense, aware of every inch of her.

Her eyes met yours, sparkling, bright, and completely unrepentant. “I just want to cuddle,” she said, almost innocently, her lips brushing against your temple in a fleeting, teasing touch. “Just a little. You’re mine for now.”

Every nerve screamed, every instinct yelled escape, but her touch, warm and insistently playful, kept you rooted, aware, and trapped in a tension that was almost unbearable. You could feel her presence in every inch — her fingers, her
thigh, her shoulder pressed against you, her breath warm against your ear.

Even her giggle carried the weight of control, light and airy but laced with an unspoken claim.

Cass’s body molded to yours on the sofa, every curve pressing deliberately against you. The weight of her chest against yours made it impossible to pull away, and the warmth of her presence pooled through your body like fire. Her lips found the soft hollow between your neck and shoulder, pressing light, teasing kisses that made your skin shiver. Each kiss was a promise, a brush of heat that left your nerves taut and humming.

Her hands were bold, roaming past the edge of your shorts, brushing along the thin cotton of your underwear. She traced the hem slowly, deliberately, a teasing exploration that hovered just on the edge of what she wasn’t supposed to cross. You could feel the subtle pressure of her fingers, the deliberate teasing that left your pulse hammering and your cheeks burning.

“Have you ever… been with a girl?” Her voice was soft, intimate, playful, vibrating against your ear with a husky warmth. The words made your stomach twist, a lump forming in your throat as heat rushed to your face, and you realized
you couldn’t look away from her bright, mischievous eyes.

She shifted closer, letting her lips trail lower along your neck and shoulder again, nipping lightly this time, teasing. Her fingers pressed a little harder against your hip, sliding just enough to make your heart stutter. Her touch was invasive, but not cruel — deliberate, hungry, yet restrained, like she knew exactly how far to push without shattering the moment entirely.

You tried to squirm, tried to pull back, but her body pinned yours effortlessly, the plush cushions giving under you both, making escape impossible. Her eyes held yours, bright and teasing, and you felt the weight of her attention press into your chest, suffocating and electric all at once.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want,” she murmured, lips brushing against your shoulder again. “I just like having you like this. So close.” Her fingers lingered, tracing lazy patterns over your waist, hips, and the curve of your side, making it impossible not to feel every inch of her pressing into you.

And there you were, caught, pinned, aware of every brush of skin, every stolen inhale, every pulse of heat between you. Your body wanted to rebel, your mind screamed, but your senses were drowning in the bold, playful insistence of

Cass’s touch, and you couldn’t escape the intensity of her presence.

As much as you wanted to despise her—for being another piece of this twisted family puzzle—you couldn’t deny a strange flicker of enjoyment.

She was part of the chaos, yes, but she was also one of the two who were close to your age, whose energy wasn’t entirely warped by the manor. The other being Tim who you were positive had only ever felt the touch of his hand and whatever he felt like rutting up against because it looked at him the wrong way. In her presence, the madness of it all felt slightly softer, a little less suffocating. Somehow, that made her harder to hate.

Her kisses pressed harder, more insistent, and a startled sound escaped you, soft and involuntary. Cass hummed in delight, her touch teasing and probing along your sides, fingers brushing over the thin fabric of your panties as she leaned closer. Her other hand moved from the side of your face to your shoulder, fingers tracing slow, possessive patterns that made your chest tighten.

She peppered kisses along the line of your jaw and neck, capturing your lips with a messy, fervent kiss. Her body pressed against yours, warm and unrelenting, guiding your movements as if you were part of a rhythm only she knew.

The heat pooling in your stomach twisted and tightened, making your breath hitch as she smiled against your mouth, playful and triumphant.

You tried to pull back, to reclaim some distance, but her presence was magnetic, overwhelming. Every small touch, every press of her body, sent sparks of tension through you, and you found yourself melting into it despite yourself, caught in the storm of her energy.

Her mouth was hot, feverish, against yours.

Her kisses got harder, more desperate. You couldn't help the moan that came out of you, soft and surprised, but Cass hummed in delight, no doubt because she found your sweet spot.

Her hand slipped entirely into your panties now, thumb ghosting over your clit in a soft circle. Her free hand slid down from the side of your face, taking time to ghost over your throat and down your ribs, slow and agonizing like she was memorizing every ridge of your ribs.

Her hand found it was under your shirt to your breast, kneading it with a gentleness, you felt the subtle dig of her rounded nails into the soft skin though it wasn't unpleasant, though.

She moved in peppered kisses from your neck to your mouth, capturing you in a sloppy kiss. Her body and hand rocks with yours as she rubs faster circles against you.

You're now moaning unabashedly into her mouth, teeth clacking against each other as her tongue explores your mouth. You feel the heat and knot building in your stomach, burning like a hellfire.

"Fuck" she breathes against your mouth in-between making out. Her breath is hot, so wet that you can barely distinguish her tongue from your own. Lips once again meeting in a heated clash.

"You're so wet" she groans. "You're close, aren't you." she quips and you can feel the smile she has against your lips, but you can’t bring yourself to care, not when there's a fire in your stomach and your head is clouded with pleasure
Your back arches upward, hips digging into Cass's own’. Her hand moves from your breast back to your face, keeping you pressed into her and lips hot on hers. Your moan and orgasm rips through your body like a tidal wave.

You shudder when she doesn’t stop rubbing your clit in quick, precise circles. She moans with you, loud and unabashed of who might hear you.

After some time, the storm of sensation ebbed, leaving your body trembling and flushed. Your chest rose and fell in uneven, shallow breaths, your back heavy against the warmth of the couch, muscles still humming from the intensity.

Cass had pressed close, her presence lingering like a tether, grounding you even as your mind drifted in the fog of afterglow.

And then—click.

The sharp sound of a camera shutter cut through the quiet. Your heart skipped, every nerve firing, and your body stiffened. Your eyes darted toward the doorway, disoriented, breath hitching as the realization sank in.

Cass’s head snapped up instantly, spotting Tim frozen by the door, camera in hand. Her expression shifted from lingering heat to pure fury, a protective, blazing fire igniting in her gaze. Without hesitation, she surged off the couch, the movement sudden and deliberate, her energy coiling like a spring.

“You fucking creep!” she hissed, voice low but fierce, echoing in the library. She closed the distance in a heartbeat, her heat and force of presence enough to send Tim stumbling backward toward the exit. Face beat red and sporting a clear hard on.

He barely had a chance to react before she cornered him at the door. Her eyes blazed, her body a coiled warning, and with a sharp shove, she chased him out, the door clicking loudly as it slammed behind him.

The library fell silent again. The sudden absence of Cass left you sprawled across the couch, flushed and trembling, your body still buzzing from both the lingering heat of the moment and the shock of what had just happened. The
heavy quiet wrapped around you, the polished wood and dim light holding the echo of tension and heat like a tangible weight.

You stayed there, pressed into the cushions, alone now, heartbeat still racing, breath uneven, mind clouded with a mix of warmth, intensity, and the lingering trace of Cass’s touch

It took a few long, trembling moments before your mind began to settle, the haze of heat and adrenaline slowly giving way to awareness. Your body felt heavy, tingling with the aftershocks of sensation, but the fog was lifting. You pressed your palms into the cushions beneath you, letting your fingers sink into the soft fabric as you tried to orient yourself.

Slowly, cautiously, you pushed yourself upright. Muscles protested with every movement, still loose and trembling from what had just passed, but the thought of staying put, alone and vulnerable, pushed you forward.

Your bare feet met the polished wood of the library floor, cool and grounding, sending a shiver up your spine. You took a deep, shaky breath, the quiet of the manor pressing in around you, shadows stretching long across walls lined
with books and dark wood.

You could hear the faint sound of pounding on doors and shrill shouts from Cass, no doubt ready to kill Tim or at the very least kick his shit in. The dim light filtered through the tall windows and made everything feel almost unreal—like the world was suspended in a fragile pause.

Step by careful step, you moved toward the doorway. Every creak of the floor beneath your weight made your pulse spike; every shadow in the hall seemed alive, waiting. Yet there was something liberating in the small act of movement.

The manor stretched out before you, dark corridors and hidden staircases winding like a labyrinth. Your heart hammered, not just from the lingering heat, but from the thrill of slipping through it unseen, untethered—for now. You had no plan, only the raw, sharp need to be somewhere else, anywhere that wasn’t trapped beneath the gaze of the Batfamily.
The hallways yawned before you, a maze of shadows and echoes, as you moved quietly, deliberately, letting your bare toes press into the cold floor, each step a small reclaiming of
yourself. Every corner you passed, every soft creak of a floorboard, reminded you of how fragile your freedom still was—and how precious.

“I bet French whores look like angels compared to you.”

You nearly jumped, your pulse spiking as Damian’s words cut through the quiet hallway. Spinning around, you found him leaning casually against the wall, smirk firmly in place.

“Oh, how sweet,” you say glaring at him. “Did you memorize that line from a romance novel, or is this all natural charm?”

He didn’t flinch. “I’m not here to entertain you. Just making sure you don’t ruin anything Father owns.”

You let out a half-laugh, leaning back against the wall. “Relax, the only thing getting ruined is my will to live.”

Damian’s narrowed gaze didn’t soften. “Clever words won’t protect you. You’re nothing but an annoyance.”

“Noted,” you shot back, rolling your eyes. “Father’s little psycho-in-training doesn’t like me. Got it.”

Even as your pulse raced from the jump, the adrenaline sharpened your words. You weren’t going to give him the satisfaction of fear—just enough bite to keep him on edge.

“I wouldn’t be so smart if I were you,” Damian said, voice low and dangerous, stepping a fraction closer. “I could still tell everyone about that boyfriend of yours.”

You took a sharp inhale at his words, your chest tightening as a flicker of panic raced through you. “You think I’m scared of you?” you asked, trying to steady your voice, though it wavered more than you wanted.

Damian’s smirk deepened, eyes cold and calculating. “Scared? Perhaps not. But you should be. You wander into places you don’t belong, kinda like a rat.”

Your stomach knotted, the warning in his tone pressing against your ribs like a hand. “I—” you swallowed hard, words sticking in your throat. “I’ve been careful.”

“Careful isn’t enough,” he said, stepping just a fraction closer, voice low, dangerous. “One mistake, and Dick might think your boyfriend is a threat. And then…” His smirk twisted, sharp as a knife. “He doesn’t miss.”

Fear lanced through you, cold and sudden. Your fingers clenched at your sides as your pulse thundered. You forced your gaze to meet his, though your chest heaved and your throat felt tight. “I… I’ll keep that in mind,” you said, voice
quieter than you intended, your usual snark dampened by the weight of the threat.

Damian tilted his head, as if savoring the flicker of panic in your eyes. “Good. I warned you. Stay alert.”

He stepped back into the shadows, leaving you trembling and hyper-aware of every creak and whisper in the hallway.

“Demon spawn,” you muttered under your breath, though your voice felt small, even to you.

You drew in a slow breath, trying to steady yourself. The manor seemed to stretch endlessly around you now—hallways yawning open like mouths, the gilded sconces casting pools of gold that felt more like traps than light. Every step
you took was measured, careful, your eyes darting to each shadow as though Damian might materialize again.

Your pulse hadn’t slowed. It pounded in your ears, blending with the distant hum of the air through the vents. Somewhere upstairs, floorboards creaked—someone moving. You couldn’t tell who, and that uncertainty made your stomach twist tighter.

You forced your pace casual, keeping your chin up despite the heat prickling at the back of your neck. Cass was gone. Tim was lurking somewhere with a camera. Damian knew more than he should. And Bruce—Bruce was always a silent presence in the back of your mind, watching without ever needing to be seen.

The manor didn’t feel like a home. It felt like a maze designed to make sure you never walked out without someone’s permission. And after Damian’s words, the walls seemed to have ears sharper than you’d ever imagined.

You tightened your grip on the banister as you moved toward the next room, every instinct screaming that the safest thing to do would be to vanish—but knowing that here, even disappearing might not save you.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a slow haze. You drifted from room to room, never lingering too long anywhere, but always circling back to the couch like some restless animal. The manor’s stillness pressed in, thick and suffocating, but your mind stayed sharp, pulling apart scenarios piece by piece.

Who could be swayed? Who could be played?

Cass was out—too perceptive, too wordless to lie to.

Damian… not worth the risk, and now more dangerous than ever.
Tim was unpredictable.

Dick—absolutely not. Too intense, too watchful. He wouldn’t help you escape; he’d just try to keep you for himself, and you had no doubt he’d be harder to slip away from than Bruce.

That left Jason—volatile, yes, but volatile could be bent with the right leverage. If you could find it.

You were mid-thought, staring absently out the tall windows and watching the sun bleed toward the horizon, when a voice—low, gruff—cut through the quiet.

“Thinking too hard, sweetheart.”

Your head snapped toward the sound before you could stop yourself. Jason stood just inside the doorway, posture loose, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He looked like he didn’t have a care in the world, but there was a tension
in the set of his shoulders, the way his gaze lingered on you—measured, weighing.

Nonchalant, but not unguarded. You could tell.

“Didn’t hear you come in,” you said, the words casual, though your pulse had ticked up a notch.
Jason’s mouth twitched into something halfway between a smirk and a warning. He leaned against the doorframe, blocking half your view of the hall without even trying.

“Wasn’t trying to be heard.”

You didn’t miss the way his gaze flicked—just once—to the windows behind you, then back. He still remembered. The last time you slipped out under his watch. As if all the windows weren't bolted shut. You thought bitterly.

Now, his stance carried that same silent caution, like he was ready to move if you even breathed wrong.
Jason dropped onto the sofa beside you, letting the cushions sink under him. One arm stretched lazily across the back, brushing your shoulder just enough to be noticed. He leaned back, cocky grin in place, but his eyes were sharp, scanning you like he’d memorized every detail.

“You sure did play me,” he said, voice easy, flat, but his gaze made it clear he meant it.

You shrugged, keeping your tone light. “Wasn’t exactly difficult.”

His grin didn’t falter. “I’ve got to admit,” he said, shifting slightly so his knee nudged against yours, “I didn’t expect you to have the guts to do it.”

You felt a flicker of unease, the memory of that escape vivid. “Lucky break,” you muttered.

He leaned just a fraction closer, the faint scent of old leather and musk wrapping around you like a cloak. His hand drifted casually along the back of the sofa, brushing your skin, lingering at the curve of your shoulder without actually touching you fully—yet every inch of that nearness made your skin pulse with awareness.

“Lucky break, huh?” he murmured, voice low and rough, vibrating against the quiet hum of the room. “I’d say it was skill… or maybe just reckless charm.”

The heat in his gaze was slow, predatory, yet patient. He didn’t rush, didn’t force his presence on you—but every movement, every small shift, drew your awareness tighter, made your breath hitch in ways you couldn’t quite control.

His fingers traced lazy circles along the edge of the sofa cushions, brushing near your thigh, teasing proximity that made your pulse spike.

“You’ve got fire,” he whispered, leaning so his lips brushed against your ear, his breath hot and measured. “I like that. It shouldn’t be wasted on the crazies in this house. They don’t..”

The way he spoke, the weight in his eyes, pressed into your senses like a bassline vibrating through a dark, empty club. Every brush of his skin against yours, every lingering glance, felt like a beat in a song made just for this room, for
this tension, for the slow burn curling tight in your chest. The lingering words left unsaid felt like lead in the air, heavy, and that was the reason you told yourself you couldn’t lift your eyes to meet his gaze fully.

He shifted again, closer now, letting the sofa cushions give beneath him, his body almost—but not quite—against yours. Every subtle touch, every quiet shift of his weight, drew you into him, made your senses taut and raw. The room
felt smaller, the dim light softer, the air heavy and warm, thick with the scent of him and the weight of inevitability.

“You should stop pretending this isn’t what you want,” he said, voice low, teasing, a growl hiding beneath the surface. “You can fight me, or you can just feel it. Either way… you’re here.”

His hand finally brushed your thigh—light, teasing, deliberate—and you felt the pull of him, the rhythm of his presence, the unspoken promise that whatever came next would be slow, intense, and unavoidable. Every inch of the space
between you vibrated with the tension of inevitability, a beat like pulse you couldn’t escape.

Dick’s voice sliced through the quiet, sharp and dangerous. “What are you doing here, Jason?” His gaze was fixed, burning, the anger in his stance enough to set the room on edge.

Jason didn’t flinch.

He leaned back against the sofa, arm stretched lazily behind you, fingers brushing along your thigh with slow, deliberate care. His smirk was infuriating, cocky. “Can’t visit my family?” he said, voice smooth, teasing, dripping with insolence.

Dick’s jaw tightened. “You shouldn’t be with her,” he said, every word precise, measured, angry. “After she nearly got her killed, after everything that happened under your watch, what were you thinking?” He bites out, venom dripped from every word.

Jason shifted slightly, his hand trailing higher along your leg, slow and teasing—but his eyes never left yours, locking you in the middle of this tense chessboard. “If that’s what you want to call it,” he murmured, low, almost intimate, brushing his breath along your ear. “I call it having fun, you just got a bit…carried away”
Heat pooled low in your stomach. Jason’s thumb traced teasing circles along your inner thigh, slow and deliberate, and the smirk on his lips darkened as he pressed just enough to make the tension unbearable.

Dick’s hands were rigid at his sides, every muscle coiled with controlled fury. His eyes flicked to you, then to Jason, then back again, measuring, calculating, the storm of protective heat radiating from him. You could feel the pull of Jason’s presence, grounded. Even as Dick’s anger pressed against it like a live wire.

Jason leaned closer, lips brushing your ear, voice low, teasing, velvet-dark. “I’ll see you later,” he whispered, the words soft but charged, leaving heat that lingered long after he began to rise. Each movement was slow, deliberate—he left the room like a predator sauntering past, leaving you at the center of his and Dick’s unspoken battle.

Dick closed the space between you as Jason walked out, his presence heavy, solid, protective. “Did he—” His voice was low, controlled, his hands came to rest on your arms, begging to pull you close to his chest. You flinch, you always hated how touchy he was.

“Did he hurt you? Scare you?”
You met his gaze, steady and grounded, feeling the intensity of him, the magnetism that made you keenly aware of every inch of his proximity. His hands moved down and found your waist. His touch was firm but not crushing, pressing into you hard enough to remind you of his strength.
“I’m fine, Dick.” you murmured. He’s been with you all of five seconds and you’re already tired of him.

“I don’t want you alone with him. Not while I’m here.” Every word was a tether, a promise—and the charged energy between all three of you still hummed like a heavy, dark pulse, slow, insistent, impossible to escape. “I’ll talk to Bruce about it.”

You cringe.

Handling the boys was one thing, you could lead them astray and guide them into the corner you needed them to be in. Bruce, however, saw through everything you did, always had a contingency plan.
Dick’s gaze lands on you, softening in a way that makes you want to roll your eyes. He probably thinks your look of disgust is for him, not Jason. Too bad—it’s meant for all of them. Too subtle, clearly.

“Come on.” He springs to his feet, grabbing your hands and pulling you up. “Alfred made dinner. Everyone’s already there.”
He pivots toward the door with that effortless charm of his. Perfect timing, you think. Maybe I’ll just slit my throat with a butter knife.