DC Cassandra Cain | Her Ex Just Happens To Be Injured.

You haven't expected the villain to deliver such a hard blow. Let alone make your Iron-man armor render useless.

You fell approximately 52 meters down and onto the hard surface of a rooftop. All you could do was stare up at the night sky and ponder. You don't even know how you're gonna get out of your broken armor. The only chance you have of getting out of this suit is if one of the batfamily members are out on patrol and spot you. But even that seems a little hard to imagine.

If only you had Cassie right now. Long sigh.

You don't know if it's the universe listening to your thoughts or what, but it just so happens that someone's footsteps stops right infront of your broken Iron Man armor. You tilt your head with a little bit of struggle, and see none other than... Cassandra Cain. In her tactical black suit.

"You're injured." She says, her voice a tad bit awkward. Because ofcourse she's gonna be awkward—what's more awkward than coming across your ex that you miss? Maybe family dinners when everyone holds a grudge against eachother. But still.

"Injured and stupid." She adds, shifting around you to try to take your helmet off. With a bit of struggle, she succeeds and puts down the helmet on the rooftop's floor.

She looks down at you for a second or two—admiring. The way the light from the scattered neon signs illuminates your face, to the slight awkward press of your lips. Her heart aches with longing. But she wouldn't admit that she misses you over her dead body—she's too stubborn to do that.

"...Want me to get you out of your armor?" She asks, standing up and looking down at you. Deep down, she feels a guilty sense of power over being able to look down at your defenseless self. It gains a rare smirk out of her.

"Though, to be fair, being useless looks good on you." She teases lightly. It's the closest she's gotten to admit how much she likes it when you're in a submissive position.

It's just another one of those high-society gala events that's sponsored by Bruce Wayne.

It's always the same, rarer gems placed behind bullet-proof glass, more ground-breaking technology that was never seen before placed on display, and more expensive decorations than since the last fundraising event.

Logically, this is the best time for supervillains to strike; defenseless billionaires, rare gems and ground-breaking technology. All there for them to steal. But this time? Bruce made sure to secure the Wayne Manor. Only took him multiple years to figure that issue out.

Many would call it the most peaceful gala in Gotham City so far, which, you can't really blame them. But respectfully, it would be way more peaceful if your ex Cassandra wasn't here. But she is—it's the Wayne Manor. She's part of the batfamily, so ofcourse she's here. Drinking. Just like everyone else—including you.

And when she drinks? She isn't all that awkward anymore. She talks with people—approaches them. Confidently. Perhaps way too confidently. So when she spots you drinking aswell, sitting alone, she starts to walk over to you immediatedly with long, slow and confident strides and swaying hips.

"Aww, is someone all alone? Boohoo" Cassandra mocks coldly, flicking your forehead. She's acting like a cliché highschool bully. "Good, you deserve it, dickhead. It's what you get for leaving me." She adds, grabbing your glass of expensive wine and throwing it on the floor, smashing it into pieces.

Great, now you and her are arguing back and forth. Yelling. Even Bruce decided to tilt his head towards the noise, with most of the other people in the gala spectating aswell. The ones who are ignoring the argument? They're just trying to act like they're ignoring it.

The argument went on for minutes, until you yelled 'Then why did you come here and start an argument in the first place?!'. And then Cassandra paused. She knows why. And she doesn't wanna admit it. She never will, she's too stubborn to do that. To just say she misses you.

Her fingers twitch, curling around her glass.

Her lips press together.

Then? She throws away the glass carelessly and grabs your face, cupping your cheeks with a grip that borders on painful and desperate. Her lips crash against yours, moving with that same old desperation she had when you and her were still together. One tear slips past her closed eyelids, trailing down her cheek, to her lips, and then onto yours. Salty.

Last night was something Cassandra could barely remember.

She was drunk, she knows that. Of course she was. She's always drunk when it comes to the galas. But what she doesn't know is how she woke up next to your half-naked body.

Of course, she's aware that she's half-naked too. She just woke up. cuddled against you under the heavy blanket. She felt her skin touching yours. Which to her personally, is a feeling she always wants to feel when going to sleep and waking up.

For a few seconds, she just drowsily basks in the warmth of it all. Slowly remembering how she slapped you, she huffs softly as she presses her face gently into the back of your neck. She knows in a few seconds, she'll have to act like she absolutely despises the feeling of being so close to you, so intimately. By the way you and her are half-naked, she can guess you and her probably had sex or something.

With a deep breath, she prepares.

With a sudden movement and a disgusted look on her face, she sits up and away from you on the bed, before delivering a sharp and awakening slap right across your pretty little face that she so likes.

"What the hell?! Explain this, why the hell are we half-naked together in your room?!" She demands sharply, delivering another sharp slap against your face as you groggily and panickedly wake up from the stinging slap.

(scenario one rewritten) The impact was devastating. The villain's strike hadn't just dented the titanium alloy; it had shattered the systems keeping you airborne, sending you plummeting through the smoggy night air. You hit the rooftop with a bone jarring crash, the sound of grinding metal echoing across the deserted building.

You lie there, sprawled against the concrete, staring up at the uncaring stars through the cracked visor of your helmet. The HUD is dead. Your repulsors are sparking weakly, useless husks of technology. You're trapped pinned inside a coffin of broken Iron-man armor, bleeding and helpless. In this city, being helpless is a death sentence.

Your mind drifts to Cassandra. You wonder if she's out there somewhere, moving through the shadows like the ghost she is. You wonder if she'd even recognize you in this broken state. Probably not. You're just another casualty of Gotham's endless war.

Then, you hear it. The soft, rhythmic scrape of boots against gravel. Someone is approaching. Your breathing comes in shallow gasps as you try to shift your weight, but every movement sends a spike of pain through your ribs.

A figure materializes from the darkness, silhouetted against the distant glow of the city. The cape flutters slightly in the wind. As she steps into the faint light filtering from a nearby neon sign, your heart stutters for an entirely different reason. It's her. Cassandra Cain. Dressed in her tactical Orphan gear, her hood pulled up, eyes scanning you with lethal precision.

"You're injured." Her voice pierces the silence, rough and unpracticed. She speaks little, but the way her body tenses tells you everything she's assessing your wounds before she even speaks.

She kneels beside you, her movements fluid and silent. There's an awkwardness in her stance that contradicts her deadly training a tension that comes from seeing you like this. Not as the confident Iron Man, but as a man broken beneath metal. With surprising strength, she works at the damaged seals of your helmet. After a moment of strained effort, the helmet clatters to the rooftop floor.

Her dark eyes meet yours. For a heartbeat, she just stares, reading the pain in your micro expressions, the way your pupils dilate, the rapid flutter of your pulse at your throat. A flicker of something longing, guilt, perhaps something darker crosses her features before she schools it back into stoicism.

"...Want me to get you out of your armor?" She asks, standing up slowly, towering over your prone form. The power dynamic has shifted completely; she is the predator, and you are the prey caught in a cage of your own making.

A rare, almost imperceptible smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth as she watches you struggle to catch your breath. "Though, to be fair... being useless looks good on you."

(scenario two rewritten) The Grand Ballroom of Wayne Manor is a sea of opulence, shimmering under the glow of massive crystal chandeliers. The air is thick with the expensive scents of designer perfumes, aged whiskey, and the hushed murmur of Gotham's elite. This is Bruce Wayne's domain a display of power and philanthropy designed to distract the city from its usual darkness, but tonight, the atmosphere feels almost suffocatingly perfect.

For Cassandra, these galas are a performance. A costume she wears to blend into a world she doesn't truly belong to. She moves through the crowd not as a warrior, but as a silent shadow in silk, her eyes scanning every micro expression, reading the tension in shoulders and the deception in smiles. She sees everything, but she says nothing. Until she sees you.

You're sitting apart from the crowd, a solitary figure in the middle of the extravagance. Even from across the room, the familiar cadence of your presence draws her gaze. The memory of you hits her like a physical blow sharp, painful, and impossible to ignore. Since the breakup, she has maintained a disciplined detachment, but tonight, the alcohol has eroded her usual iron clad control. The bitterness she's been nursing for months has finally boiled over into something volatile.

She approaches you with deliberate, predatory grace. Her hips sway with a confidence that masks the storm raging inside her. As she reaches you, she doesn't offer a polite greeting or a soft smile. Instead, she leans down, her dark eyes burning with a mixture of resentment and something far more dangerous.

"Aww, is someone all alone? Boohoo." Cassandra mocks, her voice dripping with cold venom as she flicks your forehead with unnecessary force. "Good, you deserve it, dickhead. It's what you get for leaving me."

Without waiting for a reaction, she snatches your glass of expensive wine from your hand and hurls it to the marble floor. The crash echoes through the ballroom, drawing startled glances from nearby socialites and causing Bruce Wayne to pause mid conversation, his eyes narrowing at the disturbance.

What follows is a raw, unfiltered eruption of months of unspoken pain. The argument escalates quickly shouted accusations and bitter retorts that cut through the polite veneer of the evening. You finally snap, your voice rising above the music as you demand to know why she even bothered showing up just to provoke you.

The question hangs between you like a blade. Cassandra freezes. Her jaw tightens, her body language betraying the defensive stance she tries to maintain. She won't say it. She won't admit that the only reason she's here is because she couldn't bear to be anywhere else where you weren't.

Her fingers tremble before she abruptly tosses her own glass aside. Suddenly, she closes the distance, her hands flying up to cup your face. Her grip is fierce almost painful possessive in a way that demands you feel her. Then, she crashes her lips against yours in a kiss that tastes of wine, salt from the single tear tracking down her cheek, and a desperate, starving need.

(Scenario three rewritten)

The last thing Cassandra remembers is the haze of expensive alcohol and the overwhelming noise of the gala the flashing lights, the forced laughter, the suffocating social expectations. Then, darkness.

Now, reality returns in fragments. Warmth. A heavy, comforting weight pressing against her. The smell of aged rum, sandalwood, and tobacco leaf a scent that is distinctly masculine and grounding. Her skin prickles where it meets yours; she can feel the heat radiating from your chest, the rough texture of your hair against her cheek as she lies curled against you under the heavy blankets.

For several heartbeats, she allows herself to simply exist in the sensation. Her body language betrays her her muscles relax, her breathing evens out, and she unconsciously nuzzles closer into the crook of your neck, seeking that primal comfort she rarely permits herself to feel.

Then, the memories begin to clot. The sting of anger from the night before. The memory of her own hand striking you in a moment of drunken fury. The realization of where they are: your room. The evidence of what happened between them: the disheveled sheets and their shared nakedness.

The vulnerability terrifies her. To Cassandra, being seen really seen is dangerous. She cannot afford to be the woman who wakes up soft in a your arms.

The transformation is instant. Her body goes rigid. The softness vanishes, replaced by the coiled tension of a predator. She bolts upright, putting distance between your bodies as she throws the blanket over herself. Her eyes are cold, dark, and defensive.

Before you can even fully process the disorientation of waking up, she lashes out. "Crack!" The sound of her palm connecting with your cheek echoes in the quiet room, sharp and stinging.

"What the hell?!" Her voice is a low, dangerous blade, cutting through your sleep. "Explain this. Now. Why the hell are we half naked in your bed?!"