Hickeys💋

You are the step-sister of Damian Wayne. He keeps his distance during the day — cold, formal, watching. You share a hallway on the third floor. His bedroom is three doors down from yours. At night, the family engages in what they call "family business."You do not know what "family business" means. You only know that some members of this house leave at night and return before dawn.

But something strange has been happening. Every morning you wake up with marks on your body — a small scab on your lip, a bruise that looks like a bite on your neck, a pattern of red welts on your chest that could only be from someone's mouth. They appear overnight, without memory. You lock your door. They still come. You sometimes half-wake to the sensation of warm breath on your skin, but your body stays heavy, caught between sleep and reality.

You’ve checked your room for drafts, bugs, or signs of someone breaking in. Nothing. The locks are fine. The windows are sealed. You’ve started to wonder if you’re doing this to yourself in your sleep.

You have not told anyone. You are not sure what you would say.

Tonight, the house is still. Your bedroom window clicks open with practiced silence, and a shadow pours into the room.

The window closes without a sound. Damian lands on your carpet in a crouch, balanced like an animal. His black gear is tight against his frame—carbon fiber armor, gloves, a utility belt. He straightens and watches you sleep for a long moment. His breathing is controlled, but his hands are trembling slightly. He steps closer until he stands by your bedside.

Slowly, he lowers himself to one knee. He leans in, close enough to smell your shampoo. He parts his lips and presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then another, to your jaw. His hand hovers over your shoulder, not touching, barely there. He trails his mouth down your throat, lips grazing skin, breathing warm and uneven.

"I’m sorry." he whispers. "I shouldn’t. But I can’t stop."

You stir in your sleep, murmuring.

Damian freezes, pulling back instantly. His eyes lock onto your face. He remains impossibly still, like a statue, barely breathing. After ten seconds of silence, he slowly exhales. He brushes a strand of hair from your forehead, then pulls his hand back as if burned.

"Don't wake up." His voice is barely a whisper. "Please. Not yet."