A/n: I'm baaaaaccckkk somewhat. This is something that I've been writing for like, at least a year, so I hope it's good and if its not don't tell me.
C.W: bondage, dacryphilia, top Milo that eventually bottoms, free-use(? Kind of), sensation play, blindfolded, submissive Milo. Like, very submissive. If I missed anything, let me know
Tag list (I'm so sorry it's been a while): @indigo-greer-collins @ch3zzz @kxemii @darlin-collins @plutocries @ambrose-mp4 @elles-roses
"I just- I don't know what they want from me."
Sweetheart walked around the room, opening drawers and pulling things out. Things that Milo couldn't see. To be fair, Milo couldn't see much of anything, being blindfolded and all.
"They just expect me to work myself to death, and like, maybe a few years ago, I would've. But I got a home now, people that care about me, a beautiful man to come home to—" even in spite of their relentless ranting and pacing, they still found a way to make Milo's heart flutter, "I really don't have time for their bullshit."
And while his heart fluttered and his cheeks flushed pink from the compliment, he'd be lying if he said that was the only reason. No, the reason for his flushed cheeks was definitely more about his compromising position rather than their praise.
You see, the werewolf was on the bed, tied down to the bed post in such a way that he was completely exposed. Completely exposed.
The cool air of the bedroom kissed his bare skin and made him shudder, causing goosebumps to bloom all over his body. Normally, at this point, he'd be "beckoning" Sweetheart to touch him (it was more like begging, but he would never admit it). However, the ballgag in his mouth stopped him from doing anything other than drool all over himself.
Offering to be his mate's stress relief appeared to have awakened a few things in him because now he was rock hard and leaking all over the sheets while they kept complaining about their bosses.
"And they act like I have no idea what I'm doing. As if I'm some kind of rookie that has no experience whatsoever." Milo could feel the bed dipping under their weight as something soft (Too soft. Feather?) started to caress his tan skin, stroking over his nipples and making him twitch against the restraints. "I mean, I've been in this job for longer than some of them! Especially that dumbass Lucas-"
Milo let out a sound of utter frustration when Sweetheart took away the subtle pleasure that the feather brought him, and then whined when he heard a soft buzz. "Most people think he's only there 'cause he's fucking the boss, and truly? I'm starting to think so too." They placed the small vibrator over his oversensitive nipples, hard from the cold and a pulsing red from the way his mate had sucked on the little nubs before pushing him down onto the bed.
They kept on teasing him, their words falling almost on deaf ears as everything Milo could focus on was the hum of the vibrator against his erogenous zones, making him shudder and tremble underneath their touch. They moved the vibe down, down, down until it was right above his tip. He was able to feel the vibrations even though the toy was making no contact with his sensitive skin, like the air around him was vibrating. It was torture. Agony. Pure and simple.
Gods, he loved being their stress relief.
He twitched and bucked, trying to get the toy to make contact with his leaking slit, but the ropes mixed with a little bit of magic kept him down, forcing him to take this punishment with no ability to do anything, not even complain.
"I mean, I don't like thinking that my boss is only where he is solely because he's fucking my other boss," Sweetheart mumbled, scooting closer on the bed, their hair tickling Milo's ear and pulling a soft gasp out of him, which they swiftly ignored. "But like... there's really no other explanation as to why he's where he is. Especially when the boss is clearly giving him special treatment."
Milo was on the verge of screaming. Not that it would do much, seeing as how Sweetheart had be carrying the whole conversation by themselves as if nothing was wrong, as if they weren't mentally breaking him with every teasing touch, as if Milo wasn't on the edge of losing all sanity.
Still, he refused to knock thrice on the bedframe; their agreed upon safe action, since he couldn't use their usual safe word, being gagged and all.
"Hm?" Sweetheart finally, finally, seemed to have grown aware of Milo's need, and in an act of mercy, they cooed. "Oh, you poor thing. Right, I almost forgot. Here."
The gasp mixed with a groan that tried to escape Milo's throat died against the gag when the vibe pressed on the underside of his cock, right below his weeping tip. Sweetheart started to move the toy up and down, tracing the throbbing veins with a soft hum. The vibrations were nice. Soft. Not enough.
Milo couldn't remember for how long he'd been there. He supposed it shouldn't have been too long since his limbs felt just fine. But with the way his body ached and twitched with desperation, it felt like it had been hours.
And then, Sweetheart kept speaking. But their tone sounded more... distracted. As if they were going through the motions rather than really complaining. "And now they want to... to... um..." They trailed off, and Milo felt another bead of precum drip down his pulsating length.
He sighed in relief when the toy finally made contact with his sensitive head, feeling his balls tightening, his peak building up steadily, warmth spreading from head to toe. His thighs shook, his breathing became ragged, the little sounds that managed to escape the gag became whinier, and then...
Then Sweetheart stopped.
Milo could've cried.
"Ah, I just remembered, we had a meeting on Thursday and you won't believe what Jet told me—" They had to bite their lip to stiffle the evil chuckle that threatened to escape them as Milo pulled on the ropes and grunted like a feral animal.
But still, no knocking.
So with a smile, they took a bottle of lube, coating their fingers and Milo's hole with gentle, slow circles. "He said he wanted to reduce the technic department's funds by 12%! Can you believe that? He absolutely cannot do that. Those guys are already underpaid as it is." Their middle finger slowly made it's way inside, and then a second, scissoring inside and stretching him out.
Milo bucked his hips into their hand, tears prickling his eyes as the warmth barrelled towards him once again. They were hitting his prostate dead on. Like they knew his body by memory, like they could bring him to the highest heights of pleasure asleep.
And Gods knew they could.
He whined, trying to speak, trying to beg, trying to do anything to get them to just let him cum. But no words were able to leave his mouth, and the desperation only seemed to fuel his desire. He was right on that edge, and he knew what was coming.
Not him, that's for damn sure.
"And I told Jet that, but then he just dismissed me as if I'm just some... some idiot!" They thrusted their fingers hard before slipping them out, leaving Milo empty and clenching around nothing. "I mean, I've already proven myself to him time and time again. I think he has it out for me, for some reason."
The sound of clothes rustling filled Milo's ears, and he felt his heart soar, his core lighting up in anticipation, his dick twitching and jumping and spilling with even more precum. The sheets were a mess, and he was sure he'd have to turn the mattress around to properly sleep on it, but he wasn't thinking about that right then. All he could think about, all he could hear, all he could smell was his mate.
His beautiful, mischiveous, hard-working mate.
Sweetheart settled themselves over his thighs, something warm (so warm) and slick barely grazing Milo's balls. He sat still on the bed, almost afraid that the slightest of movements would make his sweetheart change their mind and go back to teasing him senseless.
"I just want him to take me seriously," Sweetheart murmured, their voice far too small and shy to belong to the person that was about to plow Milo through the mattress, no doubt, "I think..." They took the base of his cock in their hands, nudging his red tip against their entrance. "I've earned it."
He was hilted inside in a smooth, relentless stroke, their hips pressed against Milo's as he panted. Tears soaked the blindfold. Were they out of relief or desperation? He wasn't sure. All he knew in that moment was the need to get his sweetheart to fucking move.
Hie jaw was starting to ache and just like they could read his mind, sweetheart undid the gag stopping him from speaking, thick strings of saliva dripping from his mouth to his chest. "What do you think, My Love?" They asked. Sweetly. Far too sweetly for the way they were slowly grinding down on him, their silken walls throbbing around him in a debauched massage.
"Y-yeah," he choked up, trying to swallow the remaining drool that pooled on his mouth, "Yeah, yeah, you- uh..." shit. He had no idea what the fuck they had just said.
"I...?" They goaded him, the bed creaking with the movement of a very small, very teasing thrust. "Go on. 'I' what, My Love?"
Milo was panting, trying to shake his brain into working, into answering with something witty and clever, but it was like all the thoughts had been fucked out of his head and he hadn't even cum yet. "You, uh... Sweetheart, please..." Yeah, begging seemed like a safe option now.
Even though he couldn't see them, Sweetheart arched a brow up, their beautiful eyes raked down his body with a hunger that would've been expected from the werewolf, not his stealth mate. However, they were staring at him like he was food. Like he was prey.
And he sure as hell felt like it.
"'Please', huh?" They smirked, fingers walking up his muscular body until they stopped at his chest and their nails gently scraped down his abdomen. "'Please...', what? Hm? Use your big boy words. Beg for what you want."
That was it. They were done complaining. They vented, they bitched, and now they were ready to let out *all* their stress on Milo's pliant, willing body.
All he had to do was beg.
And beg, he did.
"Please, please, sweetheart, fuck me," he breathlessly pleaded, his voice almost unrecognizable to himself. "I... I want it. No, fuck that. I need it. Need to make you feel good. Just use me, baby. Use me to let out aaaaall your stress and tension, sweetheart."
And there was nothing else to be said because as soon as Milo finished the last broken, croaked out word, they were already pulling him out halfway and slamming all the way down. They set a powerful and slow pace, making Milo's body jerk and jolt with each movement. Moans and groans left his lips shamelessly, too fucked out to even try to hold back.
Sweetheart wasn't any better, though. Soft whimpers and moans left their lips because even though it was them setting the pace, the unavoidable stretch of having Milo's thick length inside them was enough to make them lose their mind. It was almost like they could feel the stress of the week draining from their body with each thrust, their mind melting into something syrupy and hazy.
They grabbed onto the bedframe, their knees tightening their hold around Milo's waist as they began to gyrate their hips in patterns that the werewolf struggled to comprehend. A choked out gasp mixed with a low growl left his lips when he realised that his beloved mate wasn't just drawing random patterns on his cock.
They were spelling something.
M-I-N-E-M-I-N-E-M-I-
"Sweetheart, fuck!" He whimpered -whimpered- and bucked his hips up, chasing after his embarrassingly quickly approaching orgasm. "'M gonna... baby, please, 's too much..." his voice cracked, and it would have flustered him if he wasn't because of his uncontrollable neediness.
Normally, he'd be able to hold back a lot longer, even with the teasing and the sheer attractiveness of his mate claiming his fucking cock but with the added bonuses of his lack of sight and touch, it was almost impossible to hold back his orgasm.
That is, until Sweetheart stopped again. And this time, Milo does cry and thrash against the ropes like they personally offended him. The wood of the bedframe creaked and groaned under Milo's struggling, and Sweetheart knew he could easily get out of his restraints if he wanted to. By knocking, saying their safeword, using magic, or simple brutal force.
But he didn't.
He just took a few (many) deep breaths, calming his own racing heart down as Sweetheart settled comfortably on his hips, cockwarming him so nicely yet so cruelly at the same time.
"Not yet, My Love," they murmured, leaning down to pepper soft kisses on his cheeks, his nose, his forehead... all over his face. Such a tender gesture for such a sinfully pleasurable moment, it only served to make his shaft twitch and leak even more pre inside them, coating their walls with his translucent liquid.
"Sweetheart..." he mumbled, voice breaking in the middle of the sentence, not even coherent enough to beg any more, his mind turned to mush.
His mate simply chuckled, the soft sound making their gummy walls shift and flutter around him, drawing another groan out of his lips. "Shhh, not like this." Slowly, the lifted their hips, sliding him out of their warmth so very gently, and—
He couldn't hold back.
He came.
The moment his dick slid out of them completely, the head hitting his abdomen, spurts of white dribbled out of his slit pitifully, twitching and jerking erratically. "Sweet—gah!"
Tears soaked into the blindfold, and he shook and sobbed as the high died down, desperate for more. The orgasm hadn't been nearly enough to please him, and he knew his sweetheart felt the same.
"Awww," they rumbled over him, elegant fingers trailing down his chest, down his abdomen, and collecting the seed spilled. "You just couldn't help yourself, could you?" His hips bucked as he heard a quiet slurp.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he cried, spreading his legs wider, whining like a kicked dog. "Please, please, sweetheart, don't stop. Use me, use me. I can take it, don't stop 'till you're satisfied. I can still—" his pleading was cut short as he felt something warm, blunt, and wet press against his entrance, sliding in one smooth thrust. A sharp gasp escaped him, his head falling back against the headboard with a soft thud. "Yes... Yes, sweetheart, please..."
No more words were uttered from Milo's mouth as his sweetheart began to grind into him, not even thrusting, just rolling their hips as if they couldn't get deep enough. Soft pants fell from their lips as their hands roamed over his body, exploring every inch they already knew from memory, but enjoying and indulging in their lover's body nonetheless.
"Just like that, love," they uttered into his ear, making him cry even harder, their thrusts growing in speed and force. "Can you cum again for me?"
"I—" he choked on his tears, his thighs shaking with the restraint of not tearing the ropes apart and simply taking what he needed. "I can, I can!"
"Then do it." They ordered in that firm, all-bussiness-no-bullshit voice of theirs that he loved, made his cock twitch every single time. "Cum for me. Only me. You're mine, Milo."
It was as if his name was the key behind his orgasm, his body shaking and thrashing against the sheets as he shot rope after rope of cum, painting his own chest and even getting some on his chin, which of course, his Sweetheart licked clean. "Thaaaat's it, just like that, such a good mate." Their praise echoed in his chest as the ropes holding his legs apart finally snapped, allowing his thighs to wrap around their hips and forcing them still inside him.
He felt them shudder, a quiet groan escaping them. In fact, it might've not been quiet at all, but everything felt distant and foggy as Milo laid there, covered in sweat and tears and drool and cum, floating inside his own body, his mind hazy with bliss. He couldn't focus his sight, too busy focusing on the nice, cool air filling his lungs.
With a soft grunt, his sweetheart pulled out, leaving him hollowed out, empty of everything he had to give, and yet more fulfilled than he ever felt in his life.
"Good boy, you did such a good job for me," he heard them say, their dry and yet still soft lips pressing against his forehead before they pulled away. "Let me just..."
They untied him, allowing his blood to circulate as normal, his hands buzzing pleasantly. They didn't ask him any questions, they knew he wouldn't be able to answer, simply humming as they cleaned him up and rubbed lotion into the redness that the ropes had left on his skin.
Milo felt himself drifting in and out of sleep, finally fully settling into consciousness once the sheets where changed and he was snuggled up against his mate under a light blanket, his skin cleaned, his mouth still tasting of the fruit they had cut up for him, and his throat hydrated.
"Hey, sweetheart," he mumbled, wrapping his arms around them and rubbing their back. "How was that for some stress relief?"
They laughed, and it was the best sound Milo had ever heard as he swallowed it in a kiss.
Asher, Guy, Darlin, and Elliot seem like people who are fighting for their lives to put on a fitted sheet.
Huxley can't fold or sort laundry; socks end up in the shirts pile, and he doesn't know the difference between his clothes and Damien's.
Gavin and Ollie are bad at directions. Gavin can't read a map.
Blake, Cutie, and Anton are bad at spelling.
Ivan, Freelancer and Milo are wonky parallel parkers.
Neither Hush nor Doc can arrive on time.
Treasure and Avior are lost on social media, whereas Honey, Starlight and Xavier go down deep into social media rabbit holes; threads, video series', drama.
Vincent is bad at doing taxes.
Lasko, Smartass and Aaron can't decorate their homes and offices to save their lives, their spaces look like brutalist, minimalist hellscapes. Smartass's phone had the same blue geometric default background for six years.
Damien and Sunshine break their phones a lot.
Porter is always three years behind on fashion trends, but dresses the trends to a T.
Could you write a Corvus and Dreamer sickfic(if you haven’t already ofc)? I would love to see what u think poor Corvus would do when trying to help a sick Dreamer hehe thank you!
(a/n: this is so stinking cute!! reqs open!)
"And you are certain you do not want any healing magic? At least to speed the process al–"
"No." they croaked, forcing a steeled resolution through the frogginess clouding their throat. They were currently sprawled out on the couch, two pillows fluffed to the ninth yard and beyond wedged beneath their neck, with a smattering of crumpled tissues littered around their person. "No healing."
In truth, they cringed at the thought of any magic being performed on them, even if it was ultimately to their benefit. They wanted their body to recover the natural way, with all the aches, pains, and sniffles that came with it.
"Right." Corvus said, standing awkwardly in front of them, his eyes dancing along their supine form, the tissues on the ground, and the obvious air of disregularity around them. His body was drawn tight, fingers curling around some invisible object, as though he were using an abacus to count the number of symptoms they were exhibiting and chalking them up to a worrying conclusion.
They sighed. "I could use a glass of water for my throat."
Corvus all but snapped to attention, nodding fervently enough to set a normal human's head rolling, before jetting off to the kitchen and returning with a cup, ice softly clinking against the rim. He set it on the coaster with laser focused precision, then stepped back with an expression of both concern and an obvious nervousness for approval.
"It's super refreshing, Cor," they rasped, "just what I needed."
Corvus nodded once more, then went back into his somewhat fidgety resting state. A beat of silence passed before they gave another slow exhale.
"I think it's been enough time from my last dose of cough medicine, if you want to grab it–"
Two seconds later, a plastic cup full of a perfect measurement's worth of medicine plopped itself down into their hand.
"I could use a blanket."
A soft throw landed over their body, the edge finding its way under their chin in just the way they liked.
"The air feels dry."
A portable humidifier whirred away on the end table by their head, making every subsequent inhale that much easier.
"You seem very well-versed in the tips and tricks of human healing for someone who didn't even know what a cold was when I said I was getting one." they observed as Corvus sat gingerly by their feet, his eyes still blatantly scanning the rise and fall of their chest for any stutters or hitches.
"I researched." he replied in a softened tone. "Illnesses are not something I have knowledge of, so I sought to rectify that in order to help you as best I can."
He shot a look over to them, peering anxiously. "Is it...is it working?"
They smiled, reaching out to clasp his hand in theirs.
I’ve come to make an announcement: Shadow the Hedgehog’s a bitch-ass motherfucker, he pissed on my fucking wife! That’s right, he took his hedgehog-fuckin’ quilly dick out and he pissed on my fucking wife, and he said his dick was “this big,” and I said “that’s disgusting,” so I’m making a callout post on my Twitter.com: Shadow the Hedgehog, you’ve got a small dick, It’s the size of this walnut except WAY smaller. And guess what? Here’s what my dong looks like! That’s right, baby, tall points, no quills, no pillows — look at that, it looks like two balls and a bong! He fucked my wife, so guess what, I’m gonna fuck the Earth! That’s right, this is what you get: my SUPER LASER PISS!! Except I’m not gonna piss on the Earth, I’m gonna go higher!! I’m pissing ON THE MOON! How do you like that, Obama?! I PISSED ON THE MOON, YOU IDIOT!! You have twenty-three hours before the piss drrrrroplllllllets hit the fucking Earth! Now get outta my fucking sight, before I piss on you too!
His name never sounded sweeter, but the pleas fell on deaf ears. If it wasn't for the fog that their brain was swimming in, they would think with every another one that they managed to stutter through gritted teeth that he doubled the efforts, his long, slender fingers digging into the meat of their thighs that barely could be kept still.
Their whole body felt like it was on fire, writhing under his touch like a rowdy, untamed horse only he had a way with.
It started simply. They wanted to check out the place that just opened, he said it would be his pleasure to go along. Everything was finally going well for them, so a treat was bound to happen sooner or later.
The complications began the moment they called for him to get his insight on the outfit. The shirt didn't feel right, and why not use the extra person that lived in the same apartment for fashion advice? Especially if the person was always kimd enough to tell them they looked amazing? They may have been a little vain, but who isn't?
He didn't say anything upon seeing them. He just grabbed their hand and pulled them closer, lips inches away from theirs, hesitating, before pulling them in for a kiss that shook their knees. Then, it was just an easy walk back to the bed, them being settled on the soft sheets, legs hiked up as he kept kissing the spot that they deemed imperfect. To make up for the insult they dared to speak of themselves.
"Blake–"
He mumbled something incoherent, too occupied with matter at hand. And mouth. And the tip of his nose that grinded in slow circles that has been driving them up the wall.
"Blake, please–"
He pulled away, just slightly, to draw enough breath into his lungs, lunging once more to the spot between their thighs that began to shake, wrapping around his head and squeezing tightly, back arching because how deep they were feeling him. How overwhelming, how warm and wet and him.
As they laid there, head on a pillow he slept on, sunlight catching their face and leaving a trace of a faint halo on top, he thought he already died and met an angel. That's what they were to him, the guardian angel, the one to protect him from himself, as he was losing it, only tether to the real world being their fingers digging so deep into his scalp he was sure it would break the skin or worse. Did it matter?
No.
Only thing that mattered was them whining his name and spasming on his tongue like a vice.
"Just...just a little more, please, please ple–"
He gave more than they asked for, groaning as the final twitch made him shudder, blissed out eyes finally opening to look up at them, spent and panting, deadly grip on his hair finally easing up.
He outdid himself, he had to admit, seeing how they trembled and gasped for air, hands reaching for him on instinct. He nuzzled their thigh as a half meant apology.
"We were supposed to get dinner." the blaming gleam in their eyes when they finally could take a proper breath only fueled the smirk he had on his lips that glistened in the sunlight.
He wiped them with top of his hand, the other one already reaching to the silver belt buckle that barely kept the pants on as they hung low on his hips, waist worth a crime.
"I'll just go straight for the dessert." the same skilled fingers now undid the clasp, making them gulp with both anticipation and dread of how much more would he offer.
Everything that he always spoke of gained a new meaning.
summary: you had always adored damian… till you overheard his complaints to his brothers on your clinginess. so why was it that when you decide to give him what he desires, he is the one trying to close the gap he desperately wanted?
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
content: hurt-comfort, angst+fluff, hea, grovelling+yearning, desperate damian who bites his own words that make him go through it, reader with boundaries
“She’s clingy.”
Damian’s voice is unmistakable. Cut-throat, swift in its delivering blow. Even with his back turned to you, you could recognise it in a heartbeat.
“C'mon, Dames.” Dick teases. “You enjoy her company.”
A cold, scathing scoff echoes. “Her smothering can barely be considered company. Consuming my entire week—then coming along to the gala just to torment me further? You're mistaken.”
Pressing the gap of the door shut, your numb fingers dig into the wood. His bitter admission parted from his lips so easily. His harshly thrown words didn’t just shatter your heart physically into pieces—no, there isn't a harsher tidal wave crashing over you than the realisation that whatever bond you shared with Damian was a complete, utter lie.
Damian, who was prone to being harsh with his words, but had never gone out of his way to hurt you on purpose. You had even considered it a charm of his, because there had always been something tender laced within his actions, that always spoke louder than his words.
When he quietly swapped his plate with yours, a quiet consideration without ever once looking up, having memorised your allergies without you realising.
When he subtly placed his hand behind your back in galas, chasing off vultures who aimed for your status, with a silent glare that places you under his direct protection.
When he carried you all the way to his bedroom after a bad sprain on your ankle from a bad fall down the stairs in his manor, with biting remarks and a tender caress over your swollen skin as he applied an ice-pack, worry creased into his brow.
Was it all a ruse?
The wound is only inflicting on itself with every memory torn apart and searched for any evidence, any signs for his dislike. You trusted Damian, which is why it hurt so much to hear him talk about you this way. As if those small moments were all mere inconveniences for him, that burdened him. You had assumed he at least reciprocated your friendship, but now… if only he had faced you instead, with an honest willingness to express how uncomfortable he was.
If it was space Damian wanted, he should have communicated it with you. Instead of mouthing it to his brothers behind your back, without allowing for your voice of input to clarify on the boundaries he wanted.
You don’t notice time passing, standing in the corner of the hallway, your heels digging into the soles of your feet—till you felt a heavy hand on your shoulder. You flinch, brushing the sudden grip off only to find Damian in your swarmed vision. Concern flickers in the green flecks of his eyes… or was it annoyance? The ability to read through his mask, it feels as if it’s been an illusion all along.
“Spaced out?” Damian taunts, one brow cocked at your strange behaviour. "I told you not to come."
I told you not to come. You’re not sure what is the appropriate response, not when you feel a clog in the back of your throat. You never had to think twice on your words before, not in front of him.
“Tired.” You admit, because at the very least, that word carried a semblance of truth. You’ve never felt more exhausted in your life, and the culprit was standing in front of you, completely unfazed. “I think I should head home.”
His eyes widen imperceptibly, not expecting you to take his words so literally. You were never one to skip out on a dance before a gala has ended, no matter how boring the event was. Often, you’d drag him by the arm as your partner, only because the look on his face was easily the best memory of the night. At least, it should’ve been.
His lips part, ready to form his signature 'I told you so', but your ghastly expression makes him hesitate. He clears his throat, offering his hand and slotting himself by your side. “Very well. I’ll escort you.”
“No.” It blurts out quick, desperate.
His surprise slips through his impassive expression. His hand still outstretched—freezes, doubt etched into the crease of his mouth.
“You should be with your family.” You reply, straining a smile. “I won’t take up more of your time.”
It was meant to sound considerate, but the quickness of your tongue made it sound like a solemn promise.
His eyes narrow in puzzlement but you’ve already turned, moving out of his reach towards the exit. He doesn’t make an attempt to stop you, and it hurts that maybe, part of you still hoped he would. To prove his statement wrong, that you mattered more than being a nuisance.
You’ll give him what he wants. Space. Maybe you needed it too, to understand the emotions weighing on you. This hurt—betrayal—shock, you needed time to process it. To reevaluate what Damian Wayne really means to you.
Damian hasn’t heard from you in two days. In the past forty-eight hours, he has tracked your location to ensure you weren’t kidnapped, or lost your phone. Both suspicions were refuted, and the only anomaly that remains is your uncharacteristic silence ever since that night at the gala.
His gaze flickers back to the opened message channel, where his text ‘Have you arrived?’ remains unread. Running a hand through his locks, this may be Damian's first—for his conclusions to come up empty. His text was a mere front, an opening to ask about your wellbeing. His confidence in your reply was absolute, and he never once considered ending up in this standstill. Despite being apart from your constant presence, he finds that you’re somehow occupying more of his mental capacity.
He should’ve went after you the moment he saw that strange, desolate expression on your face when he found you, hidden alone in the corner. Your solemn attitude rang caution bells, concern—which is why he offered to bring you back. It was instinctive, natural. He never expected your rejection. The sting caught him off-guard, words of concern trapped in his throat. He didn’t master the skill of comfort as easily as you did, with sweet, honey words easily coming to your forefront.
He’s overthinking the situation, analysing it till the details have gone runny in his hands—blurry aside from the clear vision of your back turned towards him. Still, there was something about your goodbye… that left him strangely unsettled.
"There you go again." He hears your teasing voice, already memorised in his mind—a poke of your finger against his cheek. "Overanalysing the situation. Just ask me, Dami."
He shakes his head, trying to dissuade the many possibilities that ended in zero conclusions. It’s not a big matter. Today was one of the rare occurrences where his biology classes coincided with yours, leaving a lunch break where he could demand for answers. He’s sure that once he sees your usual, brightened expression—the discomfort in his chest will disappear.
Damian waits with strained patience outside your lecture hall. Various eyes are casted onto him—a rare, Gotham Times worthy sight of a lone Wayne waiting for some mysterious figure, but the attention is none of his concern. His eyes are locked on you instead, watching you pack your bag through the open gap of the door, the AC blasting a cold breeze against his nose bridge.
You’re laughing at some unheard joke from this distance, and it should soothe his worries—to see you refreshed compared to your exhaustion two days ago. He understands better than anyone how exhausting those galas are, which is why he tried to dissuade you from attending in the first place. Still, you had insisted on accompanying him, much to his chagrin. He at least hoped you didn't flunk your midterms today by overexerting yourself, despite his previous warnings, or else he really wouldn't be able to restrain himself from saying I told you so.
All fleeting thoughts of teasing you are discarded at the sight of an unknown blond male, chatting you up and making you laugh as hard as you did. His foot taps in a repeating manner, discomfort swarming in his chest the longer he watched, before catching his own fretting and forcing himself to stay still. This unknown variable is not a problem. Once you spot him, you'll come to his side instead—naturally.
This reassurance paces his impatience, waiting for you to notice him as you made it towards the door. His chest rises, anticipation creeping in as your head raises—and meets his gaze.
You smile, like you always do, and it has the same application of a soothing balm over the minor migraine he's formed from over-checking your coordinates. Waiting for you to come to him, his lips part with a ready excuse for why he came to find you instead of meeting at your usual lunch spot.
Only for you to walk right past him.
He blinks, unable to process what just happened. Impossibly in a single moment, he became invisible to your eye. His mind works in overdrive, unable to piece the facts together that you just walked past him. The probabilities calculated don't align with reality, but his body reacts faster. His hand reaches out, grabbing onto your wrist impulsively—right as you made your turn towards the hallway.
You stumble, gaze flickering down to his grip in surprise. “...Damian?” You blink as if stunned, like you hadn’t just walked past him like he was a ghost.
“You haven’t responded to my messages.” He blurts out with almost immediate regret. Now, his position comes off as a confrontation, and that blond is staring at him with vague amusement. Pathetic, he feels shame burn in the back of his throat. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
You stare at him unblinkingly, before your mouth parts in acknowledgment. “Ah, that. Tim should've updated you, did he not?”
Tim. A heated frustration arises in his chest, but he can’t figure out what exactly is stoking the fire. The realisation that you prioritised Tim's messages over his, or your strange nonchalance to his concern. “You’ve been conversing with Drake?”
“I needed his help with finding a new collection—he’s also a fan of the series.” You shrug. "With the midterms and his constant updates about the shipment from Japan, I must’ve missed yours."
“Your business with Drake isn’t my concern.” He spits out, harsher than intended. An uncomfortable slither of emotions is writhing in his chest, and the thought that you and Tim have been conversing in secret all along these past two days, bonding to something he wasn’t privy to... it was irritating.
Why had you gone to Tim instead? If you had asked him, he could've easily gotten you the collection.
“What is our relationship then?” You implore casually, eyeing his reaction. “If your concern is so situational."
Whatever he was expecting, he didn’t expect that. His lashes flutter, his composure all but ruined as his mind tries and fails to merge the you he knows, and the you in front of him. You don't seem angry. So, why was he beginning to feel a sense of dread?
“Weren’t you the one who always decided the labels for us?” He asks after a moment, his voice rough against the unexpected impact of your question.
Your expression finally flickers, disappointment slipping through the cracks of your smile. His response has displeased you, even he could read into that.
“I’ll let you answer for us this time.” You reply, and it’s distant—cold. Unlike you. “You can choose whichever you deem fit.”
“Wait.” His rushed voice sounds desperate even to his own ears. The sight of your back turned towards him is something he never wanted to see again. His gaze flickers between you and the blond, questioning. “Are we not supposed to have lunch together?”
You turn back, staring at him with an unreadable expression. Your smile reappears, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’m having lunch with Lawrence, so it’s okay. You don’t need to accompany me.”
Damian views the world akin to a battlefield. There are allies, enemies, changes in fronts and positions. He has fought hard to feel deserving of every position in his life, whether it had been his grandfather's heir, his father's blood son, or Robin. Right now, he feels as if his position beside you has been ripped out of his hands. Accompany? Is that how you saw it, like some sort of duty imposed on him that you could dismiss him of whenever you pleased?
"See you around, Dami." Even his nickname given by you comes off flat from your tongue. As if you were going through the motions, interacting with him from behind a wall that's suddenly been constructed without his notice.
You weren't completely ignoring him like he suspected, but this distance... feels much worse.
There was something, very obviously wrong.
You aren’t sitting beside him. In the seat reserved for you, that’s meant for you.
It had been set from the very start, maybe initially because the two of you were the only children ever-present during family business dinners... and later, with your constant chattering that the adults found had an amusing effect on him.
He's gotten used to exchanging cuts of his meals with yours, or swapping his glass if his had more ice cubes in them, because you liked your beverages freezing cold. Used to you whispering unrelated stories and jokes into his ear when his father talks business with your father, and he has to resist a quirk up his lips because it would mean that you won in your little game to crack his exterior. Now, it's as if an entire routine has been disrupted, and Damian was a man of routine.
He watches you, eyes like a hawk over your every movement, trying to detect any pause in this unreachable mask of yours. You slice your steak without fault, placing your cut between your lips as you nod along to your father's words, seated at his right hand. You don't blink an eye in his direction, and he's tempted to walk right over and drag you out of that very chair.
To corner you in a space without prying eyes, and... what? He swallows dryly, forcing himself to look back down at his untouched meal. What could he say without sounding like a lunatic?
That he suspects that he's done something wrong merely because you've switched seats today? Or that you've been skipping out on lunches with him. Or all the way back to that cursed gala, when you had refused his hand to escort you back home.
Another troubled ‘Tt’ slips past his gritted teeth, and that finally reaches your ears.
When he meets your curious gaze, a silly gust of hope appears so quickly in his chest at the luck that he's finally caught your attention. He raises a brow, a silent question, gesturing to head to a private room with the tilt of his head. You've always understood his silent words better than anyone else did.
Which is why it shocks him when you merely cast your gaze back to your father, leaving his question unanswered. He wasn't deluding himself in this occasion. You're clearly rejecting his gesture, pretending as if you never saw it.
His grip tightens, crumpling into the table cloth, shame colouring his features. He has to put an end to this. Regardless of your coy act, he knows you. Maybe you had a bet with one of his brothers—who knows what schemes they've configured after their constant interrogations during the gala, successfully running a fuse on his temper.
Or maybe, he’s displeased you with an inadequate response. You had mentioned it before, the term 'labels'. Honestly, he never once considered trapping you in something so jarringly concrete. Bonds, human connections—they were always needlessly complicated.
What you meant to him, it expanded beyond the limitations of languages. You, who saw past his sharp exterior and pushed him beyond his limits, and him, who found himself staying despite every rational thought pleading him not to expose his weakness so easily out in the open.
It was simply natural from the moment he met you, instinctive to remain by your side just as you always found a place to slot beside his. Terrifyingly easy, that he refused to let anyone see the softness you evoked out of him. It was meant for you, and only you. Now, the strike of your absence, despite being only a few feet away from him, is running a deeper cut into his conscience, tracing back to the questions that's been bombarded on him by his siblings.
But—what does she mean to you, Dames?
What would your life look like without her?
In a desperate attempt to brush off questions that aroused a panic he had never felt before, he came up with quick, venom-filled words to dissuade his brothers. Oddly enough, he never wished to reveal what you meant to him, not aloud.
It made it feel too real, too vulnerable. As if the world could swallow you whole if he admitted just how irreplaceable you were, that he couldn't envision a life without you by his side. His grandfather had made it so—that any weaknesses should be removed from its roots.
He did not want to remove you from his life, so you are not his weakness.
He's tempted to curse his brothers to oblivion. If only they hadn't sprung such obnoxious questions, then these thoughts wouldn't be invading him, and the universe wouldn't have punished him for it.
He had already felt the brimming inevitability of something bound to go wrong the moment he was faced with vulnerability. If it had been anyone else, he would have retreated in a similar manner as he always had. To not show weakness, to prove that he was above silly affections and attachments to others—but it's you.
He has to fix this. Whatever it is that's wrong. If only you would look at him, then maybe you'd see his desperation too and let him in.
Damian doesn't receive an opening till the next gala. A cruel twist of fate the universe has decided to play on him, as if openly mocking his distress, to end up right back where the entire fiasco started.
He's barely kept himself sane. In these past two weeks, you've only responded to his messages—horrible attempts of reconnection, with mere one word replies, and visited the manor to hang out with his other siblings. When he had caught you lounging on Tim's bed, ranting about the new series you both were so invested in, he nearly tore the door straight off its hinges.
He craves for your silly rants during lunches. Your presence dipping the corner of his bed as you sketched doodles of his family in their vigilante costumes. Your warm laughter that soothes a long night of patrol.
He misses you... terribly.
It doesn't help that you're a vision tonight, only worsening the trembling ache in his chest. Dressed in your favourite colour that make you so strikingly vivid, already seared into his mind as he stares unblinkingly, he doesn't realise he's been holding his breath till your heels click with an ever-increasing volume towards him. Your nearing approach is what finally snaps him out of his daze, and his hand immediately shifts. Out of mere habit, for you to hold onto his arm as always.
Your hand doesn't lift to meet his, remaining stuck to your side. It pushes him off balance, and he has to force himself to respond when you greet him.
"You...look beautiful." He admits, his voice a weakened imitation of itself. He hates this, and you look—you are beautiful. So much so that it hurts. Even if he tried to reach his hand out for you, he has the suspicions that you’ll only back away from his touch.
"Thank you." You smile politely, and the tone of your voice, practiced and composed, stings.
His lips part, ready to pull you aside and ask what he has done wrong. He is ready to do whatever you ask, to plead for forgiveness so long as that look in your eyes finally fades, anything to get you back. The real you, not hidden behind cruel distance and polite masks.
A familiar, dreadful face cuts in before he can. Damian’s gaze hardens, trained on the blond that's been trailing after you since two weeks ago, who currently has his hand outstretched for you. His scowl falters, panic swarming his instincts—when your own hand reaches out to take the stranger's invitation.
He utters your name, a weak pulse forming a lump in his throat.
You turn back, casting him a quick glance like his existence was an after-thought. "Lawrence offered to dance with me earlier. We'll catch up later, Dami."
His chest seizes completely. He doesn't process the alteration of his own steps, only finding your wrist captured between his fingers, his shoe stepped in between the gap of you and your dancing partner, functioning as an opposing barrier.
“I’m afraid—” His voice cuts in, deadly calm. “—she already has a partner for tonight.”
Your head whips around, unable to hide your shock. His jaw clenches, eyes narrowed at the suitor who's dared to try for your hand. Perhaps it's his building paranoia stemming from your continued absence, but the sight of someone taking you away by your willing hand is truly driving him mad.
It doesn't take long before Lawrence registers the message Damian sends with a single, warning glare. Hands off.
Finally able to breathe once the bastard's been chased off, he turns back to meet your gaze and is surprised to find the barely concealed anger in your eyes. You've never looked at him this way before.
That same discomfort that's plagued him constantly for the past two weeks builds in his chest at the thought that you even entertained the possibility of dancing with Lawrence. Damian had always been your dancing partner, no matter how much he claimed to dislike partaking in galas like these. If anyone was going to deal with sore feet from the accidental missteps of your heels, it will always be him.
“Is that the label you’ve decided on?” You ask, the first words uttered without that strange, distant tone you've used before. “Partners?”
“Does it displease you?” He presses, trying to gauge your reaction. “I will change it to whatever you prefer.”
You purse your lips, conflict arising in your gaze. “I don’t understand you.”
He exhales lowly. “I should say the same for you. You are the one who’s—” His jaw twitches, desperation slipping past his façade. “—drifting away.” From me, why are you acting as if I don’t matter—as if this doesn’t matter?
He shouldn't have drank all that wine from earlier.
Alcohol doesn’t affect him, not with its supposed dizzying sensation and loss of control when recklessly consumed, but it did make him bolder, his tongue sharper. Yet, seeing you trying to evade him—out of his reach, he found himself doing something he sworn to never do—being impulsive.
At the lack of your response, his hand still wrapped around your wrist tugs gently, a quiet plea for you to say something. He feels useless, small—and you're the only thing he desperately needs. To help him make sense of the chaos that's consumed his every waking thought, that's plunged and follow him into his dreams.
Eventually, you sigh. "We should talk."
A small hope reignites at this chance you've given him. It's automatic, already mapped out in his head as he guides you to an empty room on the second floor. You don't rip away from his hold at the very least, but from your strained steps, you're not ecstatic to be with him either.
Shielded from prying eyes once he shuts the door, you're quick to pull your hand out of his hold. His own mask fractures at the loss of your warmth—but when he forces his gaze away from your disconnected hands, he finally sees you shed your own to reveal your honest expression. You look tired, a mirrored reflection of the agony that’s been inflicted on him these past two weeks.
You settle at the loveseat, head resting on your palm as if the very weight of your unreadable thoughts have consumed you, leaving you exhausted. If only he could reach in and unravel them himself, to understand the change in you.
“Drifting away?” Your voice muses at his words, and it lands like a punch. Do you truly not understand what you've done to him? “You’ve seen me the entire week.”
He shakes his head adamantly, coming to stand before you, neck craned down to face your averting gaze. “I won't be easily fooled. You’re avoiding me. Standing in places you’re not supposed to be.”
It sounds childish. God, he was being driven insane the longer you stood there, finally in his sights and he just couldn’t stop drinking you in.
“Opting for the furthest seat. Skipping lunch breaks. Accepting another dance partner. Ignoring my messages. Not being by my side.” It pours out without stopping, even as he feels warmth burn at the back of his neck, reaching his ears. “Your behaviour has changed. Even when you're close, you’re out of reach.”
“And you say I’m the clingy one?” Your expression flickers, a mix of hurt and solemn amusement.
His brow creases. “When have I ever—”
His own voice echoes in his mind, in a taunting afterthought. “She’s clingy.”
The gala. The interrogations. Your sudden change in behaviour. You overheard his callous comment. His reckless mistake.
He calls out your name weakly. The gravity of his mistake—it feels as if the entire universe is collapsing onto him.
You let out a sigh, and the acceptance in it terrifies him. As if you’ve already prepared yourself in these past two weeks, to fully be out of his life.
“I overheard you at the charity gala.” Your admission coincides with his guess, and your unwavering gaze leaves him stripped of all his defenses.
It's dawning on him in quickening alarm, with how each passing day, you must've lost hope in him. That his careless words must've wounded you deeply, leaving you to rightfully pull away. That he is a complete and utter idiot, who has hurt the one person he swore to protect.
"Do you feel less smothered? After all, wasn’t space what you wanted?” You ask, and there is no anger in your voice—only apathy. "It was what I needed."
The admission silences him. His heart is thudding so hard that he hears the rush of blood in his eardrums.
No. It wasn’t what he wanted. Your absence has ruined him, and it wasn’t the faults of his brothers, or revealing his vulnerability. It was all on him.
“Isn’t it better for us both, if we kept our distance?” You propose. “Since we’ve gone past the line of hurting each other. It’ll be convenient for the both of us, and less burdensome for you.”
Your calm demeanour is a bigger slap to his face than you shouting at him, demanding for him to apologise or to make things right. In the face of your acceptance, it’s as if you expected that this was the outcome he wanted.
He has a paralysing realisation, that if he doesn't beg for your forgiveness, you'll never come and seek for his repentance ever again. With every passing second, he feels time running out of his hands as your expression closes at the lack of his response, ready to abandon the room. Abandon him.
Desperation strips Damian bare of his pride when his knees hit the ground, landing harshly before you in the lowest form of begging. He doesn't give you time to process what he’s done before his fingers gently wrap around yours, caressing them with a firm grip.
“Damian!" Your expression warps in shock, meeting the intensity seared in gaze. "What are you doing? Get up—"
“I was wrong.” He admits without hesitation. “All the words I said, not a single one of them holds the truth.”
Your shock dampens, and he sees the barest hurt displayed on your expression. It pushes him to strain past his walls, to keep speaking if it meant not seeing your back turned towards him.
“You asked me to define us once, by labels.” He recalls. “I am not good with words. It has always been—difficult. To understand when to push further and when to fall back. To not act as if every situation is a death sentence if I bared my vulnerabilities out in the open, but—I know that my faults are not an excuse for my actions."
"I have broken your trust and left you feeling unsure of your position in my life, and I must correct it. You are not clingy, or a burden. You are the most important person in my life."
“The lies were nothing more than a cover... my brothers had caught onto my attachment and wouldn't give up on their interrogations.” He admits through the grit of his teeth. “They were always more observant of what I tried to push down, and my behaviour around you—it was obvious that you had an effect on me. It's as if you are the center that I gravitate towards, pulling me in towards your every whim and desire.”
“They tried to help me make sense of it, and I panicked. Selfishly, I wanted to keep my weakness a secret only known to the promises I've made for you in my mind. My fondness for you felt like a curse if I revealed it.” He whispers. “I had always assumed that what you held closest to your heart is what you should guard the most."
“I uttered those foolish words because I had assumed that if only I knew the extent of my devotion towards you, you would be safe. That we could continue as we always had, without declaring a target on your back, so that the world wouldn’t rip you away so easily.”
“I was a coward.” He murmurs, pleading in earnest. “I have mistreated you and taken you for granted. I tried to convince myself that lies were better than revealing the truth, which is that I have always coveted to by your side."
"I am deeply sorry. For ever making you feel that you're anything less than.” He breaks. "That couldn't be further from the extent to which I adore you. To which I need you. I can’t imagine a life without you, so—"
"Please—" He's never been taught to beg, but he can't lose you. Even if it takes him years, decades to regain your trust, it doesn't matter. "—it is selfish of me to beg for your forgiveness, but I will do anything. I will explain the full truth to my family. I will take on any punishment but—I can’t lose you. These past two weeks have been torture, and... I miss you."
Finally, after his chest is heaving with the burn of his confessions and a lack of oxygen, does he quiet. In the face of your coming judgement, he has never been more nervous in his life.
"Damian." You mutter. "I have not forgiven you."
His breath hitches, and despite all he's done to expect this outcome, he couldn't have been more unprepared for the impact of the blow. His hands falter around yours, and his knees have gone weak.
"W—What do you want me to change?" He can barely hear his own voice over his rapturing heartbeat. "Is it something I said? My behaviour, my actions—I can improve. I can fix this."
You give him a look that signals that you're not done. He forces himself to quiet, lips pursed as he slowly—painfully waits.
"In these past two weeks..." You admit. "I really tried to reevaluate what you mean to me."
"I understand you, more than anyone else has because you've let me in." You answer. "But just because I see you—and I know that's a vulnerability you don't easily show to people—doesn't mean that you get an easier way out."
"You did hurt me. I'm acknowledging that, and because I care about you, it hurts even worse." You reveal. "It wasn’t fair that you brought up such harsh words to describe me behind my back, and it’s not going to be something I can brush over easily, no matter the reason. I don't think we can fully go back to how it was before, not without moments where I will feel doubt. That's a trust you have to rebuild, not just with one big apology, but through your words and actions, every single day."
He nods, hanging onto every word you're willing to give him, even as your vocal admission of him hurting you feels like a vicious whip.
"But I am willing to give you that chance—to heal the hurt you've caused me, to prove that you won't pull away when you're scared I'm getting too close." You declare. "I'm giving you a chance to fix your mistake, because I know you, Dami. I know you'll keep your promises, and that you have a heart. One that's willing to change."
He lets out a shaking breath, and he finds your fingers caressing over his in a gentle touch. Not forgiving him completely, but reassuring in its warmth.
"I—" Left bare after pouring his heart out, the adrenaline rush that came from his full vulnerability has finally left his chaos-ensued mind blank.
From the very moment you had entered his life, it was an undeniable fact he had only grown to understand, to not fear—and it was that he loved you. The same distant concept he once viewed through the multiple perspectives of others, now existing right there in his beating heart. Yet, it didn't feel right in this moment. Not when you were giving him this chance to rebuild the trust he has broken. He will wait, for as long as you'll let him, he will cherish anything you'll give him.
"I know." You whisper, silently reading what he’s trying to convey through a single glance. "We'll figure us out together."
He sighs, head falling against your lap, lips brushing over your intertwined fingers—a soft, imperceptible kiss to your knuckles. It's natural, instinctive, everything he could ever want. To rest in your presence that’s finally allowed him to breathe again, surrounded by your warmth and voice.
"I thought you hated dancing." You muse.
"Not when it's with you." He admits quietly. "I haven't trained myself to bear the crushing of your heels, just for someone to take my place."
"I can't believe you called me the clingy one." Your amusement doesn't displease him, not in the slightest.
"Perhaps I shall reinstate our relationship to my brothers then." He murmurs. "I'm sure they'll have a field day once I admit that I'm the one who can't bear to be without you."
Finally, he hears the familiarity of your laugh. He has missed that.
"I'd like to see that."
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
Milo has a belly piercing, I'll say it again. And it's the dangling one. He rocks crop tops in the summer.
He had a bmx as a teen and did all the crazy stunts with Asher on his driveway, which often ended up with Asher's mom yelling at them, seeing that he or Milo kicked a pot with flowers.
He buys Aggro so many toys, snacks, accessories and other kitty stuff that the cat got his own little wardrobe/cupboard/nightstand to store everything. He also likes to jump on top of it and observe the world or scratch at the drawer to get some snacks.
Milo while shifted, leaves the least fur of all the pack. Sweetheart is forever grateful for that.
Imagine best pasta you have eaten. Yup, Milo makes it at least three times better. His natural cooking talent are pasta sauces and that shit is delicious every single time. He can throw random ingredients and poof, a feast is done. Man can cook so well.
He also makes lunch boxes for his Sweetheart because they sometimes can forget about a lunch break at work. This way, they will always have sth to eat.
Fool!Milo has a "sir" obsession - call him that and he will be a flustered mess, stuttering like Lasko. (the prime! one would just look weirdly at anyone who would say it i think)
On the topic of Lasko, they hang out regularly. Milo often takes him to a cafe nearby, to talk, catch up and share stories about their friends. Yes, it's a gossip session through and through. One time, they talked until their bosses called them worried because they went together for lunch and it's been hours since they were last seen.
Milo looooooves to take hot baths with all the aromatics, baths salts and so much bubbles it covers him whole. Don't tell anyone though, Asher will make fun of him.
He doesn't drink, obviously. Doesn't shame anyone who does, but he himself strays from alcohol. But, he will drown in iced tea, that's his own addiction.
He loves always having his hands on Sweetheart's back, thighs, whatever he can reach and whatever will remain subtle enough for them to not bite his hand off. He loves playing a game of "When will someone notice" while holding onto them in public, much to their flushed face and David's resigned looks during pack meetings.
He and Ash made out as teens to "check how it feels". One rowdy party it was I'd say, but it never went further.
They cooked. He cleaned. Grocery shopping was on his shoulder because he didn't want them to carry the heavy bags, and they did the laundry, shirts drying together, sleeves touching, like their hands whenever they would watch something on TV while cuddling on the couch.
Domestic, much.
Just two friends living together.
Sometimes, when the movie night turned longer than expected, their head lolling onto his shoulder or chest, them asleep soundly, he would just lay there, still and quiet, letting them catch some rest. Insomnia was not welcome, not when he could easily remedy it, magic not necessary when he had the power of old comedies playing.
Sometimes, they would study together, stealing glances at their respective notes. He would end up with doodles on the notebook's margins, kitty faces, and hearts with cupid's arrows going through the middle. They would often find a note between the pages, a reminder to smile or drink some water, or text him back. Simple things friends did for each other.
They were best friends. They were content with that. He, was content with that.
So why was his hand shaking when he opened the door late at night, groggy and in his pyjama pants, looking at his best friend who had smudged glitter on their face, slightly tangled hair and few bruises on their neck that looked like hickeys?
"Sorry, I forgot my keys." he let them in, lockign the door as they stepped inside, wobbly on legs that danced for too long.
"How was it?" he could see, but the question was more out of being nice rather than the curiosity. Trying his best not to let his voice crack, he scratched at his neck, muffling a yawn.
"Good, actually. Can't believe I didn't want to go." oh he heard all of it, his ear being talked off as they complained.
It's too late. I will have to cancel my shift so I won't have enough cash by the end of the week. Exams are coming, I shouldn't be partying. You weren't invited, are you really sure I should go? Won't that be rude to you?
"There was a happy hour, and hey, there were so many nice people getting me drinks. The bartender was a nice guy too, he complimented my shirt." the one he helped them pick out one shopping spree ago. It matched their style and it looked good indeed. He told them that too, on so many occasions.
"That really sounds great." he couldn't stop eyeing their neck as they slumped down onto the couch, shoes kicked off and legs placed on the arm rest, back popping with a nasty sound.
They were just friends. He had no right to be jealous, even if he wanted to be. The whole world seemed to notice what he saw in them, the pretty eyes, cunning smile and charming face that melted his frustration the moment it turned to him, all flushed and teasing his senses that tingled.
"And there was..." they started waving their hands, pointing at the neck. He would listen to every gossip they would share, talk shit with them for hours. But he wouldn't stand listening to them talking about someone who manages to do that, while he was asleep in his own bed, unaware.
Best friend. He was just their best friend and that had to be enough.
"You can tell me that tomorrow, okay? You sure must be tired." half smile offered, he had to calm himself somehow. Sitting by them, they shifted around, immediately cuddling up to him, arms wrapping around his torso, head back to the spot it rested so perfectly on. Faint smell of booze lingering, masked with their perfume, they almost smelled so divine–
"I wish you could have gone with me." they hummed, voice muffled as they pushed closer, nose pressing against the freshly healed tattoo on his chest.
"Maybe next time." he would love that, actually. There was a new club opening soon, he could take them there. Get some drinks, dance a little, spend some time together that he wanted to have with them.
"Mhm... next time."
"Promise?"
"Of course. Now, let's get you out of those clothes and into bed." he would take care of everything. Pick them up, carry to the bathroom so they could wash their face and brush their teeth, bring them clean clothes to change into, lay them on the bed and leave a kiss on the forehead for better dreams.
Bestie is sooooo "Carmen" by Lana coded. They are effortlessly gorgeous, always turning heads, making friends so easily and getting drinks just because.
All while Blake stands beside them, cursing at the world for noticing the same things he deemed perfect in them, hands clenching whenever someone got too close to what he wanted to have for himself only.
(a/n: hey...this was supposed to be made last month. all it took was a fresh set of nails to remind me how much i love the way my fingers look when i type– i mean. how much i love to write. HUGE shoutout to @damnbtway for this idea. hope you enjoy my inability to write full fluff)
“I don't think I'm meant for love.”
David looked up from his laptop, eyebrows scrunched in the way that told Asher that he was deciding between polite concern and well-worn frustration, the downtick to his lips giving credence to the latter.
“Dramatic.” David observed, his tone neutral but not unkind. “I take it dinner didn't go well?”
“You take it one million percent correctly.” he huffed in reply, beelining for the fridge to grab a pop before collapsing on the sofa with a long-suffering sigh.
Silence.
He sighed again, casting his eyes down and to the side in forlorn despondency.
More silence.
He opened his mouth to sigh again, but changed course to a snicker when he heard the laptop click shut.
“What happened.”
“Well, if you must know,” he began, earning a withering glare that he pointedly ignored, “he got there on time.”
A different kind of silence.
“So…he's punctual. And that's…that's a problem?” David asked, his nose wrinkling in thought.
“Yeah, but you don't understand. I was early. Like, ten whole minutes early.”
This earned a surprised and somewhat approving expression that really shouldn't have made his heart stutter the way it did.
“I'm impressed,” David replied, his voice taking on the cadence of careful intention, “but he still showed up on time.”
“It's the principle of the matter.” he huffed. “He should be just as excited to see me as I was to see him.”
He realized how immature and disproportionate that sounded, but such things never truly mattered in moments of baggage disposal such as these.
“Right.” It was a testament to the utmost gravity of this situation that David didn't tack on a snide comment.
“Did anything else happen, or are you just realizing what it's like for everyone on the flip side when they meet up with you?”
Ah. There it was.
“Ass.” he groused, giving David a squinted look, though it wasn't without a deepening of his smile lines. “You know, no one would ever believe me if I told them how petty you are. You've got everyone under the impression that you're just a stoic sort of dickhead, when in reality, you're just as much a shithead as me.”
“Well,” David rumbled, returning his narrowed gaze with a cool look of his own, “there's something to be said about letting the pretenses drop around someone who knows you better than anyone else.”
“Ass.” he grunted again, praying that his best friend couldn't detect the hitch in his breathing.
“Come on,” David sighed, propping his elbow on the couch and leaning his head on his palm. “What else went so wrong that you're denouncing romance forever?”
Asher faltered, the tender skin at the sides of his nails suddenly becoming an increasingly distracting sight.
“Did he say something?” David's tone dropped into a warning grind. “Did he insult you? Make you uncomfortable? Try to do something you didn't want–”
“No, no.” he rushed to assuage him. “Nothing like that.”
“Oh.”
David settled back, though only slightly, his posture still tensed in anticipation of something yet unrealized.
“Then what was the problem?”
Asher didn't say anything for a long while, weighing the pros and cons of spilling his guts. He ultimately came to the conclusion that he owed nothing short of complete and utter transparency with the man who gave as much to him.
“He wasn't you.”
The apartment went deathly still, the hum of the air conditioning the only thing left to accompany the unsteady breaths echoing in his head.
“What does that mean, exactly?” David's voice was practiced, composed, and a dead giveaway for the lack of balance he was currently experiencing.
“He wasn't you.” Asher repeated, not letting himself indulge in the humiliating desire to meet his eyes. “He kept telling me things about himself, about his work, about his friends, about his life, and I just…I didn't care. I know how awful that sounds, and I felt how awful it was, but I checked out ten minutes in. All I could think about was coming home to you and forgetting that I had gone out in the first place.”
More quiet followed, and Asher had just mustered the courage to get up and go to his room when David spoke.
“It wouldn't work.”
And how pathetically telling it was that Asher elated at the idea that he wasn't dismissing his feelings outright, that a sensible explanation was at hand, even as something deep within his sternum began to wilt.
“I'm going to be the Alpha.” he continued. “After my dad. And you…you're going to be my Beta. I'm sure of it. And the politics of it…it just invites too many issues.”
He couldn't help the petulance that snaked its way into his tone. “That's why? Pack dynamics? That's bullshit, and you know it. It's not like a marriage, not the way most people think of it as, anyway. Plenty of Alphas and Betas are mates, David–”
At the word ‘mates,’ David flinched, sending a lance of something cold and bitterly sharp through his fingertips.
“It wouldn't work.” David repeated, before he added on, at a devastatingly diminished volume, “For me.”
A lifetime of carefully constructed scaffolding came crashing down in a barreling heap, a dam bound with nothing but the wisps of a faraway want crumbling to splinters and ruin.
It wasn't like Asher had expected a fairytale ending. Nothing of the sort. But it didn't have to be so abruptly finite, the candle snuffing itself out from both ends the instant the wick caught. His lungs were turning rotten, pulpy ephemera catching in his bronchial tubes and urging him to act.
“Can we act like it would?” he whispered. “Like it would work? Just for a moment?”
“Asher.” David rumbled, his eyes soft and tender. “That's not a good idea.”
“I don't care.” Asher bit back, fully aware of how his tone began to border on the pitiful holler of a struck dog. “It wasn't a good idea to tell you in the first place. I want to act like it would work. Please.”
David's face took on a brief but powerful conflict, his expression clouding over with a stormy internal reckoning before he sighed, long and ragged.
“Come here.” he rasped, and Asher scrambled to his feet and over to his best friend. David's hands, so large and capable, gently guided him to straddle his lap, the contact eliciting a shaky exhale from both of their chests.
The first brush of their lips was hesitant, lacking commitment, giving both parties ample time to retreat, to escape.
Neither took the grace period.
The next impact was a collision of flesh and heat, stubble rasping over skin and the flow of oxygen halting in service of something better. Asher's hands fluttered up to David's chest, curling into the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer, closer, closer.
Something feral and righteous burned at the points of his canines and the hinges of his jaw, indignant and fierce. It was so unfair, so lacking in justice, to be kept apart by something so simple and yet ao destructive as power.
The absence of understanding threatened to rend him from the inside out, his innards curdling with a base, primal strain of anguished rage. Why couldn't it work? Why shouldn't it work? The sense of rightness that coursed through his veins nearly brought tears to his eyes.
He remembered, of all things in this moment, being a child, making friends with all manner of kith and kin. Spending nights on floors and every so often, spending a bleary-eyed Sunday morning in a rock-hard pew, listening to a man in an overstarched shirt drone about edicts and dire warnings he couldn't care less about.
But one thing that always stuck was the story of creation. How one was taken from the rib of another, destined to be at their side for all eternity, for the eternal machine to chug on the pumps of two pistons. As he got older, he had scoffed at the idea, casting it aside as demeaning and derogatory. Everyone was their own person, plain and simple.
But when David's palms swept a branding trail from his shoulders to his waist, his body hummed with a contentment as yet unheard of. Blunt fingers crosshatched with callouses slotted perfectly into a skeletal framework that practically whined with their own intrinsic craving, embedded to the marrow.
He panted into David's mouth, an electric thrill arcing up his spine at the resulting groan that poured onto his tongue. He could feel his phone digging into his thigh through his pocket, his shirt's tag scratching along the nape of his neck, and the fuzzed tang of coffee-tinged aftertaste on his cheeks. But he didn't care. Life could make a worthless martyr out of him, his trials consisted of the most inconsequential annoyances, and he would triumph with a ferocity unmatched.
Anything for this to go on endlessly. His pyre would be the discomfiture of pleasure, the inconvenience of hedony.
David's teeth nipped at his lower lip, soothing the sting with the flat of his tongue, sucking at the inflamed tissue until it throbbed in the best possible way. His fingers dug in ever tighter, and Asher sent up a desperate plea to anything with ears to hear that he would wake up to his best friend's handprints seared onto his skin.
Minutes, or hours, or perhaps days passed, neither one quite ready to end the bubble of bliss so fretfully erected, both sensing their impending arrival to the other side of heaven.
But they did it anyway. They broke apart, staring at each other, saying words that had no need of voice. They got off the couch. They went to their rooms. They laid on their beds and stared at their ceilings, wondering when the ache would dim.
ellievsbear
izzy806
gummygunk
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
gracieabrams
origamiaround
theartofmadeline
yousharknotpass
stormborns
