“UNDER THE MASK.”

— 001, To live for the hope of it all.

next

You sat on one of the chairs outside a certain hospital room.

Room 56.

The number felt engraved into your mind by how many times you had reread it. Your foot tapped against the clean tiled floor while your hands fiddled with the wires of your walkman.

PAIRINGS: yan!plan batfam x neglected!billy loomis!reader | WC: 5.1k

SUMMARY: being the product of bruce's one night stand with a stripper, a small boy had the misfortune of being born in crime alley. with an absent father, absent mother and a criminal environment, how would you think said child would turn out?

WARNINGS: SEMI-UNRELIABLE NARRATOR! the story is from the readers pov, so things will be described how he perceives them to be even if said character, or he himself, didn’t want to come across like that or actually didn’t feel that way. angst, emotional abuse, lowk only semi-canon, murder, mentions of prostitution, physical abuse, neglect, bullying, mentions of death, blood and violence.

A/N: this kinda took a while so im sorry about that but ive been busy with school and my internship… on a positive note though, i have summer holidays now so i’ll have more free time !!! so expect updates to come faster lol. also to put it here officially if you didn’t see my post, louis isn't going to be the love interest. i thought about it, and while they’re fond of each other, i see them more as platonic… they’re more than best friends but less than lovers imo. a relationship as a thin as a veil if you may. this chapter is also a little shorter and more lazily written icl.

pt2 -> pt3 (here) -> pt4

it’s been three days since dick or bruce last saw your face in the flesh. three whole days of passing like a you're invisible through the manor’s drafty corridors, leaving nothing behind but maybe an empty bowl in the sink after youve eaten something.

the manor, to say straightforwardly, has been weird as fuck. it’s like those russian roulettes, where you always wait for someone to get the first shot before hell breaks loose. but nobody has acted on any of it yet - they’re just watching from the sidelines, letting the silence stack up until it’s thick enough to choke on and you want to choke them for it.

you don't give them the satisfaction of a confrontation either. it's better to simply slip through the cracks, have your bare feet memorize the exact spots on the hardwood that don't make a sound so they'll stay outta your way.

it is not exactly a hard job to take notice of how damn on the edge everyones has been around you lately.

you wouldn’t even have bothered to take much notice of it if you didn’t notice how it was more intense than usual - an undercurrent that makes the hair on your arms stand up. it leads you to believe that maybe dick saw that fucking spot on the denim jacket (curse that complete idiot louis for wearing it twice. how fucking braindead can someone get?)

the timing is too perfect. with the teacher murdered being an instructor from your own school, the pieces are lying right there on the table. you don't know for sure if they actually suspect you one hundred percent yet - they haven't brought down the iron gates or cornered you in the study or however else they treat their cartoon villains - but something is definitely off.

currently, you're sitting at the corner table in the academy cafeteria. the air in here is.. down right disgusting. smelling like greasy tater tots, old sweat, and the cheap floor bleach the janitors use to sweep the halls that leave that nasty sting in your nose. the cafeteria is a total fucking madhouse because every single kid is buzzing about gerald hayes - how maybe it is some mob hit ‘cause the teacher got on their bad side.

hah, as if.

you slowly pick at a turkey sandwich while louis vibrates right next to you on his plastic chair. chloe and maya are huddled close across the table, whispering under their breaths, looking like they might literally piss themselves if a locker slams too loud down the hall.

you look at chloe’s white knuckles clutching her glass and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. it’s pathetic. these people have spent their entire lives being and feeling protected, completely blind to how easy it is to break the world in half. their pathetic reactions are only to be expected but it should be a crime how simple minded people can be. as if the damn killer would strike someone he like he did gerald hayes in broad fucking daylight. use those two brain cells you got, won’t you?

and then, much to your (mis)fortune, seth slides into the booth. the school’s resident unhinged horror movie geek - even more so than you at times you reckon.

"you guys are literally fucking blind," seth rants, leaning so far across the table his navy school tie dips straight into chloe's ranch dressing. he’s waving his hands around wildly, his eyes wide behind his thick glasses. "this isn't some generic gotham mob hit. the maronis don't slit a guy's throat and sit him like a goddamned mannequin. this is.. this is more slasher movie style. whoever is doing this is following the absolute rules of the genre."

seth mulls, his face twisting with this frantic, breathless sort of excitement. there's a loud, annoying weight to the chatter that surrounds him, but your mind is already drifting somewhere else.

you don't know why so suddenly contrast to your just recent emotions, amusement begins to stir up within you. likely due to the hilarity of it - how could these kids be so dull-witted and completely clueless, in not only in guessing what went down - but to fumble the pieces back together so clumsily?

seth’s fingers are digging through the rumors, little schoolboy is trying to play detective so eagerly. doesn’t he know the best way to survive a horror movie is to not fucking engage? if you're gonna play with blood, shouldn't you be a little more meticulous?

idiot. that's the only word you can think of.

idiot. idiot. idiot.

and an idiot who thinks himself better than the rest of his lot at that.

you think about the instructor's death, the very thing they were all trying to figure out so desperately.

gerald hayes’ death lacked the weight of tragedy. it was less like losing a life than brushing away a fly that had spent more time circling the room than your own space - a minor nuisance, largely more someone else’s problem, but one whose disappearance still made the air feel cleaner. it's absence barely registered, save for the quiet satisfaction that it would trouble no one again.

gerald hayes died and the world just kept turning. the sky didn't fall, the police didn't magically appear at your doorstep.

"seth, shut the fuck up, you're being so extra," chloe groans, wiping her tie with a napkin.

"no, listen to me!" seth barks, pointing a carrot stick directly at your face and then at louis. "think about it! it’s always the quiet ones. the best friend, the creepy brother, whatever. look at you two! you guys never eat dinner at home, you're out past midnight like, i dunno - every single night, and you literally look like the suspects from a nineties thriller. not only that, you both are even worse horror movie geeks than i am! if i vanish next, the principal is checking you two first, cause im onto you both."

louis lets out a loud, high-pitched, completely unhinged wheeze, his shoulders bouncing as he stuffs a handful of chips into his mouth. "no way! seth thinks we are in a movie or something. tell him he is crazy."

you roll your shoulders, your head shaking once. you aren't about to give this little shit the satisfaction of even a flinch. the softest parts of this city are always the ones that get run over first, and seth is as soft as they come. you’re loathe to speak the truth out loud. not now; not when the manor is crawling with its own paranoid bats.

or maybe you’re the paranoid one?

"movies don't create psychos," you drawl as you curb a corner of your sandwich wrapper with your index finger. "movies make psychos more creative."

seth freezes, blinking at you stupidly . the table goes quiet for a split second, and louis giggles louder in the background, leaning forward with a massive, unhinged grin on his face.

"maybe you need to stop living in your damn fantasies seth," you mutter, a small smile touching your lips as you lean back against your seat. "you sound like a total amateur."

louis nods aggressively, flicking a tater tot across the table. "honestly, seth is a compleeetee idiot. you dunno whatchu talkin’ about."

you give louis a side eye with a raised brow - its not like louis knows either what the hell he's talking about half the damn time either.

louis keeps wearing his smile, giving you a thumbs up. ignoring him, you look out the cafeteria window, watching the grey rain beat against the glass.

while it’s pathetic and sad how idiotic they are, it’s a good thing for you. they are all looking in the wrong direction or sound too damn high to actually have anyone take worthy notice of their words - like how it is with seth.

by the time the final bell rings, the schoolyard is a total wash of rain, turning the gravel into a muddy slop.

fucking great.

louis managed to somehow get himself thrown into after-school detention for throwing a wet paper towel at the chalkboard, so you’re entirely on your own for the walk to the gates.

of course, you didn’t bother bringing an umbrella for whatever reason, one you regret now.

so instead shove your hands deep into your pockets, yank your hoodie you had kept in your locker up over your ears, and try to blend into the sea of people rushing for the buses.

then she steps right into your path.

a big, bright red umbrella cuts off your line of sight, the metal ribbing almost catching the edge of your hood. you stop dead, your jaw popping as you look up.

it's valerie.

you’ve heard of her, obviously. everyone at the academy knows the lead reporter for the school paper - mostly because she’s notoriously bossy, incredibly rude, and completely stuck up - or so they say. apparently, she treats the high school journalism column like some sort of crazed witch hunt.

she’s got a heavy vintage leather satchel slung over her shoulder, her hazel eyes narrow as she looks at you.

you think you can see some sort of wilderness in her eyes. spoiled and beautiful and easily bored.

"well, well, well if it isn't gotham’s favorite billionaire trust fund," valerie says, her voice fast, dripping with a wit that instantly reminds you of some old-school television reporter. she looks you up and down, a slight judging expression at your messed up appearance thanks to the rain - a look you almost grow offended by.

“god… wayne, you look miserable. tell me, do you always walk through a downpour brooding like the sky pissed on you or is the brooding look just a lifestyle choice? i don't think the girls are into that stuff, kinda stuff from yesterday if you ask me."

you force up a sarcastic smile - hahaha. how really fucking funny.

instead of replying immediately, you look down at the little red light blinking on her recorder. "i'm walking to my car, valerie. move the umbrella."

"not a chance. i need a quote, pretty boy, and you're the only one who isn't currently sobbing in the guidance counselor's office, running from the rain or-" she looks to your right side, the one where louis usually always walks next to you “-stuck in detention.”

she tilts the red canopy just enough to keep the rain off your face, her words hitting without a single break - god how much can she talk?

"let's talk about timing, shall we? because gerald hayes was found dead on a shipping crate early in the morning after heading out at midnight, and from what the office staff tells me, he officially, or well, wanted to, put a failing grade on louis vance’s permanent record a few days before he mysteriously died. and louis... well, louis didn't exactly look like he was going to take that lying down, did he?"

you keep your hands in your pockets, letting your head tilt to the side. "louis is an idiot. he gets mad at video games. he doesn't care about essays."

"right, of course not," valerie scoffs, her eyes dancing with a mocking light. "which brings me to my next question-“ your face palms, another one? “-because according to a very reliable source at the plaza theater, you and your little partner-in-crime were spotted walking out of the back exit quite late at night. right the same times hayes was nearing the docks, actually. which is a pretty incredible coincidence, don't you think? unless you two just really, really needed to do some late night thing like checking out the concessions near the harbor?”

your chest goes tight for a split second, your heart actually beating.

how the fuck does she even know that? nobody was supposed to be looking at the plaza’s side doors. fuck, you frequent that theater so much because the damn theater manager is a drunk who doesn't even check the ticket stubs, let alone the security cameras! your mind instantly starts tracking the variables.

surprisingly, this girl isn't an idiot. she’s actually smart. she’s the first person you've met in this entire goddamned school who isn't stumbling over her own feet.

you don't back down - you take a step forward, deliberately invading her space, leaning in under the red fabric until your face is just inches from hers. the smell of her wet hair and the plastic umbrella hits your nose.

you look straight at ber, your voice smooth and confident, completely dismissing everything she just threw at you.

"you're real cute when you're playing detective, valerie," you drawl, a small smirk spreading across your lips. "but you're barking up the wrong tree. louis and i were watching a late-night horror movie, nothing odd ‘bout that is there? you want a real scoop? hayes wasn't the type to look at the big picture. you should check his desk. people who focus too much on people pleasing and small mistakes usually miss the glare coming off the water."

it’s a sorta a lie, of course.

hayes died exactly because of a high school grudge, his throat opened up because he dared to threaten louis’s future (not that you think his future was actually threatened but louis insisted that it was - his parents surely would’ve saved his ass if it came hard to hard). but the hint you drop is subtle, buried in abstract nonsense about the glare on the water, a quiet nod to pier four, and the people pleasing (considering the dumb fuck did go to down there at midnight just to please his fucking superiors) that would make absolutely zero sense to an outsider.

valerie freezes. her breath catches right in the middle of her throat, her eyes widening just a fraction as she stares at you.

she’s very curious you can tell - almost completely intrigued, even?

however… valerie is valerie and she stays right there instead of leaving, her fingers tightening on the grip of her satchel.

"the glare on the water, people pleasing?" she mutters, her flustered expression showing for a fraction of a second before her usual stuck up one returns. she tries to keep her voice steady, but the rhythm is broken. "that sounds incredibly specific for someone who claims they were only inside a dark theater, wayne. what is that supposed to mean?"

"believe whatever you want," you whisper, your face going neutral again as you take a step back out into the downpour, letting the cold water hit your face.

"somethings are better left undiscovered, you don’t wanna get caught in something you can’t escape from." you turn on your heel and walk toward the parking lot, leaving her standing under her red umbrella.

the town car ride back is quiet, the steady slap of the windshield wipers the only thing filling the space while you sit in the back seat, staring at the rain.

your mind keeps looping back to the gates. to valerie. that odd, odd girl. she’s dangerous, not because she has a badge or a cape, but because she actually has a brain. most people are idiots, a thing you keep repeatedly getting reminded of, but she’s looking for the cracks, and you’re going to have to make sure she finds only what you want her to see.

the car rolls to a stop under the manor's grand stone portico. you swing the heavy door open, barely offering alfred a nod before you cross the threshold, expecting the usual. the familiar hollowness of a massive house that doesn't care if you're breathing or not.

you step into the grand sitting room and freeze, your hands freezing inside your pockets. the entire fucking circus is just… waiting for you. it’s completely uncanny, like walking into a room full of wax figures that someone forgot to turn off. bruce is a massive by the fireplace, staring down into the embers. dick is hovering on the edge of the leather sofa, spinning his keys. tim is leaning against the grand piano, his arms crossed tight with an uncomfortable to expression, while stephanie is sitting rigidly in an armchair, pretending to read a book that you know for a fact she hasn't turned the page of in a while because it stills the first damn page.

even cassandra is there, blending into the dark wood of the doorframe and damian right next o her.

they are all trying way too hard to look casual. it’s fucking terrifying.

the second your boots click against the floor, dick forces this massive, bright smile onto his face. it doesn't reach his eyes. "hey! you're home," he says, his voice bouncing a little too loud off the high ceiling. "how was the rest of your day at school?"

you don't answer, because what the fuck? your jaw pops in the dead silence, your eyes doing a sweep of the room. what the fuck is this?

they actually do know something, don’t they? fuck. did tim actually find an anomaly? did they run your data? you thought you covered every single track, you thought the watchtower encryption loop you built was flawless, but looking at them now, the paranoia settles deep into your ribs like grease.

"we were actually just talking," tim speaks up, his voice hesitant, completely lacking that professional edge he usually carries. he clears his throat, shifting his weight against the piano. "thought maybe we could all go out for a family dinner tonight. just us. we haven't really done that in… well, ever."

"yeah!" stephanie chips in a little too quickly, her laugh sounding thin and brittle as she shuts her book. "there’s that little italian place downtown. the one with the red checkered tablecloths you used to love when you were a kid. remember?" you stopped going there after jason died - its a place you frequented with him. how the hell does she know about that anyways? from dick? you doubt jason would tell her.

talking about him, next to dick, jason is sitting with his boots dragged back, his jaw locked tight as he stares at you through his messy bangs. he looks completely miserable, like he was dragged into this room by his throat - aka he looks like he always does. dick notices your stare glances at him, then back at you, the smile widening. "we even convinced jason to join us! the whole family. what do you say?"

jason doesn't say a word, but damian does. "this is a pathetic waste of tactical time," he sneers from the corner, his small frame rigid as he glares at his own shoes. "we should just take him already and go." so much for consent, wow.

cassandra’s eyes stay wide, bottomless, tracking the subtle hitch in your chest. "he is cold," she whispers softly, "it was raining heavily outside, it must still be on him."

dick takes a closer look at your clothes at her statement, eyes slightly widening. “oh… you're right cass-“

you blur their conversation out.

looking at the whole pathetic lineup, a wave of pure, unadulterated disgust rolls through your stomach. a family dinner. they spent years treating you like an invisible in their billionaire playground - someone odd and to keep away from, and now that a teacher from your school gets his throat slit, they suddenly want to play happy family? it’s hella weird. it’s a setup. they’re trying to soften you up, trying to gauge your reaction, checking to see if you've done some shit. if you’re still good so their savior complex doesn’t get hurt.

you reach down, yanking the sleeves of your oversized grey sweatshirt completely down until they cover your knuckles and you look right past dick’s bright smile, your eyes locking onto bruce’s gaze as the old man takes a slow step forward, clearly trying to find the words to "check in" on his blood son.

"i'm not hungry," you say. dick’s smile falters instantly, his jaw tightening. you take a step toward the grand staircase, turning your back on the whole uncanny display. "save the savior complex for the streets, bruce. it doesn't work on me."

the click of your boots against the first few steps is the only sound in the hall. you don't look back, you don't want to see their tight, anxious faces or whatever version of family guilt they're trying to push onto you today.

but the floorboards behind you suddenly groan.

"wait, just hold on a second," dick’s voice barks out, his light, athletic footsteps rushing across the rug. he’s chasing you up the stairs, his hand reaching out in the dim light of the landing like he’s trying to catch a ghost before it slips through his fingers. "we're just trying to talk to you. you don't have to always slam the door on us, okay? we just want to know how you're doing."

fuck that. you don't slow down, not even a slight pause to give him a witty comeback or look at his desperate, older-brother face. you just want to get the fuck outta here - your heart thudding against your ribs as you bolt down the corridor of the second floor. your room is right at the end, a door that represents the only somewhat safe square inch in this circus.

dick stops at the bottom of the second flight. you can hear his chest heaving, his sneakers squeaking on the wood as he realizes you aren't turning around. his arms drop back to his sides, completely blown off by the coldness you left in your wake.

you slide inside your bedroom, yank the door shut, and turn the heavy metal key until it locks with a sharp, echoing click.

…

dick comes back down the stairs slowly, his sneakers making a defeated drag against the bottom step. his chest is still heaving slightly, his face completely pale under the warm chandelier light. he rubs the back of his neck, his fingers twisting into his collar as he looks at the rest of the family, his hands still trembling just a fraction.

"he didn't even look back..," dick mutters, his voice dropping, completely stripped of that brightness he had earlier. he drops back onto the edge of the leather sofa, staring blankly at the rug. "he just... he bolted straight into his room and locked it. wouldn't even let me finish a sentence."

"because your strategy is entirely incompetent, grayson," damian sneers from his corner, his small arms crossed tightly over his crest as he glares at the wall. "forcing a pathetic performance of domestic tranquility upon an obvious tactical threat is a waste of resources. we should have subdued him and run an analysis on his garments hours ago."

"shut the fuck up, damian," jason barks out near the piano, his voice raw, an ugly, defensive snap cutting through the quiet. he’s still standing with his jaw locked, his eyes tracking the stairwell where you just disappeared.

he hates himself for letting bruce drag him into this little trap, hates himself for sitting here like a prop while they all look at you like you’re some wild animal. "he’s not a target. he’s seventeen. you don't talk about him like he’s some rogue we're trying to put in arkham."

"jason, nobody is trying to put him in arkham," tim speaks up, his voice anxious as he shifts his weight against the grand piano. "but when the shoe fits it fits. we can't just ignore that. if he's the one doing this... if he's the slasher, he's killing completely innocent people right under our noses. we have to find out the truth."

"but what if we're wrong?" stephanie asks, her hand clenching the edge of her book. she looks between dick and bruce. "god, did you see his face? he looked at us like he literally detests our guts. if he’s innocent, and we’re here running digital wiretaps on his room because a teacher from his school died, we are completely destroying whatever tiny bit of trust he had left in this family. he already thinks we hate him!”

cassandra looks at stephanie, moving over to place a comforting hand onto her shoulder. "he must be anxious because he knows the eyes are on him. he’s simply not used to it.”

stephanie gives cassandra a thankful glance in return.

bruce doesn't say a word. he stays entirely still by the fireplace, the orange embers casting shadows across the lines of his face.

he really thought keeping you away from the masks would protect you. he thought if you didn't know the horrors of the loop, you could stay pure, stay normal. instead, he just left you alone in the dark until you mutated into something he can't even read anymore. can't recognize.

..or maybe he never recognized you in the first place. never knew you at all.

"bruce?" dick prompts, his voice cracking slightly on the vowels as he looks up, pleading for an answer, pleading for someone to tell him his little brother isn't a monster. "since he obviously doesn’t want to spend time… do we just confront him directly?”

bruce slowly lifts his head, his dark eyes looking eighty years old under the warm lamplight. his jaw is locking into a hard, stubborn line.

"no," bruce rumbles, his deep voice putting an iron curtain over the entire sitting room. "we do not confront him. not without definitive proof."

"bruce, there's enough clues to make him a su—" tim starts. "i said no, tim," bruce cuts him off, his tone dropping into an authoritative register.

"just focus on the weapons shipment tonight. dick, you monitor his terminal logs. tim, watch his phone location. if he leaves this house tonight, i want to know the exact second his boots hit the gravel and where he goes. clear the room."

the room is completely dark, the only light coming from the sickly grey twilight bleeding through the rain-streaked window panes. you lean your back against the solid wood, letting out a breath through your nose.

they definitely know something. fuck. they’ve been a hundred percent digging but you don’t know what they know. no way they would act this fucking weird otherwise.

family dinner your ass.

your old man could not love, but maybe he believed he could, and you guess that must be enough for someone like him, because perhaps half this godforsaken world feels the exact same way. he believed he loved you, sure, to comfort his own miserable, regretful heart, but you could tell him face-to-face how fucking untrue that was. you could sit him down and list for him the exact number of times his heroic little crusade had placed you squarely within the jaws of death before you were even old enough to shave. you could list for him every single time he had completely failed to be a father to you, his motherless kid, while he was too busy running wayne enterprises and becoming a grand man of this world.

he loved, he loved; he loved himself. it is perhaps the way of all men, especially the ones who wear capes in the dark and try to play fucking hero.

a sudden buzz in your front pocket cuts through the bitter noise in your head. you pull your phone out, it’s a text from louis.

you let out a breath through your nose, your jaw popping as you walk over to the massive glass window. you look down into the rain-drenched courtyard below - the storm is absolutely hammering the laurels, the heavy green leaves shaking violently under the downpour.

and right there, tucked neatly into the wet dirt of the hedge near the iron gate, you spot him.

louis is crouching in the bushes, soaking wet, his clothes clinging to his skin like a second layer of plastic. his dark hair matted completely flat against his skull and the idiot is grinning this absolutely dumb, wide-eyed smile up at you through the freezing rain, trying so damn hard to keep his eyes open against the fat drops pelting his face. the second he sees your silhouette against the glass, he aggressively throws up a massive double thumbs-up, maybe trying to signal that he is okay? you don’t even know.

all you can see is that he's blinking like crazy as the water pools in his eyelashes.

you stand there for a second, staring down at his soaking wet, moronic ass, and you sigh once more. you roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts, rubbing the bridge of your nose as you look down at the blinding screen in your hand. he is a total lunatic, a complete loose wire, but he’s the only thing in this whole city that keeps you from going entirely brain-dead.

you glance back out the window. louis is still down there, staring at his phone, his stupid smile flattening out into a slight, pouty twitch in his jaw - even in the middle of a panic, he’s still clearly annoyed that you ditched him when he got detention and is most likely going to whine about how you spoke to that reporter chick when going back to the manor instead of staying with him.

a soft, amused chuff comes through your nose and text him back.

you leave him on seen and slide the phone into your pocket, getting everything you need and taking an umbrella with you this time -

it's time to hatch up a plan.

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A question of pickles

Pairing : Damian wayne(Al Ghul) x pregnant!reader

Synopsis : Damian Wayne thought he was prepared for anything. He has survived assassins, alien invasions, and the Batfamily, which is, objectively, the most impressive of the three. Nothing had prepared him for you. Nor for a very specific craving for Romanian pickles at three in the morning. Some forms of love are unspoken. They slip on like a coat, half-asleep, without asking questions.

Divider from @pixopix

Three in the morning. In January.

Damian knows because his phone reads 3:07 when he reaches for the nightstand, and because the kitchen light filters under the bedroom door, a particularly accusing yellow.

He stands motionless for thirty seconds. Then he gets up.

You're standing in front of the open refrigerator, hair a mess, bare feet on the cold tiles, one hand on your lower back and the other methodically pushing containers along the middle shelf as if the thing you're looking for will appear if you persist.

"What are you doing ?" It's not a question. It's the tone of someone who sees exactly what's happening and still hopes they're wrong.

"I'm looking."

"It's three in the morning."

"The food is organized illogically in this refrigerator."

"You're not asleep."

"I'm hungry."

He leans against the wall and looks at you. You're thirty-two weeks pregnant and carrying his child with an energy that, some days, makes him feel like the only adult in the room, a feeling that is both absurd and perfectly true.

"What do you want ?"

You turn to him. The expression on your face is that of someone who has carefully weighed the risks before speaking.

"Pickles."

Silence.

"We have pickles. Right here. Second shelf."

"Not those pickles."

He looks at the jar. He looks at your face. "What's wrong with these pickles?"

"They're dill-flavored."

"All pickles are dill-flavored."

"No." You close the refrigerator door with the conviction of someone stating a fact. "There are old-fashioned mustard and honey pickles at the Romanian grocer ten streets away, and they're the only pickles that really exist."

Damian considers this information.

"The Romanian grocer ten streets away..." he repeats slowly.

"He opens at five. I checked."

"It's three in the morning."

"Yes. That's why I'm waiting."

There's a pause as he takes in exactly what's happening. You weren't going to wake him. You were going to stand in the kitchen, barefoot on the cold tiles, waiting for a Romanian grocery store to open for honey pickles, without saying a word to him.

"Go back to bed."

"Dami-"

"Bed, now."

"You don't have to-"

"I know."

You look at him. He holds your gaze with the patience of someone who has already made up their mind and is simply waiting for you to catch up.

"It's ridiculous," you say. "At this hour."

"Yes."

"It's cold outside."

"I know how winter works."

"I just want to say-"

"Do you want honey-mustard pickles from the Romanian grocer ?" He grabs his coat from the chair. "I can hear you. Go to bed, hayati."

Something shifts in your face, that slight release you get when you stop fighting something. You don't like asking. He's known that for a long time. He still doesn't know if it will get better with time or if it's just the way you are, but he's learned to read the moment you're about to give something up out of politeness, and he's learned not to let him.

You walk past him toward the bedroom. Your hand gently brushes his forearm as you pass.

He grabs his keys.

~~~

The grocer's name is Andrei, and he does indeed open at five o'clock. He recognizes Damian Wayne with an expression that clearly indicates customers in coats over pajamas aren't common, but they're not exactly cause for concern either.

The jar is small, the label is handwritten, and it smells of mustard and honey as soon as he takes it out of the bag in the elevator.

~~~

You haven't gone back to sleep. You're sitting in bed, knees drawn up as high as your stomach allows, pretending to read something on your phone with the app upside down. You look up when he comes in he places the jar on the nightstand without a word.

You look at it. Then at the jar. Then at him again.

"Damian."

"Eat your pickles."

"Damian, it was 3:30 in the morning-"

"3:22, technically."

"It's worse."

"I know."

You open the jar. The smell fills the room, vinegary, sweet, improbable. You take a pickle, taste it, and the noise you make is an absolute disgrace to both of you.

"Well?" he says, because he's human and some battles aren't worth losing with dignity.

"That's exactly it." Your voice has taken on that softness it sometimes has, late at night, when your guard is down. "That's exactly what I wanted."

He turns off the light on his side. You eat your pickles in the dark with quiet satisfaction and without the slightest trace of guilt, and after a while your leg rests against hers under the sheets, warm and familiar.

"Thank you," you murmur.

"Sleep, Albi."

"The baby says thank you too."

"The baby has perfectly reasonable tastes at thirty-two weeks." A pause. "You're the problem."

You laugh, softly, in the dark, the jar still in your hands, and it settles somewhere in her chest with the precision of something that has always known where it was going.

Taglist : @starrydustedwinter

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His Cousin’s Wife

꒰ pairing ꒱ gwayne hightower x fem!reader

꒰ wc ꒱ 23k words (guys i am so srry) ꒰ summary꒱ being Lord Ormund Hightower’s wife has afforded you many luxuries. his handsome cousin is the only one you have yet to acquire.

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨

divider by @omi-resources

‘you know i’m bad’ ᝰ🚬

✃ content: 18+, smut, quickie, bad!era, included audio

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 the thunderous roar of eighty thousand fans still vibrated through the stadium beams. outside the room, roadies rolled heavy trunks across the floor. inside, you sat on the leather sofa staring at the monitor feed. watching michael perform tonight had been pure torture. the monitor caught every sharp movement: his dark curls, his jawline glistening, the silver buckles on his black pants clinking as he popped his hips. every high-pitched belt and possessive grip on his mic stand sent a sudden surge of heat straight between your thighs. by the time "man in the mirror" faded, you were squirming, skin burning with a desperate ache.

the heavy oak door swung open. michael stepped in, surrounded by a faint cloud of stage mist. he had discarded his leather jacket, wearing only a damp black v-neck and his buckle-adorned pants. he looked utterly exhausted, sweat dripping from his chin, curls plastered to his neck. but the moment his deep brown eyes landed on you, his entire face illuminated.

"baby..." he breathed out, his raspy, post-show voice thick and gravelly. he tossed his hand towel aside and opened his arms, hurrying over to sink into you. "oh man, i missed you—"

before he could pull you in, you reached out. your hands hooked firmly into the silver buckles at his waistband, giving a sharp tug that yanked him straight down between your parted knees, chest flush against yours.

michael gasped softly, caught off guard, wide brown eyes searching yours.

"i need you," you whispered, your voice dropping low and sultry. "right here. right now, michael."

a dark, electric heat swept across his face. a low, raspy groan vibrated in his chest as he took in your flushed cheeks and hungry eyes. he didn't hesitate. turning to the vanity counter, michael swept his hand across the glass top, sending jars of stage makeup, wet wipes, and hairsprays clattering onto the floor in one swift motion.

in a flash, his large hands gripped your waist, effortlessly lifting you up and sitting you right onto the edge of the mirror counter.

"you're driving me crazy," michael rasped into your neck, his hot breath fanning against your pulse point as he stepped right in between your parted legs. his long fingers hooked into your underwear, pulling the fabric aside as he slid his hand down to brush against your core. he let out a sharp, breathy gasp as he felt just how completely drenched and warm you already were for him.

"look at you..." michael growled softly, his voice thick with raspy heat as he guided his thumb over your slick center. "you're so wet for me..."

"you were so sexy out there tonight, mike," you whimpered into his ear, hands tangling frantically into his damp curls, pulling his head down as you tilted your head back. "watching you move... watching those hips... you were so bad."

"yeah?" michael murmured, a wicked smirk touching his lips as he unbuckled the front of his pants. "show me how bad i was."

he didn't wait. positioning himself at your slick entrance, michael drove his hips forward in one long, heavy, unrelenting thrust that buried him completely inside you in a single stroke.

a loud, breathless scream tore from your throat as your hands dug frantically into his broad shoulders. the sensation was overwhelming, a sharp, explosive fullness that made your entire core pulse tightly around his length.

"fuck, baby..." michael choked out, head snapping back, jaw clenching tight. his hands clamped around your hips with a possessive grip, holding you pinned flat against the counter.

he set a fast, relentless, frantic pace. because the crew was right outside the door and time was running out, there was no slow buildup—just raw, desperate, urgent friction.

every time his hips slammed forward, the heavy silver buckles on his leather pants clinked loudly against each other—clink, clink, clink—a metallic rhythm that mingled wildly with his heavy, ragged gasps and your breathless moans. the intoxicating scent of his stage sweat, expensive cologne, and warm skin filled your senses, driving you completely wild.

"you like it when i perform for you, huh?" michael rasped, voice gravelly and completely undone as he drove into you, hitting that exact, swollen spot deep inside you with every single punishing stroke. "you like seeing your man up there?"

"yes! oh god, michael, yes!" you sobbed out, legs wrapping tightly around his waist, pulling his body as deep into yours as physically possible. "don't stop... please, mike!"

"i'm not stopping," michael growled, his face burying into the side of your neck, his hot lips pressing feverish, open-mouthed kisses along your jawline as his thrusts turned faster, harder, and relentlessly precise. "you're taking all of it... every bit of it, mama."

the slick, heavy friction between your bodies built up a blinding heat. the sound of the roadies shouting outside in the hallway and the clinking of his belt buckles only heightened the forbidden, desperate rush of the moment.

"michael—i'm close! i'm gonna come!" you whimpered, body shaking uncontrollably under his powerful rhythm.

"come for me, then," michael rasped in your ear, voice tight, desperate, and right on the edge of breaking. "let it go, baby... give it to me!"

with a loud, stifled scream into his shoulder, your body gave in completely. your internal walls clamped down around him in tight, uncontrollable, pulsing spasms of pure ecstasy.

feeling your core clench violently around his length shattered michael's self-control. he let out a deep, guttural growl, his grip on your hips tightening as he thrust hard and deep three more desperate times before burying himself as far inside you as he could go. his entire body locked up, a long, raspy gasp spilling from his lips as he poured everything into you, shuddering violently against your chest.

for two minutes, you both stayed locked together on the vanity, chests heaving, breathing frantic in the quiet room.

michael pulled back slowly, pressing a sweet, lingering kiss to your swollen lips, dark eyes glowing with satisfaction. "how was that for an encore?" he murmured with a boyish grin.

"unbelievable," you giggled breathlessly, smoothing down your clothes as he stepped back to adjust his pants and re-buckle his belt.

within five minutes, the makeup was quickly cleared from the floor, clothes were straightened, and your hair was brushed back into place. by the time a sharp knock came at the dressing room door—a roadie calling out, "five minutes to the motorcade, mr. jackson!"—you were both standing side by side, looking composed, elegant, and completely innocent.

michael turned to you, slipping on his dark sunglasses, offering you a quiet, handsome wink before sliding his warm hand into yours to walk out into the night.

　 　﹕   (✿˘͈ᵕ˘͈)   ┈  for public consumption (final part).

Greedy, Greedy Woman

Gwayne Hightower x Targaryen Princess Reader

You were barely showing, just the softest swell beneath the silk of your abandoned nightgown, but the pregnancy had already made your stomach squeamish.

Gwayne sat with you in the wide armchair by the open balcony doors, the warm night air billowing the gauzy curtains with the scent of the bay and night-blooming summer flowers. You were settled fully in his lap, arms around his neck, bare skin against his, his cock buried deep inside you and simply… resting there. Warm and full from your first round. Neither of you moved. The slow, steady throb of him against your walls was enough. It soothed the deep soreness pregnancy had left you with, and that restless ache that forever made you want to live in his skin.

Your nose was buried in the pale column of his throat.

You could not get enough of the smell of him. Clean skin, faint traces of the cedar and orange soap the maids used on him, and underneath it the deeper, warmer scent that was purely your Gwayne.

custody of blood masterlist ♖

sent to oldtown as a ward beneath your cousin lord ormund hightower's protection, you learn there are some vows that are easier to preach than to keep.

warnings: 18+ (mdni), eventual smut, canon-typical incest (cousins), sexual humilation, loss of virginity, religious guilt, age gap (~20 years), grooming, dubcon, emotional manipulation, obsession (mutual), stockholm syndrome, power imbalance, canon divergent, no use of y/n

taglist

part I.

part II.*

finale.*

letters from oldtown

* indicates smut / sexual content

pairing: ormund hightower x fem!targaryen!reader

warnings: +18 mdni, explicit content, age gap, size difference, otk spanking, toxic relationship dynamics, reader is rhaenyra's daughter but has lived in oldtown for most of her life, power imbalances, could be said that reader is being groomed but she (like the writer) very much wants this evil man all on her own, light angst, mentions of canon typical violence, punishment, kneeling, begging, praise, sexual tension, clit stimulation, pillow humping, talk of maidenhood/virtue, bd/sm dynamics, ormund licks your tears, dry humping, oral sex f!receiving, possessive behavior, cruel devotion, discussion of marriage, jealousy, repressed feelings, body worship, virginity loss, dirty talk, face grabbing, scenting? girl idk, rough sex, multiple orgasm, creampie, collaring, lightly edited, images are purely for aesthetic purposes, reader has no physical description!

wc: 9.2k

note: if a single person asks for a part two………i may be….persuaded……..

[masterlist][AO3]

He's never liked you, that much was obvious in his stare alone.

You'd been sent to Oldtown with your uncle Daeron at your grandfather's request. Viserys had wanted it to be a sign of a united family. It had been done in a time of peace with pure intentions.

How would they have known of Ormund's hatred for Valyrian blood? How would they have known that a single look upon your face would have the man's jaw clenching and his hands curling?

For what it's worth, you truly believe he tried in the beginning. Tried not to allow his prejudice to cloud his judgment of you. But it was always there, like a curse held at the back of his throat. Too large to swallow, too cruel to speak.

daeron had never known his true mother. alicent had sent him to ward in oldtown when he was too young to hold memories. he had not looked to replace her role, but it had happened nonetheless. she was the one he would always returned to, ormund's wife. she had sons of her own, children she shared blood with, and yet she treated daeron no different from them.

he remembered little of being an infant, only the warmth of her embrace and the comfort of her gentle lilt. daeron had been taken under her wing and into her arms, raised like her very own child. she sat by his sickbed even when the maesters of the hightower advised against it, she sewed him small trinkets and handkerchiefs with tessarion embroidered in blue thread, she praised his high valyrian when everything he had been taught of himself warred against it, she drew him into hugs and kissed his temple and cheeks despite ormund's disgusted scoldings about how unbecoming it was for a woman of her station to coddle a boy that was not hers. but daeron was hers, in the ways that mattered the most. blood was a thin thing, he had learned, and if there was one person in the whole seven kingdoms that the prince could rely upon, it was her.

so when daeron came to her, that agonizing night in tumbleton, she quickly rose from her spot by the hearth in her chambers, her jaw set heavily. daeron knew he looked an utter mess; with his cheeks wet and eyes still red. he had not noticed he had wept until his eyes began to burn anew at the sight of her. his feet had become planted to the cobble floor, his fists clenched by his sides. "mother," he had said, his voice scarcely above a trembling whisper. not my lady, not lady hightower, not even her name - but the most precious title of all.

before daeron could fix his mistake, she took him into her arms without a second thought. she accepted the name naturally, no comment made to scold or berate as ormund may have done. her hold was firm but not unkind, her touch gentle and grounding, and he melt into her embrace like a chick seeking warmth. "what has he done?" she questioned in a sharp whisper. daeron would tell her then, the words sticking in his throat, of what lord ormund had made him do. he spoke of how the man's hands cradled his face, proclaiming him a claimant to the iron throne. he had held vigilance in his own two hands, and drove sword into flesh with the outcome of death.

daeron heard her breath catch, even above the sounds of his shaky crying. his own hands clutched at her back, feeling the rigid lining of her corset beneath green silks. her grip tightened, body growing tense like a lioness prepared to strike for the sake of her cub. "daeron," she pulled back just enough to look into his watery eyes. "my sweet boy, what has he done to you?" it sounded less like a question and more of a threat to the man she called husband. her hands, smaller and gentler than ormund's, cradled his face with a somehow violent tenderness that only a mother could conjure. "do not fret," she said, wiping his tears and he had no choice but to lean into her touch like a kitten, "i know... the burdens of a king are too heavy for a boy. you are still a child, still meant to be protected. whatever ormund may do, whatever ormund may say, you must believe in me when i say we shall bear the weight together. you would make a good king, for you are noble and honorable and kind, but you are not meant to travel this path with him. you are deserving of guidance, not commands. ormund is a volatile man and he hides much from me, but you are mine. no harm shall come so as long as you return to me."

THE GARDEN OF FORGIVENESS AND LOVE

𐔌 ⠀⠀𓂃 ࣪ ִ⠀⠀daeron targaryen x sister-wife reader !

contains ᦸ angst targcest canon typical themes arranged marriage pregnancy tears kissing tragic love ٫٫ 6.2k

❛❛ to love you is both torment and mercy—and I crave neither’s end

Mayor Almost Killed After Bullseye Escapes Prison

You blink slowly at the headline, wondering if the headache you had earlier that day was causing hallucinations. Clicking on the article proved that no, you are not hallucinating and Benjamin Poindexter was somehow on the street again.

Not that you are going to do anything about it. That ship has sailed, and you are okay leaving that ship—or more accurately, shipwreck—behind.

the ballad of ever after

being the lady of the hightower has been your dream for as long as you could remember... but little do you know that being with ormund hightower comes with some things you have never known before you become his wife

genre/warnings: 18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—marriage of convenience, age gap, lots of romance & fluff, pregnancy, found family with daeron, arguments, hurt/comfort, ormund is a bit of a warning, tyrell!reader (reader is ormund's second wife), takes place during the dance of dragons, spoilers! from house of the dragon season 3

notes: gif by @/dracaria-dracarys. part 2 to once upon a broken heart but can also be read as a standalone. daeron is my precious boy and ormund is a blatant red flag but bulls chase after red so i... yeah

“Tsk, tsk, my dearest...”

His voice was a low, honeyed murmur against your neck, the heat of his breath sending an exquisite shiver straight down your spine.

You arched into him, a soft breath catching in your throat as Ormund drove his shaft deep inside you in a slow thrust with that same devastating precision he brought to everything he touched.

When he swept into your life like a master strategist claiming a piece on a cyvasse board he had already decided to win, you had thought he was once again playing with your feelings. But now, sharing his bed and basking in his affections, he was no longer someone you could only yearn from afar or your estranged husband.

This version of Ormund Hightower was new... and one you had come to embrace the easiest.

❤︎ 🧩. imagine 𝘆𝗼𝘂 and 𝗠𝗶𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗲𝗹 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗱𝗶𝘃𝗼𝗿𝗰𝗲𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗮 𝘆𝗲𝗮𝗿. ─── blurb.

𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙙𝙞𝙚'𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙨. oh and ladies, that mf be manipulative asf too... js remember that. anyways here a little blurb for yall <3

❤︎. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒖𝒏𝒏𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒅𝒊𝒗𝒐𝒓𝒄𝒆 is that nobody tells you what happens after. nobody tells you that your ex husband will still show up at your front door every Friday at six o'clock to pick up your daughter.

magnetic

a/n: no specific era, could be bad to mature. reckon this is a part 1... hope you enjoy! let me know what you think of it :)

the morning alarm cut through the quiet bedroom at 5:45 am, a sharp incessant beeping that had michael reaching out blindly to swat the top of the nightstand.

next to him, you shuffled under the heavy duvet, groaning quietly into the pillow with the deadened exhaustion of someone who had spent twelve hours over an autopsy table.

₊ ⊹ DO YOU REMEMBER THE TIME? ― (series masterlist) ♡

MASTERLIST

જ⁀➴ chapter one: how it all began ₊ ⊹

જ⁀➴ chapter two: young and innocent ₊ ⊹

જ⁀➴ chapter three: it just seemed like heaven ₊ ⊹

જ⁀➴ chapter four: why did it end? ₊ ⊹

જ⁀➴ chapter five: sweet memories ₊ ⊹

જ⁀➴ chapter six: those special times ₊ ⊹

જ⁀➴ chapter seven: i love you so ₊ ⊹

જ⁀➴ chapter eight: what about us, girl? ₊ ⊹

જ⁀➴ chapter nine: never forget what we had ₊ ⊹

જ⁀➴ chapter ten: i bet you remember ₊ ⊹