Archive of Our Own

The first time I saw him, he was standing at the edge of the courtyard, sunlight catching the gold in his stupidly bright hair like some kind of misplaced halo. Gotham Academy didn’t deserve sunlight, and it sure as hell didn’t deserve him. Around me, the usual gaggle of spoiled heirs whispered behind their hands, their voices sharp enough to cut glass. *Keep him away from the demon brat.*

Sarah Carmichael, the school’s self-appointed queen bee, flipped her perfectly curled hair over one shoulder and leaned in to murmur something to her pack of giggling hyenas. I didn’t need to hear it to know, another warning about me, another cautionary tale spun into gold for the new kid. As if I cared. As if I *wanted* to ruin him the way this place had ruined everything else.

I slouched against the lockers, arms crossed, watching him from beneath the shadow of my bangs. He didn’t belong here. Not with his too-big smile, his frayed sweater sleeves, the way his eyes darted around like he was mapping escape routes already. Poor kid. Gotham Academy ate outsiders alive, and judging by the whispers about his last name, or lack of one, he didn’t stand a chance.

Sarah sashayed toward him, all honeyed words and venomous intent. I saw the moment his smile faltered, the way his fingers tightened around the strap of his bag. Something ugly twisted in my chest. He didn’t know her yet. Didn’t know how her kindness was just a prelude to the knife between the ribs.

I pushed off the lockers before I could stop myself.

"Hey, new kid," I called, loud enough to startle the vultures circling him. His head snapped up, wide-eyed, and, damn it, his stupid, hopeful expression punched the air right out of my lungs.

Sarah’s smirk curdled into something sour.

Bad move.

Now they’d all be watching him twice as hard.

Now they’d be watching *me.*

But I’d already stepped into the light.

No going back.

The moment Jon crashed into me, his stupidly warm arms wrapping tight around my waist, his laugh vibrating against my ribs like sunshine given sound, every pair of eyes in the hallway sharpened into knives. I felt them before I saw them: Sarah’s painted lips twisting into something triumphant, the whispers hissing through teeth like steam from a kettle. My stomach dropped. *Idiot.* He didn’t even realize he’d just signed his own social execution warrant.

His fingers curled into the back of my jacket, oblivious. “Dami,” he breathed, soft and delighted like I was some kind of miracle instead of the disaster I knew I was. The scent of his shampoo, something stupidly sweet, like vanilla and summer, clung to him. It made me want to shove him away and pull him closer all at once. My fists clenched at my sides, nails biting crescents into my palms.

“You really shouldn’t have done that,” I murmured, low enough that only his superpowered hearing could catch it. The words tasted like ash. “They’re gonna tear you apart for being friends with me.”

Jon pulled back just enough to blink at me, confusion wrinkling his brow. His eyelashes caught the fluorescent lights, gold, gold, gold, and for a second, I hated him for it. Hated how easy it was for him to be bright in a place that thrived on shadows.

I jerked my chin toward the lockers, avoiding his gaze. “Pretend you don’t know me,” I hissed. “Here, I’m just the demon brat. You’re the shiny new toy. Stick to that, or they’ll break you.” My throat tightened. “After school, fine. But not here.”

Somewhere behind us, Sarah’s laugh slithered through the air like oil. Jon’s grip on my jacket loosened, but his fingers lingered, just for a second, before falling away.

Too late.

The damage was done.

And now I had to watch them destroy him.

Or worse: watch him realize what I really was.

The cherry ice pop dripped sticky red down my fingers, staining them the color of old blood. From the Watchtower's observation deck, Gotham sprawled below like a dying beast, its skyscrapers jagged teeth against the bruised evening sky. I used to joke that the city tasted like battery acid and bad decisions. Jon always countered that Smallville smelled like fertilizer and hope. The memory twisted something sharp beneath my ribs.

I flicked the half-melted ice cream over the railing, watching it plummet thirty stories before vanishing into the city's hungry dark. Our stupid inside joke, his blackberry ice pops for his father's colors, my chili-spiked cherry for Batman's, felt childish now. What was the point of coded sweetness when I'd shown him my claws today? The cold metal of the railing bit into my palms as I leaned forward, wind tugging at my too-long hair. Maybe I should cut it. Maybe fresh starts were for people who hadn't just snarled like a feral thing in front of the only person who still looked at them like they were worth sunlight.

The tower's automatic doors hissed open behind me. I didn't turn. The footsteps were too light to be Clark's, too hesitant to be Dick's. Jon's stupid sneakers squeaked on the reinforced glass floor, that same uneven rhythm he'd had since he was twelve and kept growing out of his shoes too fast. My shoulders tensed. He shouldn't be here. He should be at some lame Academy mixer, letting Sarah Carmichael feed him lies about how much better off he'd be without the demon brat ruining his social prospects.

"You missed patrol," he said, too quiet. The scent of blackberry syrup and ozone clung to him as he leaned against the railing beside me. His ice pop wrapper crinkled in his fist, a purple smear at the corner of his mouth. Still playing our game. Still pretending today hadn't happened. The knot in my chest tightened.

I stared at the spot where my ice cream had disappeared. "Go home, Kent." The words came out rougher than I meant them to, all jagged edges and Gotham grime. "You don't want to be seen with me tomorrow either."

His elbow bumped mine, warm even through our sleeves. "Try stopping me." Like it was that simple. Like he hadn't seen what bubbled beneath my skin today, the thing even my siblings flinched from sometimes. The wind carried away my next words, but maybe that was for the best. Maybe some truths were too heavy for even the Watchtower to hold.

I curled my fingers around the railing until the metal groaned. The first thing my grandfather ever taught me: love is just another word for weakness. He'd made me burn my own stuffed animals one by one, their polyester fur melting into blackened lumps while Talia watched with approval. *If you cannot destroy what you love, Damian, you do not deserve to possess it.* Six years old, shaking, I'd buried the ashes beneath the Nanda Parbat gardens. Later that night, I'd dug them up again with my bare hands.

Jon's shoulder pressed firmer against mine. Below us, Gotham's neon arteries pulsed red and gold. "You gonna tell me what happened?" His voice was too gentle. It made my teeth ache.

Sarah Carmichael's smug face flashed behind my eyelids. The way her fingers had trailed down Jon's arm in homeroom, possessive as a cat marking territory. The way he'd laughed politely while his eyes darted toward the exits. My vision had tunneled scarlet before I could stop it. By the time the teachers pulled me off her, Sarah's perfect ponytail was yanked halfway out, her designer blouse ripped at the collar. The memory tasted like copper and victory.

"Nothing you'd understand." I spat over the railing, watching saliva and old rage vanish into the dark. "You don't get attached to things where you're from."

Jon's ice pop stick snapped between his fingers. "People aren't things, Damian."

The laugh tore out of me raw. "Aren't we?" My reflection in the reinforced glass showed too many teeth. "Your father's an alien. Mine's a bat. We're both just things they made to fight their wars." I turned my palm up, studying the crescent marks where my nails had broken skin earlier. "Difference is, I was designed to enjoy it."

He didn't answer. Just hooked his pinky around mine, sticky with syrup and stubborn as sunlight breaking through smog. I should've shaken him off. Should've shoved him away before the thing in my chest with too many teeth and not enough names got hungry again. Instead, I held on tighter.

Sarah Carmichael's laughter drifted through the cracked classroom window below us, honeyed poison dripping from every syllable. Jon's fingers twitched against mine. I didn't need super-hearing to know what she was saying, could picture her perched on some poor idiot's desk, swinging her legs like she owned the air they displaced. The teacher had left to make copies. Perfect hunting conditions. My free hand curled into a fist.

"Stop," Jon murmured, pressing his thumb against the fresh crescent moons in my palm. "She's not worth it."

But that was the problem. She was worth everything, every whispered rumor, every staged whisper against Jon's ear, every time her manicured fingers "accidentally" brushed his wrist in the hall. Worth it enough that I'd started humming under my breath in chemistry when she leaned over his lab table, some old League lullaby Talia used to sing before missions. *Go for the throat,* the melody whispered. *Make it quick.*

Jon frowned at the tune but didn't let go. "You're doing that thing again."

The thing where my pulse matched the rhythm of grandfather's voice in my head. The thing where my love tasted like a knife. I swallowed both. "What thing?"

Outside, Sarah's shadow stretched long across the courtyard as she dragged some faceless boy toward the bleachers. Jon's shoulders tensed. She'd tried that move with him last week, cornered him behind the gym with her cherry-glossed lips and practiced pout. I'd watched from the fire escape, throat burning, until he'd ducked under her arm with an awkward laugh.

The ice pop stick snapped in my grip. "Recess is in seven minutes."

Jon sighed, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles. "Damian, "

"I know." The lie settled between us, heavy as a coffin. *I know better.* But knowing never stopped the ache when Sarah's nails dug into his arm, when her lips brushed his cheek for the whole cafeteria to see. Mommy never told me love would feel like swallowing broken glass. Grandfather did.

The bell rang. Jon's grip tightened. I let go first.

Sarah's laughter cut through the courtyard like a blade, high and bright and cruel. She had him cornered by the swings, fingers trailing up his arm, lips parted in some rehearsed confession. Something inside me snapped.

I began to sing. Soft at first, just under my breath, the way Talia taught me when I was small enough to still fit in her lap. "Her face was fucking up and my hands were bloody." The swing chains rattled as Sarah pushed Jon backward. My voice grew louder. "We were in the playground, things were getting muddy." The teachers came running when Sarah's head snapped back from an invisible blow, her perfect nose suddenly gushing crimson.

Jon whirled toward me, eyes wide with horror. The lyrics poured out of me now, venomous and sweet. "The teachers broke us up after I broke her." Sarah collapsed, clutching her face, screaming about things nobody else could see. My throat burned with the force of the melody. "And my one true love called me a monster."

Jon reached for me, but I danced back, humming the killing verse now. The one grandfather taught me after mother's lullabies stopped working. Sarah convulsed on the ground, foam gathering at her lips. Someone sobbed.

"Mommy why do I feel sad?" I crooned, stepping over Sarah's twitching body. Jon backed away, hands raised like I was something wild. The hurt tasted like battery acid. "Should I give him away or feel this bad?"

Sarah's friends screamed for an ambulance. Jon's mouth moved, but all I heard was grandfather's voice whispering the final line. My fingers found Jon's throat.

"No no no don't you choke." His pulse fluttered against my palm like a trapped bird. Tears burned my eyes. "Grandfather says go for the throat."

The last thing I saw before security tackled me was Jon's face, not afraid, not angry. Just sad. Like he'd known all along what I was. Like he'd been waiting for me to remember.

I laughed until my ribs ached, until the guards' hands on my arms felt like nothing at all. The sound startled even me, jagged and wild, the kind of noise animals make when they're bleeding out. Someone shouted for sedation. The school courtyard swam in my vision, all blurred edges and screaming colors. Jon mouthed something, my name, maybe, but all I heard was grandfather's voice purring *good boy* from some dark corner of my skull.

The Batmobile's interior smelled like kevlar and pennywort salve. Father didn't speak, just gripped the wheel until the leather creaked. My reflection in the bulletproof glass showed a stranger with hacked-off hair and hollow eyes. I'd grabbed the kitchen shears the moment we got home, snipping until the waist-length strands fell in black heaps around my feet. Mother would've beaten me for ruining her handiwork. Father just quietly swept it up.

My bedroom door locked from the inside. Someone, probably Tim, had left a tray of tamarind rice and spiced tea outside. The steam curled upward, forming shapes that almost looked like Jon's stupid cowlick. I kicked the tray over, watching porcelain shatter against the baseboard. The noise brought running footsteps. Dick's voice through the door, tight with that particular brand of heartbreak he reserved for me. "Little wing..."

I pressed my forehead to the cold floor tiles, breathing in the scent of broken cardamom pods and spilled saffron. Somewhere downstairs, Alfred was telling Bruce to give me space. Somewhere in Metropolis, Jon was probably explaining to Clark why he should never patrol with Gotham's monster again. The bathroom mirror showed the damage: uneven brazing where I'd sawed at my hair in chunks, nicks on my scalp from shaking hands. A fresh start. A coward's way out.

My communicator buzzed for the seventeenth time. Jon's caller ID flashed, persistent as sunlight through storm clouds. I hurled it against the shower stall, watching the screen fracture into a spiderweb of glowing lines. Better this way. Better for everyone if the demon brat stayed chained in its cave. The league taught me one truth above all others: love is the thing that makes you weak. And I'd been weak for Jonathan Kent long enough.

Twisted Wonderland's title screen flickered across my laptop, the pixelated headmaster welcoming me back to Night Raven College with exaggerated cheer. The speakers crackled with artificial laughter as I tapped through dialogue boxes, letting ortho-shoujo fantasy drown out the real world's screams. Here, the monsters wore their cruelty openly. Here, the blood on my hands was just part of the aesthetic. My reflection in the darkened monitor showed hollow eyes and hacked-off hair, perfect for playing the tragic villain in some otome game tragedy.

A knock shattered the illusion. Dick's voice oozed through the door cracks like syrup. "Dami? Brought you curry from that place near the docks." The scent of tamarind and ghost peppers seeped under the doorframe. My stomach growled traitorously. Onscreen, Malleus Draconia smirked at my avatar, his pixelated fangs glinting. *You belong with us,* the text bubble read. *With creatures who understand what it means to hunger.*

I smashed the escape key. The game crashed mid-sentence, leaving only my shattered phone screen's glow lighting the room. Someone had slid a manila envelope under my door, surveillance photos of Jon sitting alone in the cafeteria, Sarah Carmichael's healed face smirking from three tables away. The Batfamily's idea of tough love. My fingers trembled against the glossy prints. Even now, they couldn't stop meddling. Even now, they refused to let me rot in peace.

The newest Obey Me event notification popped up on my laptop. *Special Devilgram Story Unlocked: When Your Demon Prince Needs Comfort!* Barbatos' pixelated hands reached toward the screen in fake concern. I closed the lid with unnecessary force. Outside my window, Gotham's perpetual rain blurred the city into watercolor smears. Somewhere beyond the storm, Jonathan Kent was probably laughing with normal friends, eating normal ice pops, living a normal life untouched by demon brats and their cursed bloodlines.

My fingers traced the embossed letters on *Frankenstein's* cover. The Creature's first words glared up at me in gothic typeface: *"I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel."* A dry chuckle scraped my throat. At least Victor Frankenstein's monster got to strangle his creator. My grandfather died smiling, secure in his victory. I snapped the book shut and tossed it at Titus' head. The Great Dane caught it midair with a wet *thwap*, tail thumping against the hardwood as if I'd thrown him a steak instead of Romantic-era existential dread.

Alfred the cat leapt onto my desk, knocking over my inkwell in deliberate sabotage. The black pool spread across Sarah Carmichael's smug yearbook photo like a blot of vengeance. My raven, Goliath, croaked approval from the chandelier, dropping a half-dead mouse onto my pillow. Their version of a care package. I scratched behind Alfred's ears until his purrs vibrated through my ribs. Animals never lied. Never pretended. Their love came with simple terms: feed us, protect us, and we'll maul your enemies on command.

Batcow lowed mournfully from the hidden stable Father built in the east wing. Her big brown eyes reflected the storm-light through my window, liquid with understanding no human ever managed. I pressed my forehead against her warm flank, breathing in hay and honest sweat. "Stupid," I muttered into her speckled hide. "Stupid to want things that aren't meant for us." She licked a stripe up my cheek, rough tongue scrubbing away saltwater I refused to acknowledge.

The manor's grandfather clock chimed midnight. Somewhere in Metropolis, Jon's stupid blackberry ice pop was probably dripping down his wrist as he scrolled through my deleted socials. My fingers tangled in Batcow's tail, clinging like a drowning man to driftwood. Outside, the storm worsened. Inside, my army of fur and feathers closed ranks around their wounded general. Loyal until death. The only kind of love that didn't feel like a lie.

Father's footsteps paused outside my door for the third time that hour. I could picture him standing there, cowl off, that particular wrinkle between his brows that only appeared when Damian-shaped problems arose. The doorknob turned slightly, hesitant, testing, before retreating. Somewhere downstairs, Dick was likely pacing like a caged tiger, Cass silently sharpening knives, Jason loading rubber bullets. The Batfamily's version of a crisis response team.

On my nightstand, Titus had deposited a chewed-up Wayne Enterprises tablet. The cracked screen still displayed blueprints for some new academy, schematics peppered with Kryptonian glyphs and bat-shaped security measures. Jon's messy handwriting filled the margins: *Dami-proof cafeterias!* circled with little sun doodles. My throat tightened. Even in exile, he was still trying to fix me.

Goliath dropped a live bat onto my pillow. It squeaked indignantly before fluttering to perch on my headboard. A peace offering from the cave colonies. The rain lashed harder against the windows, but somewhere beyond the storm, two fathers were building a sanctuary. Somewhere, a boy with sunlight in his laugh was refusing to let go.

My communicator buzzed again. Not Jon this time, the alert showed an encrypted file from Oracle. School transfer papers. Gotham Academy's expulsion notice stamped in blood-red ink. Sarah Carmichael's family suddenly liquidating their assets after some anonymous tip about tax fraud. The Bats' brand of vengeance, served cold with a side of justice. I deleted it unread. The only thing worse than pity was mercy earned through familial nepotism.

Alfred the cat kneaded my stomach, purring like a faulty engine. Outside, the clock struck one. Somewhere in the world, a new school was being built on the bones of old mistakes. Somewhere, Jonathan Kent was still waiting. And here, in the eye of the storm, the demon brat curled tighter into his pack of misfit creatures, listening to the echoes of a love he didn't deserve.

Dick broke in first, all acrobat grace and desperation, sliding through my window like a thief. He smelled like leather and cheap diner coffee, his stupid disco-nightmare pajamas clashing horribly with the gloom. "Nice haircut," he lied, perching on my desk like some neon gargoyle. "Looks very... post-apocalyptic chic."

I threw Alfred at him. The cat transformed midair into a hissing comet of indignation.

Tim came next, armed with a laptop and that particular brand of Batfamily stubbornness. He didn't speak, just propped his feet on my bed and started typing, the glow of WayneTech schematics reflecting in his glasses. A new school blueprint filled the screen, wider hallways, no blind spots by the lockers, security cameras pointed squarely at Sarah Carmichael's usual hunting grounds. His silence said everything: *We rebuild what breaks.*

Jason arrived with food, which was frankly insulting. The smell of chili dogs and Gotham gutter grease filled the room. "Eat, brat," he growled, shoving a styrofoam container into my hands. "Can't have you wasting away before I get to kill you myself." The container warmed my palms. Inside, blackberry syrup stained the fries purple. A message. A rebellion.

Father appeared last, a shadow coalescing in the doorway. He held the shears, proper ones this time, the kind Alfred used for topiary. "No Wayne heir," he said, voice gravel and gothic arches, "has ever had a haircut this bad." The words should've stung. Instead, something in my chest loosened.

I stabbed my fork into the chili dog. "Sentiment," I spat, but it came out wet.

Father's hand hovered over my butchered hair. "Your grandfather," he said quietly, "was wrong about many things." The shears snipped, precise as a surgeon's scalpel. "But most of all, he was wrong about you."

Outside, the rain slowed. Somewhere beyond the storm, a boy with sunlight in his laugh waited. And here, in the heart of the Batcave's shadow, the demon brat let himself be loved.

The communicator buzzed for the eighteenth time. Jon's caller ID flashed like a distress beacon. I flung *Dracula* at it, watching the cracked screen go dark under leather-bound fury. The silence lasted exactly three seconds before my bedroom window shattered inward.

Jon Kent hovered in the wreckage of stained glass, backlit by lightning, hair wild with static and rain. His pupils were blown wide, Kryptonian blue swallowed by something darker. "What the *hell* did you do?" His voice cracked like thawing glaciers.

I ducked behind the antique bookcase, fingers closing around Alfred the cat's scruff. The traitor purred as I lobbed him at Jon's chest. "My hair. My choice."

Jon caught Alfred one-handed without blinking. The other hand clenched so tight the air *warped* around his knuckles. "You looked like a Renaissance painting!" Thunder boomed in time with his shout. "Now you look like you lost a fight with a weed whacker!"

Alfred wriggled free to rub against Jon's shins, leaving muddy paw prints on his stupid Smallville High sweatpants. I hurled *Wuthering Heights* at Jon's head. "You're overreacting like some Gothic novel heroine!"

The book disintegrated midair in a burst of heat vision. Jon's eyes glowed radioactive green. "You hid for *a week*!" The floorboards groaned under his stomp. "Then I get Oracle's alert about your *expulsion*, "

"Sarah Carmichael's family fled the country," I snarled, lobbing *Jane Eyre* next. "Justice served."

Jon caught it, spine cracking in his grip. His other hand yanked me forward by my butchered hair. "You *scared* me." His breath hitched, warm against my forehead. "Thought you, " His fingers gentled, tracing the uneven strands. "Why?"

The truth lodged in my throat like broken glass. *Because love makes monsters of us all.* Instead, I smirked up at him. "Now we match, Kent. Both tragic haircuts."

Jon's laugh punched out of him, startled and bright. The tension bled from his shoulders as he pressed our foreheads together. "You're impossible."

"Noted." I flicked his nose. "Now put me down before Father thinks you're kidnapping me again."

Jon's grin turned feral. "Make me."

Outside, the storm broke. Somewhere beyond the wreckage, two fathers sighed into their coffee. And here, in the ruins of a perfectly good window, the demon brat let himself be held.

"You know what you remind me of at this very moment?" I growled, twisting in Jon's grip like a feral cat. "One of those Kryptonian warlords. It's very scary. Knock it off."

Jon's grin widened, all sunshine and stupid. "You're lying. Your pulse just spiked."

"Put me down before I put the kryptonite in my sword and slice you into, "

"Confetti?" Jon finished, swinging me higher like some deranged carnival ride. His stupid golden retriever energy was intolerable. "This is your last warning, I said!" I hissed, throwing a candlestick at his head. He caught it between his teeth like a damn fetch toy.

I decided to do the one thing I swore I never would.

My father will hear about this.

Yes, I quoted the brat from Harry Potter. So what? We're somehow alike, but I will never admit it in a million years.

Jon froze mid-swing, eyes widening comically. "Did you just, "

"Finish that sentence and I'll show you exactly what Ra's taught me about silencing witnesses."

His laughter shook the chandelier. Alfred the cat gave us a judgmental blink from the ruins of my desk. Somewhere below, Dick whooped like an overexcited hyena.

Jon's arms tightened around me, his stupid heart beating steady against my ribs. "Say it again."

"Never."

He nuzzled my butchered hair, infuriatingly gentle. "Your eyelashes are doing the thing."

"Shut up."

Outside, the storm passed. Inside, the demon brat stopped fighting. For now.

Jon's fingers lingered in my uneven bangs, stupidly gentle for someone who'd just crash-landed through a Wayne Manor window. "Oh, so you need to go over the hair thing?" His breath hitched with laughter, warm against my forehead. "It'll grow back in a year or two, give or take. And if anyone has to cry about it, it should be me, I'm a vain little thing, and I liked your hair long."

My throat tightened. Stupid emotions. Stupid feelings. I hated them all, this sentimentality clinging to my ribs like Gotham smog. "Worse," I hissed, ducking behind another bookcase, fingers scrambling for the doorknob. "I'm telling Father. We're locking all doors against crazy Kryptonians."

Jon's heat vision melted the lock before my fingers could twist it. The smug bastard leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over that hideous Smallville sweater. "Admit it. You missed me."

I threw *The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe* at his head. He caught it one-handed, grinning like I'd handed him roses instead of bleak Romanticism. The spine cracked open to *Annabel Lee*, that stupid poem about doomed love Jon kept quoting last summer. His thumb brushed the verse about demons down under the sea, and something in my chest twisted.

Alfred the cat chose that moment to leap onto Jon's shoulders, sinking claws into his sweater like a furry little vengeance demon. I smirked as Jon yelped. "See? Even the animals know you're insufferable."

Jon just nuzzled the traitorous feline, undeterred. "Your eyelashes are doing the thing again."

"I will skin you."

"Liar." He stepped closer, Alfred purring like a motorboat between us. "You'd miss my stupid face."

The worst part? He wasn't wrong. I glared at the wreckage of my window instead, where rain dripped onto *Frankenstein's* waterlogged pages. The Creature stared up at me from the flooded floor, ink bleeding into his plea: *"I ought to be thy Adam."* I kicked the book under the bed.

Jon's fingers found mine, sticky with blackberry syrup and stubborn as sunrise. "Hair grows back, demon brat."

Something in my chest cracked open. Stupid, stupid heart. I squeezed his hand tighter. "Tch. Whatever."

Jon's fingers twitched against mine. I felt the shift before I saw it, that slight tension in his shoulders, the way his pupils dilated fractionally. My gaze flicked to the emergency button hidden behind *Les Misérables* on the third shelf. Right where Dick had installed it after the third time Jon broke in through my window.

"You're scheming," Jon murmured, rubbing his thumb over my pulse point. His stupid super-hearing probably caught the way my heartbeat stuttered.

I lunged for the bookshelf. Jon moved faster, catching my wrist midair with a laugh that vibrated through my bones. "Oh no you don't." His breath warmed my ear as he spun me around, pinning my back against his chest. "Not this time, demon brat."

The button glowed mockingly from behind Hugo's masterpiece. Three feet away. Might as well have been three miles with Jon's arms locked around me like Kryptonian steel. I jerked my elbow backward, he dodged effortlessly, the bastard, and stomped on his foot. His grip didn't loosen.

"Let. Go."

Jon nuzzled my ruined hair. "Make me."

I went limp. Dead weight. Jon staggered, arms tightening instinctively as I slid downward, just enough for my fingertips to brush *Les Misérables*. The book toppled. The red button blinked innocently beneath it.

Jon's heat vision flared. The button melted into a sizzling puddle of plastic before my fingers could connect.

"Damn it, Kent!"

He laughed, the sound bright against Gotham's gloom, and hoisted me over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Somewhere below, Alfred the cat gave a judgmental meow. "Admit defeat, Wayne."

I sank my teeth into his shoulder. Jon just adjusted his grip, humming some idiotic Smallville pop song as he carried me toward the wrecked window. Outside, lightning split the sky, but for once, the storm felt far away.

"Father!" I shrieked loud enough to rattle the Batcave foundations. "Big brothers! Assorted nuisances! A deranged Kryptonian warlord is attempting to abduct your favorite demon brat!"

Silence. Then, from the grandfather clock downstairs, Dick's muffled laughter echoed up the stairwell. Traitors, all of them.

Jon grinned against my temple. "They know I'd win."

I bared my teeth. "Drake's internet history still has that Kon-El fanart folder." My voice carried perfectly through the manor's acoustics. "Grayson, should I tell Wally about the, "

A blur of red and black tackled Jon through the opposite wall. Plaster rained down as Nightwing pinned Superboy with a scandalized gasp. "You wouldn't."

Tim materialized from the shadows, Batcomputer tablet clutched to his chest like a shield. "You little demon, "

Jon wriggled free, scooping me back into his arms midair. "Too late, Replacement! He's mine now!" His laughter vibrated through my ribs, warm as Smallville sunlight.

I twisted to glare at my so-called allies. "I'll tell Jason you wrote poetry about Roy Harper's biceps."

Three separate Bat-grapples fired at once.

Jon dodged them all, spinning us through the shattered window into the storm. Rain lashed my face as Gotham's skyline blurred beneath us. His arms tightened, cheek pressed to my butchered hair. "Say it."

I waited until we breached the cloud layer, until the manor shrank to a gothic dollhouse below. Until his heartbeat synced with mine, steady as a metronome. Then, quietly, where no one else could hear:

"Tt. Fine. I... missed you. A little."

Jon's resulting whoop scared off a flock of pigeons. Somewhere far below, Dick was definitely taking blackmail photos. But here, above the storm, with the city lights flickering like distant stars, the demon brat let himself be stolen.

For now.

The Watchtower's observation deck smelled like ozone and disappointment. I stabbed my popsicle stick into the armrest, watching Gotham's smog swirl below like a living thing. Jon's reflection hovered in the reinforced glass, holding out my favorite tamarind ice pop like some kind of peace offering. I snatched it without looking, snapping off the tip between my teeth with more force than necessary. The flavor burst bitter-sweet on my tongue, just like everything else about this godforsaken day.

Jon sighed, sinking onto the couch beside me. His stupid Superboy cape pooled around him like liquid sunlight. "You're being childish."

I pointedly turned up the volume on my show, some inane cartoon about magical girls that Tim had downloaded to "broaden my cultural horizons." The clouds outside churned, darker than Father's post-mission scowls. Perfect. Maybe lightning would strike this floating tin can and put me out of my misery.

A shadow moved at the edge of my vision, Jonathan's fingers twitching toward mine. I jerked my hand away so fast the ice pop dripped onto my sleeve. "Touch me and lose the hand, Kent."

Jon's jaw tightened. Good. Let him stew. Let him remember who I was when the cameras weren't rolling. The Bat-credit card in my pocket weighed heavier than any sword. Maybe I'd buy out the entire ice cream factory. Maybe I'd have them discontinue Jon's favorite flavor out of spite.

The monitor behind us flickered to life with the Joker's grating laughter. Perfect. Just what this disaster needed, Uncle Creepy's pixelated face leering at us from some Arkham security feed. His makeup was smeared, probably from another escape attempt. "Batsy~" he crooned, "Tell your demon spawn I said hello!"

I flipped him off with my free hand. Jon groaned. "Don't engage."

"Don't tell me what to do." The ice pop stick snapped between my fingers. Onscreen, the Joker blew me a kiss. I'd take his brand of crazy over this suffocating tension any day. At least the clown knew what he was, a monster in neon packaging. No pretenses. No broken promises.

Jon's elbow bumped mine as he reached for the remote. I let him have it. What was one more betrayal today? The cartoon switched to some Metropolis news channel, all shiny smiles and lies. I crushed the remains of my ice pop wrapper into a tiny ball, aiming for Jon's stupid perfect hair.

It bounced off his forehead. He didn't flinch. Outside, thunder rumbled its approval. Somewhere below, Gotham kept rotting. And here, in this steel prison orbiting a dying world, the demon brat waited for the storm to pass.

I ditched Jon on patrol, left him mid-sentence about Metropolis museum hours, grappled straight through Wayne Tower's penthouse window before he could blink. The Batmobile's keys glinted from Father's study, tempting as grandfather's knife collection. I palmed them while Alfred's back was turned, savoring the weight of rebellion in my palm. The engine growled to life beneath me, leather seats smelling like Father's aftershave and disappointment. Perfect.

Sarah Carmichael's Instagram loaded on the dashboard screen, another post with Jon's arm slung over her shoulders like some cheap jacket. My finger hovered over the self-destruct codes. Mother would've laughed at this weakness, would've whispered *kill her properly this time* in that voice like shattered stained glass. Grandfather's ghost licked his lips from the passenger seat, bony fingers tapping the kryptonite compartment.

The tires screeched as I fishtailed onto the interstate. Let Jon chase me. Let him try explaining to Father why the Batmobile was currently doing 120 toward Blüdhaven's worst neighborhoods. The comms crackled to life with Dick's panicked yelp, good. Maybe if I crashed hard enough, they'd all stop looking at me like some broken thing.

Rain blurred the windshield into abstract art. Somewhere behind me, a streak of red and blue pierced the storm clouds. Stupid super-hearing. Stupid super-speed. Stupid boy who wouldn't stay gone. I punched the accelerator until the engine screamed.

The Batmobile's weapons array lit up like a Christmas tree. Father really needed better security protocols. Or maybe he'd known all along. Maybe this was another test, another way to see if the demon brat would finally snap.

Jon's reflection appeared in the rearview mirror, hair plastered to his forehead by the storm, eyes wide with that infuriating concern. "Damian, "

I activated the ejector seat.

His yelp was almost worth the inevitable grounding. The Batmobile swerved into an alley as Jon tumbled skyward, cape flapping like a drenched flag. Let him fly home. Let him tell them all how far the monster had run.

The roof access door gave way with one well-placed kick. Up here, the rain felt cleaner, the neon signs of Blüdhaven's strip clubs flickering like funeral pyres. I yanked off the cowl, letting the downpour slick back my ruined hair. Somewhere below, a news helicopter circled. Somewhere farther, Talia al Ghul was probably sipping tea and sighing over sentimental fools.

Jon landed beside me with a squelch, holding out the Batmobile keys like some sacrificial offering. "You forgot these."

I chucked them off the rooftop. "Don't care."

He caught them midair, because of course he did. The rain had washed the gel from his hair, leaving it curly and ridiculous. "You're being, "

"If you say childish, I'm jumping."

Jon's fingers closed around my wrist. Warm. Always so warm. "I was gionna say human." His thumb brushed my pulse point. "Scary, right?"

The storm swallowed my reply. Somewhere beneath us, the Batmobile's alarm wailed into the night. And here, on this filthy rooftop, the demon brat let the rain hide his tears. For now.

Jon's fingers tightened around my wrist, his stupidly earnest face inches from mine. "Dami, "

"Don't." I wrenched free, backing toward the ledge. The wind howled through my ruined hair, tugging at the jagged ends like grandfather's ghost fingers. "I found that stupid game."

Jon blinked rain from his lashes. "What?"

"Yandere Simulator." The words tasted like battery acid. My right eye twitched. "There's a, character type. Tsundere." A hysterical laugh clawed up my throat. "Apparently that's me. All, aggressive endearments and repressed, " My voice cracked. The Joker's laughter echoed in my skull.

Jon's stupidly warm hands framed my face. "So?"

"So?" I recoiled like he'd burned me. "So it's, pathetic. Weak. Grandfather would've, "

"Ra's al Ghul's dead." Jon's thumbs brushed my cheekbones, smearing rain and something saltier. "And I like your stupid aggressive endearments." His grin flashed lightning-bright. "Even when you threaten to vivisect me over stolen fries."

I headbutted him. Lightly. Just enough to make him yelp. "Tt. Idiot."

Jon's laughter warmed the storm-chilled air between us. "See? Tsundere."

The Batmobile's alarm cut off abruptly. Somewhere below, police sirens wailed. Jon's hands slid down to clasp mine, his grip unshakable as sunrise.

"I hate you," I muttered into his collarbone.

Jon pressed his lips to my ruined hair. "Liar."

The rain slowed to a drizzle. Gotham glittered below us, beautiful and broken. And here, on this rooftop, the demon brat let himself be known.

For now.

The cafeteria table groaned under my grip, my knuckles white around the plastic fork I'd bent into a weapon. Across the room, Sarah Carmichael giggled too loudly, twirling a strand of hair around her finger as she leaned into Dick's personal space. My eldest brother's smile looked strained, that particular tightness around his eyes only Cass and I recognized as his "please don't make me hug a stranger" expression.

Jon's knee pressed against mine beneath the table, a silent tether. "Dami. Breathe." His voice was barely audible over the blood roaring in my ears.

I watched Sarah's painted fingernails brush Dick's sleeve, watched his shoulders tense ever so slightly. The fork snapped in my palm. Todd would've laughed at the murderous glint in my eyes, Drake would've rolled his own and called me dramatic, but Jon, damn him, just slid his hand over mine, prying the plastic shards from my grip with infuriating gentleness.

"She's not worth it," he murmured, but his gaze flicked to Dick's stiff posture with equal protectiveness. We both remembered the nights Grayson woke screaming from nightmares no amount of escrima training could defeat.

Sarah's sycophants erupted in laughter at some vapid comment about Nightwing's "tight pants." My vision tunneled. Jon's grip tightened.

"Plan," he whispered urgently. "Remember? We sabotage her Homecoming campaign. Leak those texts where she called Principal Wuertz a 'bald troglodyte.'"

I exhaled sharply through my nose. Across the cafeteria, Dick finally extracted himself with a flawless acrobat's pivot. Sarah's pout lasted precisely until she spotted Tim entering the library.

Jon squeezed my hand. "See? She's moved on to Red Robin. Your brothers can handle themselves."

I glared at the crescent moons my nails left in his palm. "They shouldn't have to."

The bell rang. Jon stood, hauling me up with him. "C'mon, demon brat. We've got a yearbook committee to infiltrate."

For the first time all day, I smiled.

Sarah Carmichael didn't see us coming, none of them ever did. Jon stood watch by the AV room door while I sliced into the school's sound system with Todd's stolen Bat-tech, Dick hovering behind me with that particular mix of concern and reluctant amusement. "This is beneath you, Dami," he murmured, but didn't stop me when I plugged in the flash drive.

The speakers crackled to life halfway through fifth period, right as Sarah posed for another mirror selfie in the girls' bathroom. The opening notes of "Pity Party" blared through every classroom, hallway, and, thanks to Jon's sabotage, her personal phone's Bluetooth. I watched through the security feeds as her face purpled, her minions scattering like cockroaches when the lyrics hit the chorus.

Dick choked on his coffee. "Oh my god."

Jon's grin flashed in the dim light. "You made it skip straight to the 'nobody likes me' part."

I adjusted the volume higher. "Tt. Obviously." My fingers flew across the keyboard, queuing up every embarrassing photo from Sarah's deleted Finsta, the ones where she'd Photoshopped herself into Tim's patrol photos, the cringey fanfics about Dick's "luminous pectorals." The screens across campus flickered to life simultaneously, her falsified GPA and leaked DMs about "banging her way to homecoming queen" displayed for every student, teacher, and, most deliciously, Principal Wuertz to see.

Dick's hand clamped on my shoulder. "Okay, demon spawn, that's enough war crimes for one, "

The door burst open. Sarah stood there, mascara streaked, vibrating with rage. "You little, "

Jon stepped between us, crossing his arms. "Problem?"

Sarah's finger jabbed toward me. "That monster, "

Dick moved faster than I'd seen him move outside the cowl, his grip on her wrist just shy of breaking bones. His smile stayed perfectly Grayson-bright. "Ah-ah. We don't use that word in this family." He leaned in, voice dropping to that particular tone that made even Deathstroke check his exits. "Unless you'd like to explain to Commissioner Gordon why your daddy's offshore accounts suddenly appeared on the GCPD tip line?"

Sarah paled. Jon whistled innocently. I grinned, sharp as grandfather's knives.

Somewhere in the distance, the last chorus of "Pity Party" played on loop. Dick dusted his hands off. "Well. Who's up for Batburger?"

Jon slung an arm around my shoulders. "Only if Demon Brat pays."

I elbowed his ribs. Lightly. "Tt. Whatever."

The salon smelled like lavender and formaldehyde, an odd combination that made my nose wrinkle. My stylist, some up-and-coming Gotham artist who'd once survived a Joker attack, clicked her tongue as she surveyed the jagged mess I'd made of my hair. "Okay, demon prince," she said, twirling a razor between her fingers like one of father's batarangs, "let's turn this tragedy into art."

Jon sat in the waiting area, flipping through a dog-eared issue of *Gotham Vogue* with exaggerated interest. Every few minutes, he'd peek over the magazine, pretending he wasn't watching the transformation. I caught his reflection in the mirror when she layered in the dark extensions, blending them seamlessly with my natural hair until it fell just past my shoulders, not quite the waist-length cascade mother had favored, but enough to frame my face without feeling like a relic.

"Still you," Jon mouthed when our eyes met in the glass.

The stylist spun my chair around with a flourish. "Behold," she announced, "the rebirth of Gotham Academy's demon brat." The cut was sharper now, asymmetrical with one side slightly longer than the other, the ends razored to look intentionally uneven. It was reckless. Calculated. Like the way I fought.

Jon's magazine slipped from his fingers. "Damn," he breathed.

I touched the ends, surprised by the softness. The extensions were lighter than I expected, moving like ink spilled in water when I turned my head. The stylist smirked, wiping her hands on her apron. "Told you I could make monsters look pretty."

Jon bounded over before I could retort, fingers hovering near my temple. "Can I, ?"

"Touch me and lose the hand, Kent." But I didn't move away.

His grin widened. "Worth it."

Later, in the Batmobile's tinted windows, I examined my reflection as Gotham's skyline blurred past. The hair was different but familiar, a reclamation, not a surrender. Jon's knee bumped mine as he drove, his warmth seeping through our uniforms.

"Keep staring and I'll charge admission," I muttered.

Jon laughed, bright as a solar flare. "Already paid," he said, tapping his temple where the bruise from my headbutt was just fading.

I yanked the extensions out that night, scattering them across my vanity like fallen feathers. They'd served their purpose. Tomorrow, I'd face Gotham Academy as myself, shorter hair, sharper edges, same demon brat. Just with better styling.

Jon's text lit up my phone: *Still you.*

I silenced the screen. But I didn't delete the message.

The handmade invitation lay heavy in my desk drawer, tucked between *The Art of War* and a confiscated kryptonite dagger. My calligraphy was impeccable, the ink still faintly aromatic from Alfred's special blend. The wax seal, stamped with the Wayne crest, had taken three attempts to perfect. A ridiculous effort for something so... soft.

Titus whined at my feet, nudging my knee with his wet nose. I scratched behind his ears absently. "Stop that. I'm not nervous." The Great Dane gave me a look that suggested he'd seen through more accomplished liars.

Outside, Jon's laughter floated up from the gardens where he was undoubtedly being subjected to Dick's terrible tea ceremony demonstrations. Through the window, I could see Clark Kent fumbling with a cravat while Father looked on with that particular Bat-glare reserved for wardrobe malfunctions. Even the pets had gathered, Batcow wore a ridiculous flower crown, Goliath preened in a miniature waistcoat, and Alfred the cat lorded over them all from his velvet cushion throne.

My fingers twitched toward the drawer again. This was absurd. The Demon Heir didn't host tea parties. The Demon Heir didn't worry about whether his best friend would laugh at hand-painted porcelain. The Demon Heir certainly didn't, A knock. Too hesitant to be Todd, too rhythmic to be Drake.

"Enter," I growled, shoving the drawer shut with my knee.

Jon stood framed in the doorway, sunlight catching the gold embroidery on his waistcoat. His stupidly blue eyes flicked to the telltale ink smudge on my pinky finger. "So," he said, leaning against the doorframe with infuriating grace, "hearing there's some kind of... *civilized* event happening today?"

I threw a sugar cube at his head. He caught it between his teeth, grinning.

"Shut up, Kent."

Jon's smile softened as he stepped forward, offering his hand. "Wouldn't miss it, demon brat."

Somewhere below, Dick was definitely burning the scones.

I took Jon's hand.

For now.

The porcelain teacup warmed my palms as I took the first sip, pinky extended just so, a practiced motion refined under Alfred's watchful eye. Across the garden table, Jon was attempting to mimic my posture, his broad farmer's hands comically delicate around the fragile china. Sunlight fractured through the Gotham gloom, casting dappled shadows across his ridiculous cravat.

"Stop slurping," I muttered into my Earl Grey.

Jon grinned, deliberately making an obscene noise as he sipped. Dick choked on his scone, spraying crumbs across Jason's freshly polished boots. The ensuing scuffle would have devolved into outright brawling if not for Father's glacial stare from the head of the table.

Batcow lowed her disapproval from the rose arbor, her flower crown listing precariously. I exhaled through my nose, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from my waistcoat. This was still civilized. Mostly.

Jon's knee bumped mine beneath the lace tablecloth, his smile softening into something private. "You're doing that thing," he murmured, nodding to where my fingers had tightened around the cup.

I forced them to relax. The steam curled between us, carrying bergamot and the faintest hint of Gotham smog. Somewhere beyond the manor walls, the city thrived in its perpetual twilight, but here, for this stolen afternoon, the light clung to Jon's eyelashes like gold leaf.

Jason lobbed a sugar cube at Tim's forehead. Cassandra intercepted it midair with a flick of her wrist.

"My tea parties," I announced to the gathering storm clouds, "are not wrestling arenas."

Jon's laughter warmed the space between my ribs. He reached for the pot, pouring with exaggerated care. "Sure thing, your highness." His pinky stuck out at a perfect forty-five degree angle.

The cup trembled in my grip. Not from anger. Never from anger, not with him.

Somewhere, a clock struck three. Somewhere, Gotham kept breathing. And here, in this fractured moment, the demon heir drank his tea like a proper Wayne, surrounded by chaos and sunlight.

For now.

The transformation hit like a kryptonite-infused gut punch. One moment I was gulping down what I *thought* was Todd’s abandoned whiskey (revenge for him stealing my last batarang), the next, heat. Liquid fire crawling up my throat, twisting my bones into shapes that made my skin prickle. My hair tumbled past my shoulders in golden waves, brushing against a waist that had no business being that small. The sundress materialized like some sick joke, clinging to newly acquired curves that made me want to vomit. Across the garden, Jon’s teacup shattered on the cobblestones.

Tom Jones’ *She’s a Lady* blared from nowhere, violins sawing at my last nerve.

I grabbed my chest, *why were they so heavy*, and glared at my traitorous reflection in the gravy boat. “Who. Did. This.”

Dick’s choked wheeze turned into a full-blown coughing fit. Jason, the absolute bastard, snapped a photo with his burner phone. “Send that and die,” I snarled, except my voice came out all wrong, honeyed and sharp, like Talia on a bad day.

Jon’s pupils dilated.

Oh *hell* no.

I backpedaled so fast my stupid Mary Janes skidded on the grass. Jon’s eyes had that eerie Kryptonian glow, the one that surfaced whenever some poor idiot threatened his Ma’s chickens or mentioned Earth’s orbital decay. His fingers flexed like he was imagining wrapping them around a war hammer. “Jon,” I warned, voice pitching higher than I’d ever admit, “if you start reciting Rao’s blessings right now, I swear to, GRAVESON, *SHIELD ME*.”

Dick, bless his overprotective heart, vaulted over the table like a human barrier. “Woah there, Little D, uh, Little *Miss*? What’s the protocol for, oh *wow*, those are some, ”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll neuter you with a dessert spoon.”

Jon took a step forward. The ground cracked under his boots.

Somewhere behind me, Tim was furiously Googling “how to reverse magical gender bend,” while Cass signed *TOLD YOU SO* at a shell-shocked Father.

Jason, ever helpful, tossed me a switchblade. “For the dysphoria, princess.”

I caught it midair, flipping him off with my free hand. The knife felt wrong in my smaller fingers. Jon’s gaze tracked the movement, throat bobbing.

Dick yelped as I ducked behind him. “Why am *I* the human shield?!”

“Because Todd would *sell* me!”

“Valid.”

Jon’s voice rumbled low enough to shake the china cabinet. “Who. Did. This.”

Not a question. A vow.

I peeked over Dick’s shoulder. Jon’s hair was lifting, static-charged, his irises bleeding from blue to Krypton’s sickly green. Oh *nope*. I’d seen that look exactly once, when Lex Luthor called Lois “sweetheart.”

“Kent, I swear to *god*, if you go full warlord right now, ”

His head tilted. Predatory. “Pretty.”

I stabbed the tablecloth.

Somewhere, Alfred sighed.

The universe had *thirty seconds* to fix this.

The parasol popped into existence above my head with an audible *ploof*, its lace edges fluttering like some Victorian ghost's handkerchief. I snarled and attempted to stab it with Jason's switchblade, only for the blade to bounce off harmlessly, the parasol twirling merrily as if mocking me. "SCREW YOU!" I bellowed at the sky, which only prompted the fan to materialize in my other hand, its mother-of-pearl handle cool against my palm.

Jon made a noise like a wounded buffalo.

I spun the fan open with a vicious flick, nearly taking Dick's eye out. "This isn't *Bridgerton*, you cosmic *joke*," I hissed. The fan's ivory slats were painted with delicate cherry blossoms. Of *course* they were.

Jon took another step forward, his pupils blown so wide his eyes looked black. "You're, " His Adam's apple bobbed. "The lace. It's, "

I snapped the fan shut and smacked it against Grayson's chest. "Shield. *Now*."

Dick wheezed, arms spread wide as if corralling a rabid peacock. "Buddy, maybe don't mention the, "

"*Corset*," Jon breathed, staring at my waist like it had personally betrayed him.

I nearly snapped the fan's handle in half. There *was* no corset, just some eldritch sorcery making my silhouette resemble Talia's damned hourglass figure. Jon's nostrils flared.

Jason, the absolute *traitor*, wolf-whistled. "Demon *brat* more like demon, "

I threw the fan. It spiraled through the air like a shuriken and embedded itself in the teakettle.

Silence.

Then Jon made another one of those gut-punch noises and lunged.

Dick caught him midair, his grip slipping on Jon's sweat-dampened shirt. "Whoa there, Superman Jr.! Not the time for, "

"*Pretty*," Jon growled, straining against Dick's hold, his gaze locked on me with terrifying intensity.

I grabbed the parasol by its frilly neck and brandished it like a broadsword. "Back. *Off*."

Jon's responding grin was all teeth.

Somewhere, Alfred poured himself a *very* strong drink.

Jon's grin widened as he took another step forward, his Kryptonian heat vision flickering dangerously. I brandished the parasol like a makeshift baton, its ruffled edges trembling with the sheer indignity of it all. "Kent, stop this *at once* or so help me God, I will get the kryptonite and shove it up your, "

"Language," Jon murmured, his voice dripping with something that made my nonexistent corset feel three sizes too tight. His fingers twitched at his sides like he was imagining wrapping them around my, *oh hell no*.

I jabbed the parasol forward, narrowly missing his jugular. "Stop acting like a beast in heat and start behaving like my best friend and *gentleman*! This is nonsense!" The words came out in a furious hiss, my borrowed soprano voice cracking under the strain. Behind me, Jason was wheezing into his elbow while Tim frantically documented the scene for blackmail purposes.

Jon ducked under another parasol swing, his stupid farm-boy reflexes making this far more difficult than it needed to be. "You're *sparkling*," he breathed, like that was a perfectly normal observation and not the rantings of a deranged Super.

I snapped the fan open with a violence that would’ve made Lady Whistledown faint. "I *refuse* to be a lady a second longer than I have to!" The lace of my glove, since *when* was I wearing gloves, itched unbearably. "When I find out who did this, I’m going to rearrange their internal organs until they *wish* they were never, "

Jon lunged.

I swung the parasol like a claymore, smacking him square in the nose with a satisfying *thwack*. He staggered back, clutching his face with a wounded noise that would’ve been comical if not for the way his eyes darkened with something far more dangerous than pain.

"Dick!" I barked, backing toward the hedges like a cornered fox. "*Shield!*"

Grayson, the traitor, was too busy filming on his phone to intervene.

Jon wiped his nose with the back of his hand, grinning at the smear of red. "Worth it."

Somewhere, Alfred sighed again.

And the parasol creaked ominously in my grip.

I slammed my bedroom door so hard the crystal chandelier trembled, its prisms scattering fractured light across my hastily erected barricade, a dresser piled with kryptonite-laced textbooks, Batcow’s discarded flower crown (now wired with lead filaments), and three separate tasers hidden under lace doilies. My reflection in the vanity mirror was a stranger: golden curls mussed from my frantic retreat, sapphire eyes wide with something too close to fear. The sundress’s bow dug into my ribs like a taunt.

A knock. Too gentle to be Jason, too hesitant to be Dick.

"Go *away*, Kent," I snarled, yanking the curtains shut with enough force to tear the silk.

Jon’s voice seeped through the keyhole, molten and wrong. "Dami, "

"Don’t." My fist clenched around the parasol’s handle. "You don’t get to call me that when you’re *looking* at me like, like some *confection*." The admission tasted like bile. Outside, thunder rolled, Clark’s worried hovering, no doubt.

Silence. Then fabric rustled as Jon slid down the door, his sigh vibrating the wood. "I’d never hurt you."

I laughed, sharp as shattered china. "You were *salivating*."

A thump, his forehead hitting the door. "Because you’re *you*. Always." His voice cracked. "Even like this."

The parasol trembled. Stupid, *stupid* sentiment. Titus whined at my feet, pressing his warm bulk against my shaking knees. Somewhere downstairs, Father was undoubtedly interrogating Zatanna via comms while Alfred brewed enough tea to sedate a Kryptonian army.

I sank to the floor, back against the door, close enough to feel Jon’s heat through the wood. "This isn’t a Gothic novel," I muttered. "I won’t be some trembling ingenue waiting for rescue."

Jon’s knuckles brushed the base of the door, a ghost of our childhood pinky promises. "Then don’t." His whisper was raw. "Lock me out. Chain the windows. But *stop* acting like I’m him."

The unspoken *Ra’s* hung between us, poison-tipped.

My throat closed. Outside, the storm broke, washing Gotham in silver. Inside, the demon heir clutched a kryptonite dagger in one hand and Jon’s abandoned teacup in the other, suspended between war and want.

For now.

The parasol creaked in my grip as I weighed my options. Jon's breathing remained steady against the door, his fingertips still brushing the wood where our hands might've met in another life. With a scoff, I yanked the lock open. "Enter," I snapped, retreating to the fireplace with the kryptonite dagger glinting between my fingers. "But if you so much as *breathe* like an uncivilized brute, I'll gut you where you stand."

Jon slipped inside, hands raised in surrender. Moonlight caught the gold embroidery on his ruined waistcoat, the fabric stretched taut across his shoulders from whatever internal war he'd been waging. His gaze flickered to the dagger, then to my makeshift barricade, before settling on my face with startling clarity. "I brought tea," he said hoarsely, producing a chipped cup from behind his back. Steam curled between us, bergamot and honey cutting through the tension.

I eyed the offering like it might bite. "This isn't some Regency romance where you swoop in because I'm suddenly *pretty*." The word tasted foul. My free hand clenched around the parasol's neck. "Touch me and I'll demonstrate precisely where the sun doesn't shine, with kryptonite reinforcement."

Jon set the teacup on the vanity with exaggerated care. When he turned, his smile was all wrong, soft at the edges, like I'd handed him a wounded bird instead of a threat. "You've always been..." He trailed off, gesturing vaguely at my general existence. "You're just... more *you* now. Which is terrifying." His throat worked. "But not like *that*."

I jabbed the dagger toward his abdomen. "Then why were you salivating like a starved hound?"

"Because you *scared* me!" The admission burst out raw, his voice cracking like ice over a thawing river. "One second you're chugging Todd's whiskey, the next you're, " His hands fluttered uselessly. "Magic changes people. I've seen it." His pupils dilated with memories I couldn't decipher. "But you're still snarling at me with Grandma's best silverware, so." He shrugged, the motion deliberately casual. "Crisis averted."

Somewhere below, Father's muffled shouting indicated Zatanna had arrived. Jon's gaze dipped to my death grip on the parasol before flicking back up, impossibly earnest. "Can I sit? Like a civilized gentleman?"

I debated stabbing the settee instead. "Try anything," I warned, lowering the dagger marginally, "and I'll repurpose your spleen as a pincushion."

Jon sank onto the chaise with the caution of a man approaching a live grenade. Outside, Gotham's perpetual storm rumbled its approval. Inside, the demon heir and the farm boy sipped stolen tea amidst the ruins of expectations, the truce holding.

For now.

I glared down at my chest, these traitorous, bouncing monstrosities that had the audacity to exist. Every slight movement sent them jiggling in a way that made me want to strangle whoever invented physics. If I were still Damian, I might’ve appreciated the absurdity of the phenomenon. But as this cursed, corset-less version of myself, all I felt was seething irritation and the dull ache of their weight dragging on my spine.

Across the room, Jon cleared his throat and promptly turned his gaze to the ceiling, as if the chandelier had suddenly become the most fascinating object in existence. His cheeks were flushed. Pathetic.

"Stop staring," I snapped, crossing my arms, only to immediately regret it as the motion pushed them up higher, practically begging for attention.

"I wasn’t, " Jon began, voice strained.

"Lie again and I’ll stab you with this parasol."

He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing like a buoy in rough seas. "It’s just, you keep *moving*," he muttered, as if that excused anything.

I scoffed. "Oh, forgive me for *breathing*." I hated this. Hated the way my body betrayed me with every step, every shift, every sigh. Hated the way Jon’s stupid Kryptonian eyes kept flickering back like a moth to flame. Most of all, I hated the fact that some deranged part of the male population would *kill* to be in my position, to have these absurd, inconvenient flesh sacks attached to their chests, as if they were trophies instead of burdens. Disgusting.

Jon exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers gripping the edge of the chaise so hard the wood creaked. "You’re *doing it on purpose*," he accused weakly.

"*Doing what?* Existing?" I threw my hands up, another mistake, as the resulting bounce nearly knocked the teacup off the vanity. Jon made a strangled noise.

Somewhere, Alfred was undoubtedly praying for strength.

And I? I was seriously considering arson.

The parasol snapped shut in my grip, its lace edges trembling with indignation. Jon's gaze flickered between my face and the aforementioned *problem areas* like a malfunctioning security camera. "Dami," he croaked, voice strangled.

"I *didn't ask* for this," I hissed, jabbing the parasol toward his chest. The motion, unfortunately, caused another traitorous bounce. Jon made a noise like a deflating balloon. "These *things* have a mind of their own, and if you're so disturbed by basic *anatomy*, then kindly remove yourself before I remove your spleen."

Jon's fingers dug into the chaise, his knuckles bleaching white. "It's not, I don't, "

"Spare me." I flung the parasol aside, narrowly missing Titus's tail. "There are degenerates who'd sell their kidneys for this cursed form, which is *revolting*, and if *you're* suddenly among their ranks, "

"I'm *not*," Jon gritted out, his pupils blown wide. A bead of sweat trailed down his temple.

"Then *control yourself*." I gestured sharply to his lap, where the evidence of his predicament was impossible to ignore. "Take your *little me issue* downstairs, handle it like a civilized creature, and return when you're fit for company. Otherwise?" My smile turned razor-sharp. "We *will* have a problem."

Jon exhaled sharply through his nose. "You're *enjoying* this."

"I'm *enduring* it," I corrected, stalking toward the door. "Find Grayson. Or a cold shower. Preferably both."

His hand shot out, catching my wrist. The contact sent an unwelcome jolt up my arm. "Stay," he murmured, thumb brushing my pulse point.

"Unhand me before I demonstrate why Ra's called me *the demon*."

Jon's grip loosened, but his gaze didn't waver. "You're still *you*," he said, as if that excused anything.

I wrenched free, smoothing my skirts with more force than necessary. "And you're still *repulsive*. Goodbye, Kent." The door slammed behind me with finality.

Somewhere, Alfred sighed into his tea.

And the parasol, abandoned on the floor, twitched ominously.

Father's silhouette darkened the library doorway, Zatanna's top hat brushing his shoulder as she murmured incantations under her breath. "Miss Zatanna," I said, voice clipped, "has your reconnaissance yielded results? My predicament is proving... inconvenient." My fingers tapped impatiently against my thigh, the lace gloves stifling.

Zatanna's lips quirked as she flipped through her spellbook. "Someone's cranky. What'd the boy scout do this time?"

I leveled her with a glare sharp enough to flay skin. "He developed *notions*. About *these*." A jerky gesture toward my chest made Zatanna snort into her tea.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "Damian, "

", is currently contemplating homicide," I finished sweetly. "Unless you've located a counterspell?"

Zatanna snapped her book shut with a puff of violet smoke. "Magic this strong leaves residue. Like perfume." She held up a vial swirling with gold dust, the same shimmer clinging to Jon's sweater earlier. My stomach twisted.

"And the culprit?"

"Your uncle," Bruce said grimly. "He hired a sorcerer to ensure you'd be... *unrecognizable* on the streets."

I went very still. The corsetless dress suddenly felt like a noose. "So this was never about Jon."

Zatanna shook her head. "The spell amplifies what's already there. Your little Super just..." She wiggled her fingers. "Got caught in the crossfire."

I stared at the vial, Jon's wrecked expression flashing behind my eyelids, the way he'd looked at me like I'd hung the stars, even as I threatened to gut him. Stupid, loyal farm boy.

Bruce cleared his throat. "Zatanna can reverse it. But the spell's tied to your emotional state. The more you fight it..."

"The more *entrenched* it becomes," Zatanna finished. She leaned in, smelling of ozone and mischief. "So. Wanna tell us why *anger* keeps triggering the glitter?"

The parasol levitated abruptly, whacking her hat clean off.

Somewhere downstairs, Jon laughed.

And the demon heir decided, just this once, to let the parasol have its fun.

"Thank you, Miss Zatanna," I said, plucking the vial of gold dust from her fingers with a smile sharp enough to draw blood. My reflection in the library's leaded glass showed blonde curls framing sapphire eyes, a mockery of everything I once was. "I know precisely whose entrails to redecorate with, but why blonde?" The words slithered out, venomous. "My black hair was beautiful. You could've counted coup with that alone."

Bruce's jaw tensed. "Damian, "

"Power," I interrupted, spinning the vial between my fingers. "Of course. The fool wanted me unrecognizable, forgettable. How quaint." The glass shattered in my grip, golden residue coating my palms like gilded blood. "He forgets, mother and grandfather were assassins before they were legends. And I?" My laugh sent Zatanna's top hat rolling. "I was carving out hearts while other heirs practiced their curtsies."

Bruce moved to block the door. I unsheathed the kryptonite dagger from my bodice with a flourish, watching his pupils constrict. "No killing," he growled.

"This isn't a Wayne Family matter." I flipped the blade, catching it by the tip, grandfather's favorite parlor trick. "It's an al Ghul affair. We serve justice chilled." The dagger vanished back into silk folds as I stepped past him, trailing bergamot and menace. "Expect Uncle's head on a pike by dawn. Do give Jon my regards, tell him his little damsel has business with the wolves."

Zatanna's spellbook snapped shut behind me. "You're sparkling again," she sing-songed.

I didn't turn. Let them stare. Let them see how a daughter of shadows moved in sunlight, every sway of my hips a calculated threat, every bounce of golden curls a distraction for the knife in my garter. The parasol twirled once in my grip before becoming a scepter, a weapon, a promise.

Somewhere in the manor, Jon would be pacing. Let him. The demon heir had a kingdom to reclaim.

Uncle’s throne room smelled of sandalwood and cowardice. The assassins at my feet trembled, foreheads pressed to cold marble as their blades formed a glittering circle around my heels. "Forgive us, Prince," their leader rasped, fingers twitching near his discarded scimitar. "We thought, "

"You thought me some silk-draped fool," I interrupted, twirling grandfather’s dagger between my fingers. Moonlight caught the Damascus steel, casting tiger-striped shadows across Uncle’s ashen face. He clutched the armrests like they might save him. Pathetic. "How quaint."

One assassin dared to lift his head. His pupils dilated when he saw the al Ghul sigil gleaming at my throat, the real one, molten and merciless, not the gilt replica hanging from Uncle’s trembling neck. "The Heir," he breathed.

I smiled. The dagger stilled, point aimed at Uncle’s frantically bobbing Adam’s apple. "Oh, don’t look so surprised. Grandfather did so love his dramatic reveals." My free hand trailed over the throne’s carved lion head, its ruby eyes winking. "Banished you decades ago, didn’t he? Said you couldn’t tell a decapitation from a dinner invitation."

Uncle’s lips peeled back from yellowed teeth. "You, "

"Were raised by wolves and warlords," I finished sweetly, kicking aside an assassin’s fallen dagger. It skittered across the floor, coming to rest against Uncle’s polished boot. "Did you truly believe turning me into some simpering society miss would make me forget?"

The throne room’s shadows deepened. Somewhere, a peacock screamed.

Uncle lunged, not for me, never for me, but for the hidden blade in his sleeve. I sighed, flicking my wrist. The dagger found its home between his ribs with the ease of a key turning in a lock. He gasped, fingers scrabbling at the hilt, as if he could pry death out like a loose tooth.

I stepped over his crumpling body, silk skirts whispering against blood-slick marble. "The throne belongs to me," I told the assassins, now prostrate once more. "The empire, the assassins, the shadows, all mine." I settled onto the lion-carved seat, crossing my ankles daintily. "Someone clean this up. And fetch my Kryptonian. He’ll want front-row seats for the coronation."

The sorcerer arrived in chains, dragged forward by two League operatives who couldn't meet my eyes. His fingers trembled where they clutched his spellbook, the same one that had transformed me into this golden-haired nightmare.

"You have until sunset," I said, examining my freshly painted nails. "Reverse the spell or join Uncle in the afterlife."

His Adam’s apple bobbed. "M-my lady, such magic requires, "

I leaned forward, letting the throne’s rubies cast bloody light across my face. "Shall I fetch your family first? To motivate you?"

The spell unraveled like a noose loosened from my throat. Black strands crept back across my vision, my bones shifting beneath skin that remembered its true shape. When the last shimmer of gold dissipated, I rose, taller, leaner, myself again, and snapped my fingers.

Two assassins seized the sorcerer.

"For your service," I said, flicking a dagger between my fingers, "I grant you mercy." The blade embedded itself in the wall an inch from his ear. "Run. And if I ever catch you enchanting heirs again?" My smile sent him scrambling backward. "I’ll mount your spine as a candelabra."

I turned to the assembled assassins. "The League remains mine. Affairs will be managed by my appointed regent." I pointed to the most competent-looking shadow. "You. Temporary sovereign. Emergencies only."

The chosen assassin knelt, forehead pressing to my boot.

I tossed a burner phone at his feet. "Memorize this number. Breathe a word of it to anyone, and I’ll peel the skin from your hands."

Outside, Gotham’s skyline gleamed through parted clouds. Somewhere beyond it, Jon would be pacing Wayne Manor’s halls, wearing grooves in the hardwood with his worry.

I flexed my fingers, relishing the familiar callouses.

Time to go home.

The thought echoed in my skull as I strode down Gotham's rain-slicked streets, my boots clicking against pavement in a familiar rhythm. Each step felt like reclaiming territory, like peeling off layers of that cursed, golden-haired façade. The damp night air smelled of petrol and wet concrete, home, not sandalwood and treachery. I flexed my fingers, relishing the return of my callouses, the absence of those ridiculous silk gloves.

I understood Foxy Loxy now. Not the cartoon bully from Chicken Little, but the hollowed-out marionette she became after the aliens reshaped her. All that forced giggling, the way her blonde curls bounced unnaturally, like my own reflection these past weeks. A lobotomy in pastels. Uncle hadn’t just wanted me gone; he’d wanted me *replaced*, some simpering doll curtsying in his halls while he puppeteered my inheritance.

A puddle splashed against my calf. Cold seeped through the leather, grounding. My hair, *my* hair, black as Gotham’s alleyways, clung to my neck in the downpour. No more golden ringlets. No more saccharine smiles. Just the sharp line of my scowl, the familiar weight of a dagger against my thigh.

Penelope Featherington’s voice suddenly rang from a passing carriage, “Annette Rose, *alive*?”, but I melted into the shadows before the gossipmongers could spot me. Let the ton whisper. Let Uncle’s remaining lackeys tremble. I wasn’t their porcelain heiress anymore.

The tavern’s crooked sign creaked ahead, its chipped paint as comforting as Alfred’s dry remarks. Inside, my cot waited, lumpy, moth-eaten, and *mine*. No satin sheets. No handmaids fussing. Just the quiet rebellion of existing exactly as I was: Damian first, heir second, and never, *ever* someone else’s puppet.

I paused at the door, watching raindrops slide off my sleeve. Foxy Loxy hadn’t deserved her fate. Neither had I. But unlike her, I’d clawed my way back.

The demon heir stepped inside, dripping vengeance and rainwater, and for the first time in weeks, didn’t flinch at his reflection.

Bruce’s study smelled of old parchment and Alfred’s bergamot tea, the familiar scent wrapping around me like a cloak. I exhaled, rolling my shoulders until the tension bled out. Footsteps echoed down the hall, too heavy to be Dick’s, too purposeful to be Tim’s.

Jon appeared in the doorway, hair mussed from pacing, his stupid Superboy cape askew. His gaze raked over me, from my damp hair to my mud-splattered boots, before settling on my face. "You’re back," he breathed, like I’d been lost at sea instead of reclaiming my birthright.

"Tt. Obviously." I tossed Uncle’s bloodstained signet ring onto the desk, where it clattered against Bruce’s paperwork. "Miss me, farmboy?"

Jon crossed the room in two strides, catching my wrist. His thumb brushed my pulse point, warm as Smallville sunshine. "Every damn day."

I scoffed, but didn’t pull away. "Sentimental fool."

"You love it." His grin faded as he noticed the fresh scars along my knuckles. "Dami, "

"Don’t." I flexed my fingers, the wounds already knitting themselves shut. "I’m fine."

Jon’s grip tightened. "You don’t have to be."

The words lodged in my throat like shrapnel. Somewhere, Alfred’s grandfather clock ticked mockingly. Outside, Gotham’s storm raged on, but here, in this quiet corner of the manor, the world felt still.

Jon’s fingers twined with mine, his callouses rough against my skin. "Stay," he murmured, forehead pressed to mine.

This time, I didn’t argue.

Somewhere, the parasol twitched.

And the demon heir, just this once, let himself be held.

Jon’s arms tightened around me, the warmth of his Kryptonian physiology seeping through my jacket. I could feel his heartbeat against my shoulder, steady as the Metropolis skyline. The scent of Smallville wheatfields still clung to him beneath Gotham’s smog, something I’d never admit noticing.

"You know," I muttered into his collarbone, "I was almost sexually assaulted on the way here." His entire body went rigid. "Some pervert dragged me into an alley. Kissed my neck." My fingers twitched toward the hidden dagger in my sleeve. "Got a little too friendly. So I kicked where the sun doesn’t shine."

Jon made a noise halfway between a growl and a whimper.

"Threatened to tell Batman and Nightwing, my father and brother, about his little adventures." My lips curled against his pulse point. "Mentioned I had a very good friend who’d melt his bones." The memory of that greasy man’s face draining of color tasted sweeter than Gotham’s vengeance. "Let’s just say he didn’t have as much fun as he wanted to."

Jon’s grip turned crushing. I could hear his molars grinding. "Where," he gritted out, "is he now?"

"Gotham General. With a shattered pelvis." I leaned back just enough to see his eyes blazing cobalt. "Told you I dealt with it."

Something primal flickered across Jon’s face, that dangerous edge all Superboys inherited. For a heartbeat, I saw the phantom of a murdered god in his pupils. Then his forehead dropped against mine with a shudder. "Should’ve been there."

I scoffed, flicking his ear. "And rob me of the fun?"

His laughter shook against me, half-hysterical. Our mingled breath fogged the space between us, a temporary ceasefire. Outside, Gotham’s perpetual rain painted the windows in streaks of silver and shadow. Somewhere in the city, that man was screaming into a hospital pillow.

And here, in the eye of the storm, the demon brat allowed himself this single weakness, clinging to the boy who’d burn the world for him.

For now.

The Watchtower's observation deck smelled like ozone and betrayal. I pressed my forehead against the reinforced glass, watching Earth spin beneath us like some fragile toy. My reflection showed dark circles under my eyes, the new scars along my jawline from Uncle's final attempt to reclaim the throne. Behind me, Jon's cape rustled as he shifted his weight from foot to foot, that damned farmboy tell whenever he was working up to something sentimental.

"I'm King now," I said to the stars. The words tasted like grandfather's ceremonial dagger, all cold steel and inherited violence. "Of the entire League. Not just heir. Not just Prince." My fingers curled against the glass. "You should walk away, Jonathan."

Silence. Then the whisper of fabric as Jon stepped closer. His warmth radiated against my back, infuriatingly comforting. "You think a title changes anything?" His breath stirred my hair, the new growth barely brushing my shoulders after cutting off Mother's legacy. "Demon brat or demon king, you're still the kid who stole my last chili dog at the Metropolis fair."

I whirled, baring my teeth. "This isn't about chili dogs! I have blood oaths now. Subjects who kneel when I enter rooms. Enemies who'll target anyone close to me." My voice cracked, shameful and raw. "You saw what happened with Sarah. That was just as Prince. As King... there are protocols. Traditions."

Jon caught my wrist, his thumb pressing against the fresh League tattoo hidden under my sleeve. The mark burned, still healing. "So what? You think I'm scared of some assassin drama club?" His grin was all Smallville sunshine and stupid courage. "Besides, who's gonna stop me? Your creepy ninjas?"

"My *subjects*, "

"Will bow to their king's best friend," Jon interrupted, squeezing my pulse point. His eyes glowed faintly Kryptonian blue in the Watchtower's artificial light. "Or I'll melt their swords into spoons. Your call, Your Majesty."

I stared at him. This idiot. This beautiful, reckless idiot who'd apparently decided no amount of inherited assassins or bloodied crowns could scare him off. Somewhere below, Gotham glittered like broken glass, waiting for its demon to return.

Slowly, deliberately, I twisted my wrist to grip his forearm in the League's traditional oath-taking hold. "On your head be it, Kent."

Jon's answering laugh shook the stars.

I didn't realize I'd moved until my arms were locked around his neck, my face buried in the stupid red fabric of his cape. His heartbeat stuttered against my chest, Kryptonians shouldn't be able to blush, but here we were. His hands hovered awkwardly before settling on my waist, warm through the thin material of my League robes.

"Father will..." My voice cracked. I swallowed the rest of that sentence, pressing my forehead to Jon's collarbone instead. The words tasted like cowardice. Like the little boy who'd once hidden from sword masters in grandfather's trophy room.

Jon's fingers tightened. "Bruce isn't Ra's."

I exhaled sharply through my nose. Of course Father wasn't grandfather. But disownment? Exile? Those were still possibilities. The Bat didn't tolerate kingship.

Before I could spiral further, Jon tilted my chin up, so gently it burned, and pressed his lips to mine. Just once. Just enough to taste the tamarind ice pop still lingering on his breath. No tongue. No theatrics. Just Jon being infuriatingly, reliably Jon.

He pulled back barely an inch, breath warm against my mouth. "That enough courage for you, Your Majesty?"

My ears burned. I swatted at his shoulder, but didn't pull away. "Tt. Barely adequate."

Jon grinned, thumb brushing the edge of my League tattoo again. "So? Do I get to wear one of those fancy assassin cloaks when we tell Bruce? Maybe carry your ceremonial knives?"

"Absolutely not." I glared, but my fingers curled into his cape anyway. "You'd lose them within the hour."

Jon laughed, bright and unafraid, and for the first time since claiming the throne, I didn't feel its weight crushing my lungs. Just his hands, steady on my hips. Just this moment, suspended between Earth and eternity.

"Stay," I muttered against his collarbone.

Jon's arms tightened. "Try and get rid of me."

Outside, the stars burned indifferent and cold. But here, in this stolen pocket of silence, the demon king clung to his sun.

For now.

For always.

The words clung to my throat like wet parchment as I stood before Father's desk, hands clasped behind my back in parade rest. Titus whined at my feet, sensing my tension. Through the study window, Gotham's skyline glowed amber beneath storm clouds, the city unaware its demon was about to abdicate.

"Father," I began, then faltered. The League signet ring weighed heavier than grandfather's sword against my sternum. "I have... news."

Bruce didn't look up from his case files, the pen in his hand moving with that infuriating Bat-precision. "Hn."

Steel yourself, al Ghul. I squared my shoulders. "I've assumed control of the League of Assassins." The admission hung between us like smoke from one of Jason's cigarettes. "Permanently. As monarch, not heir."

His pen stilled. Titus pressed against my shins.

"I understand if this..." My jaw locked. How did one say goodbye to the only home that hadn't demanded blood as rent? "If my position compromises your mission. Or endangers the others." The words came faster now, sharp as throwing stars. "I'll reinstate the non-interference accords, Gotham stays neutral territory. Any assassin who breaches this faces the Pit." My fingers twitched toward the hidden dagger at my thigh. "Regardless of lineage."

Bruce's chair creaked as he leaned back. The cowl's shadow hid his eyes, but I knew their exact shade of disappointment.

"The no-killing rule." I lifted my chin. "I broke it during the succession." Grandfather's blood had felt warmer than I'd imagined. "My punishment, banishment, disownment, whatever you deem appropriate. Just know..." My voice cracked. Damnable weakness. "Being your son was... acceptable."

Silence stretched like a garrote wire. Somewhere in the manor, Dick laughed at one of Tim's terrible puns. The sound carved through me.

Bruce stood abruptly. I braced for the blow, the dismissal, the cold order to never darken Wayne Manor's halls again. Instead, his arms wrapped around me, engulfing me in Kryptonite-laced kevlar and that awful bergamot aftershave Alfred kept buying.

"You're grounded," he rumbled into my hair. "Two weeks. No patrol."

I froze. This wasn't protocol. This wasn't, "Father, did you hear, "

"For lying about where you got that stab wound last month." He tightened his grip, a Bat-hug that could crack ribs. "And for thinking I'd ever let you go."

Titus barked. The study door burst open to reveal Dick mid-somersault, Tim waving my coronation photos, Jason holding a spray bottle labeled "Assassin Repellent." Jon hovered outside the window, grinning through the rain-streaked glass.

Bruce's sigh gusted across my scalp. "We're having family dinner." A pause. "Your majesty."

The sob tore from my throat before I could stop it.

And the demon king, for once, let himself be held.

Jon’s fingers curled tighter around mine as we stood before Father’s desk, the blueprints for the new Wayne Academy spread between us. Not Gotham Academy, with its gilded vipers and Sarah Carmichael’s poisoned smiles. A fresh start. My fingers traced the dormitory layouts, private suites with reinforced windows, training facilities disguised as gymnasiums, even a pasture for Batcow.

"You designed this?" My voice came out hoarse. The schematics showed everything, Kryptonian-grade security in the art rooms, panic buttons shaped like Tamarind ice pop sticks in every hallway.

Bruce’s grunt was answer enough. Tim pointed to the underground tunnels connecting to the Manor. "Emergency escape routes. In case", his gaze flicked to Jon, "someone needs an extraction."

Jason snorted, tossing a folder marked "Carmichael Expulsion Papers" onto the desk. "Already handled. Little miss ‘I own the cheer squad’ got caught bribing teachers. Bye-bye, scholarship."

Dick slung an arm around my shoulders, grinning. "Think of it, Dami. No more pretending. No more hiding in the library during lunch." His fingers ruffled my uneven hair. "Just you, Superbrat, and", he dodged my elbow, "actual friends."

Jon’s thumb brushed my knuckles. "No more demon prince act," he murmured. "Just Damian."

Father’s silence was heavier than grandfather’s crown. When he finally spoke, it wasn’t to the King of Assassins, but to his son. "Alfred packed your uniforms."

Something sharp lodged in my throat. Titus nudged my hand, whining.

"Tt." I flicked Jason’s spray bottle off the desk. "If any of you visit unannounced, I’m releasing the Kon-El fanart."

Tim’s shriek rattled the windows. Jon laughed into my hair as Dick fake-sobbed into my shoulder. And Father, Father merely slid a new set of keys across the desk. Batmobile keys.

"For emergencies," he said, eyes glinting behind the cowl.

Outside, the storm broke. Somewhere, Sarah Carmichael was sobbing into her designer handbag. And here, in the heart of Gotham, the demon brat clutched his new beginning in ink-stained hands.

For now.

For always.

Wayne Academy’s courtyard hummed with an energy Gotham Prep had never possessed, laughter that didn’t taste like lies, sparring matches without hidden knives. I leaned against the ancient oak, watching Jon attempt to teach Billy Batson how to throw a proper punch without lighting his sleeves on fire. The idiot kept forgetting his own strength, just like Jon used to.

Maps Mizoguchi skidded to a stop beside me, her boots scattering gravel. “Your cult is weirding out the lunch ladies again,” she announced, jerking her thumb toward the cafeteria where a group of younger assassins-in-training had formed a breadstick shrine to Batcow. I sighed, flicking a pebble at the nearest disciple. They caught it midair and bowed.

“Not my cult,” I muttered.

“Tell that to your fanclub.” Maps grinned, dodging my half-hearted swipe. “Also, your boyfriend’s losing to a twelve-year-old.”

Across the lawn, Jon yelped as Billy accidentally super-punched him into the duck pond. Kaldur’ahm sighed from his spot under the willow, summoning a wave to fish them out. I pressed my forehead against the oak’s bark to stifle laughter.

This, chaos without cruelty, noise without malice, was the revolution grandfather never foresaw. No thrones, no schematics, just Jon shaking pond scum from his hair while Lian Harper braided flowers into Goliath’s fur. Even Father’s occasional patrols through campus felt less like surveillance and more like... pride.

Jon’s sopping form collapsed next to me, smelling of algae and sunlight. “Admit it,” he gasped, flopping onto my lap. “You love this.”

I flicked water from his forehead. “Tt. Tolerate.”

But when Ivo’s kid timidly offered me a handmade batarang from shop class, when Cissie King-Jones hip-checked me out of the way to steal my tamarind ice pop, when the entire cafeteria erupted into a food fight that ended with everyone scrubbing floors under Alfred’s amused gaze, Maybe I smiled.

Jon’s fingers tangled with mine, his palm still warm from solar energy. “Told you you’d make friends,” he whispered.

I didn’t argue. Some battles weren’t worth fighting.

Some, like the way my chest loosened when the younger kids waved, like the way my shoulders no longer ached from constant vigilance, like the way Jon’s laughter fit seamlessly into this patchwork family, those were victories even Ra’s couldn’t undermine.

For the first time in my life, belonging didn’t feel like surrender.

It felt like coming home.