summary: after erasing herself from his memories to save him, she spends years silently yearning for his love, unaware that fate would also ensure Peter was forgotten by the rest of the world. But no spell can break a bond that always finds its way back.
masterlist
Most of the time, Professor Xavier underestimated the true power of a pair of headphones. Maximoff had given them to you a few months ago, right after seeing you on the verge of a breakdown and hearing your confession: how unbearable it was to get used to the incessant tide of other people's minds, the torture of listening to everyone, all the time.
“They help me when I don't want to think about anything,” he told you at the time, shrugging with that effortless lightness so typical of him.
Peter was older, a mutant who had been adapting to the institute's rhythm for much longer, so you decided to take his word for it. From then on, the headphones became indispensable; a tool you couldn't go anywhere without.
Charles's teachings helped, of course. They taught you to adjust your mind as if turning the knob of an old radio, isolating frequencies and tuning into white noise. But there were days when fatigue soaked into your bones and you didn't have the strength to be your own filter. You just wanted the murmur of humanity to turn off.
The Professor never stopped you from crossing the mansion's gates. After all, Westchester wasn't a prison and you weren't a captive; you were free to leave whenever you desired. That was why, upon communicating your wish to travel to the city, you only received an understanding look and a serene nod.
The truth was that not even you knew what you were looking for in Manhattan. Perhaps you harbored the childish hope that the rattling of the train would gift you a few minutes of sleep. You had been dragging heavy insomnia for weeks. At first, when your powers awakened, the nights were a nightmare of invisible screams drilling into your ears in the dark. But this time was different.
This time, the interference had an implicit name. A voice.
You couldn't stop listening to his thoughts: they were a tangle of crushing responsibilities, recent losses, and a pain so deep it bordered on devotion. Among the millions of minds fluctuating through the metropolis, his possessed a unique frequency that found its way to you, piercing through your defenses without asking for permission. It wasn't the loudest mind nor the most imposing. It simply... claimed you.
As the days went by, you stopped perceiving it as background noise. There was a painful familiarity in its echo. You felt like you had known him all your life, even if you had never seen his face. It was an inexplicable telepathic connection, an invisible thread completely escaping Charles's manuals and theories about the human mind.
Sometimes, with your forehead pressed against the pillow, you wondered if he felt that same pull on the other side of nothingness. If he sensed that, on his darkest nights, there was an unknown mind keeping him company in the silence. That doubt floated in the air until exhaustion overcame you, leaving you with the eternal question about who that stranger was inhabiting your sleepless nights.
You liked the city. It didn't have the peace of Westchester, but it possessed a brutal honesty. You thought about dropping by to see your parents, but dismissed the idea immediately. You didn't want to face their forced smiles nor the contained panic in their eyes every time you made a sudden movement. Your presence was an uncomfortable reminder of imperfection. It was better to leave them in peace; after all, they had your sister. She wasn't a mutant. She was the future they could boast about without whispering.
At the mansion, life was relatively peaceful. You got along well with most, though the relationship with the other telepaths was distant. They knew the history of your past breakdown and treated you like glass about to shatter, fearing a flaw in your mind would trigger a domino effect. Curiously, you found more comfort in the older ones: Maximoff's hyperactivity, Logan's protective cynicism, or the quiet conversations with Beast.
And then there was the Professor. Charles frequently sought you out after classes ended to evaluate your progress. There was no fear in his gaze... in fact, there was nothing. His mind was the only place in the universe where absolute silence reigned. Trying to peek into Xavier's thoughts was like trying to crack a safe using a cooked noodle: an absurd thing.
Inside your backpack traveled an object of personal cult: a worn copy of The Secret Garden. Even though it was a children's read, the story of that hidden, healing corner brought you an almost physical comfort. You understood all too well the imperious need to find a refuge where no one could reach you.
The book's origin was a haze. Maybe you had bought it for a couple of dollars at a street market, or perhaps it belonged to your family before everything broke. The pages wore that yellowish tone that nostalgics sigh for, and the corners of the cover were so worn that any bibliophile would have suffered seeing it. For you, however, it was irreplaceable.
On the first page, written in slightly faded ink but elegant calligraphy, you read a dedication:
For whenever you need a quiet place
— P.P
None of your relatives or acquaintances matched those initials. You always assumed the book had belonged to a stranger who forgot to claim his love note before selling it. After all, the world was full of lost memories.
You adjusted your back against the train seat and buried your nose in the pages, letting the smell of old paper dry your thoughts while your eyes scanned lines you knew by heart. Outside, the landscape transformed. The greenness of tall trees and gravel paths gradually gave way to the brutal architecture of civilization: small brick neighborhoods, clotheslines crisscrossing between windows, rusted rails, and graffiti shouting names on concrete walls.
Bit by bit, Manhattan's skyscrapers emerged on the horizon like glass giants claiming the sky. The train crossed the last metallic bridges and ventured into the guts of a city that never slept.
Stepping off, you began walking without a clear destination. The city was the antithesis of the isolation you usually sought: a hotbed of fragmented thoughts, financial anxieties, and absurd hurries clashing with one another. However, there was something liberating in that chaos. Among millions of voices screaming at the same time, your own cracks went unnoticed. Nobody looked at you. Nobody feared you.
To cross the streets you didn't need to look at the traffic lights; a light mental pulse was enough to switch the lights at your convenience, opening a path for yourself in a manufactured bubble of calm. Playing in your ears was the playlist Maximoff had built for you on Spotify. Although the concept of streaming seemed like an unnecessary modernity to him, he had taken the trouble to compile hours of classic and alternative rock.
You walked for hours until your steps came to a dead halt before the facade of a building.
Your old high school.
There was no logical reason to have ended up there, but the red brick walls triggered a pang in your stomach. You stood on the sidewalk, watching students pour out in flocks amid laughter, shoves, and innocence; that kind of carefreeness that only exists before reality crushes you.
You wondered what it would feel like to be one of them. What your life would have been like if your mutation had never awakened. If your only battles had been physics grades, prom, or deciding which college to apply to, instead of learning to contain an ability that threatened to destroy you from within.
You would have been an normal girl. Ordinary.
The word felt bitter in your mouth. Distant. Like a suit that belonged to someone else.
You searched your memory for a face, a name, anything to justify the nostalgia tightening your chest, but only found blanks. You vaguely remembered belonging to the debate club and the science club, but the faces of your classmates were unrecognizable. Time had taken care of that.
You thought about crossing the entrance, but immediately lost heart. It made no sense. A stranger lurking in the hallways would only draw suspicious looks.
You turned around and let your feet carry you aimlessly. It was then that intuition returned, this time with a magnetic clarity. It wasn't an external thought or a telepathic intrusion; it was a pull in the center of your chest, as if an invisible thread tied to your ribs were being tugged from somewhere in the city.
You boarded a city bus without looking at the route sign. The need to move forward flattened any doubt. You watched through the window as blocks of buildings succeeded one another, trying to convince yourself that it was just a neurotic impulse, a side effect of fatigue. But the pull didn't yield.
You got off a few stops later and started walking by inertia, turning corners almost instinctively, as if navigating a map engraved in your genes.
Until the thread slacked.
In front of you stood a small, humble café, almost invisible among the grandiosity of the main avenues. You remained on the sidewalk contemplating the reflection in the glass, overcome by the mathematical certainty that this was exactly where you needed to arrive.
In your headphones, the final chords of MGMT were playing. Oracular Spectacular was an album that seemed to evoke memories of a life you weren't sure you had lived, a mixture of psychedelia and melancholy that fit the moment perfectly.
Pushing the door open, the chime of a bell announced your entrance. The place was practically empty, an oasis of silence you were deeply grateful for. You took a deep breath, gathering the courage needed to slide the headphones down to your neck and prepare for the inevitable impact of mental noise.
“Hi, what can I get for you?”
Behind the counter, a girl with dark skin offered you a warm smile. Her nametag read Michelle, though your mind had already caught her name a second prior. However, when trying to go deeper, you bumped into a subtle wall; her mind was complex, dense, hard to decipher at first glance. Some people were just that unreadable.
You ordered a latte out of obligation. You hated coffee—caffeine usually triggered unbearable migraines—but needing to buy something was the price to pay to stay there.
That was when you noticed the boy on the other side of the counter: Ned Leeds, Michelle's friend. Ned's mind, unlike hers, was an open book. Both shared a vibe of contained nervousness, a low tension floating between them. It felt like something... work-related? No, academic.
“I'll bring it to your table in a moment.”
You nodded mechanically and settled at a small table next to the window. On the opposite wall, a turned-on television silently broadcast amateur video footage: Spider-Man swinging between skyscrapers. You remembered the events of last year, the cracks in the sky, and the multiversal threat everyone talked about. You also remembered Charles's blunt response when you asked why you all hadn't intervened: “It's not our fight.”
You looked at the screen with bitterness. And even if you had wanted to help... what on earth could you have done against the collapse of the universe?
You wondered if at any point the world would be ready for mutants. It was an open secret: the beloved figure Charles had lost years ago, a mutant so unstable he had been the worst calling card to society. Many of the mansion's residents had seen him on television as children; a few others knew him personally. You could only rely on rumors.
You stared at the street through the café's glass for a long while, wondering where all those people were heading, even though you knew the answer beforehand. You saw a girl walking hurriedly down the sidewalk, struggling to adjust the strap of a heavy bag slung over her shoulder. You wanted to believe in a gentle story: you imagined inside were a bunch of purchases she could finally, after a long time, afford. A birthday gift for someone special, some expensive creams, or maybe those shoes she had liked so much in some display window.
You entered her mind a second later.
Reality was much grayer. There were no gifts or new shoes. In the bag she only carried a change of clothes and the medical studies of her grandmother, whom she was going to nurse at the hospital during the night shift after working all day. In her head there was no excitement, but an accumulated fatigue of weeks, the worry of not knowing how to pay for the month's medications, and the faint hope that the old woman would recognize her for at least a couple of minutes before falling asleep.
You gently looked away, with a pang of bitterness in your chest.
Why was reality so sad? Was any of those passersby actually having a good day?
You moved your eyes across the sidewalk, almost desperately searching for a flash of light amid the tide of tired faces. And then you saw it. A little boy, no older than five, hopping along next to his mother. He held a green plastic dinosaur in his hands, and brushing his mind for an instant, you found no sorrow. Only a gigantic happiness because his mother had bought him the toy he had been waiting weeks for. In his universe, in that precise second, nothing bad existed.
You smiled to yourself and exhaled a breath you didn't even know you were holding. Somehow, that tiny thought comforted you; it was like a crack of sunlight amid a cloudy sky. Reality could be heavy, yes, but at least it wasn't entirely lost.
You heard the chime at the entrance, and your body responded before your mind did, turning you around to observe the newly arrived customer. A slender boy, with brown hair somewhat messy from the street wind and a sweet, incredibly expressive gaze, but with a distinct shadow of fatigue under his eyes. He wore a worn jacket that was a bit too big for him and had his hands buried in his pockets. He had that kind of noble, empathetic face that instantly conveys trust.
However, what left you dumbfounded was the fact that you heard absolutely nothing.
Not a single thought. Not the slightest murmur. His mind was in complete, inexplicable silence. It wasn't Professor Xavier's impenetrable and calculated barrier; it was something different, an absolute void, yet strangely warm. After spending the day submerged in the city's chaotic bustle, encountering such calm in a stranger left you breathless.
He didn't notice your presence; instead, his eyes were fixed on the waitress carrying your coffee.
“Enjoy,” she exclaimed kindly.
He didn't take his eyes off her, and you didn't take your eyes off him.
You stammered a thanks to the girl, and she returned to her position behind the counter. He, seeing her return, lowered his gaze and hurried to take a seat at one of the tables.
From your spot, you couldn't help but observe him. There was something subtle yet clear in his posture: the way his eyes sought the girl at the counter, the contained hesitation in his gestures... It was obvious he had gone to that café just to see her.
Upon reaching the counter, Michelle and Ned began chatting in a casual tone. After a few moments of fluid conversation, she leaned against the bar, looked at the boy waiting at the table, and asked what he was ordering.
He looked up and answered.
It was barely a short phrase, a simple response, but the timbre of his voice pierced the café's space with an overwhelming clarity.
Your heart took a violent leap. You froze in your seat, paralyzed mid-movement, while an icy shiver ran down your spine. That cadence, the exact intonation, the soft and worn nuance... You didn't need to read his thoughts to know. His spoken voice was enough.
It was the same voice that had been sneaking into your hardest nights for weeks. The lonely mind that found yours in the dark was just a few steps away from you.
That was why you had gone there. To find him.
Once again, you tried to venture into his mind. You launched your telepathy searching for that crack through which you used to hear him, but it was like running into an impenetrable wall; his mind remained in absolute silence. However, at the exact instant you brushed against his barrier, the boy flinched in his chair and went stiff all of a sudden, as if an electric shock had run up the back of his neck.
He turned his head instinctively until his eyes met yours head-on. He held your gaze for an eternal second, charged with a strange, alert tension. He hadn't just blocked you effortlessly; impossibly, that boy seemed to have felt that you were trying to enter his head.
He blinked several times as if trying to discard the idea, sure it had only been an illusion. He focused on a menu hanging above the counter despite having already placed his order, projecting a contained tension that made him look out of place. Worried, perhaps.
You looked toward the window, though now the stories of the passersby lacked meaning. You closed your eyes for an instant, searching in the silence for an answer to the enigma a few feet away, but found nothing.
Determined to end the uncertainty once and for all, you snapped them open and stood up, ready to cross the small space separating you from him. The unexpected part was that the stranger had the exact same idea. Before you could react, the two of you collided head-on. The impact made you lose your balance, and you fell backward onto the floor, letting out a stifled murmur of surprise.
He apologized immediately, visibly embarrassed. Then he crouched to your height and quickly extended his hand to help you up. Confused, you accepted his help, and at the exact instant his fingers closed around your hand, an electric shock coursed through your veins.
A memory flashed into your mind.
The afternoon sun hit your face fully when you heard his voice calling you. You had decided to go to the park to rest, silently celebrating that you had finally survived finals week. You lay on the fresh grass, letting the early summer heat envelope you.
“Do you think I'll do badly in English?” he asked, breaking the silence while looking at the treetops.
“A little, yeah. But not enough to get an F,” you replied honestly, turning toward him.
“Thank goodness. May would kill me.”
“You've never failed a subject, not since we were in kindergarten.”
“No,” he admitted, glancing at you. “That's why I know she'd kill me.”
You let out a genuine laugh, contemplating the comical face he made whenever a truth disguised as a joke escaped him. There was a lightness to those days that now felt like a distant dream.
“If I get bad grades, my parents will probably blame you,” you teased.
“And why's that?” he asked, feigning outrage.
“They'll say you're a distraction.”
At that moment, a white butterfly fluttered between the two of you and lightly brushed your cheek before flying away. He smiled tenderly and reached out, brushing with his fingertips the exact spot where the insect's wings had tickled you.
“That's not true,” he murmured, leaving his hand suspended near your face.
“It kind of is,” you confessed, shrugging as you felt warmth rise to your cheeks. “You spend all day in my thoughts. But they don't have to find out about that.”
Blush instantly stained his cheeks. He tried to hide it by looking down and breaking into a clumsy smile, but it was in vain. You were fascinated watching him get nervous. It was as if he couldn't fully process that you loved him with that blind, boundless intensity that only exists in first love.
“I could help you study for retakes,” he offered, clearing his throat.
“Yeah, sure. Because you're a nerd and all that.”
“No,” he corrected softly, searching your eyes. “Because you're my girlfriend. And I want you to get good grades so we can go to college together.”
“Please! Are you already thinking about college?” you laughed, covering your face with your hands. “We're barely starting high school.”
“Yeah, but it doesn't hurt to plan, right?”
“You worry too much about the future.”
“And you don't?”
“I don't care what the future holds,” you said simply, intertwining your fingers with his as the afternoon wind tousled his hair. “I only care about enjoying the present. About being here. With you.”
The warmth of the hand you were holding grew hazy with the memory of that day. Suddenly, a new scene rushed in headlong.
The whole school knew. It was the only topic of conversation in the hallways: they knew that because of you, that boy was in the hospital. During your constant trips to the principal's office, you had managed to overhear that his parents wanted to sue you, though at your age you weren't sure if that was legally possible.
You just wanted to scream at them that you couldn't help it. That you never wanted to hurt him in the first place.
Now everything hurt, but not in your body; the pain was entrenched in your head. You were sitting outside the principal's office for the hundredth time that week. You had missed almost every class, and when you tried to show up at the debate club meeting, they simply slammed the door in your face.
You wondered how much longer you could endure in this limbo. By that point, your expulsion was practically a done deal.
And then there was the torment of the minds around you. You didn't know how to silence them; they entered your head unfiltered, all the time, drilling into your ears until becoming unbearable noise.
Why on earth was this happening to you?
“Hey,” you suddenly heard.
You didn't know if the murmur came from inside your head or from the hallway, until looking up brought you back to reality: he was standing in front of you.
“There you are,” he said softly.
“Hi,” you whispered, looking at him with guilt. “What are you doing here? There's a club meeting today.”
“Yeah, but I didn't really feel like going,” he replied, shrugging.
Lie. He was fascinated by the debate club. But the worry of finding you had been stronger.
He took a seat beside you. You immediately avoided his gaze, unable to meet his eyes.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” you lied, tightening your hands on your lap. “They just summoned me again. You know... because of everything that's happened lately.”
“Yeah...” he sighed, resting his elbows on his knees.
Even though he kept quiet, you didn't need him to speak to know exactly what was crossing his mind. His mental pulse was a tide of fatigue, deep sadness, and a touch of pity. He felt afraid, yes, but not toward you or what you could do—rather, for what the world was going to do to you.
An interminable few seconds passed in which the noise of the school threatened to crush you again, until he seemed to gather enough courage to organize his thoughts.
“It wasn't your fault,” he blurted out, searching your eyes. “You know that, right?”
“The guy is in the hospital,” you replied with a broken voice, feeling tears fill your eyes. “I don't even know what I did or how I did it. It just... happened. People are right to be afraid of me.”
“They don't understand anything,” he insisted, turning his body toward you. “I know you. I know who you are. This is an accident, not something you wanted. I... I don't understand how you did it. But you're not crazy, and you're not bad either.”
“I feel like I'm going crazy,” you confessed in a thread of a voice, bringing your hands to your temples as the din of other minds began drilling into you from within again. “There are too many voices. I can't turn them off. It's killing me.”
He didn't hesitate for another second. He moved closer and wrapped his arms around you, enveloping you in a firm, warm hug that seemed to freeze time.
You pressed your face against his shoulder, clinging to his jacket as if it were the only anchor amid the storm. Suddenly, the chaos in your head seemed to dim. The contact of his arms didn't silence the voices of the world, but the certainty of his affection turned everything else into a distant noise, an insignificant echo.
“I'm not leaving you alone in this,” he whispered in your ear, squeezing you a little tighter against him. “We're going to figure it out. I promise you.”
You had closed your eyes for an instant, and when you opened them, the setting had changed completely.
He was watching you from the edge of your bed, with a mix of resignation and worry in his gaze.
“A boarding school?” he asked in a low voice.
“Yeah... It's like a school for gifted youngsters or something like that,” you murmured without looking up, focused on folding clothes and packing them into suitcases.
Every now and then, he stretched out to hand you an item of clothing left on the bed, trying to keep himself useful so as not to break down.
“And for how long will it be?”
“I don't know. A few months, I guess... Until things cool down around here.”
In the end, the hospital boy's parents hadn't filed the lawsuit, but they had taken it upon themselves to spread the rumor to every corner of the high school. The stares, the harassment, and the social pressure ultimately proved you right: expulsion had been inevitable. Your parents, overwhelmed by the situation and not knowing how to handle what was happening to you, had found that special place as a last resort to rid themselves of a problem beyond their control.
“Yeah, well... makes sense,” he commented, though the lack of conviction in his voice was glaring.
His mind was sending clear signals: he was holding something back. And you knew perfectly well what it was.
“Hey, I'll come back to visit you every now and then, okay?” you said, trying to inject some enthusiasm into the room. “And if I talk to the principal... maybe he'll even let me invite you over for a weekend.”
You dropped what you were doing and sat beside him.
“If you want to go, of course.”
“Of course I want to,” he answered immediately. He was completely sincere. “It's just that... Westchester is pretty far.”
“It's not that big of a deal,” you tried to encourage him, though you knew his real concern wasn't the distance, but the fare money.
You sought his hand on the mattress, intertwining your fingers while looking at him with a silent plea reflected in your eyes.
“We can video call every night. Text each other all the time... You'll see I won't feel that far.”
He smiled that sweet way he did when he really wanted to believe things would turn out fine, and nodded silently.
“Yeah, you're right. It'll work.”
You leaned toward him and stole a soft kiss from his lips. It was a brief gesture, but loaded with all the fear, love, and uncertainty you both shared.
“It'll only be a few months to see how they teach over there. And then I'll come back. I promise.”
A final series of memories surfaced. Though when your mind shifted to them, you immediately felt a tightness in your chest.
It hadn't been just a few months. The semester was consuming its final days, and you were still trapped in Westchester.
You weren't going to lie to yourself: you were starting to get used to the place. To the bucolic peace of the mansion, the warmth of your new peers, and the institute's teaching. It was an idyllic refuge. Professor Xavier had personally taken care of manipulating the threads of collective memory at your old school; he didn't erase the incident, but he wiped your face from everyone's memories. To the school board, it had just been an unfortunate physical altercation between two students whose names were better off forgotten. Your name was clean, but your soul remained chained to Queens.
To him.
You had sworn to write to him daily, to keep the flame alive against all odds. But at first, messages flowed like an overflowing river; later, reality turned into a dam. Classes demanded an almost superhuman level of concentration if you wanted to control the chaotic mass of your powers. Guilt devoured your chest with every hour that passed without replying to him.
When you finally managed to scrape a free weekend to return to the city, reuniting with him was a dagger to the heart.
Even without wanting to, you heard the bitter tide of his thoughts. Weeks ago, he had begged you to go to the high school dance with him, excited like a child, but Charles forbade you from going so as not to expose yourself.
“It's okay, I understand,” he had told you at the time, swallowing his disappointment.
But telepathy didn't allow you to deceive yourself. It wasn't just the missed party. It was the cruel taunts in the school hallways when he said he had a girlfriend, an invisible girl whom no one ever saw. It was the contempt of his classmates, the pity condensed in the teachers' gazes, the silenced disappointment of a boy who had to defend the existence of a love that seemed like a ghost.
You couldn't hold his hand in the street, or invite him out for ice cream, or be a living presence in his everyday life.
Those invisible wounds accumulated until they became an unsustainable mountain. And though he never uttered a single reproach—though he swallowed his tears so as not to make you feel guilty—you felt how he was bleeding out from within. He felt deeply lonely, desperately clinging to the sporadic visits of the ghost of the girl who was once his world.
One night, while the moon bathed the roof in silver, the question pierced you like broken glass:
Did he deserve a half-life? Did he deserve to love a shadow?
No. Good heavens, no. He deserved the full light.
“You seem strange,” he said.
The two of you were sitting on the fire escape outside his window, with the cold night air sneaking through your clothes.
“Are you okay?”
“I am,” you murmured, clinging to the iron bars with white knuckles so your voice wouldn't shatter. “Hey... can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Do you really think us... is meant to work?”
“Of course it is,” he answered immediately, searching your eyes with a blind faith that broke your soul. “We've made it this far, haven't we?”
But the words didn't matter. Your mind drowned in the tide of his true answer: a desperate inner plea not to lose you, crushed by the overwhelming fear that you were already leaving.
“Why do you ask that?” he added, his voice trembling slightly.
“Because I'm not the girl you deserve.”
“Are you breaking up with me?” He turned abruptly.
His hands had already moved to your shoulders, holding you with the same gentleness he had for so many years.
“I... I love you. I don't give a damn about the distance! I don't care what happened with your powers or any of this. I mean it. I love you.”
“And I love you,” you sobbed, feeling tears held back for months threatening to choke you. “I love you in a way you can't imagine. But...”
“No. There is no 'but'. Don't do this to me. Please.”
His hand gripped yours, the desperation palpable in the touch. The silence was dense, heavy, drowned out by the distant noise of city traffic. But the sentence was already passed in the deepest part of your being. Because you loved him too much to destroy him.
Even though you both changed the subject, the tension remained. Shortly after, you went back into the room. He lay on the bottom bunk, defeated, his chest heaving with silent panic. You leaned over him, stopping mere inches from his face, wrapped in the dim light.
“You know I would never hurt you, right?” you whispered, caressing his cheek with infinite tenderness.
“I know,” he replied in a thread of a voice.
“And you know I'm going to love you no matter what happens, right?”
“I know.”
He surged forward and kissed you. It was a desperate, almost voracious kiss, a trench against destiny. He held you by the waist and the nape of your neck with a strength bordering on agony, pressing you against his chest as if sensing you were turning into water slipping through his fingers.
Tears spilled uncontrollably from your eyes, wetting both your cheeks. He started upon feeling you cry and lowered his hands, alarmed, but you didn't give him time to speak. You kissed him again. You kissed him until breath escaped your lungs, mixing the bitter taste of your tears with the warm breath escaping his lips. It was the kiss of a lifetime condensed into a few seconds.
Trembling, you brought your fingers to your temple. A stifled, heart-wrenching sob escaped your chest.
Would you be capable? Was your love so boundless, so destructive, as to commit this cruel mercy?
Yes. Because loving him meant saving him from yourself.
With a silent scream that tore your mind apart from the inside, you deployed your telepathy and ventured into his memory.
You began erasing yourself.
You gradually dissolved the stolen kisses, the laughs in the debate club, and the college promises, but also the childhood afternoons in his living room, the scraped knees, and an entire life growing up together. You erased every conversation, every glance, and every shared heartbeat, transforming a colossal love into a hazy fog, into a mere nameless void.
You exterminated over a decade of memories piece by piece, watching the light in his eyes grow dull as the connections severed in his brain.
Your own mind wailed at the sacrilege of erasing the only pure thing you had left in the world.
Feeling the weight of his body relax under the telepathic sedation, you laid his head on the pillow with infinite sweetness. His eyes, now serene and empty of you, closed slowly.
You leaned down one last time, brushing your lips against his cool forehead.
“Goodbye, Peter.”
Peter. That was his name.
“A-Are you really okay? Did you get hurt?”
You were already on your feet. You hadn't realized tears were streaming down uncontrollably until you ran your fingers across your cheeks. Your hands were trembling.
An excruciating doubt seized you inevitably: what had made you forget him? How could such a piece of your soul disappear from your life?
“Do you need me to call someone?”
You hadn't articulated a single word since he helped you up. Your absolute silence only fueled the confusion and concern growing in his eyes with every passing second.
He was so different. He looked older, mature, undeniably handsome... but there was no doubt: it was him. It was your Peter.
From his perspective, you must have looked completely terrified. Your fixed stare and ragged breathing made you look as though you were seeing a dead man brought back to life.
“No,” you managed to reply.
Stumbling, you backed away from him. You grabbed your belongings immediately and walked to the counter, leaving a bill that doubled the value of what you had ordered.
Then you walked out. Without looking back.
Let me know if you want to be tagged in part two! ♡
THISSSSSSS!!!!!!! curate your own internet experience. block them because they’re allergic to peanut butter, block them because they have what you don’t, block them because they dislike your favorite food, block them because you don’t like their layout, block them because you can.
blocking is NOT a personal attack against someone. it’s you curating your own internet experience and catering for your comfort, and you have every right to do that.
you, yes, you!!! you CANNOT tell other people to censor themselves for your own comfort and personal likings. you CANNOT tell them what they can or can’t post. you CANNOT tell them what they can or can’t write. you CANNOT tell them what they can or can’t draw. BUT you CAN block them for whatever reason.
that block button is offered to you for free. use. it.
synopsis: waking up in a prison cell wasn’t the interplanetary welcome you were expecting. this hero they’ve sent to question you is the most welcomed distraction though.
info: hey! this is heavily inspired by SUPERGIRL! if you haven’t seen it, it’s still easy to read. me and aali watched it and whilst the credits were rolling i told her this idea. different to what i usually write but i enjoyed :) this is probably going to be a one shot.
bakugou katsuki hates this part of his job. he finds it incredibly boring, uneventful and somewhat like those detective movies his mother watches in the evening. he’s not a detective or a police officer, he’s a pro hero built for the streets, fighting real villains. not in the foreign governmental holding cell with the purpose of asking questions, while the person in it has anti-quirk handcuffs on. so fucking boring. at least take the handcuffs off them, give him a real challenge.
bakugou barges into the cell, shoulder first into the iron heavy windowless door and the first thing he does is sigh. he crosses his arms across his chest and he flicks his eyes over the room. grey brick walls, square room, a metal toilet in the corner and a thin mattress on the floor. it’s the same as every other high risk room in this prison.
minus you, the woman he’s supposed to be talking to. bakugou frowns, a low unimpressed huh leaving his throat. he was told he’d be dealing with an alien here but from what he can see of you, hugging your arms to your chest on the floor, head resting on your knees… you look human. like him. two arms, two legs. he needs to check your face when you look up but otherwise, there’s nothing particularly alien-like about you and bakugou’s met many aliens before.
apparently you haven’t spoken to anyone in three days. police have tried, detectives and doctors. they decided he’d be the next step in case you end up being violent.
“fuck, how does it go?” he mutters to himself, shutting the squeaking door behind him. “hate this shit.”
you don’t move at the sound of his voice but your handcuffs glow green around your wrists. you’re in the same orange jumpsuits as everyone else in this building. bakugou’s a fan of the colour.
“my name is dynamight, i’m a hero here on earth. i’ve gotta ask you a couple questions ‘cause protocol and shit. we dunno who you are, why you’re here or what you can do. the quicker we get this done, the quicker we both can go home.”
it’s the mention of home that gets your attention. you lift your head up off your legs and you turn to face the man who’s taking up more space than necessary in your cell.
as bakugou gasps, you snigger.
what the hell is this guy wearing? those wings by his head? are the height of those boots to compensate for something else?
you’re definitely human looking. two sparkly eyes, a nose in the centre of your face. nobody told him the alien was beautiful. fucking stunning.
he wants to go home now, he’s not prepared to be speaking to a woman like you after a ten hour shift. fuck, he doesn’t think he ever would be.
bakugou clears his throat. he stands up straight and tightens his arms across his chest.
“you’re very… fuck, anyway,” he’s so goddamn embarrassing.
you start laughing, these light buttery giggles that feel like they’re breathing air into bakugou’s lungs. your eyes brighten, you even lean back on the wall like you’re taking a better look at him. he feels your eyes travel from his boots to the top of his head.
thank god this man has a pretty face, or at least he would if he stopped frowning because this outfit he’s wearing looks stupid. does anyone else on this planet dress like this?
you’re laughing… and it feels like it’s at him instead of with him. he knows he didn’t say anything funny.
“do you not know english? they always say i need to speak english for this shit.” he grunts, scratching his head.
damn, he’s finding it hard to even look at you directly. the orange compliments you, makes your skin glow, makes you— stay focused.
“i doubt you’re gonna know any japanese. d’you understand me now?” he tries and he sees the frown on your face. confusion.
“ah, so you understand english. you just don’t want to talk to me.” he punctuates by jabbing his thumb into his chest and then leaning on the wall behind him.
you roll your eyes, which only gets bakugou grinning, then he calms down. he doesn’t need to be reacting like he won the lottery over a reaction from you.
“what’s your name?”
nothing. you blankly stare at his face.
“why are you here?”
nothing.
“c’mon just say somethin’ so i have somethin’ to say to them outside. then you get to go back home.”
you swallow, resting your head in your palm.
“this is an odd planet. a traveller lands and you immediately arrest them, deprive them of sunlight and dignity,” you nod your head towards the toilet in the corner of the room, “treating me like a criminal.”
you’ve got an accent. one he can’t place from anywhere specific on earth. it sounds almost melodic, easy to understand and very clear.
“so the alien talks,” dynamight, you think he introduced himself as earlier, says amused, “you fell from the sky, at a speed none of us has seen before. it was so fast, not even our meteorologists caught it. then you came out of this metal-like sphere that isn’t quite metal, they’re still workin’ that out, in a coma. not to mention you set alight the fields you landed in, causing a wildfire through acres and acres of land.”
bakugou squints at you, “you can see why we’d have a fuck load of questions, right?”
you look away from him. fuck. you were told the earth on this planet would have been able to handle your ship, not that you’d start a wildfire.
“i didn’t… i didn’t hurt anyone, did i?”
bakugou’s quick to shake his head, “no, the farmer ushered out all the animals in time. though you did destroy a families hundred year old strawberry farm.”
“shit.” you mutter, in your language. then in english, “i’ll help them as soon as i’m out of here.”
there’s a hero complex to you somewhere. hm. “and to get out of here, answer my questions. yeah?”
you sigh, “what do you want dynamo?”
bakugou’s face scrunches like a ball of paper, “dynamight. my name is dynamight.”
“is it actually? earth names didn’t sound like that when i researched.”
“it’s my fuckin’ hero name, i said that in my introduction at the beginnin’— you know what, never mind. call me dynamight. nothin’ else.”
you blink at him.
“what’s your name?” he tries.
he really wants to know your name. not for the sake of government purposes, just for himself.
“that’s personal, isn’t it?” you laugh but dynamight raises his eyebrows.
“not at all actually,” he breathes, equally restless and intrigued, “quick or we’ll be here all goddamn day.”
“you swear a lot, don’t you? is that normal?”
that catches bakugou off guard, he leans off the wall. “hah? you’re not askin’ me questions, woman. i’m doin’ the askin’.”
you chuckle, loud and sweet. “okay, okay! my name is yn.”
“yn,” he likes the sound of it on his lips, though it’s even better from yours, “yn where are you from?”
“why are you dressed like that?”
bakugou looks down at himself. he’s always been voted highly for best dressed hero. his black body suit, black and orange chunky boots. he’s got his wings at his shoulders. he doesn’t have his gauntlets on though, he doesn’t need them for this.
“this is my hero suit. how many times do i have to tell you, i’m a professional hero—.”
“hero,” you try, “is that your version of a protector? looking after civilians? the strongest of the people?”
bakugou can’t help but let his grin slip. he likes the sound of that. it’s all true. “y-yeah i am. currently third on the charts but i jump between one and two, so technically i’m the best in the country.”
you do an upside down smile, somewhat impressed. so this man is one of the strongest and cocky about it. his grin is cute too. his lips stretch wider, only one corner rising. a gold tooth shining. okay, his smirk is sexy.
“family must be proud.”
“they expected it,” he shrugs. wow, is it easy to get off topic with you. “any quirks?”
“quirks?”
“abilities different to the average.”
you scrunch your nose, “not that i know of.”
bakugou doesn’t know if he can trust you. “so if i took those handcuffs off you, nothing about you would change?”
honestly no. your body feels fine. mentally, not so much.
you snap the handcuffs apart, the middle chain breaking with ease, now appearing as two ugly grey bracelets on your wrists as the green glow slowly dies down. bakugou jumps at the sound, jaw dropping on command.
“what the fuck?” bakugou can’t even get out of those. he’s tried before in hero training. what are you? “why the hell didn't you get out of them before?”
“i…”
you’ve never experienced grief before and to experience it on the scale you are now... your parents, your family, your people, your home. all gone. you don’t think you wanted to break out of it yet.
“had other things on my mind,” you offer, looking up at this dynamight man. “what’s your… quirk?”
something about him is comforting. with those boots on, he’s as big as the men back home. just as wide too.
so to get information out of you, he has to give a little back. that’s okay for now.
“i sweat nitroglycerin. can create explosions from my hands,” he gives you a little show, facing his palms up to the ceiling and creating little sparks.
that gets you facing him, now cross legged on the floor. you sound like a child, brimming with curiosity. you don’t recognise the word nitroglycerin but you can assume. “how big can you make them?”
bakugou chuckles to himself, slowly sinking to sit down too. “question for question then. so it’s my turn now.”
you huff, “fine.”
have you showered in these three days? you look as if you have. a beautiful glow like those women in skincare adverts he sees.
“how old are you?” not the most important question, but he’s got to know. they couldn’t have gotten a more selfish hero to question you.
“fifty moon shines,” you say without a beat. “how old are you? wait, let me see your explosions!”
“woah, woah, hold on. fifty?” you either look good for your age or—, “how are years measured where you’re from?”
“182 days. isn’t it my turn to ask a question?”
“how long are your days?”
“twenty three hours.”
bakugou relaxes. you’re the same age as him.
“so you’re twenty five.”
“i just said i’m fifty.”
“to me that’s like you’re sayin’ you're a hundred in your time. you’re twenty five in this world, darlin’.”
“darling? what’s that?”
bakugou shakes his head. shouldn’t have said that. “nothin’. i’m twenty six.”
that pleases you for some reason. you both stare at each other for a few seconds, sizing the other up. you could take him in a fight you think. in bed too, if it came down to it.
“how big can you make your sweat explosions?”
bakugou winces. what an ugly name. “they’re not sweat explosions.” “but you said—,” “the size of buildings. could blow this whole building up. can also fly, use them as grenades, blind opponents, shoot them like a gun.”
he’s sharing too much now. you shouldn’t be telling your enemies your main attacks. it’s going to be a beautiful woman to take him down. that tarot reader kaminari took him to was right.
“that’s really cool, dynamight. i can’t do that.”
you sound honest, real. bakugou bends his knees and rests his arms on top. “it’s whatever. what can you do?”
you shrug, looking at your bare hands. there’s some dirt under your nails and they’re all chipped from your lack of basic essentials. “where i’m from, everyone is the same so i don’t know how different i am to you guys.”
bakugou gets that, “what’s the most you can lift—,”
“my turn now, hero. why’re you so pissy?” you ask, tilting your head at him.
bakugou can’t help the loud, “hah?” he sits up at that comment, hands flat on the floor.
“you came in here moaning. you swear in every sentence. you act like the world has done you wrong. what happened with you?”
there’s a part of you that wants to find solidarity in this man. that perhaps he understands the pain you’re going through deep within your soul. after waking up from your coma three days ago, you feel sure the grief is going to eat you alive. you don’t want to hate the world, become evil and angry. you also don’t know how to not.
you get this blonde man blinking at you. a silence takes up the room quickly but you give him all the space in the world to speak.
“what d’you mean what happened to me? you think i have a sad tragic backstory like those american game show contestants?”
now you’re frowning back at him. you don’t understand that reference. “don’t you? or you’re just pissy for no reason?”
it feels like a weird competition now, that he should have something under his belt. something odd and sadistic to impress you with. bakugou bites.
“i died when i was sixteen. i fought a war and died.”
you’re not impressed. “how are you here now? i didn’t know this world has magic—,”
bakugou shakes his head, “nah not magic. another… another hero here fixed me up. brought me back.”
“oh,” you trail off, “and you’re fine now?”
he is. though it seems as if you’re looking for more. he deals with villain attacks often. fights them with his friends. he hasn’t been close to death since. he lives a wealthy luxury lifestyle now he’s professional and he’s got all his friends around him. all his greatest traumas he’s working through in therapy. yes, he goes therapy.
you keep talking, “you’ve got both your parents? all your friends?”
“y-yeah i do? i answered your question, didn’t i?” he spits.
you roll your lips in.
“are you… are you laughin’ at me again?”
at that your dam breaks, giggles spilling out. your shoulders shake and your hand covers your mouth in an attempt to be polite. though you lost that once you had to use the toilet beside your bed being recorded by security.
j“no, well yes! i don’t know, i thought you had a tragic backstory to explain your shitty attitude. guess it’s just you.”
bakugou’s walls go straight up. he doesn’t know who the hell you think you are to read him so easily. because yeah, maybe he is just a dick. but he owns it. he’s apologised for his mistakes in the past. he doesn’t hold all his worth to his quirk anymore and he doesn’t blame himself for anyone’s death. he’s actually quite well adjusted now.
“okay, so the fuck is your problem? why’re you on earth? where’s home? where’s your family? they just send you here and can’t be bothered to get you outta ‘earth jail’?” he snaps.
that slows your laughter down, your grin is the last thing to drop before pain shakes your heart. it’s a harsh squeeze that doesn’t let up.
“you’re not getting all of that out of me in one day. see you tomorrow, dynamight.” you’ve got nobody to come get you.
bakugou hates how he likes the sound of that. another day, a reason to see you again. he’s got a whole load of questions to ask you but he’s got to get back to his other tasks for the day.
“fine, if that’s what you want.” he begins to rise to his feet. he’s too petty to be somewhat nice. “y’know if you cooperate we can send you home.”
you look up at bakugou, hugging your knees to your chest on the hard concrete floor. “i don’t have a home anymore.”
bakugou stands still, mouth open to speak but nothing right is about to come out. until there’s a rough knock on the door, one of the jail guards.
“you okay, dynamight? times up unless you need more?”
bakugou doesn’t take his eyes off you, now back to your original position with your forehead on your knees. he won’t be surprised if you move to fetal position once he’s gone.
“i’ll be back tomorrow, yn.”
you don’t bother replying to him but you hear his thick boots walk out.
as soon as bakugou steps out the door, the guard pipes up.
“we saw she was speaking to you on cams! the alien’s gorgeous, isn’t she? doesn’t look like no damn alien either. what was she saying?”
the first thing bakugou does is shove the man away. “down my fuckin’ neck. i’m not sayin’ shit to you. who runs this place?”
in about an hour, you’re pulled out of your cell to a new room. one with a bedframe for your mattress, a pencil and a pad of paper. most especially, the toilet is in a separate room to your cell. you’re especially grateful when they remove your handcuff bracelets and don’t lock new ones on.
there’s no chance you’re going to thank dynamight for giving you your basic rights. you appreciate the changes to your new home though.
part two comments will be deleted. comments and reblogs are appreciated!
Summary: A glimpse of your budding friendship with Ominis and your growing feelings after the events in the Scriptorium.
Pairings: Ominis Gaunt x Reader, Sebastian Sallow x Reader
Warnings: violence, mild language
Part: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11
Slow burn angsty Ominis x F!Reader
[T-Rated, 7.8k words]
Letting himself embrace this horrid part of his heritage terrified him. It was like being back in the cellar again, that Muggle writhing beneath him in pain, his parents and brother lauding his name. Gaunt. No matter what he did to unbind himself from the bloodline, always it came back to shackle him. Always, it answered when he didn't call.
In which, even after he broke your friendship, Ominis can't get you out of his head.
Tropes: angst/ romance/ drama, slow burn, black cat x golden retriever, opposites attract, forbidden love, Scriptorium quest, Muggle culture, Your Scent in the Amortentia, Going Feral when You're Hurt, Comforting You When You're Sad.
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[read on AO3, read on Wattpad]
2: When Everything Changed
You didn't speak to him for a long time.
Justifiably, Ominis knows. It's one thing to insult, degrade, demean someone, but something else entirely to diminish their very existence, to reduce them to flesh and bones and happenstance. You were Muggle-born, he was pure-blood. Your friendship together was as tenuous as life itself.
You didn't deserve risk, so he steeled his heart, his mind. He moved through the struggles of fourth year silently, like a wraith, participating only when needed. A clock was ticking for summer – he couldn't spend the entire holiday at Feldcroft, though he longed for it, though Sebastian offered. When the dread of it came, thick and drowning, it was the thought of you, what he was doing ultimately to protect you, that eased the pain. He didn't realise how deeply you had planted your vines inside him, so that everything he did now, anything he felt, or touched, or tasted, reminded him of you. You were ingrained, and no matter how hard he tried to uproot you, you would not wither.
Perhaps this was his reality now. Perhaps he would never speak to you again.
Naturally, fifth year changed everything.
The new school year rang with tension. A goblin tyrant, Ranrok, sought vengeance against wizardkind, with his influence strongest around the Scottish Highlands, scattered around the hamlets around Hogwarts. His plans were unclear, just another thing Ominis worried about, massaging his temple on the walk up to school for the first evening.
Sebastian wasn't in a talkative mood. He'd come to verbal blows with his uncle that afternoon, when Ominis was packing and keeping Anne company. Their voices were so raised they could be heard in the entire village.
"Stop getting her hopes up! For goodness sake, she's cursed. At least let her enjoy however long she has left in peace, without your meddling!"
"Meddling?" Sebastian scoffed. "She's my sister! I'll find a cure for her—"
"If St Mungo's Healers can't do it, no fifteen year-old boy will either."
"You might've given up, but I haven't."
"I've stopped trying to fill her head with false hope and nonsense!"
Anne's lethargic sigh had pulled Ominis away. "I'm so tired."
"You should rest."
"No." She fell back against the pillow. "I mean, of their arguing."
Truthfully, Ominis was tired of it too. He heard enough hatred at home, the few lonely weeks he had to spend there before absconding to Feldcroft. For the most part, his parents ignored him, though there were days they dragged him to dinners or parties with the other pure-blood families. He made sure to give the Malfoys as wide a berth as possible, even though Peregrine didn't bother him again.
"Can you promise me something, Ominis?" Anne had asked.
He'd pursed his lips. "That depends on what it is."
"You'll keep an eye on Sebastian this year." A wry laugh. "A metaphorical eye, that is."
He always intended to. The darkness was offering Sebastian solace, and he feared his best friend was diving down a path from which there was no return. How far would he be willing to go for Anne?
"I'll do my best."
"And... and talk to Gibby."
He hadn't heard your name all summer. It sent a frisson through him, equally terrifying and pleasant, and made to leave before an inevitable interrogation—
"Please," she said, stopping him. "Sometimes family isn't blood. Sometimes family is heart. And she is as much a part of yours as the rest of us are."
Yet, when he left with Sebastian an hour later, he adamantly reminded himself why he made that pact in the first place. He could not— would not talk to you, and rub raw a healing wound. Things were simply too dangerous to risk it, if not from Peregrine Malfoy, then from one of the other pure-blood families, the Lestranges, the Blacks, or the Fawleys.
When he and Sebastian arrived at the school, sun hushing the horizon, Ominis paid no mind to the knowledge that you were there, somewhere at the Hufflepuff table, enjoying the start of term without him. He took his seat next to his best friend and expected the same opening speech, Sorting Ceremony and feast.
Only there was one thing different.
Missy was what everyone called her. The nickname was sparked by rumour, as thick as honey – unlike yours, spurred by your actions, your quirks, Missy's had come before her, on the train up to Hogwarts, where all the fifth years spoke of a new student starting this year under the mentorship of Professor Fig.
Staring school so late, with the support of a prominent Hogwarts professor? That was unusual, she was unusual. A mystery.
Only when she appeared at the Sorting Ceremony, late, it was apparent she was anything but.
"There she is," Nerida crowed in the hum of chatter. "The new girl!"
"Her hair is amazing," said Violet, awed.
Ominis heard the new girl – like you, she had a distinctive set of sounds he could use to distinguish her from others. But unlike you, however, there was no naivety, no jolliness or upbeat wonder. There was only purpose, strong with each stride and levelled breath. Even as the interloper, and a late one at that, she acted like she already belonged.
His heart ached suddenly – the memory of the Undercroft tore at him, and he fought to keep it down, push away the strange sensation that came with thinking of you.
When the new girl was sorted into Slytherin, she sat next to Sebastian. "Hello." Her voice was distinctive too, well-spoken, eloquent, from wealth.
"The mystery student," Imelda said, clearly more impressed than she let on. "The whole year's been talking about you."
"Have they?" She didn't seem bothered by this at all. "Is that what I am? A mystery?"
"A real lady of mystery," said Sebastian, equally intrigued.
"Oh," said the mystery student, chuckling – Ominis caught threads of a sinister undertone. "I'm no lady. Miss is just fine."
"Well, then, Miss Mystery," Sebastian teased, "welcome to Hogwarts."
Ominis was too polite to ask what her real name was. It was too late now, anyway. The nickname stuck like mud, too fitting for a girl with an air of something otherworldly and powerful to be displaced. Your laughter bubbled in his head – maybe she would come to love the nickname as you did.
But there was no point thinking about you anymore. No point imagining what the future beheld for you.
Later that month, Ominis asked after what Missy looked like, if only to build a better picture of how different you were to one another, but Sebastian had only laughed.
"I'd tell you, but she changes her hair and eyes every day. Always in Snelling's Emporium. And her robes – she's never wearing them! Every class we go to she just puts on capes and hats and all sorts. It's a mismatch."
A very strange girl indeed, but not in the same way you were, in the same way you still are.
As the air began to chill, Ominis felt the change in his friend like frigid air on bare skin. He was warming to the new girl, more rapidly than Ominis expected – she invited him to Hogsmeade, joined his secret duelling club, stole him for night-time escapades and thirsted for knowledge only he could give. It seemed harmless enough at first, but the new girl had a particular sway, popular but not needy with the attention, mysterious but still generous with her time, and genial with her friends. Especially with Sebastian.
Worst of all, you were becoming her friend too. She was like the replacement for what you'd lost.
"Amortentia." Professor Sharp's voice carried through the Potions classroom one day, as October crept up the front lawns. "I'm sure you're all familiar with this, but for our new student's sake, could someone please refresh us on its properties?"
Unsurprisingly, Garreth spoke up. "It's the most powerful love potion in the world. It smells different to everyone according to what most attracts them."
"Very good. This is a potion we will be learning to brew in seventh year. As Mr Weasley has said, this is the most powerful love potion in the world." The last part he emphasised seriously. "It is not to be trifled with. Today, we will be brewing weaker love potions, but I am allowing you all to see for yourself the properties of Amortentia, so that you may recognise it outside the classroom. Dare I say, so you can protect yourself should anyone try to use it on you."
Sharp allowed them to gander at the potion as they brewed their own. The fifth-year girls were most excited, and as Ominis prepared his ingredients, the Hufflepuffs plus Missy headed up to the main station to have their turn.
Of course, you were amongst that group.
"Well, Missy?" you asked, as eager and animated as he remembered you to be. "What does it smell like?"
Missy took a whiff, then laughed.
"Secrets."
"Secrets don't have a scent," said Lenora haughtily.
"They do to me." She stood back, let you go ahead. "Go on then, Gibby, your turn. What does it smell like to you?"
Ominis struggled not to listen.
"Sweets." Of course it did. "Magic. You know, just the general scent of it. And..." Your voice turned tart. "Oil."
The giggling ceased. "Oil?" asked Adelaide.
"Oil," you confirmed, in a way that brooked no space for discussion.
What an absurd thing to find attractive. Did oil even have a scent? He pondered on this for a while, trying to untangle its meaning until their potions were neatly bubbling and Sebastian nudged him out of his thoughts.
"Want to go up next?"
They went after Everett declared his favourite scent to be broom handles ("Probably because that's the closest thing he'll ever get to a girl's touch," Sebastian muttered). Already the aroma was drawing him closer, a pleasant tickling like a silk robe on freshly bathed skin.
Sebastian inhaled deeply.
"Hmm."
"Well?"
"Old parchment," he said, "and hair dye."
Hair dye? "I've been told you were starting to grey."
"Funny. No idea why it smells like that."
But Ominis did. Just an inkling, anyway.
"Your turn." His friend stepped back. "You more than most anyone to know what it smells like."
Perhaps nothing, he thought in vain. It was a folly to think himself above such emotions. In fact, though his family may have tried to beat it out of him, it took strength to admit he had such a weakness at all. Since his sense of smell was more acute than most, it would've been strange, perhaps concerning, if there was no scent to the Amortentia at all.
So Ominis leant forwards and inhaled. The aroma was so heady he could get drunk on the smell alone.
"Honeysuckle," he murmured, probably because they grew around Feldcroft, and the memories were something he cherished. "Polished wood, like in a wandshop. And something... sweet." It was a sudden overwhelming note, and his voice grew hoarse. "It's very sweet. Something like—"
He iced over.
Strawberry laces.
"Something like...?" Sebastian said. "Your face has gone red."
"What?" Ominis drew back, willed the scent to disappear. "I— I don't recognise it."
Sebastian didn't say a word at first. Then came the insufferable chuckling beneath his breath.
"Ah, wait. Sweet, was it?"
"I said I don't recognise it." And when Sebastian went to speak again, Ominis quickly snapped, "Not another word."
But he knew, when his friend lapsed into contented, smug silence, this was by far the last time they'd have this conversation.
Without meaning to be, without even being there, you were a cruelty, vivid and sweet, and no matter what he did, he was powerless beneath your spell.
But with tensions rising in the world, he could not afford to think about you. He couldn't afford to think about what your scent in the Amortentia meant for his confused, muddled feelings.
By chance, he got the opportunity to think elsewhere the next day, when a letter arrived – from Gringotts, of all places. The braille glided beneath his fingertips, and he realised it was a will, his Aunt Noctua's will. It was getting to the point where she'd been missing longer than she had not, and his parents had finally bowled through solicitors and admin to snatch the last of the pittance from her vault. With no next of kin, she had given most of it to Ominis, though the money wasn't actually his until he turned seventeen.
Truthfully, the worst part was he could barely remember Noctua's voice anymore. He wondered constantly where she had gone, why she'd left him with her horrible brother and family. Once when he was eight, when a hopeful innocence still sang through him, Noctua had come to watch over him as his parents and siblings attended a society event in London. A pure-blood ball, he was told. Adults talking about adult things, how dull. As the youngest, Ominis hadn't been permitted to go, but he didn't mind so much when he got to spend time with his whacky aunt.
He was practicing his braille as Noctua tidied about the room.
"They'll be back after sundown," she was saying, "so make sure you're finished before then."
"Isn't it midday?"
"It's one."
"So I have lots of time."
"Yes," she said mirthfully, "but I want to take you to the village later today."
The village? "That's the Muggle place, and Father says I shouldn't go near them. They're all stupid anyway. Like pigs."
"Is that what he said?"
"Yes."
A creak as she sat on the bench next to him. Her hand ran down his back.
"You should know, Ominis, that not everything your father says is true. Muggles aren't anymore stupid than wizards are. They're hardly different from us at all."
The comment, harmless in retrospect, felt like an affront to everything Ominis knew. "But they don't have magic. That makes them stupid."
"It doesn't make them stupid. You don't have your sight. Does that make you stupid?"
"No," he said at once, indignant.
"So you understand. What we have and do not have doesn't matter. It is how we choose to live that does. In the end, we all return to the earth in the same way, flesh and skeleton."
That didn't make sense to him. "But how do they do anything if they don't have magic?"
"Well, you're learning your braille now, aren't you? They find ways to do things that work for them." She stood. "Tell you what, why don't we go to the village now? You can finish your work later."
Ominis agreed. He wanted to know, after all, if what Noctua said was true. She dressed him down for it, cotton and breeches and a woollen coat that drowned his arms, and they headed out before the clock struck two, Ominis clutching her hand as the wind bandied playfully with his hair. It didn't take them long to walk, though he detected so many new scents, new sounds. Wheat fields susurrating within musky spruce fences, crackling bonfires and burnings that pumped smoke into the sky. They reached a low stone wall that bordered the village river, cold against Ominis' hands, before Noctua hushed him.
"Do you remember the rules around Muggles?"
"No talking about the M-word," he said diligently, "or that we are the W-word."
So Noctua took him on a stroll through the market. He was surprised at the atmosphere, busy but not bustling. Horses clattered against cobblestone, ivy rustled against houses with rooves made of thatch. Knives slammed down on meat and fish, and there was bartering, so much bartering, for the best cuts and lowest prices.
"Come off it, Dave. Two shillings for that? You must be joking."
"Ain't no joke. Gotta' keep the lights on somehow, don't I?"
They chuckled, even though Ominis didn't understand why, until he remembered Muggles simply couldn't call upon light whenever they wanted. They had to rely on candles and hearths and gas lanterns. They had to rely on their own labour to make ends meet and provide for their children.
A thread of something fresh caught Ominis' nose then, and he turned towards the scent. Warm bread, just baked.
"Want some?" asked Noctua.
His family teachings came to him. Make no disturbance of your betters. "No thank you."
"Are you sure?"
It did smell nice, but he worried about whether Muggle bread was poison for wizards. Still, Noctua took him into the bakery, and thought terror laced through his fascination, he took the bread Noctua paid in their strange Muggle money and eagerly bit into the crust. It was warm and buttery and filled his belly to full – and best of all, it tasted like regular bread. No poison.
"Ah, born like that, was he?" said the baker.
Noctua seemed so at ease with them. "Yes, he's practicing braille at the moment."
"Oh, now, that's wonderful. Keep at it, lad. You'll do great."
"Thanks," Ominis managed. He'd never spoken to a Muggle before. He didn't know Muggles learnt braille too.
Noctua took him back outside as he finished the last of his bread. "Well? What do you think?"
The general mood was buoyant and hopeful. Not everyone was affluent, yes, but there was something wonderful in the way they worked tirelessly to get what they wanted. If the air smelt the same, the food tasted the same, the people merry and sad and angry the same...
"It's a bit like Hogsmeade," he admitted at last, because that was all he had to compare it to.
"So you see, then," said Noctua, a twinkle in her voice. "Not so different after all."
Only when they got back to the house, Ominis not entirely convinced but probing for more, he felt a shift in the air like claws on his shoulders. His parents had arrived home early, as had Marvolo and his noisy sneer.
"At the village, I see," his father barked. Then, "Ominis, to your room. Now."
Ominis knelt to the ground and pressed an ear to the crack under his door so he could hear the argument in the foyer below.
"You will do well to remember that he is my son, and I will not have you traipsing him around in Muggle slums!"
"Do you want him to be so completely unaware of the surrounding world? He'll have to live outside these walls one day."
Marvolo scoffed. "The boy is blind, Noctua."
"In sight, not in head," she retorted. "Though he will be if you all keep treating him this way."
It was nice to hear her support him, and from then on he enjoyed her company a lot more. She had so much wisdom to share, about the Muggle world, about his family, about the dark secrets that followed the Gaunts like shadow. When she went missing, he despaired in his bedroom alone, knowing all too well no one but him would care. It was only until that will arrived, balling up any last hope that she was alive, that he decided to shut the door on her disappearance once and for all – by chasing the information she'd last shared with him.
Salazar Slytherin's Scriptorium.
It hadn't been an immediate decision. Once he told Sebastian of the Scriptorium, and his aunt's futile quest to find it, Sebastian hounded him for weeks, desperate to seek it himself. Ominis shut down his questions, even though, secretly, he wanted answers himself.
Missy managed to convince him – if only because she reinforced how important it was for Sebastian to find a cure for Anne, something that was possible with the secrets of the Scriptorium. And, well, to sate his own curiosity Ominis wouldn't be moved, but for Anne, whom he loved as much as Sebastian did, he agreed to make an effort. He would put aside his distaste for the Dark Arts for closure.
"Don't mistake my agreeing to go as thinking this is a good idea. I'm only going to ensure you don't get into some sort of trouble."
Missy's voice turned upwards with agreement. "You've made the right decision."
On the other hand, his was rueful. "I hope we don't regret this."
They waited until nightfall. It should've been no trouble to get there for the three of them, since the Scriptorium's entrance was next to their common room – but come the clock chimes at midnight Missy was nowhere to be found. Sebastian paced in wait as Ominis pressed a heel to the wall where the secret door lay, trying to sense any vibrations beneath. Boot steps heading towards them snagged his attention.
But there were two pairs. The first, Missy's forceful strides. The second—
You.
Instantly he recognised it. The bounce of your curls. The clatter of your glasses. The shoes, merrily clacking against stone. The scent of you, so sweet and innocuous, and yet like pure ecstasy.
You startled at the same time he did, standing upright.
"Gibby—"
"Ominis—" Hearing you speak his name after so long, in a tone that wasn't revulsion, was like music. But the shock was gone when you turned to Missy, aggravated. "I-I didn't know he was coming."
"Yes," said Missy coolly, "this information comes from his family."
"And therefore it is my quest," he reiterated. "You cannot invite whomever you want."
"I thought the more people, the better." So composed and unperturbed. "Why? Will this be a problem?"
"Yes. She cannot go."
"And why not?" you challenged indignantly.
So damn naïve. "It's dangerous."
"When has that ever stopped me?"
"There's a first time for everything."
"You can put your wounded ego away, Ominis. There's no way I'm not going exploring with you all."
He swore steam erupted from his nose, but it took Sebastian, of all people, to step in and play middle man. "We'll all go— and no, Ominis, unless you're planning to hex her, I don't think you can stop her."
"Don't tempt me." He grinded his teeth. "If you get hurt—"
"You wouldn't care," you said coldly.
And you were right. He shouldn't have cared. He'd severed your bond almost a year ago now. But there was something in him helplessly clutched in your grasp. Something that wouldn't let him let you go.
"If we're ready," said Missy, elongating her words in a poor attempt to smooth the tension, "then you can tell us the first step into the Scriptorium, Ominis."
Lighting the braziers was the easy part. Other students had done it, lit the things to light their way through the dungeons and accidentally unveiled the door. But no one had got further. A dead end, it was declared.
Instantly, he knew why.
Whispers seeped through the chamber walls. As the others explored, and Missy repaired a broken relief, Ominis wished he could clap his hands over his ears. There was something terribly wrong with this place. Something dark.
"Wait— a journal entry! Under the broken pieces!" Sebastian snatched a crusty parchment from the ground. "Ominis— it's signed from your aunt."
"What?" He couldn't believe it. Then had she... succeeded? "What does it say?"
Sebastian read. "Wow... she tried to convince your father she'd found the Scriptorium. She came down to get proof."
Noctua was here. And, perhaps worse, his father knew. His father knew and never said a word.
Tears came unwilling to his eyes, and he fought to bat them back, but it was like the susurrations heard his pain, strengthening their efforts to unsettle him.
"What's wrong, Ominis?"
Your voice was a balm, even though Ominis hated himself for it. His throat ran dry.
"I— I can hear hissing."
"Hissing?" asked Missy.
"I'm a Parselmouth," he explained, and for some reason, admitting it in front of you filled him with more shame. "I can hear and speak to snakes."
"Wow, that's incredible."
The awe in Missy's voice disconcerted him. "All descendants of Salazar Slytherin have the ability."
"So what's it saying?"
Ominis swallowed and focused on the sound. It pulled such a deep fear from him, to use this ability he hadn't in so long. The worst of it was, it was like he'd last spoken it yesterday. Like he'd never stopped at all. He'd sworn a year ago to lock away all the darkness of his family bloodline and throw away the key, and yet here he was, standing in his predecessor's lair, the translation effortless.
For Aunt Noctua, he tried to convince himself. But it was much harder to pretend the ends justified the means.
"Speak to me," he murmured.
"The relief depicts a person facing a snake," said Sebastian. "And this door... well, it's covered in snake motifs."
Ominis felt it, if only to fuel the hope that his friend was wrong. Of course he wasn't.
His heartbeat was a wild stag in his chest. "But I— I can't. I haven't spoken it in years."
"I think you know it's not the sort of language you forget."
No. It wasn't.
Letting himself embrace this horrid part of his heritage terrified him. It was like being back in the cellar again, that Muggle writhing beneath him in pain, his parents and brother lauding his name. Gaunt. No matter what he did to unbind himself from the bloodline, always it came back to shackle him. Always, it answered when he didn't call.
Everything in this place was overwhelming. His father's deliberate silence, the darkness that fettered him when he thought he was free... He didn't realise he was shaking until a hand came to steady him. You. Because of course you knew about his aunt, and how fond of her he was. You knew how much this meant to him, even if you didn't know the horrible things he'd done to get here.
He hesitated pulling his arm away – a foolish mistake. Your touch lingered like your soap.
"Take your time," you said softly.
He tried to gather some lost mettle. For my aunt, he told himself, again and again, until the whispers didn't seem so scary. It was difficult to centre himself when three people were waiting on him, but knowing that behind this door were the answers for his aunt's disappearance, and potentially the answers for Anne's illness, lit the spark of courage he needed. All that was left was to speak.
So he took a deep breath. Forced it out again.
And he spoke.
The tongue was guttering and unnatural. Rusty. Yet the door recognised its own flesh, and as the snakes undulated along the door's surface, and it opened with a cold draught of wind, Ominis knew he'd never escape his family legacy. No matter how much he wished it.
The others cast Lumos and set about exploring the space. Even so many years here and there was still some wonder in discovering the new, the unwritten. Salazar Slytherin did not make it easy to enter his Scriptorium, as the enclosed stone hallways, suffused with the cold, were riddled with puzzles, most of them involving the use of sight. Missy managed to solve the first, a memory test that required her to twist dials to match symbols on the gates.
She clicked the first one. Something sharped sliced the air besides him, and Ominis flinched.
"What the—"
"The gate came down," Sebastian said, terrified but also in awe – a worrying amount. "Between the archway."
"So there's no way back."
You huffed a breath. "So there's only forwards."
Regardless of your optimism, that was not a comforting thought, and the group stayed closer together, firing Lighting charms into the darkness. Dust swirled beneath Ominis' nose, and yet the place had a damp, mildewed feel, unpleasant and uncomfortable, but as the others continued to solve Slytherin's riddles, a rising worry eschewed his fear. This was too easy. His ancestor, he hated to admit, was one of the greatest wizards of all time, and too clever to find entertainment in shallow puzzles. There had to be something worse.
"I don't like this," he murmured into the humming din at one point, as Sebastian and Missy searched for the next symbols.
He didn't mean to talk to you, but he had.
"We'll be okay," you said, even though you moved a little closer to him, closer than he'd expected. "Salazar Slytherin is your direct ancestor?"
He swallowed. "Yes."
A pause.
"He hated Muggle-borns, too."
On anyone else's tongue, the words were a jab. On you, they were only full of pity.
I don't hate Muggle-borns. I don't hate you.
But he couldn't bring himself to say it, and the silence that followed devoured him.
"I think this is the last one," said Missy, when they entered yet another identical stone corridor, the echo of her voice a small comfort in the confined space.
Sebastian had already turned this into a game. "Race you?"
She let out a single chuckle. "You couldn't keep up."
"Try me."
You laughed along to their competitive scrabbling. When the air rippled, and stone quaked, revealing a corridor that seemed to lead nowhere, you patted your cheeks twice and marched forwards on Sebastian's heels.
But Slytherin enjoyed games too.
The gate almost sliced Ominis' nose when it descended in front of him, cutting him off from you and Sebastian. A mere breath separated you, and yet the gap felt infinite.
Behind him, Missy spluttered. "Damn it!"
That meant— he was trapped.
Powerless.
He grabbed the gate, unyielding beneath his fingers. "Sebastian, what's going on?"
"I—" Sebastian startled. "Oh no."
He heard your intake of breath then.
"What's going on?" Ominis demanded.
"Bones," you said quietly. "And a note. I-It's from your aunt..."
She died here. You read it aloud, confirming Ominis' worst fears. Grief tore through him, swelling behind his eyes.
"This is the last puzzle," Sebastian said, voice firm. "There's a door, but it's sealed. It says Crucio on the floor..."
"No!" Ominis rattled the gate. "No, you can't. This is madness, Sebastian! Please—"
"Please what?" Sebastian said, frustrated. "The Scriptorium wants a price for entry. This is what we must pay."
But you didn't know any Dark Magic.
Sebastian did.
The realisation chilled Ominis down to his heart.
"Don't you dare!" he screeched. "Don't you dare use that curse on her!"
You stammered. "Ominis—"
"We're stuck!" Sebastian barked. "Your aunt died because she came alone. She didn't have anyone to use Dark Magic on. So unless you want to die like her, we don't have a choice."
"We always have a choice!"
Even though he didn't know what that was, even though it was Slytherin's nature to demand obedience or death. None of that mattered. What did was that you were the last person who deserved such pain, when you'd already been through so much. When he'd already caused it.
He tried with all his might to break the gate, bend it, cast the Exploding charm, whatever it would take to get him in the chamber.
"It won't work," Missy said, softer than he thought capable.
"I have to try—"
"It's okay," you mumbled, cutting him off. "I-I can take it."
The tremble betrayed your fear. Sebastian offered a compromise, that he could teach you and you'd use it on him, but even if you wanted to learn the curse yourself, which you didn't, there was no way you'd ever find the intention to use it willingly, and to use it willingly on Sebastian, no less, who'd done you no wrong since you'd known him.
Ominis banged his hands against the gate. "Damn it, Gibby—"
"I said I can do it," you snapped. "I'll be fine."
"I told you it was dangerous!"
"I knew the risks."
"Did you?" he challenged. "You came down to explore!"
"I'm not naïve, Ominis!" You came closer. "Of course the Scriptorium of Salazar Slytherin wouldn't be easy to get into. Of course I knew there was a price!"
But for you, and only you, to pay it? Was it by fate, that you walked in second, or was this what Slytherin wanted all along? For Muggle-born blood to pave the way for the rest of wizardkind?
His hands shook as he clutched the gate, so tightly his veins bulged. Once, you were the most naïve person he knew, but that day in the Undercroft had changed you as much as it had changed him.
You spun away, back to Sebastian. A deep breath.
"Okay. I'm ready."
"Are you sure?"
Presumably you nodded, because you didn't say the words.
And Ominis was helpless to listen as Sebastian raised his wand.
"Crucio!"
Your pain seemed to last for hours. For a second, a wink in time, you were silent, only that fizzing noise, that horrid, burning stench of the curse any indication anything was happening at all. But then you cried out, you wept, you mewled, howled – then it was pure agony, screams that arced through Ominis in ways he would never forget.
Something shifted. It was a softer noise than your screams, like mud, or honey almost, sinking into the ground. As the blockage melted, Sebastian ceased the spell, but your pain did not end, and when the gate shot back up, Ominis stumbled over himself to get to you.
"Gibby," he fell to your side, cradled you, ran hands over your shoulders and face, breathless. "You— I— are you—"
Your ragged breaths calmed. Your quivering eased. Tears ran down his own, probably splattering onto you, but you said nothing, only remained still in his grasp as he held you, comforted you.
Something warm drew up his temple then, and it took a second to recognise it. Your hand. Your thumb, combing back an errant lock of hair, skimming the mole on his temple.
"So you do care," you croaked.
He didn't know how to respond.
"I-I'm sorry," he said instead, failure washing through him. "I... I should've—"
"Don't," you whispered. "Not here. Not yet."
So he didn't. Instead, he wordlessly helped you to stand. Sebastian and Missy asked after you, and their awkwardness brought a new flush to Ominis' cheeks, but when you gave a shaky thumbs-up and an audible smile that warmed even this terrible place, the four of you headed into Slytherin's Scriptorium impeded no longer.
Sebastian and Missy got to work searching each nook and cranny of the cavernous chamber of stone walls, busy with the scattered remnants of Slytherin's work: parchment, scrolls, ancient tomes on shelves that seemed to hum with magic too ancient to describe. Ominis held onto you for the entire time, emotionally spent. You clutched his arm in return, and he felt the tremble of your grip, the vestiges of the curse. He should've helped to search the place, really, but he didn't trust that Slytherin, the most famous pure-blood supremacist in the history of Hogwarts, wouldn't have any last surprises for you.
Missy eventually found Slytherin's spellbook, and the exit, which chucked the four of you back out into the dungeons. You huddled behind the columns until you were sure there were no teachers or prefects, and only then did Ominis allow himself a moment to press his head to the stone, process everything he'd heard, felt.
His aunt was dead, bones lying cold in that corridor.
Sebastian had used Dark Magic like it was second nature.
You had been hurt. And you were owed an explanation.
But so close to the common room entrance was risking too much. If not Peregrine Malfoy, then another pure-blood, a painting, a ghost, a teacher bribed. Someone else, trading with secrets that could ultimately slither its way back to his family.
"Ominis," Sebastian sounded genuinely contrite, "about your aunt—"
"Oh please, Sebastian," he snapped, the anger sudden but healthy. He swung on his friend, teeth bared. "We were lucky we escaped at all."
"But I'm grateful that we did, because maybe now Anne—"
"And if you'd have died in there? How could you have saved Anne then?"
You startled. "Wait, let's—"
"Swear to me." He didn't bend under the weight of your gaze. "Swear to me, right now, that we will never engage with Dark Magic ever again. That— that we will never cause that pain again."
Sebastian was speechless. "But—"
"Swear it, Sebastian!"
"All right, all right." He took a breath. "Understood. And I... I really am sorry about your aunt."
Admittedly that closure was nice, to know Noctua was gone. He didn't voice anything, his feelings too raw and churning, and Sebastian headed towards the common room, Missy in tow.
"We'll go. You two... have a lot to talk about."
When the common room door slid shut, and it was only the two of you, alone, a new sort of worry seeded in his stomach. You said nothing for a while, the last moments that had passed between you as palpable as stone.
"I— I'm sorry," he forced out, this apology much harder than the last. "The Cruciatus Curse—"
"I'm okay," you repeated. A shuffle of your boot. "Are... are you going to talk to me again now? Are you going to tell me why you turned on me?"
But he found the words impossible and unmoving. He needed time, space, to heal from today, before he was ready to open another old wound.
"I-I can't. Not yet."
You paused. It was long and hard to bear, like a rake drawing down his chest.
"All right," you said quietly. "When you're ready, find me. You know where."
He did know where. Back in the early months of first year, when you were green and hungry, there were times when you weren't tagging in Ominis and Sebastian's shadows, times when they didn't know where you were at all. Once he decided, on whim, to search. The castle was huge and he wasn't optimistic, but he checked your favourite places: the Hufflepuff common room, the library, the front lawns and the sitting area outside Charms. When you weren't there and no one had seen you, he concluded he was just missing you, and hurried towards the Great Hall before his absence at dinner was noticed.
That's when he heard you, far above.
The hallways of the Viaduct Entrance were quiet – everyone was at the feast – and even still, your voice was barely a whisper. He halted, pausing to make sure, and there again was your sound, high-pitched and squealy and very you. Brow furrowing, he followed the noise up the stairs until he found himself squirrelled between the wooden joists holding the ceiling.
Whilst Ominis and Sebastian had claimed the Undercroft as their own, this was your space. He didn't know when you'd discovered it, or how, but here you were, curled beneath the beams.
Crying.
It surprised him. You, crying? When you were always so upbeat? When everything seemed to make you laugh? He approached you like you were a unicorn, easily spooked by noise. Still, you noticed him anyway.
"Oh! Ominis! I— I didn't see you there."
"That makes two of us."
But you didn't laugh, which meant something was very wrong.
He swallowed his pride. He'd never dealt with someone crying before, least of all a crying girl. "What's the matter?"
"You're going to think I'm silly."
"I already think that."
Another heaving breath. Another jab that didn't land. "Then— I don't know. You might laugh."
"Why would I—?" He stopped himself. That wasn't what you needed to hear. Instead, he sat next to you. "I won't laugh. Promise."
"Okay." You shuffled a little closer. "I-I miss home."
Ah. You were homesick. Frankly the concept was foreign to him – he'd never once missed his family. Even then he rejoiced every second he got to spend away from home. Still, it seemed to be eating you up.
"I-I'm not ungrateful," you said quickly. "I'm really happy to be here. And I really like magic. It totally makes sense – one time I exploded my brother's washing basket and we never knew how—"
"Exploded—?" He sighed. Just you things. "Never mind."
"But I miss them. My mama and papa run the confectionary. My brothers are supposed to take over when they're older, but Connor met Matilda Asher at church and everyone reckons they'll marry soon and he'll go into lumbering, and Ellian doesn't like sweets a lot, and he's much better at business and numbers anyway, and who knows how little Tam will grow up— oh no, I'm going to miss him growing up!"
Now you were weeping and hiccoughing. "Slow down. You're getting tears on my robes."
"Sorry. Is that... am I a wally?"
He didn't have the heart to ask what a wally was.
"Everyone gets homesick sometimes."
"You don't."
So you noticed. "I grew up in the magical world. You didn't. If I was suddenly dropped into the Muggle world, I'd be sad too. It's overwhelming to suddenly be in a different place with different people, let alone find out you're actually a witch, but you'll get used to it."
"What if I don't?"
"You will." It wasn't a guess. It was fact. "And your friends will help. Sebastian and Anne, and Adelaide and Evangeline and Arthur too."
"And you?"
"Yes," he said, managing a smile for your sake, "and me."
You took a deep breath, a sign that meant you would be okay.
"Do... do you have a tissue?"
"No."
"A... face-cleaning spell? Dryus Tearus?"
"You can't put -us at the end of words and expect it to be a spell. Just stop crying." It came out as a demand, even though Ominis didn't mean it to. He lifted the hem of his robes and wiped away the tears. "You'll get to go home at Christmas, which is only two months away."
By which point, he knew, you wouldn't feel so homesick anyway.
You squirmed when he drew the robe across your nose again. It was snotty, which made him grunt in disgust, which then made you giggle, and then use the sleeve of your own shirt to wipe the rest away.
"Thank you." You sniffled again. "I must look terrible."
"Awful."
A sharp pause – then another laugh, this one more like your usual self. "You are funny, Ominis Gaunt."
Funny was, perhaps, the last word he would ever ascribe to himself. It was, however, the perfect word to assign to his feelings a few days after the Scriptorium debacle, when he was finally ready to share the truth.
He didn't find you under the joists in the Viaduct Entrance's ceiling. Instead, where you were sitting that first time he caught you in first year, and where you sat in the subsequent times since, he found a note. Cleverly it was in braille, and he suspected there was no written words. He drew his thumb across the print.
Below astronomy deck, 8pm.
You had been waiting there, every day like clockwork. Waiting for him.
Ominis climbed the winding stairs. He didn't come up here often – without his sight, he couldn't read the stars, though he did still partake in stargazing theory and discussion. The floorboards croaked. So high up, the wind teased the tips of his ears, and he fussed with warming them until the deck was before him.
He thought he was alone, that he'd missed the chance today.
But you were here, coming up to him steadily. "Are you ready to talk?"
He nodded, voice scarpering deep into his throat. You waited. You weren't going to prompt him or give him any tools to help. You were as hungry for answers as you were before, but you would not make it easy. He would have to work for your trust.
He didn't know how to start.
"I— my family—" How did he tell you about the pain he went through, without diminishing yours? How could he articulate the horrors he'd experienced home, that he'd subsequently thrown back at you? "Some... things happened, when I was at home that summer after third year."
You waited still, not saying a word.
The beginning, then.
"You know my family hates Muggles. Hates Muggle-borns. It's an old pure-blood notion that Muggle-born magic is weaker, that it's stolen. I realised it was wrong when I met you, and regardless of my family's opinions I thought it was okay to be your friend."
"Opinions," you retorted. "You mean prejudice?"
"Yes," he agreed hoarsely, realising his error too late. "Yes, prejudice."
Silence again, as you waited for him to continue. He didn't know you could be so blunt.
"Peregrine Malfoy found out in third year we were friends. He— he told his father. Who told mine." Now his heart raced, his pulse thrashed, a cold clamminess prickled up and down his skin in disgust, shame, fear. "M-My parents, my brother Marvolo, they... they were displeased—"
Your hand found his arm then to steady him then.
"You don't have to continue."
"You deserve to know—"
"It's okay. I... I already know."
"You— what?"
"I've known since the Scriptorium."
"How?" he demanded, then seethed. "Damn Sebastian—"
"Not Sebastian," you mumbled.
Anne.
"It wasn't her place to tell either."
"No," you agreed, "but I wrote her a letter and she told me anyway, since you were being a dummy."
"But you know why, then," he reiterated, clutching your shoulders, hoping, begging to make you see. "You know why—"
"I know I lost my best friend," you said, angry tears snuffing your voice. "I know you suffered. I know your family are the vilest, most evil people on earth. I know that nosy Malfoy should mind his own business. Sebastian said he talked to him. He won't say a word about you now."
What the hell did Sebastian do? "It's too risky."
"I'd rather live in risk with you then not have you at all."
"You don't understand. My family will stop at nothing to protect the sanctity of the bloodline. If they are capable of hurting me, they will hurt you. Maybe— maybe worse. They might've tried something already if you weren't protected here, at Hogwarts."
"I'm not afraid of them."
"You should be. They can do so much worse than... than the slur I called you, Gibby."
"Mudblood. I know."
"Don't say—"
"Why? That word means nothing to me – it only meant something when it was coming from you."
He didn't know how to respond, speechless.
"Your family can continue to live their lives in hatred, but I won't ruin mine for their sake. If I have to keep my friendship with you a secret to keep you safe, fine." Your voice was fierce, incredible, beautiful. "But I am not losing you, Ominis Gaunt. Not again."
You knocked the breath from him then. Those were words he would never forget; you planted yourself deeper into his heart, where your flowers bloomed even in the shadows of his past.
You were his family, too.
It had taken him a long time to realise you always had been.
I genuinely worry for people who sent hateful or audacious anon asks because if this is how you treat people behind not one, but two layers of anonymity I could only begin to imagine how you are in real life.
I am genuinely quite grateful for the community I have built on Tumblr and the mutuals I have made along the way. I am incredibly grateful that I am able to have my inbox open and my anon feature active.
Truly, I think I can count on one hand the last time I've gotten a rude or out of pocket anon in the last year and a half of this blog existing.
That being said, I am writing this to vent about the blogs that are not quite as fortunate as I have been. Most being mutuals because naturally those are the asks that come up in my following tab the most frequently. While this doesn't directly affect me, it saddens me to see.
Because I know the feeling well, and I think that's possibly a big reason why some of these anons act the way they do. They have no idea what it feels like to be on the receiving end of their hatred.
Just because a blog is "popular" by your standards does not make them a celebrity or an influencer. Even if it did, it wouldn't make them any less of a human being with emotions.
This is the internet, you are going to stumble across things you like and dislike. You are going to see things you want to see and things you may have wished you never did.
It, unfortunately, is not up to the blog owner to police what you consume. You have the ability to scroll. You have the ability to filter and block tags. You have the ability to stop reading after a certain point.
Nobody is forcing you to consume media. Nobody is forcing you to consume content. And, by no means, is it your job to then jump in their inbox and start dogging on them for writing what they wrote.
Now, by no means, is this in reference to the ask I got the other day. While the approach could have been much different and kinder, I did understand where they were coming from. It's not hard for authors to throw some content warnings or tags into their posts.
But, we are human, if it is something we are comfortable with writing, it may be something we forget! Mistakes happen, it doesn't hurt to comment or send an ask informing the blog if you notice something went without a content warning that could benefit from one.
What does hurt is how you approach it, especially if it's condescending.
I still sit here quite baffled at how large of a community I have accumulated here on Mwphisto. Especially since my ask response time is so so so shit, I post content so sporadically, and when I do it's mediocre at best if we're being totally honest.
To see mutuals who post consistently, daily, answer buckets of asks multiple times a day, get shit on for writing other characters rather than just their main?? Are you mentally well?? The entitlement to click "anonymous" and then spew a mouthful of bullshit is insane.
There is so much going on in the LaDs community right now. The game itself is dying in real time thanks to infold's terrible crisis management and poor decisions. I don't really give a fuck if you like Valko or not but don't be running to any blog you can think of telling them to stop writing for "the dog" or thanking them for staying "true to the game" and not writing for him. It's not that deep, it's never been that deep.
Go touch some grass, find a hobby, get some dick or pussy Idfk.
But do anything other than remain chronically online bullying people through a screen for writing word porn about pixelated men coded into a game and voiced by anonymous men... hello?????
Your main is not real baby, he is not going to pick you because you didn't read or like a post containing Valko like... he does not exist nor does he have emotions, you know that right?
It's important to me that you know that...
Anyways, I'm tired, I hope this doesn't open a can of worms for me lol but I really needed to get this off my chest because the community has been a hot fucking mess since Infold revoked wolf privileges.
Spencer steps in when your ex shows up at your new apartment.
word count- 2.4k
content warnings- fluff, a bit of angst, neighbour!Spencer, reader's ex cheated, controlling ex.
ellie talks- i pictured season 1 Spencer when i wrote this so... yeah! first Spencer fic kinda nervous
Spencer liked where he lived. It was quiet, he liked the way that his mind was able to run as fast as he let it without interruptions. His neighbour on the right hand side was a sweet older lady, the only noise that drifted through the walls was the occasional laughter from whatever tv show she had playing whilst knitting or the whistling of the kettle a few times a day. The left hand side had sat empty for most of his residence, eerily quiet. Until you moved in.
You had turned up in the middle of the night, the sound of your car pulling into the lot had made his eyes drift from the book he was reading whilst curled up on the window seat, over to where you were slamming your car door closed, attempting to balance cardboard boxes that had become damp in the rain and using your foot to push open doors with your keys dangling from your mouth. It wasn’t until he heard the boxes land on the wooden floor next door that he realised he should have helped you, offered to open doors or carry boxes or… anything really. But he hadn’t, he was too distracted figuring you out. Who you were, where you were coming from. Judging by the lack of boxes and personal belongings, he had figured you were either moving out of your parents home for the first time, or moving out from a shared home, be that with a partner or a friend. His answer came two days later when he heard your muffled voice through the wall. He couldn’t make out any words, but you sounded upset, and angry, speaking in half-choked sobs and sending your phone clattering to the floor when you hung up.
You introduced yourself a week later. His arms had been full of mail from the mail locker in the lobby, and lifted his head at the moment you dropped from the last step, your hands tucked into the pockets of a leather jacket. His fingers curled around the letter in his left hand tighter as his eyes darted away from yours quickly, before he could linger too long on the shiver it had sent up his spine. He had introduced himself quickly in return, and disappeared upstairs before you could engage him in small talk and he ended up embarrassing himself by telling you a strange fact that you didn’t need to know. You had found it odd, but shrugged it off as him not being sociable, and carried on with your day. Spencer had paced his apartment until he felt like he was leaving grooves in the floor.
He had ignored you since. Not completely, but answered your questions shortly, didn’t engage in small talk, and when you had made cookies for the neighbours, he had returned the plate by leaving it outside your door, no knock, no note. It wasn’t that he didn’t like you, no. It was in fact quite the opposite. That the morning after that interaction by the mail locker, he had been in the line of fire at work when Morgan had noticed his silence after having to call his name three times before he looked up. After some intense, friendly, interrogation, Spencer had caved, and told Morgan about you. His advice was unhelpful to say the least, and so he had been stuck in his head trying to figure out a way to talk to you without coming across as weird.
The apartment settled around you a little heavier than usual, the door closing behind you sounded more dull than you ever remembered it being. Your feet dragged heavily through the apartment, not avoiding the creaky floorboard like you usually did and immediately regretting it when the sound vibrated through your bones. The couch all but swallowed you when you flopped against the cushions, staring blankly at your reflection in the black mirror of your TV screen. Today was meant to be your three year anniversary. You were more angry than sad, annoyed by the fact that you had found the evidence of Connor’s affair in your own home, angry that you were the one who had to move, angry that you were angry, angry that the cute guy next door hadn’t spoken to you in weeks. You had set out to have a good day today, to forget all about Connor, and the lipstick on his shirt, the perfume on his jacket, the women's underwear under the bed. You booked a nail appointment, took yourself to your favourite coffee shop, treated yourself to an afternoon in your favourite book store and even bought yourself two new novels. But it had still felt empty, and you were angry that doing these things for yourself hadn’t helped you take your mind off the lingering thoughts. The lingering insecurity that came with his infidelity, the shame of not recognising the obvious signs, the humiliation of having to tell friends and family that you had been betrayed in the worst of ways. Your hands pushed through your hair as you leant your elbows onto your knees, letting out a long exhale.
The knock at the door came when you were almost finished with dinner, about to add the finishing touches to the plate when the sound rattled the door in its frame. Your brow creased, the plastic packaging of the basil rustled as you placed it down on the counter. As you made your way over to the door, you felt your stomach dropping with the weight of apprehension, as if your body knew there was something wrong behind that door. The cold metal slipped in your hand as you turned the handle, only to be greeted with an all too familiar scent that had a lump rising in your throat. The overwhelming smell of Axe body spray almost had your eyes burning when you inhaled, forcing you to take a step back, and clear your throat.
“You gonna let me in?” Connor’s voice was lower than when he normally spoke, the tone he used when trying to manipulate you into believing him, or into forgiving him. Your jaw tensed at his words, teeth grinding against each other with the audacity he possessed to turn up at your door.
Spencer shouldered open the door to the apartment complex, a paper bag filled with groceries in the crook of each arm. His breath punched out of him in an irritated exhale when he saw the “Out Of Order” sign hanging on the elevator door. He flicked his hair out of his eyes and began his walk up the stairs, the last thing he needed after a long day in the office. As he trudged up the stairs, the sound of muffled voices grew louder, his brows furrowed as he reached his floor, and heard the voices more clearly, one he recognised immediately as yours, the other remained unknown to him. His chest flared at the waver in your voice, like you were trying to put on a confident front while hiding how truly distressed you were. He stopped on the second to last step, the one that kept him hidden from view, and listened to the conversation, his eyes darting around as he tried to grasp the situation,
“C’mon.” Connor said, the floorboard creaking underneath his weight as he tried to step closer to gain access to your apartment. “Just wanna talk to ya.” He pressed, bringing his arm up to lean against the doorframe above your head, always trying to dominate your space.
You folded your arms, hoping that the action would conceal the way your hands were shaking. It wasn’t that you were scared that Connor would hurt you, although you also hadn't thought he would cheat on you and yet here you were. It was more that he was unpredictable, that you genuinely had no idea what he could want from you, and if you would be able to get him back out once he was in.
“No.” You said, your fingers tightening on your biceps. “We have nothing to talk about.” You nodded, as if you needed the confirmation to yourself that you were saying the right thing, judging by the short exhale through Connor’s nose, he wasn’t too happy with your decision.
Spencer winced slightly at the quiver in your voice, his eyes dropped to the floor, running over the worn carpet as his teeth worried his bottom lip, feeling his heartbeat pick up to 160bpm, his guess given by the way it was rushing through his ears. He took a breath in and lifted himself onto the last step, bringing both you and the man you were talking to into his line of view.
“Goodnight.” You began to close the door, but Connor’s hand slammed against the wood, the bang making you jump, your eyes widening as you looked at the way his palm flattened against the door. You swallowed, and his hand dropped back to his side.
Connor’s jaw set, and he cleared his throat as he tried to look past you into your apartment, making you close your door back over a little more, trying to protect the peace you had created for yourself without him. “Nah.” He sniffed once, his fingers drumming against the doorframe, “let me in, we can talk, looks like you’ve done the place up real-”
“Excuse-” Spencer cleared his throat, and your eyes lifted over Connor’s shoulder, seeing your neighbours’ wide, brown, doe eyes through his glasses, and his furrowed brows as he shifted awkwardly, his paper bags crinkling in his arms. “Excuse me,” he repeated, a little firmer this time. “But she said she doesn’t want to talk to you.”
You inhaled as Connor turned around to eye Spencer, your gaze softened as Spencer looked at you, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly in support. Connor turned back to you, catching the lingering tenderness in your eyes, and his hand curled into a fist at his side. “Who’s this freak?” Connor gestured back towards Spencer without taking his eyes off you, “stalkin’ you or somethin’?”
Spencer’s head tilted at the insult, more puzzled than offended but he stepped forward towards his own front door as he spoke. “Most stalking cases involve someone the victim already knows. Former intimate partners account for a significant proportion of reported incidents, particularly when there's a history of controlling behaviour or a difficulty accepting the end of a relationship.” He said as he stopped just outside his door, Connor’s eyes darkened, and Spencer either didn’t notice or chose not to acknowledge it, his eyes moving back to you. “Persistent unwanted contact after someone has clearly asked for space is also one of the behavioural indicators professionals look for when assessing escalation risk.” He paused, his eyes meeting Connor's. “You've been asked to leave twice now.”
Spencer finally squared his shoulders, standing a little straighter than before despite the tension radiating from the man in front of him. His gaze wandered back to Connor. “Now I believe she made her stance pretty clear?”
Connor ran his tongue over his teeth, taking a calculated gaze between you and your neighbour before he scoffed, a sharp, humourless sound. “You think you’re funny?”
Spencer didn’t answer, letting the silence linger with a blank look which only irritated Connor further. He took a deliberate step forward, invading Spencer's space until only a couple of feet separated them. "You got a habit of stickin' your nose where it doesn't belong?" Connor muttered, his voice low. "This has nothing to do with you."
"It became my business when she told you to leave and you ignored her."
Connor scoffed. "You don't know what you’re talkin’ about."
"No," Spencer agreed evenly with a tilt of his head. "But I know enough to recognize when someone isn't respecting another person's boundaries."
Connor's eyes narrowed. "Oh, you know enough?" he sneered. "You some kind of expert now?"
Spencer adjusted the grocery bag against his hip, reaching into his jacket pocket for his keys, the movement pulled the edge of his jacket back to reveal the leather badge wallet clipped to his belt caught the dim lighting. Connor's eyes dropped to it as it glinted, his expression changed almost instantly. "...FBI?"
Spencer looked down briefly, as though he'd almost forgotten it was there. "Yes." He answered plainly.
The confidence drained from Connor's face. His shoulders lost some of their rigid tension, though the irritation remained. "You could've said that."
"You didn't ask."
Connor looked between Spencer and you, jaw working as if he wanted one last cutting remark. Whatever he'd been about to say died behind his clenched teeth. After a long beat, he took a reluctant step backwards. Connor's gaze lingered for another moment before he gave Spencer one last wary look. Then, with a shake of his head and a curse under his breath, he turned and stalked back toward his car.
“You okay?” Spencer asked, pushing his key into the lock, not taking his eyes off his hand as the door opened. You cleared your throat, pushing your hair back behind your ears and nodding as you leaned against the doorframe.
“Yeah.” You said, your voice too shaky to be convincing.
"He'll probably come back." He said, glancing up into his apartment before finally looking at you. His expression softened when he noticed the colour drain from your face. "I don't mean immediately," he clarified gently. "But people who are used to getting the last word, or controlling how a conversation ends, don't typically accept being told no the first time. Especially if they believe they can change someone's mind." He paused, his tongue pulling his bottom lip into his mouth as if thinking, considering something. "I don't want you sitting in there by yourself if that's a possibility." He said finally.
You looked up at him.
"If you're comfortable with it..." He shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "You can wait in my apartment for a while. We don't have to talk if you don't want to. I was just going to unpack my groceries and make some tea."
You blinked, your grip finally loosening on your arms, and your hands dropping to your sides, the invitation so welcoming that it caught you completely off guard.
"I've got books," he added after a beat, as though that might somehow make the offer more convincing. "And... statistically, it's safer than you being alone if he decides to drive back."
A breath of laughter escaped you despite yourself, and Spencer looked faintly relieved.
"You don't have to decide because I offered," he said quickly. "I just thought I'd rather know you're somewhere you feel safe."
You glanced back into your apartment before looking at Spencer.
"...Tea sounds nice."
The corners of Spencer's mouth lifted into a small, genuine smile.
You and Ominis decide your firstborn’s name – you want a unique, wizard name, Ominis wants an unremarkable Muggle name. Scheming and shenanigans ensue as you try to convince each other.
Tags: humour/ romance, husband!Ominis, Dadinis, Dominis, domestic scenes, rivals-to-lovers-to-rivals-to-lovers-to..., bickering, married couple trying to outwit each other, kissing, betrayal and manipulation (the fun kind), fortune-telling, garden parties, both plain and insane baby names, realistic depictions of pregnancy, non-explicit descriptions of birth, non-explicit smut.
A/N: Reader is technically Gibby from ACVAS, but she is unnamed in the fic so you can imagine whoever you want. Please note the content warnings, and enjoy. <3
AO3 | Wattpad
"Wizard."
"Muggle."
"Wizard."
"Muggle."
"Wizard."
"Muggle."
He can hear your cheeks puff.
"It makes absolutely no sense to me, honey, that you wouldn't want our wizard child to have a wizard name."
Ominis reclines on the sofa, massaging his head. To say he's thrilled to be expecting is an understatement – it's taken years to get pregnant, and too many nights of tears and solidarity and pushing on despite the emotional toll – but this is the one conversation he's been fearing as a result. He knew you'd object to the idea of giving the baby something simple and unremarkable. Something opposite to his own. You're so wild that your taste reflects it.
"I don't oppose wizard names," he corrects calmly. "I oppose ridiculous wizard names. We should name our son something that would fit well in the Muggle world."
"We're a wizarding family! He should have a good wizard's name. We could call him Ominis. Mini for short!"
"Do you know how many people misspell my name on a regular basis? Your own family did when we first met."
"They'd misspell Ominous too," you note, and flop down on the armchair opposite him. "It's wizarding tradition, isn't it, to name your children after someone you know?"
"We're not naming him after any of my family."
"No," you agree quickly. "But I think Ominis the Second would be so cute!"
He sighs. "I'm actually Ominis the Fourth, darling."
"... Really?"
"Some great-times-three granduncle, and before him great-times-five grandfather—" He waves. "I absolutely veto my name, regardless of number."
You huff. "Fine. Then what about my family? We could name him after one of my brothers?"
"How will you choose which one? And more importantly, how big do you wish to puff their egos?"
"Fair point."
"And we're certainly not naming him after any of our friends." The gloating Sebastian would do if they named the child after him, let alone any of your annoying companions – Leander or Garreth, for example – would be utterly insufferable. "If we name him after someone we know, he must be an exemplary person, and I cannot fathom a single someone who is worthy of that accolade."
"That's okay." Something rustles – he realises you've conjured a book. "I had a feeling we wouldn't agree, so I bought this in Diagon Alley last week."
He freezes. "Merlin help me if that's the Book of Wizard—"
"— Baby Names by Sudo Nym, yes."
That book is possibly the worst thing to ever happen to the wizarding world, published centuries ago, giving the pure-bloods ideas that it was acceptable to name their children after Greek myths or animals or letters strung together, like Apollonia or Peregrine or Marvolo.
"I thought we could go through it and find one we like."
Well, you've certainly come prepared – but he's done his research too. He waves his wand, and a sheaf of papers fall into his hands.
"What's that?" you ask sharply.
"The recent census," he says coolly, delighting in your tone, "for the most popular Muggle names."
There's certainly crossover, of course, he's not stupid – neither are you. But wizard names always have a certain eccentricity to them that Muggle names lack, and to call your child a wizard's name, especially one from that infernal book, is a blatant signal to the world about their heritage and their ancestry, and an invitation for difficulty in later life.
"Let's see." He glides his finger over the top of the list. "The first is John."
"Bleh! That's so unexciting! So plain! Whereas, the first name here is Aberforth."
"Absolutely not."
"Then how about Albus?"
"I presume you want our son to attend Muggle school before Hogwarts?"
"Of course!"
"Then you are asking for him to be bullied."
You groan – he takes advantage of the gap and skims down the list. "Here's a nice one. Harry."
You bark a laugh. "If Albus is asking to be bullied, then Harry is asking to be forgotten."
"Would a common name be so bad?"
"It's just boring, Ominis," you insist. "We're the most un-boring people on the planet. We can't give him a boring name. Oh! What about... Altair?"
"No stars. That's a Black family tradition."
"Corvus?"
"A favourite of the Lestranges."
"Ronald?"
"Sounds like an awful Weasley name. And yes," he adds quickly, "I know it's a Muggle name, too."
You rattle more off, a litany of first names, and Ominis loathes each of them for one reason or another – the name is attached to some nasty historical figure, or someone you both know, or it sounds clumsy with your surname.
"Ugh, you're not liking any of them!" The book whumpfs when you shut it. "Your turn, then, go on."
He smiles, certain he'll find something you like.
"George."
"I know about five."
"Ben?"
"Too short."
"Benjamin?"
"Too long."
"Herbert?"
"Do I really need to say anything?"
He goes down the list with increasing impatience, shocked when you reject even the most inoffensive names. It's too dull, or you know someone already with it, or it's so common your son will be the tenth in his year group and lack his own identity.
Frustrated, Ominis lets the paper fall limp. "So we want a name more wizard than Muggle but more Muggle than wizard."
"Precisely."
He might as well ask Father Christmas to be real. "Darling, I really do think it best we name him something appropriate to the world we live in now. We can't guarantee our son will be magical. What if he's a Squib? We ought to choose something we won't have to explain to every Muggle we meet."
"It's no one's business how we decide a name," you scoff. "We could name our child Marzipan and be plum dandy."
"... I can't tell if that's a serious suggestion."
"Who is the one carrying the child for nine months?"
"I am eternally grateful for that, but," he presses, "that doesn't mean I don't get a say."
"I'll allow you maybe a quarter of a say."
"I should think half is standard."
"Might be willing to bargain to a third."
"Darling."
"If you won't change your mind," you say suddenly, "then I'll just have to convince you."
"Or I convince you."
"Won't happen."
He grins suddenly. "Is that a challenge?"
You get to your feet and saunter over, leaning over him in the chair. Your low voice makes his spine trill.
"Not a challenge, honey," you whisper. "A promise."
As your belly begins to grow, you and Ominis continue back-and-forth daily on the issue. You suggest a name he hates, he suggests a name you loathe, on and on it goes. Something fun you've taken to doing over your relationship is leaving notes everywhere, written in braille for him to find, love notes, like I love you, or have a good day, but more recently they have become I LOVE the name Triton and Doesn't Athos sound brilliant?
After the third week, it becomes quite clear that you were right: you will be difficult to convince.
But difficult is not impossible.
One evening, after he's back from work and the confectionery is closed, you're squished comfortably next to him on the sofa, knitting a blanket – light blue wool, for the baby – and he's reading a novel, distracted by your chatter and the clack clack clack of your needles.
"— found some more I like from the book," you're saying. "What about Ocean?"
"Oh yes, that's delightful. Shall we name our next child Sea or River?"
"Harhar. How about Roe?"
"Delicious on buttered toast."
"Cosmo?"
"For a child or a cat?"
You snort. "You're being awfully reticent about suggesting names to me tonight."
He keeps his book open. "I have a secret weapon."
"Oh?" You laugh. "I'm sure you do, dear."
He doesn't respond, soaking in the pleasure of flippant dismissal as it slowly curdles to apprehension.
And when the doorbell rings, not five minutes later, he shuts his book and smiles.
"Better answer, my lovely wife."
When you hurry downstairs, he stands and heads to the fireplace and taps his wand twice upon it. The room shifts to cull the wizard whimsy, floating books and candles settling on the surface, bookshelves sinking back into the wall, photos going still, the gramophone silencing. Just as he hears footsteps coming back, he summons a walking stick, and tucks his wand into the shaft.
"Ominis, hello!"
Gratefully he accepts the hug from his sister-in-law, your brother's wife – very much a Muggle. "So lovely to have you, Matilda. Thank you for coming."
"I do so love seeing you both. You, young lady, ought to invite me more often!" Matilda extracts herself to scold you, then hovers near the door. "Shall I make tea?"
You start, "No, Matilda—"
"Nonsense, I'll make it. When Ominis sent word about how hard a time you were having, I knew I had to come. I completely understand how taxing it is being with child. So is deciding a name! Sit down, I insist."
She heads to the kitchen, humming.
"You, husband," you say through gritted teeth, "are a very conniving man."
He relaxes into his armchair. "I don't know what you mean, my darling."
"You know exactly what I mean."
"I'm afraid any accusations will have to wait until after our guest leaves. I wouldn't worry about exposing our magical secret with that book, by the way. I've hidden that waste of trees in the other living room."
You're all cross and huffy by the time Matilda returns with a tray, passing out teacups and pouring to everyone's exact specifications. She worries over Ominis, placing his cup within arm's reach with the handle facing his way. Ominis has never had the heart to tell her he can do this all perfectly fine himself. Let her fuss over the blind man, especially now if it will win him sympathy points.
"A name must be chosen with great care," she rattles on, settled into the armchair opposite. "I would always find a handful that you like to start, and then look into the variations. Then you'll need approval from the church. You know, it took us three months to settle with James for our boy. Sometimes you just won't know until they're here. Now." Her bag rustles. "I brought some baby name books – they're a bit weathered, but they'll do in a pinch. Name trends don't change that quickly, after all..."
By the time Matilda has forced you to scour all three books, picking out the most Muggle names possible to consider – Charles and Samuel and Walter – the sun has long since dipped below the horizon, you are weary with resignation and he is utterly triumphant. Matilda makes you keep a list of the ones you like and promises to be over again to narrow it down, although he suspects you've just noted random ones down to keep her off your back.
When she finally goes, the both of you waving at the front door as she boards a carriage, you pinch his free arm.
"I'll get you back for this."
"Will you?"
"It takes two to play games, Ominis."
"This is a hill I'm willing to die on." He leans over, maintaining an impeccable smile. "So if this is a game we're playing... your move."
"Can I speak to you quickly, Gaunt?"
Ominis rolls his lips – not for the wrong surname, which no matter how much he insists isn't his anymore everyone still uses, but for the resigned disdain of his boss, Adalbert Pimlico. He follows the man into his office, thoughtful. Adalbert. Such a pompous wizard's name.
The office is musky with cigar smoke. Ominis resists the urge to wince as he sits in the lone armchair in front of the massive oak desk, cluttered with parchments. On the outside the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is a well-oiled machine, highly efficient and shrouded in a little mystery, but his initial expectations were quickly doused once he realised how the whole place was strung together with nothing but determination and shoelace. As competent as Aurors are at the physicality of their jobs, they're awful at administration and organisation. Pimlico's office is the perfect representation of that.
His chair makes that squelching noise of leather when he sinks onto it. "I won't say this isn't an awkward conversation to have, Gaunt, but I'm legally required to address it."
Ominis purses his lips. Something to do with his blindness, perhaps? Or his family?
"What is it, sir?"
"I've heard... rumour..." he lets out a sigh, "that you are being a neglectful husband."
Very rarely is Ominis rendered speechless – this is one of those moments.
"I— beg your pardon, sir?"
"There's been... an informal complaint that you have been negligent of your family," Pimlico says practically through grounded teeth. "I know you do a lot of late nights. Are you... having any issues at home? With your wife?"
What in Merlin's name...? "No, sir. None that I am aware of."
Except for the baby names, of course.
Pimlico's beard crackles as he scratches it. "I'm afraid I've heard there have been disagreements."
"Disagreements?"
"Small ones, but significant?"
His heart blunders for a moment.
No. No, it cannot be about the baby names. You wouldn't have involved his work.
Would you?
"I believe this informal complaint has severely exaggerated things," he levels, trying to rein the sudden indignation that bubbles beneath his collarbone. "May I ask who lodged it, sir?"
"I'm not at liberty to disclose that. I can only say that it comes from a place of great care for your well-being." He leans back, the chair groans. "You're a good man, Gaunt, and you work hard, but maybe ease up a bit, spend time with the wife, you know? Wouldn't be where I am without mine. I heard you have a baby on the way, too. Congratulations. Adalbert's not a bad name, if you're looking for suggestions."
Ominis' teeth grind.
Oh, you did.
"Thank you, sir. I will certainly consider it."
When he Apparates home that evening, he immediately drops his bag and coat and marches upstairs into the kitchen. You're at the counter, humming as you stir a pot of soup.
You perk when he steps inside. "Hello, honey! How was your day?"
But he seizes your hands and pins you to the wall. You let out a squeak, releasing the wooden spoon.
"O-Ominis?"
Keeping you tightly clutched in his grasp, he closes the space between you, so he can feel your bump against his torso, and brushes his nose against yours.
"You got me in trouble at work."
There's a pause.
Then your lips curl into a wicked smile.
"I don't know what you mean, my darling."
Conniving little witch. "You think I don't know that complaint was from you?"
"Complaint is such a strong word," you say, sweet voice laced with poison. "I just happened to pop around Margaret Pimlico's for tea yesterday, and maybe we talked about how hard it is to be pregnant, and maybe I mentioned how you wouldn't let me choose a wizard name for our wizard son. Whether she shared that with her husband, well... that's her business."
He laughs suddenly, which makes you go rigid.
"You think you've won, do you? One little chinwag with my boss' wife and you've defeated me?"
"Well, you wouldn't want to be a neglectful husband, would you?"
Oh, you are pressing all his buttons tonight. If he weren't so determined to change your mind he'd find it irresistibly attractive. Instead he splays your arms further apart, drags his thumbs down to the pulse at your wrists.
"You will choose a Muggle name," he murmurs into your ear. "I will make sure of it."
"You can try, Ominis, but you won't convince me."
"Don't start a battle you cannot win."
"I don't start battles," you whisper, fierce. "I start wars."
He chuckles, presses his lips to the shell of your ear. The way you shudder against him is divine.
"Then I hope you're ready for the artillery, my love, because I do not intend to hold back."
The kiss starts long and slow.
Pressed to the bed, his hands go to your hair, pulling you closer, gripping as you moan into his mouth. His tongue swirls along the seam, and when you part for him he takes his time to explore you, devour you – hundreds of times he has done this and yet there is always more he discovers. Every night you make him weak with the taste of you, as sweet and enticing as you have been since the moment you married.
You break off for air, panting beneath him. "We really should sleep. You have an early start tomorrow."
In an effort to stave off any illicit rumours of your marriage, Ominis has started going in earlier so he can come home earlier. Inconvenient, yes, but you've kicked a ball rolling down the hill that he can't quite stop.
"I should," he mumbles, lips trailing to your jaw. "But I won't."
He takes his wand from the bedside table, and nudging your wrists above your head, places a gentle kiss on your nose before he says, "Incarcerous."
The ropes bind your wrists to the headboard. You let out a gasp as he smirks.
"O-Ominis," you stammer, "I-I'm pregnant."
"As I am well aware."
He leaves his wand aside and dives down on you. Your nightgown is gossamer thin, leaving little to the imagination. As his lips leave marks down your neck, his fingers trickle down your body until he hooks beneath the skirt, and draws it up the smooth incline of your thighs.
"But—" You audibly tremble when his fingers caress gently along your inner thigh, as they trace closer and closer to the area between your legs. "W-We can't do anything while I'm pregnant."
So endearingly naïve. He takes your nightgown between his teeth to hike it up, his hands teasingly close now, whispers away from where you want them the most.
"My darling," he breathes, "do you think your body stops working when you are with child?"
"... Yes?"
He chuckles, presses a kiss to the gentle swell of your belly. Still adorably naïve. Drawing the touch lower, he breathes in close enough to smell your excitement, to feel it budding on your most intimate place. Gently he swirls over your heat, thrilled at your sudden gasp, and slips a finger inside. You whimper, clenching around him.
"O-Ominis—"
Your voice strangles as he pleasures you, slowly, lovingly.
"What do you think now?" he whispers. "Has your body stopped working?"
"N-No."
"Does it feel good?"
"Y-Yes."
Gratified, he slides another finger inside, eliciting another moan from you, and with that same, slow, agonising rhythm, soon your body starts to tense. He can feel you approaching your climax, and he pauses.
"Hnn—" You manage a small whimper. "Please."
"Please, what?"
"P-Please f-finish me."
He smiles, kisses the flesh at your thigh.
Then abruptly pulls his fingers out and stands back up, licking them clean and fixing the cuffs on his shirt sleeves.
"It was so very thoughtful of you to give me Dracula to read. I'm quite enjoying the Muggle interpretation of vampires."
"W-What?" The protesting noise you make mollifies a deep part of him. "Ominis—"
He swings around and finds the book left on the bedside table before sinking into the armchair. "I'm in the middle of the chapter, and I do so loathe being left on tenterhooks."
"That's great," you growl, "now come over here and finish me off!"
"Did you know it's an epistolary novel? That means it's written in letters."
"At least untie me so I can do it myself!"
He slides out his bookmark and traces the words to find his place. "There are some excellent Muggle names in this one too. Jonathan, Abraham... Quincey is quite sweet."
"Ominis Aloysius!" you all but scream. "You put that book down and come back here this instant!"
He rests the book on his open palm and lets a conceited smile devour him.
"I will happily pleasure you for the rest of the night, my wonderful wife," he says, "if you agree to give our son a Muggle name."
It's the perfect set-up. Short of starving you, there's nothing your body craves more than intimacy, love and sex. To deprive you of the pinnacle now will make you wild with frustration and prone to irrational decisions.
Such as caving to a Muggle name.
You hesitate – by Merlin, he feels it, teetering over a cliff edge, and he's one second away from lapping up the victory.
But then your voice comes out as vicious as a storm.
"No."
"No?"
"Wizard name," you growl. "Not Muggle name."
The plan has failed, but that's fine. He has all night to try again.
"Ah, then I'm sorry, my darling, it seems at this moment I'm feeling particularly... mmm, neglectful." He raises his wand before you can yell. "Silencio."
You instantly quiet, and he settles into the armchair to read, delighting in the way you kick the bed in frustration.
Retaliation will be fierce and swift, no doubt... but for now he will bask in this significant, and delicious, win.
"Yes... hmm... he's very healthy so far. How have you been feeling recently, madam?"
Healer Jules withdraws his wand from your belly, allowing you to fully jig on the hospital bed with excitement. "Good! Just excited!"
"And you, sir?" he enquires after Ominis, voice soothing as it has been every appointment over the pregnancy. "Your welfare is as important."
Ominis smiles earnestly. "I am cautiously excited."
"Your baby is very healthy so far, but we will continue to check up on him, given your... ah, family history." Inbreeding, he means. Ominis resists a wince. "Have you chosen a name yet? Or narrowed it down to a few?"
The temperature seems to rise. He was expecting this question eventually – but this early into the examinations?
"Not yet," you say pleasantly. "I have a few ideas, but I have yet to convince my husband."
"And the same in reverse," Ominis says, just as pleasantly.
"Well, don't fret," says Jules, "there's plenty of time. I know of some who didn't name their child for days after the birth."
At the rate you were going, you wouldn't manage to pick a name ever.
"Surprise!"
Ominis almost – almost – shrieks. It's rare when people catch him off-guard, given his senses are so attuned to the world, but Apparating straight from work, he wasn't consciously worrying about intruders or a home invasion. Voices and footsteps suddenly overwhelm him, hands clasp his back.
"Congrats on nearly being a father!" Garreth Weasley – Garreth Weasley? – chimes. "Now, I'm just saying, Garreth is a fantastic name. I'll accept it without the second r too."
"What?"
"If you choose Mahendra," says Mahrendra Pehlwaan cheerfully, "I can guarantee you probably won't meet another. Well, unless you go to India."
"Flattered," says a third voice, which he quickly recognises as Imelda Reyes. "But you'll probably have to change it to Imeldus unless you want him to get laughed at in the playground."
More voices inject into the air. Sebastian and Missy, Adelaide Oakes and Evangeline Bardsley and Arthur Plummly, Natsai Onai and Cressida Blume. Even Leander bloody Prewett is here. All of them seem to have a strong agenda.
Ominis flings out his hands. "What the hell are you all doing in my house?"
Silence. Sebastian laughs.
"Oh, the wifey didn't tell you?" There is far too much smugness that radiates from his best friend's tone. "It's a naming party! She told us you were thinking of naming your son after a wizarding friend, so we've all come prepared to tell you why you should name your child after us."
Oh, you little... "Where is she?" he demands at once.
The door opens. With perfect timing, you enter the room.
"Oh, good, you're here! Now we can really start!"
He swings to face you, teeth clenched. "You—"
"It's so nice to have a reunion with everyone after so long, don't you think?" you sing-song, and he can detect the utter feast you're deriving from his expression. "I think we should hear our friends out. Some of them have Apparated such a long way away..."
He blows steam from his nose.
"Yes," he grouses. "Fine."
You both plonk down on the sofa as each participant gives a short speech as to why their name is best. He can tell some have made zero effort – Cressida doesn't even try, knowing her name can't really be turned into a male version – whereas some (cough, Mahendra) bring whole presentations with them, complete with notecards. Forced to sit there next to you, preening, he can't even pretend to entertain the ideas thrown at him.
When it's Sebastian's turn, he stands up, but doesn't bother walking to the centre of the room.
"You should name your child after me," he says, "because I will be the godfather."
Then he sits down.
"... Is that it?" Ominis asks.
"Yep."
"That's not a good enough reason."
"It's the only one you need."
"In fact, that's a terrible reason."
"Yeah," Leander scoffs. "I mean, who'd want two Sebastians running around?"
"Coming from you, Prewett?" Sebastian says moodily.
"Leander is a great name! It means lion! You can't get more majestic!"
"Wait your turn!"
"Your turn's over!"
"I think," you say, cutting both the men off, "that both names are lovely, and we will consider them. Won't we, Ominis?"
"No," says Ominis, dragging a hand down his face.
By the time everyone leaves, it's four hours later and dark outside, and, funnily enough, he's no closer to choosing a name, even after his friends said their pieces, even after they tried to peddle their obscure middle names too. He lies spread-eagle on the sofa as you flick your wand, gathering the crumb-laden plates into neat stacks.
"I thought we established early on," he says, as you clean, "that we wouldn't name our son after anyone we know?"
"Oh, we did."
"Then why did you have this naming party?"
You giggle. "To annoy you, of course."
"Petty." He comes over, taking your chin and pressing a gentle kiss to your nose. "Is that really the best you can do?"
"After getting your work involved and now our friends? What else do you want me to do?" Your voice falters when he smiles. "What else have you got planned?"
He smiles.
The entrance to the tarot parlour appears to be suitably... mystical.
Ominis yokes his disinterest as he almost drags you, arm-in-arm, through the front door behind your two excited Muggle friends. For reasons he cannot discern beyond simple atmosphere, the curtains to Madam Sybillus' Fortune House are drawn closed, plunging the group into a low-ceilinged reception thick with heat from the fireplace, a degree too hot to comfortably adjust from the balmy weather outside. It smells of smoke and incense, so strongly Ominis has to squeeze your arm to adjust, and a bell tinkles upon the door's shutting, announcing their arrival.
"Welcome to the start of your future," comes the luxuriously trill of the house assistant.
You give his arm a squeeze and whisper, "Oh, boy, here we go."
It's a true perplexity to him how much interest Muggle women take in divining the future. For wizards and seers, it's a genuine way to predict what is to come. For Muggles, however, it's simply a fun parlour game, a way to ascribe particular happenstances to choices made outside of one's control.
"Have you booked... an appointment?" asks the assistant, fluttering her fingers outwards.
"Yes," says Lizzie, who although the calmest of the three of you cannot seem to contain her excitement. "Half eleven, under Farmer?"
"Gertrude Farmer," says Gertrude, vibrating with nerves. "Should be for the four o' us?"
"Ah, yes, I see, with the great mother of divination herself," says the assistant. "She awaits you in her parlour down the hallway. Please, go ahead."
The magical nature of your backgrounds has meant neither of you have partaken in Muggle fortune-telling before. This unwitting hole in your life experience, of course, rocked Gertrude to her core so thoroughly that she rang her local parlour to make an appointment at once, a girl's outing with one morose husband. A week later, here you are.
"Putting it on, much?" you murmur to Ominis as they head down the corridor, out of Gertrude and Lizzie's earshot. "Bet you a Galleon she'll make a vague prediction that can be applied to anyone."
"I'm not prepared to make a bet I know I'll lose," he murmurs, smirking. "Do try to enjoy it, darling. It's meant to be for fun."
"Fun? It's a scam! All stuff and nonsense!" you mutter. "I don't know why Gerty and Lizzie believe in any of it!"
The parlour itself is so oppressively enclosed Ominis feels it like fingers on his back. There are no windows and the walls are layered with yet more curtain. A large round table, draped in velvet, fills most of the room, with Madam Sybillus herself seated at the perceived head. She stands gracefully to welcome you inside.
"Please, remove your coats and bags, and make yourselves comfortable." Her voice is the musical lilt of an eastern European accent, although Ominis cannot distinguish which. "We will begin the reading at your leisure."
You sit down, obviously dubious about the whole thing. As Gertrude and Lizzie giggling profusely, you squeeze his hand, and the fortune-teller calls for quiet.
"Mrs Farmer," she says to Gertrude, "perhaps you would like to go first?"
"Yeah, aw'right!" chimes Gertrude.
"The rest of you, close your eyes. Let your energy fuse with Mrs Farmer's as the crystal ball divines her future."
You grunt but oblige; Ominis closes his eyes too. Gertrude touches the crystal ball with her nails, and Sybillus' bangles jingle.
"Hmm... yes... I see... goodness..."
Gertrude is suddenly nervous. "Goodness? What d'you mean?"
"I see... children in your future."
"Children!" she gasps. "Yes! Jacob and I will have a family!"
You snort. "Of course you will. You've been married for two years!"
"And I'm sensing..." Sybillus exhales noisily, "riches... you will have a plentiful crop this year. The weather will work in your favour."
"How did you know I was from a farming family?"
"I wonder," you scoff, "was it maybe that your married name is Farmer?"
Gertrude slaps your arm – you yelp. "Stop being a bleedin' spoilsport!"
Sybillus laughs genially. "Please, let the young lady voice her opinions. You do not believe in the magic of fortune-telling, madam?"
You blurt a laugh, still squeezing Ominis' arm. "Magic, you say?"
"Choice, fate. No matter your perception, it is all the magic of life."
"Do you actually see things in your crystal ball?"
"I do not see," she says, "I feel."
"Riiiiiight." You give Ominis' arm a firm tug. "Forgive me if I'm much more of a practical, what can I do with my own two hands, sort of lady."
"I can see that. You and your husband went through many trials to be together, did you not?"
You go rigid. "What? Er, I mean, maybe."
Lizzie gasps. "You saw that in your crystal ball?"
"I felt it. Mmmm, yes." Her bangles clink again. "You worked so hard to be together, through heartbreak, grief... death. I believe you have many more trials ahead. You are expecting your first child. Your... son."
"Anyone could've told you that," you say, but your voice is straining now. "My belly's the size of a watermelon."
Ominis rolls his lips.
"You have hopes for your child... a loving, tender family, yes... raised in two worlds as one... you wish... for him to be... a Hufflepuff."
Your grip on him slackens. "What?"
"Is that true?" Lizzie asks you.
"What the hell is a Hufflepuff?" Gertrude mutters.
You shake Ominis' arm desperately. "Did you say anything?" you hiss.
"Not at all."
"Then how— how does she know?"
"That's not all!" Sybillus gasps. "Your son... yes, I see great things from him... great things for... Frederick... perhaps Ernest, indeed!"
"Frederick?" you bleat. "Ernest?"
"Oh, that's wonderful!" Lizzie cries. "You'll choose a name!"
"Or... hmm... I'm also sensing a potential... Harold... or Leslie!"
"N-No!"
Gertrude gives a great, belly-aching laugh. "Finally! After months of you two going on and on about it! And those names ain't half-bad either."
"You must've said something!" you demand Ominis. "I-I know you did! About the baby names!"
He sighs. "I haven't spoken a word, darling. I didn't even know what this fortune-telling was until a week ago." At least, not the Muggle kind. "Perhaps there is truth to what's been said?"
"B-But—" You pout. "But it's not real! You know that! Those can't be the names..."
By the end of the session, Lizzie has also been promised that good karma will be coming her way after she volunteered at the Royal Free Hospital last week. When Lizzie confirms she was there, you're jarred into complete, mouth-ajar silence. The candles go out, and Sybillus stands to wish you farewell, and you and your friends hurry to collect your things.
"Not you, sir." Sybillus crooks her finger at Ominis. "I'm afraid the reading was not settled properly by your party."
Ominis makes a show of grumbling. "Go on, I'll catch up."
You hesitate, but head back to the reception with your friends.
When you're gone, he finally relaxes, digging into his jacket to produce a pouch, swollen with coin.
"You played your part excellently, thank you. The second half, as promised."
"It freaked her out real good, that did," Sybillus cackles – her accent is gone. "She a big sceptic, then? Most women her age get into right tizzies when their fortunes are accurately predicted."
"A very large sceptic. I appreciate that you memorised the notes I gave you."
"What a well-paying client wants me to tell, I tell, even if it don't make no sense. What's with the baby names, anyway?"
He grins. You'll figure out his scheme eventually, but for now he's enjoying the fun whilst it lasts.
"Just a little joke with my wife."
This time, when the kisses start at nightfall, Ominis doesn't relax into them. He seizes up with immediate knowing.
Still, he's happy to play along for now. Happy to enjoy the physical affection, if naught else. He tips your chin higher as your mouth moves against his, shy at first, then eager and playfully nipping at his lip. He accepts the tongue, languid and sweeping, with a flutter of desire he keeps thoroughly caged.
"Ominis," you mumble, yanking his collar down for better access.
He smiles into your kisses. "You're very needy tonight, wife."
No doubt you won't let him tie you up, lest you end up being torturously edged for the whole night again. Still, he cottons on to your dastardly plot when you fall to your knees and hurriedly go to unfasten the laces of his breeches.
He puts a hand on yours. "Darling?"
"Yes, honey?" you say, all innocent.
"Do you really think I don't know what you're doing?"
"What? Just because I'm pregnant means I can't give you a good time?"
"I didn't say that. I do know, however, that you have an ulterior motive in that clever head of yours."
"No motive!" you declare. "I just want to please you."
"Oh, I'm sure you do."
He lays back to the bed anyway, deciding to indulge you. This might be fun. Unlike how he was with you, you have no intention of going slowly, yanking his breeches and drawers away until his intimate area is all on show. Your touch makes his blood boil, but he refuses to succumb to the pleasure – because the moment he does, you'll pounce. And not in the way he wants.
You try your hardest, he'll admit. You know exactly what he likes, where to caress your thumb, when to speed up and slow down. You know his body as well as he does. Desire flowers deep in his navel, but he quashes it like crushing parchment in his fist.
"You know," he says nonchalantly, "you forgot to tie my hands."
"Don't need to."
"No?"
"I only want to please you tonight."
"So far I'm not convinced."
Your lips find him next – he lets out a groan as you slide him into your mouth, bobbing him in and out, eking out his pleasure, faster and faster. He grits his teeth, and a laugh bubbles hysterically from his lips.
"Oh, and now you're going to deny me the pinnacle. How original."
Slowly you pull him out. "I'm really trying to make you feel good!"
"It's adorable that you think you can use my own tricks against me. Is this really revenge for last time? You'll have to do better. It doesn't work if I expect it."
You're silent for a long time.
"What, no witty retort or battle cry? Or are you just annoyed I wasn't fooled for a single moment?"
The sigh that escapes you weighs heavy, like looming rain clouds, and when you stand and drift over to the bed edge, Ominis feels his heartstrings twang.
No, this is all an act. You are infuriatingly cute when you want to be, and it's a terrible trait of yours he's never been able to resist. Do not yield. His body disobeys, and he finds himself sitting up to listen to you speak.
"No, you're right... I was going to try and do the same thing you did to me, but... I just can't."
"Because you were caught," he says, raising his chin.
"Because I don't have it in me to play cruel tricks," you mumble.
Damn it. Another twang, this one stronger, making him want to pull you in for a hug. Ominis has always been protective of you, possessed with the natural inclination to keep you happy and safe. Perhaps it's in his nature, perhaps it's simply you, or perhaps it's everything you have been through together to get here, build this slice of peace in a desolate world. He physically feels his resolve crumbling, this petty rivalry between you over the last few months dissolving into a ghost of what it once was.
"I love you, darling," he says, and he caves, pulling you close, letting you tangle your fingers in his back. "That will never change, no matter what we name our child."
"I know."
"I didn't mean to insult you, I'm sorry. Have I taken our game too far?"
You sniffle. Merlin, tears? Now he feels really guilty.
"I just love you a lot, honey," you whisper into his chest. "I want our son to have the best name possible."
"He will."
"You think so?"
"I know so."
He feels something slide up his chest, and he moves to palm it – parchment. Briefly his fingers skim the top. Endymion. Drago. Magnus.
"Then here's a list of my favourites," you say brightly, all trace of sadness gone. "You pick one and let me know, okay?"
"Wait, what?"
You slide out of his embrace and skip out of the bedroom, humming.
You had him. Oh, you really had him.
"I'll get you back for this, darling!" he yells.
"No you won't!" you sing delightedly.
No, he won't.
Not yet, at least.
"You still haven't chosen a bloody name?"
One mild day in the buds of spring, when you're at an appointment with Healer Jules and he's covering the shift at the shop, Sebastian leans against the counter, sucking a lollipop and flicking through the Book of Wizard Names by Sudo Nym. Apparently he's grown a beard now. You say it looks distinguished; Ominis suspects it looks scruffy.
"No." He slams the till drawer shut with frustration. "She still refuses to acquiesce."
"You two have been at this for months now. Even I'm bored of it."
"Yes, well, we're stubborn."
"Brick walls are stubborn. You two are obstinate." The book shuts. "Can't you just name him Sebastian and be done with it? It's a good name to cover both wizard and Muggle ground."
"No." Ominis massages his face. "Did you know her compromise suggestions were place names? She argued Hangleton might appeal because it's a Muggle town and I was born there. Hangleton! And then she had the gall to suggest foreign places, too. She liked Florence."
"Florence? For a boy?" Sebastian laughs. "I guess you should be grateful she didn't suggest Hogsmeade."
God help him if you do. "I'm at my wit's end. Can you talk to her? Or can Missy?"
"Nice try, but that's all on you." He sighs, runs a hand down that distinguished-scruffy beard. "Here's an idea: you try convincing her the normal way, by explaining why the names you want are better than Endymion, Drago, Magnus and bloody Hangleton."
Should he even need to explain the absolute obvious? His chosen trio, William, Edward and Michael, are classic, understated and inoffensive. They blend seamlessly into both Muggle and wizard society. They don't raise eyebrows. Most importantly they don't make people choke back their laughter. Is it wrong to wish normality for his son? Ominis doesn't think it is. The more he blends in with his peers, the better.
But that's exactly what you don't like. You don't want anything absurd, granted, but there's an inherent magnificence to your chosen trio of names that he thinks will stick out far too much. You want him to have that wizard uniqueness that Ominis, a bearer of one such unique name, despises to the fiery pits of the earth.
It's an impasse. A stalemate. An unstoppable force meeting an immoveable object. And it will keep going until one of you stands down.
But Ominis refuses to give in.
"Whatever." Sebastian stretches, yawns, and takes a long slurp of his lollipop. "I hope you chose before the damn party, though."
Yes, the last hurrah before you're officially parents. It'll be a nice spring get-together with all your friends and family – Muggles and wizards alike. He was hoping to announce that you'd made a decision by then, but with the party days away, that goal seems impossible.
Unless someone yields... to public pressure.
"Oh no," says Sebastian, reading the calculation on Ominis' face. "What the hell are you planning now?"
A smile grows on his face.
It's harder than Ominis thought it would be to host a garden party. Especially when half the party are wizards.
The back garden is modest, only about ten metres long and as wide as the house. Varnished wood runs the perimeter in a rigid oblong, interrupted only by a gate at the back, which connects to a delivery road. A pavestone path lines the fence on the right, and the rest is simple lawn, freshly mowed for the occasion. A fair few people have come along to celebrate, and Ominis has had to discreetly clone more garden chairs to accommodate.
It's quite a strange sensation, to have the two communities come together, the merging of magical and Muggle. The last time he felt this jarred was his wedding. He's told his magical friends and colleagues to behave, and they know the laws, of course, but he's still wary Pimlico will forget that Auror is called the police here, or that Garreth will spike the Pimms with gigglewater.
You waddle outside, holding a tray of empty glasses with one hand and cradling your belly with the other. Ominis hurries to take it from you, lays it on the outdoor table.
"Don't strain yourself, darling."
"Am not," you say, but you wince. "Baby's just being wriggly."
"Takes after his mother," he says fondly.
He fetches you a chair and you sink gratefully into it. Less than a month until the due date, and now mostly you complain about your aching back and breasts, and swollen, sore feet. He's taken on a significant portion of the housework to assuage the physical load on your shoulders, even though you claim it's easy enough to wave your wand. He must ensure there is nothing for you to stress about; it is his sworn duty.
Your parents come over. Since their second grandchild's announcement, they've been fussing over you and your health, and Ominis too, offering to cook him things or take extra shifts at the confectionery. He politely rejects them all, although he can't begin to express how grateful he is to have family who truly cares. After all these years, the feeling is still novel and beautiful.
"Cake's ready," says your mother, with a strange pitch to her voice. "Ominis, sweetheart, have you sat down once since the guests arrived? Even hosts must rest."
"I'm about to fry another batch of pork sausages," he says, waving their concern away. "Leander and Jacob keep inhaling them all."
Your father coughs gruffly and lowers his voice. "You can't have your... magic thingamajig do that?"
"It doesn't work like that, Papa," you say, exasperated.
"Truly, it's good to keep busy," Ominis says. "I'm fine, I promise. And thank you both for the cake."
Your father makes another gruff noise and looks away. Your mother touches his shoulder with affection – but her lips curl. She sounds like you when she's hiding a secret. "You're welcome, son. I've brought it down to the stockroom for easy access. Do you need us to do anything else?"
"Only one thing – what time is it?"
"Ah..." Your father pulls out his pocket watch. "Just gone two."
He smiles. Plenty of time.
The party continues in full swing. Many bring presents, although unnecessary, for the baby, books and toys and clothes. Ominis stores them in the house to unwrap later. Sebastian starts a round of croquet, a snug corkscrew of hoops within the limited space; Missy gets competitive against him, along with another one of your friends, Jane, and Nell from the local church. He tops up the sausages as you mingle and let people touch your bump. A surge of affection runs through him when he hears you laugh. It's been difficult, but still you embrace every moment with incandescent joy and gratefulness.
At about half-past, he finds you and peels you free from your host duties, finding a moment to share a brief kiss in the stockroom.
"What's this for?" you ask.
He hums idly, slides his hand between yours and squeezes. "Simply appreciation for you. Shall we bring the cake out?"
"So early?" you say. "If you really want to do it now."
"Why wouldn't I want to do it now?"
You don't answer. You only beckon him to the shelf, where you parents have left the cake ready to go.
Except – it's not one cake. It's three.
Strange. What on earth would you need three cakes for? You have a sweet tooth, yes, but this is excessive. You stifle a giggle, deep in your throat, and suspicion laps across his contentment as a wave rinses the beach.
"Something the matter?" you ask – again, that twinkle.
It triggers more doubt. Three. It's not just a cute, satisfying number. Three has meaning.
"What have you done?"
You sing-song, "Nothing!" and fit the cakes onto the trolley. "Help me take this outside."
Arm woven with yours, he wheels the trolley out to the garden. As the guests make a hole, delighted noises cut deeper into him, as loud as a chorus of warning bells. Wordlessly he helps you to table all three cakes.
They are not plainly decorated, like you said they would be.
"These cakes," you announce, "are named after three of the names Ominis and I are deciding upon!"
A stone drops into his gullet.
You didn't. You wouldn't.
"The Endymion cake," you gesture to the first "is a delicious blueberry and lemon."
He goes rigid. You have.
"The Drago cake is chocolate," you say about the second, "and this last cake, the Magnus, is Victoria sponge. Don't worry, you won't forget which one is which, because I've iced the names on the top."
The guests clap and clamour around, arming themselves with plates and forks. In the midst of it all, Ominis stands utterly still, reeling in the total loss of the moment – the loss of words, the loss of momentum, the loss of the fight, practically smoke in his fingers. You have announced your three names in such a public way, that for him to deny them now would be social catastrophe.
You truly are conniving, truly are clever. It's irresistibly hot, albeit infuriating, how you have bested him.
His grip on the walking stick tenses. You giggle and yammer to the guests, but he can feel your eyes on him, triumphant and smug with the victory.
But it will be short-lived.
You meander your way towards him at the buffet table, plate in hand, slices from all three cakes piled on top.
"Would you like some cake, husband?"
"I shan't partake, wife," he says coolly. "However," he leans down, just for you, "if you're not careful I might like to ravish you instead."
You shudder, and it's delicious. "For winning?"
"For coming so close to outwitting me. It's very attractive, I'll admit."
"Oh, Ominis," you pet his arm, "you can't even hope to beat this."
"My sweet," he responds, "I don't need to hope. I know."
"Look!" calls Gertrude, in sudden shock and awe. "What's that in the sky?"
She points, and as the party follows her gaze, Ominis instead pours himself a large glass of Pimms. Perfectly timed, as he is wont to be. Drawn towards them on a generous breeze, the great amorphous shapes floating from the north become an enormous hot-air balloon – three enormous hot-air balloons, dyed a rich blue like upside-down teardrops, with his chosen names, William, Edward and Michael, sewn in bold letters vertically down each parachute.
As realisation of the balloons' purpose sweeps the party, cheers erupt from the guests. Your Muggle friends clap, your wizard friends raise wine glasses and toast. In that moment he wishes he could see, if only to steep in the delicious shock-horror that has unhinged your jaw.
"You—" You swing to face him, positively puffed up. "You—!"
Ominis smiles and sips his Pimms.
"Me."
You tense up, like you're about to scream, but instead you pull his collar down.
"You copied my idea."
"I had no notion what you were doing. Perhaps you copied me."
"I didn't know you were doing that either!" You scowl. "You're lucky you're hot when you're being evil."
"Should I take this as acquiescence?"
You kiss his nose quickly, and smile.
"No."
Blast. How could that not have worked? His idea is bold, dramatic, inviting in its grandiosity. Your idea is quaint in comparison!
But his mistake comes through him in a cold prickle. If the cakes have names and the balloons have names, and both were displayed practically at the same time, then all the guests are going to think the spectacle planned. Worse, they're going to think it a game. He scolds himself. Foolish Ominis. If only he'd known of your attempted sabotage before he brought the cakes out. If only he'd listened to his instincts beforehand!
He makes another round of polite chatter, listening to the guests obliviously speculate on which of the six will be chosen. He can barely focus on anything else that's said. After everything, all the work he's done, all the favours he called in and the money he paid in such a short amount of time – and still you have not been swayed.
And after all the work you put in, too, neither has he.
You remain as you are, as he does. An impasse. A stalemate. An unstoppable force and an immoveable object.
Sebastian is right. You are both so stubborn.
And if that was his last try to change your mind, what is he supposed to do now?
Ominis' son arrives early.
Neither of you are expecting it. Both of you are tired, you from a particularly hard day running the shop, him from a particularly hard day running Auror errands, so you're settled into the sofa with your embroidery as Ominis tidies the house. Your due date is in a week – far enough away that it looms, but not with immediate panic.
Suddenly you go rigid and sit up.
"Oops."
"Hmm?" he asks idly. "Something the matter?"
"I think I've just had a little tinkle," you say sheepishly. "Bit embarrassing, but don't worry, I'll clean it up."
Ominis faces to you at once.
"Darling," he says, "have you been feeling incremental pains in your belly?"
"Well, yes, but I think it's just that stew we ate. I told you the meat was off."
Merlin's beard. "You didn't pee. That's your water breaking."
"My— ohhhh." You laugh suddenly. "Well, thank goodness for that! Here I thought I wet myself!"
He doesn't even have the time to facepalm. He's grabbing his emergency away bag, ramming some shoes onto your feet, and Apparating you to St Mungos. All thoughts about baby names and underhand attempts to change your mind evaporate when you go into the labour ward, whimpering about how much more frequent and painful the contractions have become.
"Would you like to stay with your wife during labour?" asks Healer Jules. "I understand if not. It can be quite stressful."
"Of course I will," Ominis says, offended at the very notion.
It takes some time until your body is fully ready, but before long Jules and the other healers start the birthing process, encouraging you to push in time with your contractions. He squeezes your hand all throughout. Eventually they feed some potion down your throat to dowse the pain, but it also makes you a little delirious. At one point you seize his shirt and yank him inches from your face.
"You will never put that thing of yours inside me ever again!"
"Y-Yes dear," he says, nonplussed.
Even with the potion, you shriek and scream and cry, sounding like you're been in the worst pain you've ever experienced, worse than Crucio, worse than the curse. It makes him feel guilty and helpless, but he knows all he can really do to help is be there.
"I-I can't... I can't do it..."
"Yes you can, darling. You're doing really well. Keep pushing."
He thinks of the many nights you tried to get pregnant, the many days spent in disappointment when your monthly bleeds came. He thinks about the minor spats over baby names and what colour to paint the room and which house you think he'll be in at Hogwarts. He thinks of the small joys, assembling the crib, completing the knitted blanket, the excitement, the anticipation of becoming a family of three. All of it strengthens Ominis at your bedside, all of it gives him hope as you continue to push.
And soon, before he realises it, a baby cries.
It's the most wonderful sound in the world.
"Congratulations," says Jules. "A beautiful baby boy."
Jules cleans him up and swaddles him in cloth, then hands him to you. Ominis can't quite manage to catch his breath, nor tame his racing heart. You're parents now. He's a father.
"Do you want to hold him, Ominis?" you ask.
His hands tremble when he accepts the child – his child – into his arms. You adjust the hold so the baby is comfortable, mewling and squirming and a bundle of warmth. Carefully he reaches around to feel his little face, the tiny nose and cute lips and the very wet tuft of hair sprouting on the centre of his smooth head.
"Hello, little one," he says, grinning so widely it hurts. "I'm your papa."
"He looks just like you."
"Really?" Ominis almost laughs. "He sounds just like you."
You laugh – and it's up there with the most beautiful sounds. He can't describe how deep the gratitude goes for you, for carrying and birthing the child. Despite everything you've gone through, all the disagreements and the pain and the loss, he knows you'll both be okay.
"You may still experience some contractions before the placenta comes out," Jules says softly, after cutting the cord. "But I will give you five minutes."
The healers leave you in peace, and Ominis knows. It really is time now.
Time to choose a name.
In the silence, he thumbs the baby's little hand, relishing the smoothness of his skin and trying to think of a name he likes that suits. William, Edward, Michael... Every choice runs through his head, but now that his son is here, in physical being... none of them are perfect.
"I don't think he looks like an Endymion," you mumble quietly. "Or a Drago, or a Magnus ..."
They seem too grand, too garish, for the boy, but loath as he is to admit, his choices are too plain for his son too. Ominis tickles his stomach, delighting when the baby wiggles.
"Nor any of mine," he admits. "That leaves us rather without a name though."
"Yeah..." The baby gurgles. "Let me?"
He passes his son back to you. "After all that, and we still can't decide."
"Gosh, we should be able to just pick one, don't you think? There are billions of names... surely there must be one we both like."
When Jules returns, you are sitting in a scrunched sort of silence, as if every word that wants to be spoken feels crumpled and unworthy of the occasion, of the decision.
"If it's all right," he says calmly, "I'd like to run a few routine checks to ensure the baby's health."
You nod, passing the boy over. His eyes are squeezed shut, yet the corner of his lips twitch as Jules beams over him.
"This might tickle, little one," he coos, wiggling his wand over the child's belly. Mumbling spells too long and complicated for Ominis to understand, the boy instantly relaxes, as if that soothing voice is a balm for agitation. After a moment, Jules passes him back to you. "Preliminary checks seem good, I can detect no issues. He's a very healthy boy."
Something shifts deep in Ominis' chest. It feels as though lightning has struck.
"Thank you," he croaks.
"It's my pleasure," Jules assures. "Is everything all right?"
"Could we—?" You seem to compose yourself. "Please can we have a little more time alone?"
"Of course."
Jules exits again, leaving you both on a precipice that pulls taut as thread.
Ominis is the first to fall.
"Jules is a nice name."
"I was thinking that too," you murmur. "It's not too Muggle."
"Nor too wizard."
"Not very common."
"Sounds nice."
"Named after someone exemplary we know."
"But very pronounceable."
"Ominis." You laugh suddenly. "Did we just agree on a name?"
He reaches out both hands – the first, touching yours, the second, a finger, being grasped gently by his new-born son, Jules.
"I... think we did."
Fin.
Please like, comment, and/or reblog if you enjoyed <3
summary: when you struck the arrangement with damian wayne to act as your fake boyfriend for a party hosted by your ex and ex-best friend—you thought your choice made perfect sense. choosing damian wayne, the most logical, unattainable person you knew, removes the complication of feelings being involved. till of course, damian stops pretending.
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
content: flufff, damian wayne is a yearner and takes his role of being your pretend boyfriend very seriously.
"You are suggesting I partake in a fake relationship—" Damian Wayne stares down at you, still dressed in his lab coat, with what may be the closest to genuine concern you've ever seen on him, all cramped into the crease of his brows. "To help with your dilemma?"
"Exactly." Your grin is the only positive staple throughout this entire exchange, after your successful cornering of only the most unattainable medical student of Gotham University. "It's like a fancy title for an assignment partner but removing the word 'assignment', right?"
"Assuming that your ambitious plan would even work." Crossing his arms, Damian looks more unimpressed over your carefully planned spreadsheet titled 'Fake-Dating Operation' than the earlier assigned pairings by Dr. Lake. "Do humour me on your astounding confidence that I would even offer my assistance."
"We're already assigned together for the semester." You shrug. "What's one reunion party, and an hour spent pretending you don't hate my guts like you do with everyone else?"
He stares at you for a long beat, before his lips twitch into the smallest smirk. "I appreciate your attempts at lowering my expectations further on how idlers are able to accomplish wasting hours in a day. I expect your section of the report to be done by Sunday."
"Wait!" Your hand reaches out to grab at the ends of his sleeve as he moves past you. "I am an amazing fake partner. I provide free dog walks, cookies, amazing work ethic—it's practically a free service just for a little acting on your part!"
"I appreciate the desperation, and the answer is still a no."
"Wayne!" You call out as his sleeve slips out of your fingers, stopping in your tracks right in front of him—blocking the exit. "Damian, please."
His head tilts to cast you a disapproving expression. "My word of advice, is to gain enough respect for yourself to not be bothered by what others think."
Your lips pull together into a frown, but you refuse to be dissuaded, not when you've already laid all your cards on the table. You didn't expect it to be easy, and you had already prepared yourself for his vicious tongue.
"My self-respect has already been trampled on when they decided to send me the invitation." You state honestly. "It's scheduled for its revival in five weeks, after the party. I'll be a changed person by then, scout's honour."
His brow pulls higher, as if silently questioning if you had even part of the Gotham Scouts, but you're not done.
"But before then, I plan on being the pettiest, deranged person in all of Gotham University." You declare. "And that includes you in my plans, because you, Damian Wayne, are the only person who checks all my requirements of a fake boyfriend."
"I'm honoured." He mocks, gaze flickering past towards the hallway.
"You are Walter's role-model, he would kiss the test tubes you lay your fingers on. Paige has a Pinterest folder labelled with your name, and it has all your news sightings saved by colour coordination."
"Sounds like your issues derive more from the company you keep." He mutters, expression pulled together in disgust.
"Point besides, I want it to be you, Damian Wayne." You confess.
It sounds ridiculous, but this was fully concerning your pride and something you've forgotten in your years of working yourself away for your dreams, which was the taste for controlled chaos. He blinks once, staring at you incredulously as if deciding where to place you in his ranking of newly discovered lunatics.
"You're the only person who will drive them as insane as they've made me." Your voice chokes, filled with determination or buried rage, the difference didn’t seem to matter. "You could walk in there for just an hour to save my life, and I know that you won't have the slightest chance of complicating things, or falling in love with me—and that's what makes this perfect. This may sound crazy to you, but you're the only person that's made sense to me ever since my life was turned upside-down."
Your chest heaves, and your arms are still outstretched to stop him from leaving the lab. You're nothing like this—impulsive, frantic, verging on insanity—but you're also done being complacent. Of letting things go just because it's the right thing to do.
After what feels like eternity, Damian's expression flickers. Implicit and almost undetectable, but his gaze is on you as if he's finally registering your existence and trying to catalogue you into a different box than the one he's placed you in.
"Send the spreadsheet to my email." He answers apprehensively, as if he can't believe the words coming out of his mouth. "I will review through the calendar on its... feasibility. Expect a response by eight p.m.."
You let out a held breath, a smile finally breaking through. "Thank you, really—"
"On the condition that I expect you to finish your section by tonight."
Your expression freezes. "Tonight?"
"To prove your desperation's worth considering." He tosses you a mocking smile, all sharp edge and nothing considerable of warmth. "You have ten more hours before my interest wanes."
Your smile weakens, blinking rapidly as you calculate your remaining time to draft something of substance. "Okay, sure— that's not going to be a problem."
It's worth it. Dealing with Damian Wayne is going to be worth it.
I have reviewed through your spreadsheet in detail. Do answer my enquiries on my comments below.
- I believe watching romance comedy as 'theory practice' is highly inefficient and prone to fantastical expectations. Do amend this.
- As for my 'meeting' availabilities, I am free on Thursdays and Fridays at noon to two, on the condition that at least an hour be reserved for actual assignment discussions. You are required to provide evidence of actual progress for the assignment, or this arrangement will be considered void.
- Provide me a list summary on details for answers regarding possible interrogation questions during the party. It will be more efficient as compared to you providing me the details in person.
As for the assignment, your section draft is acceptable, and I expect our lab findings to be updated into your table by the following lab session next week.
Regards,
Damian.
You can barely contain your grin, kicking into the sheets despite the exhaustion that plagues your bones from grueling non-stop over the section and multiple tabs later. He had looked through your multi-coloured spreadsheet calendar, and actually considered it with his own enquiries. Typing out your own response, you give serious thought into his enquiries.
To: [email protected]
Subject: Reply: 'Fake-Dating Operation' Spreadsheet Review
Thank you for your detailed consideration of my spreadsheet. Your efforts are acknowledged and appreciated.
- I believe we are required to watch at least one rom-com that involves fake-dating. Neither of us have had previous experience in this department (unless you'd like to share valuable information), and it will boost our success rate.
- Perfect! I'm available on Fridays, and scout's honour, I promise to have my progress brought for each meeting session.
- As for the list, I will provide you possible answers, but some may require in-person explanations. I'll explain more this Friday!
Can't even express my thanks on how grateful I am, you're the best Wayne in history!
Signing off your name, you close your laptop with the giddiest smile you've had since—at the reminder, your grin falters. Your chest thuds faintly, as if reminding you that the fun you've just experienced can still be dampened by reality. No, you refuse to let it ruin your enjoyment.
This is the most alive you've felt in weeks, and you're going to make the most of it. If your life feels like it's finally picking up through colourful spreadsheet rows and columns, and waiting on an email reply from the most terrifying student in Gotham University—so be it.
Damian slides your extremely lengthy list across the lunch table, and you can barely hide your shock that he actually printed it out—before you catch sight of many red circles marked neatly around your points.
"Your least favourite vigilante is Robin?" He interrogates.
You blink in surprise, not expecting him to start there. "Well, he's not exactly original—I mean, c’mon, they’re multiple versions of him."
His lips part, aghast in a half-caught scoff. "He's one of the most prominent vigilante figures in Gotham."
You shrug. "Spoiler's cooler."
He clicks at his tongue. "You have horrible taste."
"You are not telling me that you, Damian Wayne, have a favourite and that is Robin?"
He doesn't blink. "There are several other questionable details in your list."
"Yes, I can see that." Peering back at your list, your brows furrow. "What's wrong with liking Gotham's Pizza?"
"Only that you're clearly fond of days-old grease and artificial cheese."
"Hey, that's where it gets its flavour."
He shakes his head, disgusted. "I refuse to be associated with someone who has non-functioning taste buds."
"Fine—we'll say we often have dates at Romeo's instead." You shrug. "Not like I'll be caught there after our agreement's expired."
He raises a brow. "Expired?"
Pointing at your open tab, you reference a newly added row. "Our break-up, scheduled for Monday after the party."
He stares at the date, before his gaze roams over you with a questioning look. "Despite my lack of experience, should you not consider the likely suspicions if you were to end a relationship three days after the party?"
Your lips part into an 'oh'. "I thought you would want to get it over and done with as quickly as possible."
His expression closes in, gaze narrowing. "I will not put my reputation at stake by agreeing to this facade, if it means having our efforts go down the drain because of an obvious flaw.”
Your grin slips out uncontrollably. “You just said ‘our’ efforts. Look at us, the perfect team.”
His expression remains impassive, before he raises a slow brow. “Switch to the assignment tab.”
“Yes, sir.”
Resting below a willow tree, your third Friday with Damian is spent resting below the shade on your picnic cloth—one you used to share with Paige. The sight of its red plaid, stuffed behind your piles of clothes in your wardrobe, was getting sad—even for you.
Damian’s back is resting against the tree bark, shoulders nearly taking up the width—brows impossibly furrowed as his gaze narrows on your laptop displaying ‘To All The Boys I Loved Before’.”
“This movie is non-sensical.”
“I think it’s romantic.” You shrug.
He tosses you a judgmental glance. “Having your own blood betray you by revealing your own personal letters, is your idea of romance?”
“I mean Lara Jean and Peter, Damian.” You snort. “That’s our main source of inspiration.”
“He’s hardly appealing.” He scoffs, arms crossing over the other. “Is this the standards you expect from our arrangement?”
“If this is mediocre—” You respond, aghast. “You have no idea how dire love can be nowadays.”
His frown deepens. “You are not expecting me to perform in this manner?”
“What—falling in love with me?” You grin. “No, I do not expect you to be Peter Lavinsky.”
He stares at you with barely concealed frustration. Before you can tease him further, something purple is tossed into your face.
A yelp escapes your mouth, the light weight of an object falling into your lap.
“That’s—the discontinued, limited edition Spoiler cap!” You gasp, eyes widening in realisation. “How did you get this?”
He shrugs begrudgingly. “My sister used to be a collector. She doesn’t mind giving it away.”
“Giving it away?” You mutter incredulously. “This is actual gold. Your sister is my favourite person on Earth.”
His brow twitches. “I bargained for that cap.”
You snort. “What did you exchange it for, your dignity?”
“You have no clue on my sacrifice." He grimaces.
“Your sacrifice is acknowledged." You tease, before letting out another huff of amazement. “This is the best day of my life.”
When your gaze falls back to the cap, tracing your fingers over the logo—you miss the twitch of his lips into a semblance of a smile.
You missed today’s meeting without prior notice. Not that your absence has affected my ability to resume our assignment, but after your frequent reminders to not miss on our mandatory meetings—it leaves me with doubt that you intentionally missed our sessions on your end. Do update me as soon as possible on your status.
Regards,
Damian. (Sent yesterday, 1.20 p.m.)
Subject: Reply: Reminder on Friday Meetings
I feel I must reinstate that my previous email regarding your absence, as well as this reply, should not be twisted in its meaning as more than a mere enquiry. Given previous evidence of the average speed of your responses, a full 24 hours with a lack of response prompts me to send another email. Do respond when you are able.
Regards,
Damian. (Sent today, 1.32 p.m.)
Three respectable knocks resound against your dormitory’s door. A groan escapes your lips, your head pounding from the cold you’ve caught from a late night running through pouring rain. You had missed the bus and had to make it back before curfew, and now your body is reminding you of its frail mortality, chills shaking throughout your limbs and rendering you heavily immobile.
The knocks echo again when you shift your head deeper into the pillows. You muffle curses into the cotton, gripping at your sheets to steady yourself as you force your body upright. The world sways on its axis as you make your way—shifting pathetically with every step, towards the door.
Missing your lock a few times, you finally grab a hold of the chain and slide it off, clicking the door open. You’re immediately faced with a broad chest, donning a familiar black sweater. Shifting your gaze up, you’re met with Damian Wayne’s narrowed gaze, sweat trailing down his temple.
“Damian?” Your voice croaks, and even the attempt of speaking hurts. “What are you doing here?”
He takes one glance, and immediately, his expression contorts in… concern? You barely have time to explain about the cold, or an apology for missing the meeting, when you feel the warmth of his palm press against your forehead.
You blink, stunned as he measures your temperature. He shakes his head slightly in a disapproving manner. “Your temperature is too high.” His tongue clicks with his observation.
You suppose he was right. You did feel one wrong step from keening over and lying on your welcome mat.
“I got caught in the rain.” You explain, trying your best to pull together a more reassuring expression, one less filled with nausea-induced tension. “I’ll be fine—just need rest.”
His frown creases deeper. “Have you taken medicine?”
You try shaking your head, but that loses whatever balance you had left. The world actually tilts, or maybe you are the one who's obeying gravity—but strong arms catch you before you collapse.
“Look at your state.” Damian grits, pulling you back upright but closer. There's barely any space left between the two of you. “This fever, has it worsened considerably?”
“Yeah—but I didn’t have anyone to call.” You mutter in truth, cheek still smushed against his chest as support. “I ran out of medicine a while ago, and by the time I woke up—I couldn’t get out of bed.”
You feel his arms tense around you. Above the crown of your head, you feel a soft sigh. “You have me.” He mutters, almost reprimanding.
Your brows furrow in confusion. “You would get me medicine?”
“That would be a start.” He states, his grip shifting with his words.
The world shifts again when his hands wrap around the under of your thighs, lifting you into his arms gently to not worsen your state. If your mind wasn’t completely swarmed by the symptoms of your cold, you’d stop to think of how strangely sweet it was that Damian had come all the way to your dormitory, and that he was carrying you bridal-style towards your bed.
”It’s not usually this messy.” You feel the need to point out, words muffled against his sweater. “You just have impeccable timing.”
His lip twitches involuntarily as he sets you down against the thrashed sheets. “Organised according to your system?”
You smile weakly at the thought of your colour-coded spreadsheet. “Exactly.”
He places his palm against your forehead again, and you subconsciously find yourself leaning into his touch. “You’re like—really warm.” You murmur. “Do you always run hot?”
He swallows, touch lingering on your skin. “Your temperature is dysregulated. I’ll return soon with medicine. Rest. I won’t be gone long.”
“Okay.” Your lids fall shut, the pounding lessening with your head burrowed into the pillows, and his touch a gentle anchor. “You know—you’d be a great boyfriend for someone one day.”
You don’t hear a response, and your honest thoughts continue to tumble out from your skull like a cracked jar. “You’re really nice, Dami.” The shortening of his name feels like cotton candy stuffed in your mouth, and you barely register the stiffening of his fingers. “Fierce, but I like that about you. I like you a lot, actually. Not in a swooning way, but in a—I’m really glad I met you kind of way.”
He doesn’t pull away when your lips finally clamp shut, but the silence is almost deafening. You peek open with one eye, catching his expression. He’s staring at you… as if no one’s ever said that to his face—ever.
“Don’t make it weird.” You tease softly, voice tethered with exhaustion. “I’m just giving you your deserved five stars.”
You hear the soft echo of his scoff, withheld from its usual bite, but you don’t hear much else after. Only that the lingering touch of his fingers over your skin stays put till sleep catches up on you, and the world falls silent under the weight of Damian’s gaze. Okay, maybe you were lying a little about the swooning.
Fevers fade, but the warmth that lingers seems to seep past the well-defined borders of a spreadsheet, or the predictable order of a list—like the one currently in your hand.
"Favourite vigilante?" You quiz, red pen bitten between your lips as you laid stretched on the wooden bench.
"Spoiler." He answers, tossing you an expression as if to convey that he couldn't believe you even bothered with such a question.
"Good job." You tease, fiddling with the cap of your pen, attached at the end. "Favourite date spot?"
"Gotham's Pizza." He huffs.
You blink. "Hey, it's supposed to be Romeo's."
"You prefer Gotham's." He mutters.
"But you don't." You remind him.
Averting his gaze to your lips, his fingers loop around the red pen, dragging it gently out from your teeth's grip, and adjusting the answer with a cross. "That's irrelevant. I'm merely pointing out an inconsistency."
Your lips quirk up into a smile. "You don't even need this list anymore. Why bother keeping it?"
Tension pulls briefly at his jaw, but it relaxes before you can trace it to an emotion. "You haven't tested me on all the questions."
You lean in, the crinkled paper resting below your fingers as you gaze into his eyes. "Alright? Something off the books." You hum. "What do I think of Damian Wayne?"
He blinks, surprised. You wait patiently, the warmth of summer carrying the scent of grass blades past the picnic table, the world narrowing into the space between the two of you.
His lips part after a moment. "Fierce." He answers. "Though you're one of the few who doesn't run from it."
"What's there to run from?" You hum. "I think he's nice, you should give him some credit for that."
His brow raises, amusement flickering in his gaze. "That's not a common perception."
"Yeah, but no one else gets to experience him being their partner." You tease. "He even offers to rearrange your dormitory to a better system if you're lucky."
He scoffs lightly. "That's only considering if the existing system barely works."
"Just say you hate colour-coding, Dami." You snort. "I know you're itching to fix our spreadsheet."
His expression flickers for a moment. "Not exactly."
You tilt your head, questioning. His gaze averts to the open spreadsheet, something familiar after the weeks spent together. "It's grown on me."
Grown on him—despite it being everything he initially found horrendous, from the many details pasted in long paragraphs into the comments, and the bright colours for the special shared Fridays between you two. Something warm pools in your chest, and you find your gaze trailing to the red pen held between his fingers instead.
"You're more prepared for this party than I am." You admit softly.
You feel his attention switch onto you, trained on the nervous tick you have where you hyper-focus on something brightly coloured. He twirls the pen once, considering.
"You don't have to go through with this." He says. "Just say the word. I'll honour whatever decision you make."
His reassurance makes you consider it, you really do. With the dreaded anticipation finally reaching its peak, with the party being tonight—you have stopped to think if it was worth it. To show up in a room where the story's long gone sour, and your presence is more likely to be a blight than a welcomed gift.
Then again, you hadn't prepared this all for nothing. You hadn't gotten to know Damian—for nothing.
"No, it'll be fun." You smile, meeting his gaze. "We'll be just like Lara Jean and Peter, but with better standards."
Damian's mouth twitches, almost imperceptible. "Agreed."
Your fingers catch onto the silk-like fabric of your dress. Once bought as a birthday present, you never had the chance to wear something like this. Walter had called it overkill, and you convinced yourself that you’d eventually find a day to wear the gorgeous shade without feeling inadequate for it. Nothing required overkill more than tonight.
Damian's promised to pick you up, even when you had reassured him that meeting at the venue was fine. You stare at yourself in the mirror, and something quivers in your gut.
You don't feel as brave as you'd like, not even in your favourite dress. The thought of the two people you once trusted most being together, exchanging normal niceties with you as if nothing had ever happened—you're seriously beginning to overthink just how horribly awkward this situation was going to be.
What if it wasn't like the movies? What if Damian saw too—just how horribly small you felt—and decided you weren't worth the spreadsheets and lists and medicine kit he over-splurged on when you caught that cold?
The party was going to be over in an hour, you had promised Damian the both of you would be present for no more than that duration—and now, you feel ridiculous in your own skin. You're tempted to text him if he wanted to ditch and just head to Romeo's instead—when you hear the signature three knocks of his against your door.
You swallow your fear-induced nausea back into your gut, and force yourself to open the door with something akin to a smile. Your expression freezes in place at the sight... of Damian tidied up.
You knew he was handsome, you obviously had eyes, but to see him in that white collared shirt that made his green eyes pop, loosened at the buttons, with his hair pulled back and just—wow. Damian Wayne, you were seriously going to the party with this guy? As your fake boyfriend?
You don't notice the way his own expression completely falters at the sight of you. Nor the way his fingers tightened into a fist, digging into his palms.
You only notice how the silence stretched out between the two of you lingers long enough to matter.
"Hey, handsome." You start, trying to regain your composure. "You cleaned up nice."
He blinks, as if stunned. His response comes out delayed, brows pinching together into something honest. "You are beautiful."
Not you look—as if he's only noticed. No, he emphasised the 'are', as if he's always seen it. Your heart doesn't quite know what to do with that information, or how to catalogue the way he's looking at you as if he's—not pretending.
"Thank you." Your voice comes out weaker than you intended, because for all his intensity, Damian being soft is what renders you stunned. "I still don't know if I should do this."
His gaze clears, something steady offered to you when you return it. "You don't need to be sure." He answers, offering his hand. "That's what I'm here for—so you will not be alone."
He's right. Despite your doubts, seeing him in front of you reminds you of the steady presence he's offered from the very beginning. Through your nonsensical email threads, the Friday lunches, the rom-com binging, rushing to the store to buy you cold medicine—your fears always quieted when Damian was near. Your smile brightens, taking his hand in yours. "Let's get this operation over with."
Walter catches sight of you first. His vision is perfectly facing the entrance, your ex's gaze meeting yours as soon as you step through the doorway—and he immediately taps on Paige’s shoulder. An insincere smile arrives on his expression, but it freezes in place the moment Damian enters with you.
He isn't the only one to notice. You knew the effect Damian had on others, standing out without even meaning to, much less in an environment like this. Damian doesn't seem bothered at all, because you feel his attention acutely trained on you instead. His hand rubs a soothing notion over your lower back, as if you're the only person he's aware that exists in the room.
Walter's gaze drifts, from the dress he hated to Damian’s hand wrapping around your waist. He puts the facts together, faster than you had when he and Paige had approached you with the news. The warmth leaves his welcoming expression, and he whispers something into Paige's ear.
Damian registers this entire exchange in under a second, and his hand tightens briefly on your waist, as if reassuring you that he was right beside you.
The distance closes in between you and the two people your life once revolved around, and you train your gaze on Walter, because you can tell immediately that Paige is struck by Damian's appearance, more so by his hand on your waist.
"It's been a while." Walter starts off, though his gaze barely lingers on you before switching to Damian. "Wayne, I don't believe we've been properly introduced."
"There hasn't been a need." Damian shuts him down.
The atmosphere turns icy the moment Walter registers the tone of Damian's voice. He laughs, astonished—and embarrassed. Paige finally recovers in an attempt to salvage the situation, pulling together her best smile.
"Well, it's lovely to have you both here." Paige starts, and her voice is distant—nothing like the girl you used to know, hidden under the blankets of your beaten IKEA sofa when watching Scream for the tenth time. "You look amazing, and—sorry, I'm just curious on how the two of you know each other?"
Her question is directed towards you, but Damian takes the lead. "She's my partner."
"Partner?" Walter chokes on his breath. "As in—"
You finally find your voice to speak. "We are seeing each other." It comes out levelled, matching Damian's.
Their shock registers in different levels. Walter's nears disbelief, while Paige—looks at you, betrayed.
"I didn't know about this." Paige stammers.
"Yes, you didn't." You answer shortly.
She stares at you as if she's seeing a stranger. "Right. I guess it's been a long time since we've caught up."
You're tempted to laugh. A long time is an understatement. You can feel Damian's low scoff against your shoulder, and the absurdity of the situation feels less gut-wrenching with him by your side.
"You know she's a real mess." Walter speaks involuntarily. "Like her apartment's an actual hazard. Isn't that right, Paige?"
Paige freezes, lips parting into a gap, but Damian's faster.
"I am aware—that she has her own unique system." Damian states, gaze narrowing in discontent. "It didn't take long for me to understand it, or to appreciate it."
"Appreciate it?" Walter sneers. "Are you sure you're talking about the right person?"
"Yes." Damian doesn't hesitate, eyes steady, fixing yours. As if he was conveying it to you instead of the audience, he answers. "I'm sure."
You swallow dryly, unable to hide the softened smile you usually reserved for him only when it was the two of you. Both of them catch sight of it, and you can sense the question becoming less of whether it was real, and more of the how.
It's easy to act in love when Damian's this close, muttering words like that, with his familiar warmth grounding you through the stagnant conversation. So instinctive, that you think it's easier than breathing.
You sense Paige shifting closer and you force yourself to focus, and casting her another glance, only to finally catch a glimpse of the girl who used to be your closest person.
“Hey, can we talk?” Her expression is vulnerable, tentative in her offer. "Y'know, catch up in private."
Damian immediately shifts you back slightly with his weight, but you place a hand tentatively on his arm. His gaze locks onto you, reading into your expression. His brow raises as if to ask, 'You're sure?'. You give him a nod.
"Fine by me." You murmur, because despite everything—maybe a part of you still wanted to hear the honest truth. For her decision, on when she decided you should’ve been cut out of the picture then forcefully glued back into what they envisioned to be the perfect way to continue their lives. Maybe you just wanted to see if the Paige you knew still existed.
The moment you enter an unoccupied bathroom, Paige presses the door shut and immediately turns to you. "You have to spill."
Your brows furrow. "On?"
"Damian Wayne." She points out as if it's obvious. "You don't even know him."
You blink once then twice, and something colder settles in the cavity of your chest. "Things change, Paige."
“I’m just worried. It's all just so sudden.” Her hand reaches out to grasp yours, and you resist the instinctive flinch. “You’ve always been sensitive, and a guy like him is just bad news. I mean—Damian Wayne? I get that it feels exciting, but he barely knew of your existence before and now, he's suddenly dating you? I just want us to be on the same page here, that it doesn't really make sense."
A scoff rises up your throat, barely constrained as she continues on, her softened voice a perfect replica of how she had been when you first made your decision to break up with Walter.
“You know I’ll always support you if you need me.” She reassures. “You can tell me anything.”
The anger bubbles so violently, and it hits you. That despite everything, you had came into this party hoping that maybe a fraction of the girl you knew—who cried with you on bathroom floors when you experienced homesickness, who celebrated when you managed to pass your first year of medical school, who was there for your entire life in Gotham—would still exist. That something would give way, and her leaving would make sense, to have a reason. You realise now, that you've only been giving her excuses on the basis of what she used to mean to you.
Your wrath gives way to something cold, absent of grief—only the need to rip your hand out of hers. You do just that, and her shock barely registers before you open your mouth. “No.” Your voice carries a finality, strength you’ve been trying to garner since the day you lost her. “You don’t get to define my relationship with Damian, when you never addressed ours.”
She blinks, affronted. “Is this about Walter? We've already explained—we only felt what we did after the two of you broke up—”
“No, this isn’t about Walter. This is about us.” The coldness in your tone finally strikes something honest in her expression. “You broke my trust, Paige, and then you invite me to this party cause you thought it would help make amends? I thought you brought me in here, to at least explain to me on what happened to us."
"You should've told me." She says, a frown stretched at her lips. "If you weren't comfortable being around me and Walter, we wouldn't have forced you to come."
We—the word runs through your mind like a tire screech.
“Yes, I wasn't comfortable—I nearly died inside when it happened." You raise your head. "I lost my best friend, who drove me to karaoke night whenever I needed to forget about home. I lost the girl who swore to re-watch all rom-coms that ever existed in the 90s before we both turned fifty. I lost the only person I trusted since I moved into this city, over what—a man? Was it worth it, was our friendship worth it?”
She swallows thickly, and you see a fracture of the girl you recognise under the glitter, and the tears collecting at her lower lashes. “I thought you understood—that I love him differently than you did.”
Your gaze doesn’t flinch at the admission. “You were by my side when he broke up with me, when I told you that he called my dresses ugly, when he said my attitude was too much, when he made me smaller because it was more convenient for him when I was quieter, and you still got together with him. Maybe I thought you loved me enough too, to understand why I wasn't comfortable with it.”
Her expression shatters, and tears drip down her cheeks before she harshly wipes at them, smearing her eyeshadow. “You don’t get to say that.” She spits out. “Making it seem like I chose Walter over you, when you brought in Damian Wayne.”
Your brows contort. “What are you talking about?”
“You decided to come to the party to—prove you suddenly became better than us just by being with a Wayne?” She snaps. “You're acting like this because you think he's going to stay—but you don’t seriously believe it’ll actually last when Walter could barely stand you?”
That anger, buried deep, comes alive with a roar. You take a step forward, causing her to inch backward as you close in. “That's all your taking from this?" Your scoff resounds coldly. "Damian was the one who was there for me when you left—so yeah, I have more trust in him to treat me like an actual person."
She flinches, her lips parting in the same way she had done earlier when Walter tried to make you small. Silent, and unable to do anything but lay there in her guilt of absorbing an idea of who you are in Walter's head, and erasing what made you human in her eyes.
"Rest assured. You will never gain my trust again to even know what’s going on in my life and the people in it, and you never will.”
Taking a step back, you look at her one last time. Of the mess of her makeup, the same puffy eyes whenever she cries that you used to immediately follow up with the instinct to comfort her. You feel none of that now. “Goodbye, Paige.”
She doesn’t call out your name when you turn your back on her, and she doesn’t come after you. You needed that, more than you needed her to be the person you thought she was. To be blunt, and truthful to yourself—even if no one but you believed in it.
The euphoric lightness of your body from finally severing the bond doesn’t last long, when a rough hand grabs at your wrist. Being twisted around, you’re faced with Walter’s accusing expression.
“What did you say to her?”
“What I discussed with Paige stays between us.” You answer coldly, tugging at your wrist.
His hand tightens more, almost bruising. “You’re bringing in that attitude of yours, when we were kind enough to think of you? To let you stick around our lives?"
You’re sick of this narrative, of acting like you should’ve been grateful they thought to include you into this sick little group from your past life as if they hadn’t completely burnt it into flames.
“Walter, get your hands off before I shove—“
A fist slams into the side of Walter’s face before you even have a chance to finish your sentence. Screams erupt from the crowd, or cheers—you can barely tell because your eyes are locked onto Damian, who’s grabbing Walter by the collar with chafed knuckles.
Multiple eyes are on them, but your own gaze is fixed on Damian’s expression, who has gone completely cold. Nearly murderous, and filled with uncontained wrath. His glare, almost deadly, is trained on his target in a way you’ve never seen him before. The composed, distant Damian—is nowhere to be found.
"You stay away from her." Damian growls.
"What the hell, man!" Walter spits, blood sprayed over his nose. "Do you seriously think she's worth—"
Damian drags him closer by the collar, and something inhuman flashes past his concentrated gaze. "She's worth more than you ever will dream of trying to be. You are nothing, and even daring to lay a hand on her is something you will pay for."
“Damian!” You shout.
That finally reaches him, past the simultaneous gawking and murmurs. It’s as if he’s reentered his own body, and Damian immediately drops Walter to the ground with a loud thud. Walter lands embarrassingly on his bottom, and his entire face has gone red with shame.
His gaze switches to you, and his wrath fades immediately into concern. His eyes fall onto your bruising skin, and his emotions fall apart into something colder. You have a feeling if you don’t get him out of this room, this fight may escalate into something much worse.
Pushing through the forming crowd, you reach out. “Let’s get out of here.” You plead, holding out your hand.
His gaze drops to your fingers, then back to the forming outline of a hand gripped around your wrist, and you see his calculating assessment. Damian leans lower, muttering something low into Walter’s ear. It is quick, but you see the way Walter completely freezes in place—his struggle evading from his body like a statue. When Damian’s eyes meet your frightened ones once more, he doesn’t hesitate a second longer before grabbing your hand.
Damian doesn't waste time in leading you through the crowd, towards the exit and away from the escalating noise—and into the night breeze. When the cold wind finally hits your skin, his hand remains firmly intertwined with yours as he guides you somewhere far away—the fact still lingers that Damian, perfect track record and Wayne prodigy, just punched someone for you.
“You punched him.” You mutter faintly, seated at a bench you’ve both found, crisp leaves surrounding you with the faint singing of crickets.
“He was hurting you.”
“Damian, the whole school’s going to talk about this.” You stress. “You’re going to get in trouble, possibly a suspension.”
His jaw clenches. “I am your partner.”
Damian’s agitated. Over the situation, despite there no longer being any witnesses to his supposed protection. His shoulders are tense, jaw clenched and his gaze—you recall how he had looked at Walter when he landed that first hit, the pure anger that seized him.
“Not a real one.”
He flinches, as if struck, and you knew immediately that your words landed wrongly. His emotions topple over the other, and you’re unable to name any that arises before it all falls apart like his body’s regained consciousness. Concealed, and distant.
“My mistake.” He mutters. “I’ve forgotten my standing.”
“Damian—”
“I do not wish to inconvenience you.” He states, words leaving in a bitter rush. “I have overstepped, I realise that.”
“Damian.” You call out for the second time, fingers reaching for his—and he finally breathes when your warmth seeps through his skin. You’re relieved he doesn’t pull away. “That came out wrong. I’m not mad you punched the jerk, I would’ve done it myself. I am glad you stood up for me, but I’m just confused on why you did it, because there's nothing at stake for you, only something to lose.”
His expression stiffens at the verbal admission of his visible frustration. This conversation sounds much too real, and the lines that have been carefully drawn are erasing themselves, leaving behind uncharted territory. One you weren’t sure how to navigate.
“You do matter to me, as more than a role.” You plead. “I don’t want you to think you’re someone I chose out of convenience. Please don’t believe that.”
His breath exhales low, controlled. His gaze flickers with the briefest uncertainty, and you realise how selfish you’ve been. This arrangement had been perfect for you, that you simply assumed it was the same for him.
“No, you are not at fault.” He mutters after a moment. “It is not your responsibility to handle the consequence of my actions. We had agreed on no complications, and I have done exactly that.”
His jaw tightens, before he finally spits it out. “I punched him because the boundaries of what was was real or imagined between us has never made a difference to me. He had hurt you, not only physically—“ His gaze shifts to your reddened wrist, and it darkens completely. “—but he is a culprit to your existing pain. I was angry, because I couldn’t comprehend that I was finally faced with the two morons who thought losing you was even a consideration, and to see them hold no remorse for it made me forget my place.”
“I’ve always excelled in being what others expected of me.” He mutters. “When you approached me, it was the first time I had not wanted to be confined to a role. I did not want to partake in a façade, because—I had wanted your request to be for something real. Then, you mentioned that you picked me because I had not the slightest chance of falling for you. It was ironic, and I knew then that I should've rejected your request."
"But I started to earnestly believe—that I could separate emotion and duty. I could be in your presence, and not feel the consequences if the arrangement ended—because nothing would be real.”
“Till I realised—how much it affected me to not have you truly at all.” He confesses. “I should’ve been honest, that this arrangement had become the opposite of what we’ve agreed upon. But I was afraid, of admitting that I wasn’t capable of control, of driving you away."
“Damian." Your frown deepens. "You’re not going to lose me.”
“I don’t know.” He blurts honestly. “I do not know how to handle want. I am built of structure, of worth to prove why I deserve to keep my position, that has always been what I’ve provided. I do not know how to want without providing substance to covet a person.”
“But I want you.” He exhales. “Not once has it been pretend for me, not when it had already existed before our arrangement. Every moment I reached for your hand, every time I checked that horrendous shaded calendar of yours. I rushed over the moment you went missing when you were sick, because I had wanted to look for you. I have never once hesitated in calling myself your partner, even knowing the role was temporary. I want you, in the real, complicated way—that I've failed in being what you needed me to be."
"That's not true." You break. "That's not what I need you to be at all, Damian."
He finally looks at you, a little less restrained—and almost startled at your words.
"If you had been real about this the entire time, Damian, then so have I." You admit. "I chose you because I thought you wouldn't have fallen for me, that is true—but that is because I also thought it was safe because I knew I was going to fall for you."
"I wasn't kidding when I said I like you." You confess. "In all of the complicated, real sense of the word, and you were always going be the one I was going to choose. Even if you had said no, I wouldn't have asked anyone else. I wanted you from the start, Damian, and that hasn't changed. I was going to ask you at freaking Romeo's after this, if you wanted this to be real too."
The moment those words leave your lips, Damian closes in. His fingers tug you by your waist, his hand wrapping around the nape of your neck, and his lips are on yours. Damian Wayne, who still has forming bruises at his knuckles from a fight he landed in to defend you, is kissing you on a park bench in the middle of the night—and you're not dreaming.
It's clearly his first, but there's something so tenderly sweet about it that your heart trembles uncontrollably—enough to render something wet at your lashes by the time he's pulled back.
He pulls apart just to meet your gaze, and you've never seen him this relieved. "This is real." He restates, as if he can't quite truly believe it.
“We did just have our first official fight.” You murmur, cheek pressed to his chest.
"Official." He hums in acknowledgement. "I like that."
Your smile teethers into something soft when you feel the soft press of his mouth against the shell of your ear. "Yeah, guess our operation tonight ended in a success."
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
summary: when you struck the arrangement with damian wayne to act as your fake boyfriend for a party hosted by your ex and ex-best friend—you thought your choice made perfect sense. choosing damian wayne, the most logical, unattainable person you knew, removes the complication of feelings being involved. till of course, damian stops pretending.
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
content: flufff, damian wayne is a yearner and takes his role of being your pretend boyfriend very seriously.
"You are suggesting I partake in a fake relationship—" Damian Wayne stares down at you, still dressed in his lab coat, with what may be the closest to genuine concern you've ever seen on him, all cramped into the crease of his brows. "To help with your dilemma?"
"Exactly." Your grin is the only positive staple throughout this entire exchange, after your successful cornering of only the most unattainable medical student of Gotham University. "It's like a fancy title for an assignment partner but removing the word 'assignment', right?"
"Assuming that your ambitious plan would even work." Crossing his arms, Damian looks more unimpressed over your carefully planned spreadsheet titled 'Fake-Dating Operation' than the earlier assigned pairings by Dr. Lake. "Do humour me on your astounding confidence that I would even offer my assistance."
"We're already assigned together for the semester." You shrug. "What's one reunion party, and an hour spent pretending you don't hate my guts like you do with everyone else?"
He stares at you for a long beat, before his lips twitch into the smallest smirk. "I appreciate your attempts at lowering my expectations further on how idlers are able to accomplish wasting hours in a day. I expect your section of the report to be done by Sunday."
"Wait!" Your hand reaches out to grab at the ends of his sleeve as he moves past you. "I am an amazing fake partner. I provide free dog walks, cookies, amazing work ethic—it's practically a free service just for a little acting on your part!"
"I appreciate the desperation, and the answer is still a no."
"Wayne!" You call out as his sleeve slips out of your fingers, stopping in your tracks right in front of him—blocking the exit. "Damian, please."
His head tilts to cast you a disapproving expression. "My word of advice, is to gain enough respect for yourself to not be bothered by what others think."
Your lips pull together into a frown, but you refuse to be dissuaded, not when you've already laid all your cards on the table. You didn't expect it to be easy, and you had already prepared yourself for his vicious tongue.
"My self-respect has already been trampled on when they decided to send me the invitation." You state honestly. "It's scheduled for its revival in five weeks, after the party. I'll be a changed person by then, scout's honour."
His brow pulls higher, as if silently questioning if you had even part of the Gotham Scouts, but you're not done.
"But before then, I plan on being the pettiest, deranged person in all of Gotham University." You declare. "And that includes you in my plans, because you, Damian Wayne, are the only person who checks all my requirements of a fake boyfriend."
"I'm honoured." He mocks, gaze flickering past towards the hallway.
"You are Walter's role-model, he would kiss the test tubes you lay your fingers on. Paige has a Pinterest folder labelled with your name, and it has all your news sightings saved by colour coordination."
"Sounds like your issues derive more from the company you keep." He mutters, expression pulled together in disgust.
"Point besides, I want it to be you, Damian Wayne." You confess.
It sounds ridiculous, but this was fully concerning your pride and something you've forgotten in your years of working yourself away for your dreams, which was the taste for controlled chaos. He blinks once, staring at you incredulously as if deciding where to place you in his ranking of newly discovered lunatics.
"You're the only person who will drive them as insane as they've made me." Your voice chokes, filled with determination or buried rage, the difference didn’t seem to matter. "You could walk in there for just an hour to save my life, and I know that you won't have the slightest chance of complicating things, or falling in love with me—and that's what makes this perfect. This may sound crazy to you, but you're the only person that's made sense to me ever since my life was turned upside-down."
Your chest heaves, and your arms are still outstretched to stop him from leaving the lab. You're nothing like this—impulsive, frantic, verging on insanity—but you're also done being complacent. Of letting things go just because it's the right thing to do.
After what feels like eternity, Damian's expression flickers. Implicit and almost undetectable, but his gaze is on you as if he's finally registering your existence and trying to catalogue you into a different box than the one he's placed you in.
"Send the spreadsheet to my email." He answers apprehensively, as if he can't believe the words coming out of his mouth. "I will review through the calendar on its... feasibility. Expect a response by eight p.m.."
You let out a held breath, a smile finally breaking through. "Thank you, really—"
"On the condition that I expect you to finish your section by tonight."
Your expression freezes. "Tonight?"
"To prove your desperation's worth considering." He tosses you a mocking smile, all sharp edge and nothing considerable of warmth. "You have ten more hours before my interest wanes."
Your smile weakens, blinking rapidly as you calculate your remaining time to draft something of substance. "Okay, sure— that's not going to be a problem."
It's worth it. Dealing with Damian Wayne is going to be worth it.
I have reviewed through your spreadsheet in detail. Do answer my enquiries on my comments below.
- I believe watching romance comedy as 'theory practice' is highly inefficient and prone to fantastical expectations. Do amend this.
- As for my 'meeting' availabilities, I am free on Thursdays and Fridays at noon to two, on the condition that at least an hour be reserved for actual assignment discussions. You are required to provide evidence of actual progress for the assignment, or this arrangement will be considered void.
- Provide me a list summary on details for answers regarding possible interrogation questions during the party. It will be more efficient as compared to you providing me the details in person.
As for the assignment, your section draft is acceptable, and I expect our lab findings to be updated into your table by the following lab session next week.
Regards,
Damian.
You can barely contain your grin, kicking into the sheets despite the exhaustion that plagues your bones from grueling non-stop over the section and multiple tabs later. He had looked through your multi-coloured spreadsheet calendar, and actually considered it with his own enquiries. Typing out your own response, you give serious thought into his enquiries.
To: [email protected]
Subject: Reply: 'Fake-Dating Operation' Spreadsheet Review
Thank you for your detailed consideration of my spreadsheet. Your efforts are acknowledged and appreciated.
- I believe we are required to watch at least one rom-com that involves fake-dating. Neither of us have had previous experience in this department (unless you'd like to share valuable information), and it will boost our success rate.
- Perfect! I'm available on Fridays, and scout's honour, I promise to have my progress brought for each meeting session.
- As for the list, I will provide you possible answers, but some may require in-person explanations. I'll explain more this Friday!
Can't even express my thanks on how grateful I am, you're the best Wayne in history!
Signing off your name, you close your laptop with the giddiest smile you've had since—at the reminder, your grin falters. Your chest thuds faintly, as if reminding you that the fun you've just experienced can still be dampened by reality. No, you refuse to let it ruin your enjoyment.
This is the most alive you've felt in weeks, and you're going to make the most of it. If your life feels like it's finally picking up through colourful spreadsheet rows and columns, and waiting on an email reply from the most terrifying student in Gotham University—so be it.
Damian slides your extremely lengthy list across the lunch table, and you can barely hide your shock that he actually printed it out—before you catch sight of many red circles marked neatly around your points.
"Your least favourite vigilante is Robin?" He interrogates.
You blink in surprise, not expecting him to start there. "Well, he's not exactly original—I mean, c’mon, they’re multiple versions of him."
His lips part, aghast in a half-caught scoff. "He's one of the most prominent vigilante figures in Gotham."
You shrug. "Spoiler's cooler."
He clicks at his tongue. "You have horrible taste."
"You are not telling me that you, Damian Wayne, have a favourite and that is Robin?"
He doesn't blink. "There are several other questionable details in your list."
"Yes, I can see that." Peering back at your list, your brows furrow. "What's wrong with liking Gotham's Pizza?"
"Only that you're clearly fond of days-old grease and artificial cheese."
"Hey, that's where it gets its flavour."
He shakes his head, disgusted. "I refuse to be associated with someone who has non-functioning taste buds."
"Fine—we'll say we often have dates at Romeo's instead." You shrug. "Not like I'll be caught there after our agreement's expired."
He raises a brow. "Expired?"
Pointing at your open tab, you reference a newly added row. "Our break-up, scheduled for Monday after the party."
He stares at the date, before his gaze roams over you with a questioning look. "Despite my lack of experience, should you not consider the likely suspicions if you were to end a relationship three days after the party?"
Your lips part into an 'oh'. "I thought you would want to get it over and done with as quickly as possible."
His expression closes in, gaze narrowing. "I will not put my reputation at stake by agreeing to this facade, if it means having our efforts go down the drain because of an obvious flaw.”
Your grin slips out uncontrollably. “You just said ‘our’ efforts. Look at us, the perfect team.”
His expression remains impassive, before he raises a slow brow. “Switch to the assignment tab.”
“Yes, sir.”
Resting below a willow tree, your third Friday with Damian is spent resting below the shade on your picnic cloth—one you used to share with Paige. The sight of its red plaid, stuffed behind your piles of clothes in your wardrobe, was getting sad—even for you.
Damian’s back is resting against the tree bark, shoulders nearly taking up the width—brows impossibly furrowed as his gaze narrows on your laptop displaying ‘To All The Boys I Loved Before’.”
“This movie is non-sensical.”
“I think it’s romantic.” You shrug.
He tosses you a judgmental glance. “Having your own blood betray you by revealing your own personal letters, is your idea of romance?”
“I mean Lara Jean and Peter, Damian.” You snort. “That’s our main source of inspiration.”
“He’s hardly appealing.” He scoffs, arms crossing over the other. “Is this the standards you expect from our arrangement?”
“If this is mediocre—” You respond, aghast. “You have no idea how dire love can be nowadays.”
His frown deepens. “You are not expecting me to perform in this manner?”
“What—falling in love with me?” You grin. “No, I do not expect you to be Peter Lavinsky.”
He stares at you with barely concealed frustration. Before you can tease him further, something purple is tossed into your face.
A yelp escapes your mouth, the light weight of an object falling into your lap.
“That’s—the discontinued, limited edition Spoiler cap!” You gasp, eyes widening in realisation. “How did you get this?”
He shrugs begrudgingly. “My sister used to be a collector. She doesn’t mind giving it away.”
“Giving it away?” You mutter incredulously. “This is actual gold. Your sister is my favourite person on Earth.”
His brow twitches. “I bargained for that cap.”
You snort. “What did you exchange it for, your dignity?”
“You have no clue on my sacrifice." He grimaces.
“Your sacrifice is acknowledged." You tease, before letting out another huff of amazement. “This is the best day of my life.”
When your gaze falls back to the cap, tracing your fingers over the logo—you miss the twitch of his lips into a semblance of a smile.
You missed today’s meeting without prior notice. Not that your absence has affected my ability to resume our assignment, but after your frequent reminders to not miss on our mandatory meetings—it leaves me with doubt that you intentionally missed our sessions on your end. Do update me as soon as possible on your status.
Regards,
Damian. (Sent yesterday, 1.20 p.m.)
Subject: Reply: Reminder on Friday Meetings
I feel I must reinstate that my previous email regarding your absence, as well as this reply, should not be twisted in its meaning as more than a mere enquiry. Given previous evidence of the average speed of your responses, a full 24 hours with a lack of response prompts me to send another email. Do respond when you are able.
Regards,
Damian. (Sent today, 1.32 p.m.)
Three respectable knocks resound against your dormitory’s door. A groan escapes your lips, your head pounding from the cold you’ve caught from a late night running through pouring rain. You had missed the bus and had to make it back before curfew, and now your body is reminding you of its frail mortality, chills shaking throughout your limbs and rendering you heavily immobile.
The knocks echo again when you shift your head deeper into the pillows. You muffle curses into the cotton, gripping at your sheets to steady yourself as you force your body upright. The world sways on its axis as you make your way—shifting pathetically with every step, towards the door.
Missing your lock a few times, you finally grab a hold of the chain and slide it off, clicking the door open. You’re immediately faced with a broad chest, donning a familiar black sweater. Shifting your gaze up, you’re met with Damian Wayne’s narrowed gaze, sweat trailing down his temple.
“Damian?” Your voice croaks, and even the attempt of speaking hurts. “What are you doing here?”
He takes one glance, and immediately, his expression contorts in… concern? You barely have time to explain about the cold, or an apology for missing the meeting, when you feel the warmth of his palm press against your forehead.
You blink, stunned as he measures your temperature. He shakes his head slightly in a disapproving manner. “Your temperature is too high.” His tongue clicks with his observation.
You suppose he was right. You did feel one wrong step from keening over and lying on your welcome mat.
“I got caught in the rain.” You explain, trying your best to pull together a more reassuring expression, one less filled with nausea-induced tension. “I’ll be fine—just need rest.”
His frown creases deeper. “Have you taken medicine?”
You try shaking your head, but that loses whatever balance you had left. The world actually tilts, or maybe you are the one who's obeying gravity—but strong arms catch you before you collapse.
“Look at your state.” Damian grits, pulling you back upright but closer. There's barely any space left between the two of you. “This fever, has it worsened considerably?”
“Yeah—but I didn’t have anyone to call.” You mutter in truth, cheek still smushed against his chest as support. “I ran out of medicine a while ago, and by the time I woke up—I couldn’t get out of bed.”
You feel his arms tense around you. Above the crown of your head, you feel a soft sigh. “You have me.” He mutters, almost reprimanding.
Your brows furrow in confusion. “You would get me medicine?”
“That would be a start.” He states, his grip shifting with his words.
The world shifts again when his hands wrap around the under of your thighs, lifting you into his arms gently to not worsen your state. If your mind wasn’t completely swarmed by the symptoms of your cold, you’d stop to think of how strangely sweet it was that Damian had come all the way to your dormitory, and that he was carrying you bridal-style towards your bed.
”It’s not usually this messy.” You feel the need to point out, words muffled against his sweater. “You just have impeccable timing.”
His lip twitches involuntarily as he sets you down against the thrashed sheets. “Organised according to your system?”
You smile weakly at the thought of your colour-coded spreadsheet. “Exactly.”
He places his palm against your forehead again, and you subconsciously find yourself leaning into his touch. “You’re like—really warm.” You murmur. “Do you always run hot?”
He swallows, touch lingering on your skin. “Your temperature is dysregulated. I’ll return soon with medicine. Rest. I won’t be gone long.”
“Okay.” Your lids fall shut, the pounding lessening with your head burrowed into the pillows, and his touch a gentle anchor. “You know—you’d be a great boyfriend for someone one day.”
You don’t hear a response, and your honest thoughts continue to tumble out from your skull like a cracked jar. “You’re really nice, Dami.” The shortening of his name feels like cotton candy stuffed in your mouth, and you barely register the stiffening of his fingers. “Fierce, but I like that about you. I like you a lot, actually. Not in a swooning way, but in a—I’m really glad I met you kind of way.”
He doesn’t pull away when your lips finally clamp shut, but the silence is almost deafening. You peek open with one eye, catching his expression. He’s staring at you… as if no one’s ever said that to his face—ever.
“Don’t make it weird.” You tease softly, voice tethered with exhaustion. “I’m just giving you your deserved five stars.”
You hear the soft echo of his scoff, withheld from its usual bite, but you don’t hear much else after. Only that the lingering touch of his fingers over your skin stays put till sleep catches up on you, and the world falls silent under the weight of Damian’s gaze. Okay, maybe you were lying a little about the swooning.
Fevers fade, but the warmth that lingers seems to seep past the well-defined borders of a spreadsheet, or the predictable order of a list—like the one currently in your hand.
"Favourite vigilante?" You quiz, red pen bitten between your lips as you laid stretched on the wooden bench.
"Spoiler." He answers, tossing you an expression as if to convey that he couldn't believe you even bothered with such a question.
"Good job." You tease, fiddling with the cap of your pen, attached at the end. "Favourite date spot?"
"Gotham's Pizza." He huffs.
You blink. "Hey, it's supposed to be Romeo's."
"You prefer Gotham's." He mutters.
"But you don't." You remind him.
Averting his gaze to your lips, his fingers loop around the red pen, dragging it gently out from your teeth's grip, and adjusting the answer with a cross. "That's irrelevant. I'm merely pointing out an inconsistency."
Your lips quirk up into a smile. "You don't even need this list anymore. Why bother keeping it?"
Tension pulls briefly at his jaw, but it relaxes before you can trace it to an emotion. "You haven't tested me on all the questions."
You lean in, the crinkled paper resting below your fingers as you gaze into his eyes. "Alright? Something off the books." You hum. "What do I think of Damian Wayne?"
He blinks, surprised. You wait patiently, the warmth of summer carrying the scent of grass blades past the picnic table, the world narrowing into the space between the two of you.
His lips part after a moment. "Fierce." He answers. "Though you're one of the few who doesn't run from it."
"What's there to run from?" You hum. "I think he's nice, you should give him some credit for that."
His brow raises, amusement flickering in his gaze. "That's not a common perception."
"Yeah, but no one else gets to experience him being their partner." You tease. "He even offers to rearrange your dormitory to a better system if you're lucky."
He scoffs lightly. "That's only considering if the existing system barely works."
"Just say you hate colour-coding, Dami." You snort. "I know you're itching to fix our spreadsheet."
His expression flickers for a moment. "Not exactly."
You tilt your head, questioning. His gaze averts to the open spreadsheet, something familiar after the weeks spent together. "It's grown on me."
Grown on him—despite it being everything he initially found horrendous, from the many details pasted in long paragraphs into the comments, and the bright colours for the special shared Fridays between you two. Something warm pools in your chest, and you find your gaze trailing to the red pen held between his fingers instead.
"You're more prepared for this party than I am." You admit softly.
You feel his attention switch onto you, trained on the nervous tick you have where you hyper-focus on something brightly coloured. He twirls the pen once, considering.
"You don't have to go through with this." He says. "Just say the word. I'll honour whatever decision you make."
His reassurance makes you consider it, you really do. With the dreaded anticipation finally reaching its peak, with the party being tonight—you have stopped to think if it was worth it. To show up in a room where the story's long gone sour, and your presence is more likely to be a blight than a welcomed gift.
Then again, you hadn't prepared this all for nothing. You hadn't gotten to know Damian—for nothing.
"No, it'll be fun." You smile, meeting his gaze. "We'll be just like Lara Jean and Peter, but with better standards."
Damian's mouth twitches, almost imperceptible. "Agreed."
Your fingers catch onto the silk-like fabric of your dress. Once bought as a birthday present, you never had the chance to wear something like this. Walter had called it overkill, and you convinced yourself that you’d eventually find a day to wear the gorgeous shade without feeling inadequate for it. Nothing required overkill more than tonight.
Damian's promised to pick you up, even when you had reassured him that meeting at the venue was fine. You stare at yourself in the mirror, and something quivers in your gut.
You don't feel as brave as you'd like, not even in your favourite dress. The thought of the two people you once trusted most being together, exchanging normal niceties with you as if nothing had ever happened—you're seriously beginning to overthink just how horribly awkward this situation was going to be.
What if it wasn't like the movies? What if Damian saw too—just how horribly small you felt—and decided you weren't worth the spreadsheets and lists and medicine kit he over-splurged on when you caught that cold?
The party was going to be over in an hour, you had promised Damian the both of you would be present for no more than that duration—and now, you feel ridiculous in your own skin. You're tempted to text him if he wanted to ditch and just head to Romeo's instead—when you hear the signature three knocks of his against your door.
You swallow your fear-induced nausea back into your gut, and force yourself to open the door with something akin to a smile. Your expression freezes in place at the sight... of Damian tidied up.
You knew he was handsome, you obviously had eyes, but to see him in that white collared shirt that made his green eyes pop, loosened at the buttons, with his hair pulled back and just—wow. Damian Wayne, you were seriously going to the party with this guy? As your fake boyfriend?
You don't notice the way his own expression completely falters at the sight of you. Nor the way his fingers tightened into a fist, digging into his palms.
You only notice how the silence stretched out between the two of you lingers long enough to matter.
"Hey, handsome." You start, trying to regain your composure. "You cleaned up nice."
He blinks, as if stunned. His response comes out delayed, brows pinching together into something honest. "You are beautiful."
Not you look—as if he's only noticed. No, he emphasised the 'are', as if he's always seen it. Your heart doesn't quite know what to do with that information, or how to catalogue the way he's looking at you as if he's—not pretending.
"Thank you." Your voice comes out weaker than you intended, because for all his intensity, Damian being soft is what renders you stunned. "I still don't know if I should do this."
His gaze clears, something steady offered to you when you return it. "You don't need to be sure." He answers, offering his hand. "That's what I'm here for—so you will not be alone."
He's right. Despite your doubts, seeing him in front of you reminds you of the steady presence he's offered from the very beginning. Through your nonsensical email threads, the Friday lunches, the rom-com binging, rushing to the store to buy you cold medicine—your fears always quieted when Damian was near. Your smile brightens, taking his hand in yours. "Let's get this operation over with."
Walter catches sight of you first. His vision is perfectly facing the entrance, your ex's gaze meeting yours as soon as you step through the doorway—and he immediately taps on Paige’s shoulder. An insincere smile arrives on his expression, but it freezes in place the moment Damian enters with you.
He isn't the only one to notice. You knew the effect Damian had on others, standing out without even meaning to, much less in an environment like this. Damian doesn't seem bothered at all, because you feel his attention acutely trained on you instead. His hand rubs a soothing notion over your lower back, as if you're the only person he's aware that exists in the room.
Walter's gaze drifts, from the dress he hated to Damian’s hand wrapping around your waist. He puts the facts together, faster than you had when he and Paige had approached you with the news. The warmth leaves his welcoming expression, and he whispers something into Paige's ear.
Damian registers this entire exchange in under a second, and his hand tightens briefly on your waist, as if reassuring you that he was right beside you.
The distance closes in between you and the two people your life once revolved around, and you train your gaze on Walter, because you can tell immediately that Paige is struck by Damian's appearance, more so by his hand on your waist.
"It's been a while." Walter starts off, though his gaze barely lingers on you before switching to Damian. "Wayne, I don't believe we've been properly introduced."
"There hasn't been a need." Damian shuts him down.
The atmosphere turns icy the moment Walter registers the tone of Damian's voice. He laughs, astonished—and embarrassed. Paige finally recovers in an attempt to salvage the situation, pulling together her best smile.
"Well, it's lovely to have you both here." Paige starts, and her voice is distant—nothing like the girl you used to know, hidden under the blankets of your beaten IKEA sofa when watching Scream for the tenth time. "You look amazing, and—sorry, I'm just curious on how the two of you know each other?"
Her question is directed towards you, but Damian takes the lead. "She's my partner."
"Partner?" Walter chokes on his breath. "As in—"
You finally find your voice to speak. "We are seeing each other." It comes out levelled, matching Damian's.
Their shock registers in different levels. Walter's nears disbelief, while Paige—looks at you, betrayed.
"I didn't know about this." Paige stammers.
"Yes, you didn't." You answer shortly.
She stares at you as if she's seeing a stranger. "Right. I guess it's been a long time since we've caught up."
You're tempted to laugh. A long time is an understatement. You can feel Damian's low scoff against your shoulder, and the absurdity of the situation feels less gut-wrenching with him by your side.
"You know she's a real mess." Walter speaks involuntarily. "Like her apartment's an actual hazard. Isn't that right, Paige?"
Paige freezes, lips parting into a gap, but Damian's faster.
"I am aware—that she has her own unique system." Damian states, gaze narrowing in discontent. "It didn't take long for me to understand it, or to appreciate it."
"Appreciate it?" Walter sneers. "Are you sure you're talking about the right person?"
"Yes." Damian doesn't hesitate, eyes steady, fixing yours. As if he was conveying it to you instead of the audience, he answers. "I'm sure."
You swallow dryly, unable to hide the softened smile you usually reserved for him only when it was the two of you. Both of them catch sight of it, and you can sense the question becoming less of whether it was real, and more of the how.
It's easy to act in love when Damian's this close, muttering words like that, with his familiar warmth grounding you through the stagnant conversation. So instinctive, that you think it's easier than breathing.
You sense Paige shifting closer and you force yourself to focus, and casting her another glance, only to finally catch a glimpse of the girl who used to be your closest person.
“Hey, can we talk?” Her expression is vulnerable, tentative in her offer. "Y'know, catch up in private."
Damian immediately shifts you back slightly with his weight, but you place a hand tentatively on his arm. His gaze locks onto you, reading into your expression. His brow raises as if to ask, 'You're sure?'. You give him a nod.
"Fine by me." You murmur, because despite everything—maybe a part of you still wanted to hear the honest truth. For her decision, on when she decided you should’ve been cut out of the picture then forcefully glued back into what they envisioned to be the perfect way to continue their lives. Maybe you just wanted to see if the Paige you knew still existed.
The moment you enter an unoccupied bathroom, Paige presses the door shut and immediately turns to you. "You have to spill."
Your brows furrow. "On?"
"Damian Wayne." She points out as if it's obvious. "You don't even know him."
You blink once then twice, and something colder settles in the cavity of your chest. "Things change, Paige."
“I’m just worried. It's all just so sudden.” Her hand reaches out to grasp yours, and you resist the instinctive flinch. “You’ve always been sensitive, and a guy like him is just bad news. I mean—Damian Wayne? I get that it feels exciting, but he barely knew of your existence before and now, he's suddenly dating you? I just want us to be on the same page here, that it doesn't really make sense."
A scoff rises up your throat, barely constrained as she continues on, her softened voice a perfect replica of how she had been when you first made your decision to break up with Walter.
“You know I’ll always support you if you need me.” She reassures. “You can tell me anything.”
The anger bubbles so violently, and it hits you. That despite everything, you had came into this party hoping that maybe a fraction of the girl you knew—who cried with you on bathroom floors when you experienced homesickness, who celebrated when you managed to pass your first year of medical school, who was there for your entire life in Gotham—would still exist. That something would give way, and her leaving would make sense, to have a reason. You realise now, that you've only been giving her excuses on the basis of what she used to mean to you.
Your wrath gives way to something cold, absent of grief—only the need to rip your hand out of hers. You do just that, and her shock barely registers before you open your mouth. “No.” Your voice carries a finality, strength you’ve been trying to garner since the day you lost her. “You don’t get to define my relationship with Damian, when you never addressed ours.”
She blinks, affronted. “Is this about Walter? We've already explained—we only felt what we did after the two of you broke up—”
“No, this isn’t about Walter. This is about us.” The coldness in your tone finally strikes something honest in her expression. “You broke my trust, Paige, and then you invite me to this party cause you thought it would help make amends? I thought you brought me in here, to at least explain to me on what happened to us."
"You should've told me." She says, a frown stretched at her lips. "If you weren't comfortable being around me and Walter, we wouldn't have forced you to come."
We—the word runs through your mind like a tire screech.
“Yes, I wasn't comfortable—I nearly died inside when it happened." You raise your head. "I lost my best friend, who drove me to karaoke night whenever I needed to forget about home. I lost the girl who swore to re-watch all rom-coms that ever existed in the 90s before we both turned fifty. I lost the only person I trusted since I moved into this city, over what—a man? Was it worth it, was our friendship worth it?”
She swallows thickly, and you see a fracture of the girl you recognise under the glitter, and the tears collecting at her lower lashes. “I thought you understood—that I love him differently than you did.”
Your gaze doesn’t flinch at the admission. “You were by my side when he broke up with me, when I told you that he called my dresses ugly, when he said my attitude was too much, when he made me smaller because it was more convenient for him when I was quieter, and you still got together with him. Maybe I thought you loved me enough too, to understand why I wasn't comfortable with it.”
Her expression shatters, and tears drip down her cheeks before she harshly wipes at them, smearing her eyeshadow. “You don’t get to say that.” She spits out. “Making it seem like I chose Walter over you, when you brought in Damian Wayne.”
Your brows contort. “What are you talking about?”
“You decided to come to the party to—prove you suddenly became better than us just by being with a Wayne?” She snaps. “You're acting like this because you think he's going to stay—but you don’t seriously believe it’ll actually last when Walter could barely stand you?”
That anger, buried deep, comes alive with a roar. You take a step forward, causing her to inch backward as you close in. “That's all your taking from this?" Your scoff resounds coldly. "Damian was the one who was there for me when you left—so yeah, I have more trust in him to treat me like an actual person."
She flinches, her lips parting in the same way she had done earlier when Walter tried to make you small. Silent, and unable to do anything but lay there in her guilt of absorbing an idea of who you are in Walter's head, and erasing what made you human in her eyes.
"Rest assured. You will never gain my trust again to even know what’s going on in my life and the people in it, and you never will.”
Taking a step back, you look at her one last time. Of the mess of her makeup, the same puffy eyes whenever she cries that you used to immediately follow up with the instinct to comfort her. You feel none of that now. “Goodbye, Paige.”
She doesn’t call out your name when you turn your back on her, and she doesn’t come after you. You needed that, more than you needed her to be the person you thought she was. To be blunt, and truthful to yourself—even if no one but you believed in it.
The euphoric lightness of your body from finally severing the bond doesn’t last long, when a rough hand grabs at your wrist. Being twisted around, you’re faced with Walter’s accusing expression.
“What did you say to her?”
“What I discussed with Paige stays between us.” You answer coldly, tugging at your wrist.
His hand tightens more, almost bruising. “You’re bringing in that attitude of yours, when we were kind enough to think of you? To let you stick around our lives?"
You’re sick of this narrative, of acting like you should’ve been grateful they thought to include you into this sick little group from your past life as if they hadn’t completely burnt it into flames.
“Walter, get your hands off before I shove—“
A fist slams into the side of Walter’s face before you even have a chance to finish your sentence. Screams erupt from the crowd, or cheers—you can barely tell because your eyes are locked onto Damian, who’s grabbing Walter by the collar with chafed knuckles.
Multiple eyes are on them, but your own gaze is fixed on Damian’s expression, who has gone completely cold. Nearly murderous, and filled with uncontained wrath. His glare, almost deadly, is trained on his target in a way you’ve never seen him before. The composed, distant Damian—is nowhere to be found.
"You stay away from her." Damian growls.
"What the hell, man!" Walter spits, blood sprayed over his nose. "Do you seriously think she's worth—"
Damian drags him closer by the collar, and something inhuman flashes past his concentrated gaze. "She's worth more than you ever will dream of trying to be. You are nothing, and even daring to lay a hand on her is something you will pay for."
“Damian!” You shout.
That finally reaches him, past the simultaneous gawking and murmurs. It’s as if he’s reentered his own body, and Damian immediately drops Walter to the ground with a loud thud. Walter lands embarrassingly on his bottom, and his entire face has gone red with shame.
His gaze switches to you, and his wrath fades immediately into concern. His eyes fall onto your bruising skin, and his emotions fall apart into something colder. You have a feeling if you don’t get him out of this room, this fight may escalate into something much worse.
Pushing through the forming crowd, you reach out. “Let’s get out of here.” You plead, holding out your hand.
His gaze drops to your fingers, then back to the forming outline of a hand gripped around your wrist, and you see his calculating assessment. Damian leans lower, muttering something low into Walter’s ear. It is quick, but you see the way Walter completely freezes in place—his struggle evading from his body like a statue. When Damian’s eyes meet your frightened ones once more, he doesn’t hesitate a second longer before grabbing your hand.
Damian doesn't waste time in leading you through the crowd, towards the exit and away from the escalating noise—and into the night breeze. When the cold wind finally hits your skin, his hand remains firmly intertwined with yours as he guides you somewhere far away—the fact still lingers that Damian, perfect track record and Wayne prodigy, just punched someone for you.
“You punched him.” You mutter faintly, seated at a bench you’ve both found, crisp leaves surrounding you with the faint singing of crickets.
“He was hurting you.”
“Damian, the whole school’s going to talk about this.” You stress. “You’re going to get in trouble, possibly a suspension.”
His jaw clenches. “I am your partner.”
Damian’s agitated. Over the situation, despite there no longer being any witnesses to his supposed protection. His shoulders are tense, jaw clenched and his gaze—you recall how he had looked at Walter when he landed that first hit, the pure anger that seized him.
“Not a real one.”
He flinches, as if struck, and you knew immediately that your words landed wrongly. His emotions topple over the other, and you’re unable to name any that arises before it all falls apart like his body’s regained consciousness. Concealed, and distant.
“My mistake.” He mutters. “I’ve forgotten my standing.”
“Damian—”
“I do not wish to inconvenience you.” He states, words leaving in a bitter rush. “I have overstepped, I realise that.”
“Damian.” You call out for the second time, fingers reaching for his—and he finally breathes when your warmth seeps through his skin. You’re relieved he doesn’t pull away. “That came out wrong. I’m not mad you punched the jerk, I would’ve done it myself. I am glad you stood up for me, but I’m just confused on why you did it, because there's nothing at stake for you, only something to lose.”
His expression stiffens at the verbal admission of his visible frustration. This conversation sounds much too real, and the lines that have been carefully drawn are erasing themselves, leaving behind uncharted territory. One you weren’t sure how to navigate.
“You do matter to me, as more than a role.” You plead. “I don’t want you to think you’re someone I chose out of convenience. Please don’t believe that.”
His breath exhales low, controlled. His gaze flickers with the briefest uncertainty, and you realise how selfish you’ve been. This arrangement had been perfect for you, that you simply assumed it was the same for him.
“No, you are not at fault.” He mutters after a moment. “It is not your responsibility to handle the consequence of my actions. We had agreed on no complications, and I have done exactly that.”
His jaw tightens, before he finally spits it out. “I punched him because the boundaries of what was was real or imagined between us has never made a difference to me. He had hurt you, not only physically—“ His gaze shifts to your reddened wrist, and it darkens completely. “—but he is a culprit to your existing pain. I was angry, because I couldn’t comprehend that I was finally faced with the two morons who thought losing you was even a consideration, and to see them hold no remorse for it made me forget my place.”
“I’ve always excelled in being what others expected of me.” He mutters. “When you approached me, it was the first time I had not wanted to be confined to a role. I did not want to partake in a façade, because—I had wanted your request to be for something real. Then, you mentioned that you picked me because I had not the slightest chance of falling for you. It was ironic, and I knew then that I should've rejected your request."
"But I started to earnestly believe—that I could separate emotion and duty. I could be in your presence, and not feel the consequences if the arrangement ended—because nothing would be real.”
“Till I realised—how much it affected me to not have you truly at all.” He confesses. “I should’ve been honest, that this arrangement had become the opposite of what we’ve agreed upon. But I was afraid, of admitting that I wasn’t capable of control, of driving you away."
“Damian." Your frown deepens. "You’re not going to lose me.”
“I don’t know.” He blurts honestly. “I do not know how to handle want. I am built of structure, of worth to prove why I deserve to keep my position, that has always been what I’ve provided. I do not know how to want without providing substance to covet a person.”
“But I want you.” He exhales. “Not once has it been pretend for me, not when it had already existed before our arrangement. Every moment I reached for your hand, every time I checked that horrendous shaded calendar of yours. I rushed over the moment you went missing when you were sick, because I had wanted to look for you. I have never once hesitated in calling myself your partner, even knowing the role was temporary. I want you, in the real, complicated way—that I've failed in being what you needed me to be."
"That's not true." You break. "That's not what I need you to be at all, Damian."
He finally looks at you, a little less restrained—and almost startled at your words.
"If you had been real about this the entire time, Damian, then so have I." You admit. "I chose you because I thought you wouldn't have fallen for me, that is true—but that is because I also thought it was safe because I knew I was going to fall for you."
"I wasn't kidding when I said I like you." You confess. "In all of the complicated, real sense of the word, and you were always going be the one I was going to choose. Even if you had said no, I wouldn't have asked anyone else. I wanted you from the start, Damian, and that hasn't changed. I was going to ask you at freaking Romeo's after this, if you wanted this to be real too."
The moment those words leave your lips, Damian closes in. His fingers tug you by your waist, his hand wrapping around the nape of your neck, and his lips are on yours. Damian Wayne, who still has forming bruises at his knuckles from a fight he landed in to defend you, is kissing you on a park bench in the middle of the night—and you're not dreaming.
It's clearly his first, but there's something so tenderly sweet about it that your heart trembles uncontrollably—enough to render something wet at your lashes by the time he's pulled back.
He pulls apart just to meet your gaze, and you've never seen him this relieved. "This is real." He restates, as if he can't quite truly believe it.
“We did just have our first official fight.” You murmur, cheek pressed to his chest.
"Official." He hums in acknowledgement. "I like that."
Your smile teethers into something soft when you feel the soft press of his mouth against the shell of your ear. "Yeah, guess our operation tonight ended in a success."
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