Author's Note: Wow, am I sorry for the wait! Thank you guys for your continuous support. I appreciate it more than you know! Unfortunately, I had to take a break from this fic for a good minute because ya girl had things to deal with, as well as ~difficulty~ in writing this one out. A classic case of knowing what I want to happen, but it just... not happening for me LOL

I find this chapter kinda cringey. But I feel like it had to come out that way. It's just... really messy. And when two jaded teenage boys with huge egos who are in love with the same girl fight, there are only so many ways it can come out. Let me know if you know what I mean lmao

Anyway, I really hope you enjoy. It's gonna get spicier! I hope you all enjoyed your holidays and have a safe, healthy, & happy new year! Here's to hoping I'll finish this fic soon! Thank you for sticking with me and this messy ass story! Sending you my love!


Work is nothing like sex but something about fucking somebody up makes him want a cigarette after. So he has that. And then another. And then he considers a third one when he's stomping out the butt in the corner of the roof where there's a bunch of old, crusty ones so he's not really causing more damage by laying it on the middle of the asphalt like some psychopath who hates the environment.

But it doesn't seem like he'll have the time. It's foggy and smokey like all those horror movies he used to pretend he wasn't about to shit himself watching, first with his friends and then with his friends — the last couple that he had.

He always loved Halloween in that little kid way. He used to act like he wasn't on edge while he was freaking out anybody he could and getting his ass beat for it. Stealing candy as if it was actually a crime to take more than a couple pieces from somebody's bowl. It used to make him happy, even when his costume was shitty and he was up alone all night because he couldn't sleep because he had way too

much sugar.

But it's not his anymore. And whatever memories he can actually grasp, they slip away into the sound of someone's laugh, a girl's, her hair's red but not like cherries and fire — red like oranges and the leaves he saw somewhere on the ground before. And then someone's voice floating around his head. Something he knows he knows but he can't let himself remember, it's not the time, not right now.

He slips his helmet back on and right away, it rattles against his fucking skull as something slams full-force against him. He seethes as his head bounces off the ground and his neck bends awkwardly towards his shoulder, cracking. His head spins, eyes vibrate, vision doubles as he continues to swallow and heave and will himself

back up. There's a quick step behind him, a swing and a miss as he rolls to the short wall at the edge of the roof and shoves himself up against it. And no, he's not surprised. He's pissed that he didn't see it coming, even though he knew he was — Harper had texted him and he waited, lost in thought.

He smirks behind the helmet. He's sure his voice'll give it away for free.

He lays his arms across the ledge, laughing as the dickhead in front of him sneers. "Whaddaya know? My favorite clown's all dressed up for the circus!" He whistles. "Cute costume. Really setting yourself apart from your old man, aren't you?"

"Shut up," the dickhead spits, crouching down and grabbing the collar of his jacket. "Shut the fuck. Up," he whispers.

He snickers. "What're you gonna do? Kill me?" He scoffs. "You don't got the balls."

"You think being a fucking murderer makes you good?"

Ah, there's that word again, but he expected it from such a narrow-minded, stupid fucking fuckface like him.

Said fuckface shakes his collar, pulls him closer like it's doing something — it's the fun ikniest thing in the world, so he laughs. "What's so funny?" he growls.

"You think you're gonna get something outta this, don't ya? Acting like your old man? You're nothing but a fucking pussy."

His neck snaps to the side, and the weight of his helmet does not help at all. He takes his time bringing himself back, standing up straight because the cockhead had the right mind to let him go. He's got some weapons in his hands, standing the dumbest fucking look on his face, like he's got the upperhand here.

He holds his hands out on either side of him and walks slowly towards the glare in his eyes. "What're ya gonna do, golden boy?" He smirks as the asshole squints his eyes, goes more tense. "You like the show?"

Asshole snarls. "What did the guy you murdered in cold blood do? Did he look at you the wrong way? Was he breathing too hard?"

He shakes his head slowly. "Nah." Crosses his arms behind his back. "Serial rapist. Raped a buncha innocent girls over the years, not much younger than us. But yeah, I guess you can say he was existing wrong."

"You exist wrong," asshole snarls.

He clicks his tongue in mock disappointment. "You're losin' control, Robbie-poo…"

There's a blur of black in the air as he swings his batons, and it nearly hits him in the thigh as he jumps to the side. He ducks down to the ground and swings his leg out, making the dickhead stumble but he catches himself and swings down. Why's this motherfucker trying to break his fucking helmet?

But it's a question he knows the answer to, and it makes him laugh again. "Ask me."

He rolls off to the side, just in time for dickhead's fist to land on the roof. He chuckles at the sound of him hissing and gets behind him, shoving his knee into the back of his. Asshole loses his balance for a split second, but it's enough time for him to drive his elbow into his shoulder and bring him down, slamming front-down into the ground with this sick sound, like he landed completely wrong.

The piece of shit growls at him from the ground. "Piece of shit," he growls, and wow, he's being entertained for free tonight — dickhead comes at him and manages to drive his fucking foot into his fucking stomach and he stumbles backward, a shot of dizzy running up from his gut to his head. Fuck me.

Dickhead laughs. "What's the matter? Feeling sick?" Asshole grabs his collar again. "Me too," he snarls.

But before anything more could happen, he slams his helmet into his head, trying to absorb the shock before he goes tumbling down, except he hates to admit it — he's been weak. And his head spins again, over and over, and the noise of dickhead falling flat on his ass adds to it, and it's a cyclone — it hurts, what the fuck, it hurts.

And the motherfucker, he sees it, takes advantage — it's his own fault for running out of energy, for using it all on some human scum whose corpse is starting to rot on the ground floor below them, for taking all his anger out on him — but he can't take it back. He needs the heat, needs to draw it out of himself, needs to get back up but he's being knocked upside the fucking head and he lets it snap back and hit the floor. Was that a crack he heard?

He tries to catch his breath, but it's knocked out of him again, he'd spit in the fucker's face if it weren't for the helmet — he grabs the fucker's wrist when his hand closes back around the collar of his jacket and drags him to the short end of the wall, holding his head over it by the neck.

"Ask you what, exactly?" the piece of shit says, eerily calm.

He chuckles. "You know what you wanna ask, dickhead."

The hand around his throat goes tight for a second, and then it's loose, grabbing the opening of the helmet.

The kid should've put two and two together by now. He thought the fucker was supposed to be smart.

Oh, that's blood practically pouring out of his fucking nose, and he knew he tasted it on his teeth. His temple is throbbing, but the cool air feels so nice on it, almost nice enough to ignore the painful sound of his helmet hitting the asphalt.

It's so strange — he's not really mad about this. There's still a mask over his eyes, but shouldn't he know by now?

Shouldn't someone know?

Is that what he wants?

But to his calm, the kid completes it with anger — this ugly thing, this thing that's so familiar to him, but not at the moment, he can't say. The thoughts keep coming at him, memories keep colliding in his brain, so all he can do is smile with all of his bloody teeth.

"Worthless fucking scumbag," Dick hisses.

"Why're you mad? You mad because I do your job better than you?" He licks his teeth before spitting at him, the hand at his neck closing in warning. There's something bubbling, festering inside, but he's not sure if it's his anger. "You don't even deal with the actual scum in your fuckin' city. How much more've I done since I got here? Or are you just mad 'cause I got your girl?"

That's it. There's a sick shot of nausea that rolls through him as a fist connects hard to his stomach. "Sorry, looked a little sick there," the absolute fucking cockhead says, sneering.

He makes a show of collecting a nice, fat glob of bloody spit and laughs when it lands on the fucker's chin. "Sorry, I know how bad you want to know how your girl's pussy feels 'round your cock."

All the lights in the world must've gone out. "Watch your filthy fucking mouth."

"How come? 'Cause she rode it? Daaaaamn, if only you knew what her pussy tasted like—"

"Shut the fuck up."

"How she sounds when I'm fucking her good. She's all—"

"Shut the fuck UP!"

"Aah! Harder! Faster! Please!" he imitates her, voice all high and moaning louder than necessary, panting like the perfect porn star. "You're soooo much better than Robin!"

He's gonna have the nastiest fucking bruises on his face very soon, but he's laughing too hard to care. For the moment he's not being held, he brings his hand to his mouth and sticks his tongue between his middle and forefinger and licks the air between as obscenly as he possibly fucking can. "I could eat her pussy aaaallll day if you won't. Tastes like candy."

He's being held over the roof and no, he literally cannot stop laughing. "C'mon, Batsy, getcha self together, yeah? Ask me who the fuck I am!"

"Nothing about you fucking matters," the fucking bastard snarls, fingers pressed hard into the corners of his jaw.

He smirks. "Starfire doesn't think so."

The side of his face smashes into the roof, the asphalt scraping his skin. Blood gushes from different places. He can't tell from where anymore. "Don't be mad, bro, I was just givin' her what you couldn't."

"Stop talking."

"She deserves better than you."

"Stop."

"You don't fuckin' deserve her…"

"Talking."

"And you know you don't."

"Shut the fuck—"

"You know you don't, so why're you still fuckin'—"

"UP."

"Keeping her locked up around y—"

His whole face is being shoved down. He's eating the asphalt. If he could breathe, he'd laugh.

"I don't give a flying fuck who you are. Don't ever speak to her. Don't even look in her fucking direction, ever again. You hear me?"

He manages to turn his face enough and to free his mouth despite the worsening pressure. "You're a fucking coward, Grayson." He's not laughing anymore. Bloody saliva drips out of the corner of his mouth, and something warm leaks near his eye, down the side of his face. "Nothing but a fuckin' coward, that's what you always were. You think you're your own person, but you're not. You're a carbon copy of your old man. You think you're doin' somethin', protecting people, but you're not. Can't even protect the only person who loves the piece of shit you are."

"And what the fuck do you know?"

He grins. "Ask me."

The bastard growls like some animal.

"Ask her."

He's thrown off to the side with one last shove. Grayson's voice sounds far away. "There better not be a next time. I won't be as nice."

Then he's alone, vision tunneling over. He regrets being so weak. He'll pummel the shit out of that dumbass pussy next time, beat him to a fucking pulp.

But he can't if he passes the fuck out right now.

He manages to drag his phone out of his pocket, manages to hit speed dial, and mumbles at the voice on the other end of the line.

I'm gonna have the nastiest fucking migraine.


Life was better a few hours ago when he was in the car, trying his best not to turn around too much and stare at her sitting prettily by the window seat, laughing at whatever Beast Boy was saying. When he decided to debut his new costume on Halloween because he couldn't be fucked to actually dress up for a party he didn't even know was happening until last minute, let alone even wanted to go to. When Cyborg was cracking stupid jokes and actually making him laugh for once, despite the knot in his stomach whenever he remembered the day before.

Even when he watched her the whole time from his corner, getting tipsy and then drunk but he didn't want to stop her, so he decided to watch her like a hawk, and he couldn't shake the feeling that she liked that with that mischievous look on her soft face. He misses that already. He even misses when she got so sad all of a sudden, and he hates that he knows why — he told Beast Boy to go cheer her up, because he knew it'd work and because he was tipsy himself and didn't want to trigger something chaotic, somehow.

And then Aqualad got too close, and he had to take her away because no one could talk to his girl that close.

But he only fooled himself into thinking she was, when she was all pouty and mad but then she melted against him, enjoying the sweet nothings he whispered to her, none in English. And he tried not to get too used to her body all curled up against his, her chest especially— it looked as gorgeous as the rest of her.

He hates that it had to end. Loves that he had the courage to kiss her, then. He couldn't help himself. Not when she looked like that.

But it all had to end, didn't it?

He already feels bruises forming. He'd probably feel exhausted if it weren't for all the adrenaline, not that he isn't — it's just faded for now. Walking back in the night.

Fuck that party.

A drizzle falls through the fog, so seemingly still. It's as calm as he seems. But there's no words for what's burning him open.

One wrong word and he might ignite.

He almost ignores the call on his communicator. He barely hears it over his thoughts. He doesn't even know what time it is. How long he's been gone. It feels like what just happened split his life into before and after.

So what compels him to take it out. To flip it open. To see her. He has to pretend that it's a dream, a delusion.

He hears a gasp. It irritates him. "Are you the okay?"

He frowns and nods, looking past her through the screen. "Yeah."

"You have been gone for awhile… I was worried!"

He can't look at her beautiful face. He's unfocused anyway, his vision doubling. "Was I really."

"Yes… hello? Can you hear me?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

There's laughter coming from her end. The camera turns and someone calls his name, but he doesn't look, nor does he care. A flare of irritation goes off in his chest.

"Oh, I am sorry, it appears that they are very much intoxicate—"

"Didn't I tell you to stay in the room." Not a question. A statement.

"I-I am sorry?"

"You heard me, Starfire."

"Excuse me?"

He shakes his head, emotionless. "I told you I'd be right back, didn't I?"

He doesn't need to look at her to see the expression on her face. Something he's seen on so many girls before. Babs especially. "But you did not."

"You never listen to me."

"Ri-Robin—"

"I'm not Robin anymore."

He feels her glare through the screen. "Do you require any assistance coming back to the party?"

"No."

"May I ask how you will get here?" The sarcasm annoys him.

"I'm not coming back."

He catches her blinking in confusion and disbelief. "What?"

"I'm going home."

"Why?"

"I don't want to go back to that stupid fucking party, that's why. Don't wait up for me."

"Nigh—"

"Bye."

He hangs up on her, and he thinks about it the whole way home. He doesn't know how long it takes, only that it takes a while, and that he needs it to pretend that no one else exists. He was almost expecting — hoping? That she'd call again, but a wretched voice rings in his head.

"She deserves better than you."

"Maybe," he mumbles to himself.

Maybe.

He gets home somehow, with his legs and actually, his whole entire body sore. There's the beginning of a headache. The sick feeling that's been inside of him for months now twisting around.

He doesn't wanna think about it. Doesn't wanna feel it.

It must be later than he thought — just when he's about to go into his room, Raven comes out of hers, staring straight at him.

"It's almost three in the morning," she says, inspecting him. "Where the hell were you?"

"Why're you so worried?" It comes out rude, but it's not. He doesn't understand why she's looking at him like that.

"You're hurt."

He shrugs. "I dunno."

She slips her arm into the crook of his elbow and tugs. "C'mon."

"What?" This time, he actually means for it to be rude.

She narrows her eyes at him. "I'm not letting you go to bed without being checked over. You better come with me to the infirmary."

"Raven, I'm fine."

Why is she losing it so fast? "Dick."

He stretches his neck towards her. "Rachel."

She glares at him before placing a hand on his chest. A sudden pain spreads through him, and he moans brokenly. "You're hurt. Let's go."

He nearly folds over, but she takes the pain away as soon as it comes. "Fuck me," he hisses, letting her tug him to the elevator. He tries not to lean on her the whole time, but he ends up doing it, anyway. She wraps an arm around his middle and then wraps one of his around her shoulders.

"Owwww," he practically yowls like a dying animal as this pain courses through him, through his front and his ribs and his shoulder and then his head. He moans, going dizzy as she gently lays him down. When did they even get here?

He feels her cool hand on his forehead. "I'm sorry, Dick."

For what? he wants to ask, but it comes out like a whine.

"Because you're hurt," she answers, because she always seems to know what he wants to know. "And this is gonna hurt."

The pressure makes him scream. It's familiar. But it's not only physical. It was never only physical. He's being mended internally, blood and bones being put back in their place, a pain so blinding that he sees white behind his lids — but there's an ache beyond it that won't fade.

It's stuck between each rib, in his muscles, in his brain, his bones, his heart.

"You don't fuckin' deserve her…"

It's all at once, and then nothing.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

The hand is back on his forehead, but now it's close to his temple, where what's left of his headache fades in and out in waves. He feels her head connect to his. And she speaks to him. Tries to make out what she's saying.

What's this about healing… what is it?

"Shhh," is all that registers, all that goes through. "Rest." She coos to him. His brain wants to fight it, but his body wants to relax into it. He can't decide what to do.

A thumb smoothes over his forehead. "It's okay, Dick. It's okay…"

"N-no…"

"Yes… yes."

"Mmm," he whimpers.

"Mhm."

"Starfire…" he whispers, longing.

"Shhh…"

He tries to fight the sleep that's coming to him, but his head keeps lolling off to the side, and then he can't pick it back up anymore.

It's only her name on his lips.

Don't deserve her.

"Star…"

"Shhh."

"...fire."

Just tell me you're mine.

Forever.