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eupheme · 5 months ago

Text

— tooth and nail

alpha!logan x mutant!f!reader

rated e - 4k

tags: dub-con (logan goes into a rut), a/b/o-lite elements (logan-only - ruts/knots/mates), breeding kink, mutual pining, two jealous dummies, size kink, fighting as foreplay, return of The Claws (claw-play?), outercourse, biting, marking, come play, rough PiV sex

a/n: pure pwp. reader has druidic-based mutant powers (wild shape, strong connection to nature/animals, influence over vines/foliage) and is from Earth-10005.

Logan knows this feeling. He thought he’d left this part of himself behind. Left on his Earth, carved out and buried with the rest.

Should have told you no. Should have locked himself away like he always did. Instead, he’s stuck, unable to keep his mind from wandering while his sparring partner - sweat-dewed and squirming - is pinned beneath him.

(Or - Logan’s rut begins at a most inopportune time)

Something wasn’t right.

It’s been settling under his skin for days now. Tiny hooked claws, digging into flesh. A syrupy urge low in his guts, his mind not quite his own.

He thought he’d left this part of himself behind. Left on his Earth, carved out and buried with the rest.

The world he lives in now is different. There’s humans, mutants, aliens. But none like him, answering to something innate that defined him in a way that didn’t matter anymore.

It’s been a while. Almost forgot how it felt, after years of tamping down this part of him. Should have recognized sooner what it was. This rippling, simmering irritation just beneath his skin, so much stronger than usual.

Should have locked himself away, when he realized his rut was returning.

In his years in his own Earth, the urge had lessened. Dulled by alcohol and grief. Managed by himself, in the few months this part of his nature did visit him.

But he hadn’t been able to tell you no. Hadn’t been able to resist, not when you smiled so prettily at him, practically begging him.

And the thought of you leaving him behind at the X-Mansion, while you went off without him - to spar with Hank, instead - made him want to rip McCoy’s arms off.

Desire swirls around him now, as he trades blows with you. Your arms snaking around his shoulders as you shoulder a well-placed hit, bringing you both down the floor.

Logan feels like a pup again, watching your breathless laugh. The clench of your thighs around his waist. The heady throb low in his guts, the pressure of his cock as it strains against his suit.

His hips lift, separating him from you. Trying to form an excuse, while his brain is rocketing into overdrive.

Fighting back the urge to close that gap again. To peel down those tight leggings that drive him mad, bury his mouth against your pussy and make you scream. Fuck you full of him, until he’s dripping out of you for days.

The though makes him growl, as he tries to concentrate.

Tough to fake an illness, or injury. You’d see right through him.

Or even worse, worry.

So all he had to do was finish out this session.

Shouldn’t be too hard.

If you can just avoid touching him… he might just make it through.

You know you shouldn’t let yourself get distracted like this while sparring with Logan, but you can’t seem to help it.

Not when you’ve been nursing this thing inside you for months now. Something planted from another earth, settling low in your chest. Infesting like the vines that sprout from you, taking over until you’re fully ensnared.

You’ve tried to ignore it. Didn’t want to ruin a good thing between you.

Out of everyone in the X-Mansion, you got along with Logan the best. Used to a solitary lifestyle after being raised among the druids, before you knew the truth to what you were, the mutant lineage that flowed through you.

It had paired well with his temperament. His anger and grouchy quips slipped from you like raindrops on a leaf. Something about spending time with you softening him at the edges - just a little bit.

He was still the hard man he used to be. Grizzled, with that scowl of his and the flecks of grey at his temples.

And despite your efforts - forgetting and moving on hadn’t been successful. Not at all.

Because it’s impossible to ignore when he’s close, like this. Pressing your back to the mat, your wrist slammed against the padded floor. A knife skittering away, because even after all this time - even with his insisting - you were still reluctant to use it.

It sends your pulse racing. He’s so fucking strong - and you think that maybe, even if you had been an equal pair, that you’d still throw these matches.

Let him win, if it gets him like this. Sweaty and pressed up against you as you struggle beneath him. A thigh jammed between yours to prevent you from slamming your heel into his calf.

You’ll think about this later.

You always do after your sparring sessions. You hand slipping between your thighs in the shower after. Bitten-back moans as you play out more in your mind - the plunge of your fingers inside your aching cunt until you’re shuddering with the pulsing pleasure, slumping back against the cold tile.

The fantasies always comes back to him.

You think that maybe Logan wants it too. Have felt his gaze on you when he thinks no one is looking, but your senses have always been keen. Animal attraction, perhaps. Pheromones. Something about his smell, his touch, beckons you - though you don’t understand what it means.

And it’s only now that you realize he’s gone still above you. Eyes blown wide, a sharp breath of air inhaled through clenched teeth. A low growl, caught in his throat.

Holding himself back. You can see it - the way his muscles string tight. How his eyes dip, flicking over your face. Down to the part of your lips. The sweat that dews your chest.

Close enough that you can inhale him - the smell of leather and cigar smoke blending with more - something inside you giving them a name.

Want. Need.

It gives you courage.

You bridge the gap, for a just a moment. A shallow lift of your hips. Encouraging, the movement pushing your tits against his heaving chest.

“Bad fucking idea, sweetheart.” He growls.

It’s rough, low. Ground-out as if to himself, a wounded sound slipping from his throat.

His response has a mark forming between your eyebrows. A soft murmuring of his name.

Logan’s face dips, eyes closing as he inhales. Then, without warning, his knuckles cradle against your throat.

Wrist flexing as two of his claws spear forward on either side of your neck. Punching through the training mats and sinking deep into the concrete beneath.

Pinning you completely under him, your hips dropping as your free hand wraps around his forearm. A tug of fear ripples through you, but he doesn’t budge.

“Logan,” You repeat, gasping, “What are you doing? What’s wrong?

This isn’t like the times you’ve sparred before. He’s never drawn his claws. You don’t heal like he does - you both know it. Never using more than a loose fist, an open palm in your sessions.

He’s breathing heavy. Holding himself over you, his other hand still wrapped firmly around your wrist.

“I’m gonna let you go.” It comes out ragged, through clenched teeth.

“And then I need you to leave, and lock me in after.” Only now does he look at you - his dark eyes burning, “You understand?”

His voice is so rough that it makes your skin prickle. Heat licking down your spine, stoking the embers that have settled low in your belly.

“I don’t.” It comes out hushed.

How can you? It’s like a flip has been switched, in those few moments. Did you truly misread everything?

His eyes haven’t left your face. There a peek of his tongue against his lips, the words coming slowly, “Don’t wanna do something you’re gonna regret.”

And for a moment, time stands still. An ache in your chest that’s so different than the one between your thighs. Finger unfurling, reaching.

Slipping up his arm, touching his cheek. He flinches, eyes fluttering shut as he holds his breath.

“What could I regret with you?”

If it were anyone else, the question would be stupid. You should be running from the man that has you pinned to the ground, claws drawn. Another twitch and you could be dead - the middle unsheathing to pierce clean through your soft throat.

“Whatever it is, let me help you.” Your voice is gentle - coaxing - and for a second, he leans into the touch. Palm pressing against heated skin, and you gasp, “You’re burning up, Logan.”

“You can’t help me with this.” He rasps with his eyes closed, voice strained.

Your head shakes, “Let me try.”

A long pause lingers. The room filled with the uneven intake of breath. Logan’s words coming slowly, as his eyes open - dropping down to your throat. And then away, like he can’t bear to even look at you, “Does the word rut mean anything to you?”

It feels like something stirs again inside you. The flutter of wings, not unlike the feeling when you tap into your power. Like threads slipping your fingertips, connecting you down to the earth below.

“Animals have ruts. Deer, elk, creatures like that.” A beat, as you begin to understand. Heat flaring in your cheeks at the implication, “But, not… not humans.”

He grunts, shifting.

It takes everything not to let your chin tip down, to look.

“They do where I come from.”

Pieces start to fall in place. His increased irritability around you lately. Territorial. Aggressive.

Blending in to what you know, in your connection to nature. Those animalistic instincts that linger in your blood long after you’ve shed your beast form.

Desire. Mating. An urge to breed.

Oh, fuck.

You squirm and he makes a warning sound without thinking - a rough rumble from his chest. His weight shifting on top of you, still hovering.

“How do you handle it?”

His eyes flicker up to yours, then away again. Jaw working, a breath before he answers, “Take care of it myself. Or, I’d find someone to work through it with me.”

Even as you’re scrambling to make sense of it, you understand his insinuation. It stuns you into silence. You cannot allow that. The thought sends your heart crashing into your guts.

Your chin tips up, defiantly.

“Let me help you.”

Those dark eyes narrow as they snap to your face. Your words softening, as your thumb sweeps across his skin, the scruff of his cheek.

“I want to help you.”

Logan laughs, the sound ragged. Showing the points of his canines with the shake of his head.

“You don’t know what you’re asking.” His voice is smoky-low. Rough as it scrapes across your skin, leaving goosebumps, “You couldn’t take me.”

Your heart feels like it’s pounding in your throat. Heat licking down your spine, and surely he can feel it - the flutter beneath the press of his knuckles.

“I can.” It comes out breathy. Insisting.

His tongue brushes over his lips as they part. A tilt of his head as he lowers himself. His knee pressing against the meat of your thigh, nudging. Opening your legs up further. Spreading them wider.

“I will ruin you.”

It’s growled in your ear. Each word coming slowly, as he lets the hard curve of his cock grind against your core. His meaning unmistakable, his voice pitching down with a ragged groan.

“I want you to ruin you. You understand?”

And, you do. It floods through you, sending your nerve endings alight. Imagining how he would handle you, take you. The space between your thighs throbs.

His admission - the rasp of his words and the heavy nudge of him against you makes you do something very selfish.

And very stupid.

You’re just able to reach your thigh holster now, with this new angle. The quick fumble of your fingers to loosen the small dagger.

The metal side of his claw pressing into your skin as your head turns. Before he can move, a flick of your wrist sends it through the air.

Your aim is slightly off, but it does the job. Seating itself in the control box by the door, a sizzle as the wires are cut.

A metallic snick as the doors lock. The lights click off, plunging the room into darkness. The ground bathed only with the stripes of sun that stretch across the floor from the row of window along the wall.

Logan lets go of your wrist, but leaves you pinned. His fist curling in the strap of your tank, knuckles pressing against your throat as he yanks you forward.

“Why the fuck would you do that?” Logan snarls, “You want me to use you?”

His words make you whimper. A soft little whine that has his hips dropping further. An unconscious rut against your core, leg muscles flexing as you clench around nothing.

You meet his second thrust, your body curving against his. Head tipping back as the seam of your leggings nudge against your clit.

“Fuck.” It almost sounds awed now, his words soft and slow, “You do, don’t you?”

Letting his full weight drop, as your hands grip onto his shoulders for purchase. You had thought you were pinned before, but he had still been using his knees, his elbows. Hovering, in an attempt to keep control.

Now, you can feel all of him, as his body maps against yours. Pulling a rough groan as his hips flex, grinding himself slowly against your core.

“Logan, please.”

He growls. Fingers unfurling from your shirt. Ghosting down your side to fit against the curve of your hip. Biting into flesh with a bruising force, as his face buried in the crook of your neck. A hot exhale against your skin, as he pants - finding a rocking rhythm, as his body curls around yours.

You can feel the way his muscles tense with each needy snap of his hips. The way each breath pitches into a near-silent whine, as he seeks friction.

It’s not enough, as much as he wishes it was.

“I need-” Logan rasps, “Tell me to stop and I will.”

The hand on your hip snakes between you. Roughly tugging on the belt of his suit, until the clasp opens. All while murmuring assurances, half to himself.

“I’ll let you go. Work through it myself-”

That need he speaks of rolls off him in waves. Facial hair scraping against your cheek. The brush of his lips against your throat, just above the cool press of his claws.

“Don’t stop.” It’s easy to answer. Easy to lean into what he offers you, all those sweet promises wrapped in steel.

The groan he makes is filthy, “Give me your hand.”

Your fingers unlatch from the vice-like hold on his suit. A broad hand wrapping around your wrist, as he tugs you where he needs you. The tips brushing heated skin, making you gasp.

“Make a fist,” He rasps, “Fuck, that’s it.”

Lining himself up, pushing his bared cock into the circled grip of your fingers. Using you like a cheap imitation of what he craves, as his desire leaks from him. Slicking up your fingers, with each roll of his hips.

He’s heavy in your hand. You can feel how your fingers stretch - flexing, opening, with each forward thrust. Barely able to circle around, fingers splitting when you reach his base.

You can’t help but move with him. Hips rocking up, to match his messy rhythm. The knuckle of your thumb pressing against your seam, nudging at where you ache for him.

“I can smell you, sweetheart,” Logan moans, his nose dragging along the curve of your jaw. Lips parting so he can test his teeth against a spot under your ear, the pressure making you shiver, “Your pussy’s leaking, thinking about me.”

Your eyes flutter shut, as you whine. Squeezing his cock a little more tightly, wishing it was filling you instead just your fingers.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” He husks, “You think you can take it?”

You want anything he’ll give you. And anything is better than the way he’s teasing you. Palm slick with his desire, your own soaking through the soft fabric of your leggings.

“I want it. Want your cock,” You breathe, “Want to fuck me, please-”

There’s a final jerk of his hips against you, his voice gruff as his thighs shift.

“Stay still then, sweetheart.”

There’s the sharp rasp of adamantium against stone as they withdraw from the floor. His knuckles easing carefully from your throat as he leans back. Eyes dropping down, considering.

Barely a heartbeat before there’s the kiss of metal against skin, as the edge of a claw hooks under your shirt. Your breath held as it slips up, between your breasts.

A tug, and the fabric is shredding. Fibers splitting until the drag of the sharp tips, from belly to throat. Baring you, the air in the open room chilling your heated skin as you gasp.

Nipples already pebbled as his mouth descends. A needy moan loosening when he kisses at the curve of your tits, his tongue flattening across a tight peak.

Your arms wrap around him, their duty forgotten. Distracting you as his claws shift down. Your breath catches, but then there’s the sound of them sheathing - slipping back under his skin.

His hands finding the slice he made in the waistband, making short work of the rest himself. Ripping your leggings open - dragging your thighs over his as he leans back on his knees.

And looking down, it’s only now that you can fully see him. The familiar, worn yellow suit that shows off how broad he is. Zipper yanked down at the crotch, his cock pulled through with his impatience.

Eyes widening, when you realize there’s more to him than you though. Hanging heavy between his thighs, pretty and flushed. A thickened bulge sitting where your fingers had split - what you had mistaken for his base.

“Need to be inside you, sweetheart,” Logan’s hand already wrapping around his shaft, dragging the tip across your cunt, “Don’t make me waste a drop, alright?”

Fingers tugging the gusset of your panties to the side. Letting the tip slap against your clit. It glides against you, slipping against your combined arousal. Seeing how you flutter as you clench, your own need spiking.

“Logan,” You beg, “Stop teasing, please-”

He makes a rough sound. Almost a laugh, if it didn’t sound so pained.

“Just listen to you. Begging like you’re in heat,” He grunts, “Don’t worry, I’ll give you what you need.”

The tip dips down, nudging at your entrance. Lining himself up, before his hips drive him forward. The sudden pressure chokes you - a bitten-back cry as your muscles string tight, thighs clamping down around his waist.

“Fuck, I’ve dreamed about this.” He growls. Spearing into you an inch at time with a long, fluid motion. Fingers biting into your thigh, holding you open as your own scrabble against the mat - searching for something to hold onto.

“Tugging down those leggings. Fucking you into the floor.”

You can barely contain the whine. Brow furrowed, as he splits you open. Your pussy making room for him until the swollen ring at his base cradles your entrance.

Only able to inhale a short breath before he’s moving. Hands catching your legs, slipping to the joints of your knees where they press into his ribs.

Pushing your thighs back towards your chest, opening you up further, as his cock drags along your walls. He feels deeper, bigger - groaning at the way you clench so tightly around him.

Better than any of those daydreams, as he leans into you. Chasing that animalistic urge inside to bury himself fully in you, ensuring that you’ll take every drop.

Your fingers bite into his wrists. The breath pushed from you with each thrust, feeling like he’s deep in your belly, as that swell stretches at your opening.

“Thought about it too,” You admit with a gasp, as that heat inside you burns, “Wanted you, like this.”

“Yeah? I bet you did.” He grunts, as his thighs snap against your ass. Leaning over you now, eyes fixed on yours. Close enough that you can see the glaze to them, lost in his need for release.

Before his eyes drag down. Seeing where you’re stretched around him. Another shallow nudge, urging himself deeper. His thumb pressing at your entrance, before slipping back to hook around the swell.

“Good girl like you’d take my knot too, wouldn’t you?”

His knot. Your head shakes. He barely fits at is. You can feel every ridge as he ruts into you, every thick vein, “I don’t think- Logan, that won’t fit-”

The thumb shifts up. Pleasure burning through as he rolls the pad across you clit. His brow pulled in concentration, but there’s a flesh of white teeth.

“Sure it will, baby.” It’s slick, how he touches you. His cock grinding again and again against a spot that steals your breath, “You were made to take it. We’ll make it fit.”

It makes you moan. Your fingers sliding into his hair tugging at him. He comes willingly, a soft sound as his mouth dips to press against yours. Turning hungry as your lips part. Rubbing at you as his tongue strokes against yours, deepening the kiss.

The pleasure licks in your veins, a molten feeling building in your core.

A rough murmur against your lips, “Tell me you want it. I’ll make you feel good, sweetheart.”

You parrot it back to him without thinking, hips chasing the press of his thumb.

“I want it,” You keen, “Your k-knot.”

Willing to do just about anything he asks if he keeps touching you like this. If he keeps rutting against the spot that makes your arousal leak around his cock, each drive of his hips loud and messy in the quiet room.

He groans, the hand at your thigh pinching, sure to leave bruises tomorrow. The fingers at your clit slipping up to splay across your abdomen, his palm hot again your skin.

“Yeah?” Logan husks - pressing down, almost as if he can feel himself buried inside you, “Fuck, you’d look so good filled with my pups.”

His rhythm going sloppy, as a hand slips up to palm at your breasts, “These pretty tits nice and round. Wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off you, baby.”

Some of his words are new to you, but your body still reacts to his tone. The need, the longing. An intrinsic understanding of what he wants, even if it’s impossible with your implant. It still doesn’t stop your hand from slipping down to replace his.

Of pretending, with him.

The circles practiced, leaving him to concentrate on his own end. Soft panting cries pulling from you as the pounding of his hips drags you closer.

He’s close, as well. Those sharp thrusts growing shallow, messy. Letting go of your thighs, letting them wrap around his waist as he drives you into the padded mats. Burying his face in the crook of your neck, lips pressing against your jaw. Tongue dipping out to drag against a spot on your neck that makes you go slack in his arms.

“Should mate you,” He rasps. Teeth pinching down, where his tongue just was, “Bite you right here. Make you mine.”

The words tip you over the edge. A ragged gasp as your pussy clamps down around him, blood thundering in your ears. Nails catching on the panels of his suit as you cling to him, moans ripped from your throat as you pulse around him in time with your thudding heartbeat.

There’s no sharp bite of teeth. Just a muffled groan against your skin as he grasps at your hips. The sharp feeling of pressure increasing, as something thick works its way inside you. You keen as it stretches you, swelling so he can’t withdraw.

Twin ragged moans, as you’re joined together.

He comes with you squirming on his knot, his lips pressed against your throat. Sweet nothings murmured - “squeezing me so fucking tight, baby”, “gonna need you to take every drop, atta girl” - his cock throbbing as he spills inside you, pumping you full.

Still grinding into you. It draws your own orgasm out, with the way he’s rubbing against your walls, nothing left untouched. Overstimulation flickering at the corner of your mind, but you’re locked in place as he breeds you.

Understanding what he meant by using you - you feel it now. Fucked out and boneless and it sends another gush of sticky need between your thighs.

The sharp, panting breath starts to ebb. The ghost of his teeth becomes the nuzzle of his face, that strung-tight pull of his muscles turning liquid as he relaxes into your embrace.

“Why were you so worried?”

It comes out hushed, in the now-silent room. You’re sore - will be, tomorrow. Pleasure-drunk certainly, but not quite as ruined as he promised.

Almost to your disappointment.

“That wasn’t too much.”

Logan laughs, the sound dripping with condescension. A flex of his hips, still knotted inside you. Cum leaking from your swollen pussy, smearing against your inner thighs.

“Oh, sweetheart.” He coos, “Ruts can last for days.”

His fingers drop, dragging through his spend. Finding your clit again, rubbing slick circles against the tight little bud.

Intent on doing this one himself.

“We’re only just getting started.”

[moodboard] // I had two ideas for his claws after the movie - this was the second one! This is my first time writing something like this, so keeping it a little light with the dynamics 💖 thanks for reading!

and speaking of - I have to link this amazing alpha!logan thot by the incredible @avocado-writing! please check it out! 💕

#do NOT look at me #logan howlett x reader #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #logan howlett x you #wolverine smut #james logan howlett x reader #xmen x reader #logan howlett x f!reader #logan howlett x fem!reader

10K notes · View notes

messenger-of-babel · 3 months ago

Text

Shattered

Summary: Bruce isn't sure how to stop breaking things, or how to stop breaking in the process. (Bruce Wayne x reader)

Word Count: 2.0K

Notes: mention of character death.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You wished you could put the pieces back together; you really did.

You wanted nothing more to be able to put the pieces of his heart back together as easily as putting back his mother's vase, which had been the latest victim to his rage. Alfred came to your side, silent but face apologetic as he helped you dust the shards into the pan.

"I really must apologise for Master Bruce's behaviour-" he had started, but you raised a hand to stop him.

"Its fine, Alfred." you smile softly. "I know he's not mad at me, I just got a little spooked is all."

Alfred crinkles his nose at that. "It still doesn't give him the right. I raised him better, to be a gentleman. I know he'd tear himself to pieces if he hurt you too." he sighs. You can only offer a slight smile to the older man, standing with the pan full of shards in your hand. "And to dear Mistress Martha's vase…" he trails off, eyes softening as he looks at the old Wayne heirloom.

"I'll fix it." you say softly, holding the pieces to your chest. Alfred takes it from you, having to pry your fingers off the handle.

"I will," he says softly, wrestling it from your grip. "Just…there's someone else that needs fixing around here, and he surely won't listen to me. Not since I advocated for master Dick when he left."

You squeeze the old man's shoulder comfortingly. "I'll handle it the best I can." You say softly.

“It’d be much appreciated.” The old butler says, relief flickering in his eyes. “He’ll burn himself to nothing at this rate.” He murmurs in concern before taking his leave, and your mournfully gaze at the vase pieces in his hands. If only it could be that easy.

You knew you could only find him in one of the three spots, places that he seemed to frequent the past few months. The first place you could find him if you were looking was his training area down in the cave, covered in sweat and scars, circling a training dummy until he dropped. Before the incident, you would wolf whistle at him with a smile, calling for him to come eat lunch or take you out on a date. Your eyes could freely roam across his body before jumping up to meet the blue of his gaze and the superstar smile he'd send your way, proving his title as the Prince of Gotham. Back when the soul of Bruce Wayne was easier to pry out from under that cowl.

Now he was always circling, round and round like a shark. His feet placed firmly, and muscles tensed before he struck. Struck with more force than you normally saw him hit even outside of training, striking with cold indifference in his eyes, striking until his knuckles bled. He'd be out of breath and a half step away from collapsing, insisting it wasn’t enough despite your soft, kind calling and attempts at ushering him away from the training mats. He'd brush you off, dripping sweat as he got into stance before the poor training dummy again. You could only look onto him sadly, watching him circle it as if it would come to life and jump him any second. You could see past that though. The dummy was just a human torso, grey and plain, but unbeknownst to him you could also see the shadowy ears and cape that hung off the figure, the black mask that leered at him. You didn't need to be a medium to see the way he fought the ghost of himself. The way he was eating himself from the inside.

Even though he may not be wearing his cowl, you didn’t recognise him. The man staring down the dummy with a raging, cold fire in his eyes and lips quirked downwards with pure vitriol, was definitely not your Bruce.

Neither was he when he poured over the film footage from his suit, head in his hands when he thought no one was watching. The few times you did approach him he had tried to be indifferent, meeting you with angry quips and sarcastic comments. You told him he shouldn't watch; it was only traumatising him over and over again. Watching him be too late, reliving the moment of fear in an endless loop wasn’t healthy. He had snapped at you then, telling you that you didn't understand with his jaw clenched so tightly that you thought it was going to snap. "I need to be better." He had told you, tone firm and heavy. "I will be better."

There was very little you could say in response to that, not when you saw the pain burning brightly behind his eyes. The way their faces were scared into his retinas like ghosts, Thomas and Martha Wayne through the lens of young Bruce now joined by the freshly etched visage of poor Jason Todd. The same face riddled with fear in the grainy playback footage, freezing his last moments in place.

Poor, poor, Jason.

You still remembered the night that Bruce came back, with a bundle held in his arms. You hadn't been one to go into the cave normally, but when Alfred came to solemnly collect you and bring you there, you thought your heart had already thudded to your feet. That was nothing to the shock and horror of seeing Jason all torn up, colourful Robin costume barely clinging to the young boy. Alfred had turned your face into his shoulder as you cried, unaware that the echoing scream in the cave was your own. You were inconsolable, unable to even touch the burnt and beaten skin for fear of him falling apart. The fact that both Alfred and Bruce withheld what he had endured prior to the explosion brought bile to your mouth, head reeling with the worst possible ideas, mind imagining the poor teen in scenarios so sick it stung your eyes and made you dizzy. Alfred had told you that it was horrid to repeat, and it’d only bring more pain. Still, you weren’t sure if the truth could be any worse than your nightmares.

Sure, Jason hadn't been your son, but he felt like it. You had chided him like a mother despite not even being married to Bruce, patching up his scrapes and cuts when he came back from patrol with your partner. He’d just laugh it off and give you a boyish smile while he regaled you with his adventure with Batman that night.

"Thanks, Ma." he'd say, flexing whatever part of him you had patched up.

He isn't blood, but he is your son too.

or was.

When you didn't find him in his usual haunts down in the cave, you found him night in your shared bedroom, only the faint moonlight filtering in to the strewn sheets and the sight of him sitting on the bed. "Bruce?" you call softly, but he doesn’t react as you slip into the room. You knew he hadn't meant to thrown things; mind clouded in grief. He hadn't even registered that you were there, evident by the way he was holing himself up in the room away from everyone and the haze that covered his normally bright sclera. He'd become more frequent to these bouts of grief and rage in the latest week, volatile and pushing everyone away to punish himself. You place a hand on his shoulder, and he visibly flinches, making you retract it instantly. For a full tense second, you aren't sure if you should fill the silence, but he beats you to it.

"Leave."

you shake your head. "I'm not leaving, Bruce. I want to help-"

"No, Leave." he stresses, and you can faintly catch onto the hint in his words. Your eyebrows draw together and your mouth goes dry.

"You don't really mean that, you're just-"

"I'm just what?" he snaps back, standing to his full height, coming around in front of you. His glare makes your voice shrivel in your throat as he stares you down. "You shouldn't be around me." he snaps. "When will you learn? That people around me-" he swallows thickly, blinking harshly as his jaw ticks and he turns away. You can fill in the blanks though.

People around me die. People like Jason.

"Bruce," you say gently but firmly. "I'm fine, you're not- and don't even argue." you huff, frustrated as he goes to open his mouth again. "Bruce please, it hurts me to see you like this." you murmur. "You need to talk to me, to Alfred, please-"

"I'll deal with it myself," he hisses out. "I need to stop the Joker. I need to catch him."

I need to make him pay.

"Bruce-"

"No." he says firmly, and there’s a swirl of madness clouded in his eyes when he looks at you. A kaleidoscope of pain that feels like murky waters as you trawl through them for the Bruce Wayne you know. "You don't understand," he says breath ragged. That sends a pang of hurt through you, and you take step back.

"Jason was my son too." you defend painfully. "Don't you dare-"

"He wasn't my son."

that makes you freeze, breath slowing in your chest. "What?"

"He wasn't my son." Bruce grits out again, eyes screwed up almost as tight as his fists by his sides. "He wasn't my son, he was just a Robin, he was just-" he struggles to get the words out, as if they're choking him from the inside. You aren't sure what is worse, the words he's saying or the way you can seem him breaking down in front of you. Like a shattered mirror, unsure whether to reflect back your Bruce or the broken hero.

"You don't mean that-" you say, trying to stop the way your own voice breaks, hating the tears that burn the back of your eyes. "I know you're hurting Bruce. We all are, but don't say that. don't say that he wasn't your son. He thought of you as a father whether you wanted him to or not."

His eyes seem to burn darker every word you say, the way he's on fire from the inside.

"You're hurting," you try to keep your voice steady. "Let me help."

Your hands ached to hold the pieces of his heart like the smashed vase, but this wasn't something you could fix with a little attention to detail and glue. He shook his head at your plea, sighing through his nose. "Leave." he chokes out again.

"I won't." you say firmly.

"Then I will." he snaps back, he turns to grab his coat from the funeral, thrown over the chair by the vanity. "And you better be gone from this manor by the time I'm back."

The burning in your eyes spills over as he brushes past you like he'd never known you, shoulder cold and biting. "I'll call Alfred to help you collect your things. He'll take you back to your old apartment, I bought it so the deed will be transferred back to your name in the next few days." and then he's gone.

You could only watch the retreating form of his back, lip wobbling as you try to keep it steady. He left so quickly you hadn’t even gotten a chance to properly react, to fight with your relationship. He’d cut it in a single blow, actions swift and efficient.

Not like Bruce. Like Batman.

His words to you cut, but you could sense the pain behind those words. You had known him long enough after all, enough to watch his rise and now his downfall as Batman.

I'll leave you before you leave me.

I'll leave before you get hurt.

Before you end up like Jason.

Because I know you will.

As you sit on the bed, shock settling into your bones, you can’t help but wonder who really was caught in the destruction of the bomb back there, and if you had just watched those last pieces of his heart shatter into dust.

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