nari

'05 | she/her

[bunarii]

hello!

realising my account is unsettlingly empty so i will post this

hello !! you can call me bina/nari, and my pronouns are they/her! i'm interested in various fandoms, but hop from one to another pretty quickly(i burn through my fics)

i am not bot or spam and here is your reassurance :D thank u for reading

p.s. mdni please :') some of my reblogs are... not particularly age appropriate.

[mimimultiverse]

Hello! I absolutely love your littlest pennyworth fic! may we perhaps have a part two of it? the concept of a little kid being more mature and stable than the batfam is so funny but cute at the same time

Pennyworth & Pennyworth

Summary: As the family adjusts to having a tiny Pennyworth in their midst, one thing becomes painfully clear:

One Alfred kept the Batfamily functioning.

Two might be unstoppable.

Part 2 of: Littlest Pennyworth

A/N: Thank you so much for all the love and attention given to the first part! I never expected it to get this much attention 🥰

It happened three weeks after your arrival. Nobody knew exactly when it started. Only that one morning, Alfred walked into the kitchen and found every single member of the household sitting properly at the breakfast table. Nobody was late. Nobody was standing. Nobody was eating over important paperwork. Nobody was attempting to consume coffee as a substitute for sleep.

Alfred stopped in the doorway. The silence was so shocking that even Bruce looked confused. You sat in your usual chair, calmly drinking orange juice. "Good morning, Grandfather." Alfred narrowed his eyes slightly. "What have you done?" You blinked innocently. "Nothing." Nobody believed you. Not for a second. Especially not when Jason immediately raised his hand. "Can I have more toast, please?" Alfred nearly dropped the serving tray. Dick looked horrified. "Jason." "What?" "You said please." Jason looked equally disturbed. "...I did, didn't I?"

You slid a basket of toast toward him. "Good manners cost nothing." Jason accepted the toast automatically. "Thank you." The entire table gasped. Even Damian looked concerned. "Father," he said quietly, "I fear the child has developed mind control abilities."

"I have not."

"You somehow convinced Todd to use manners."

"That is admittedly suspicious," Tim agreed.

You took a bite of your pancake.

"I simply asked politely."

Nobody found that reassuring.

☕️ 🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍

A few days later, Bruce returned from patrol with a bruised shoulder. He hadn't told anyone. He hadn't planned on telling anyone. Unfortunately for him, you had inherited Alfred's terrifying observational skills. Bruce entered the study. You looked up from your homework. "Your left shoulder hurts." Bruce froze. "...No, it doesn't." You stared. Bruce stared back. You stared harder. Bruce felt unexpectedly judged. "...Maybe a little." You nodded. "I'll get the first aid kit." "That's not necessary." You were already gone. Bruce sighed.

Five minutes later, he found himself sitting obediently in a chair while a ten-year-old and Alfred worked together. You handed Alfred bandages. Alfred handed them back. The process ran with frightening efficiency. Bruce felt like he'd been ambushed. "You should be more careful," you informed him. "I'll try."

"You said that last time."

Bruce blinked. "What?" You consulted your little notebook. "The previous shoulder injury. Three weeks ago."

"You keep records?"

"Of course."

Bruce looked toward Alfred. Alfred looked delighted. Bruce had never felt more outnumbered.

🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍

Meanwhile, Dick had developed a problem. The problem was that you had somehow discovered every embarrassing story from his childhood. Nobody knew how. Nobody wanted to know how. "Did you know," you said conversationally one afternoon, "that Uncle Dick once attempted to fly using bedsheets?" Dick choked. Jason immediately sat upright.

"What?"

"Three times."

"DICK."

"I WAS SIX."

You continued. "The second attempt resulted in a broken flowerpot." Tim was crying with laughter. Damian looked fascinated. Dick pointed accusingly at Alfred. "You told them!" Alfred sipped tea. "I have no idea what you're talking about." The innocent expression fooled absolutely nobody.

🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍

The true disaster occurred when you discovered the Batcave. Technically, you already knew about the Batcave. Nobody had bothered hiding it from you. The problem came when you saw its organizational system. Or lack thereof. You stood silently in front of a storage shelf. There was a long pause. Then another.

Finally:

"This is unacceptable." Tim looked up from a computer. "What is?" You pointed. A grappling gun sat next to medical supplies. Medical supplies sat beside spare tires. Several labelled boxes were entirely in the wrong section. One shelf appeared to contain random objects chosen by throwing darts. You looked physically distressed.

"Who organized this?" Nobody answered. Because everyone knew. It had been Bruce. Years ago. And then nobody had fixed it. You slowly turned. The expression on your face carried the exact same disappointment Alfred used when someone tracked mud across clean floors. Every vigilante in the cave instinctively straightened. "Tomorrow," you announced, "we are fixing this."

Tim immediately looked at Bruce. Bruce looked at the ceiling. Jason started laughing. "Good luck, B."

🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍

The Batcave was reorganized within forty-eight hours. Nobody knew how. Nobody understood how. Somehow, you had convinced Batman and his entire family to spend a weekend sorting equipment. Even Damian participated. Although he claimed it was because efficiency mattered. Not because you asked.

Definitely not because you asked.

When the final shelf was completed, you stood back with your hands clasped behind your back. "Perfect." Bruce stared at the cave.

Everything was labelled.

Everything was categorized.

Everything was accessible.

For the first time in years, he could actually find things.

"...This is amazing."

You smiled. The proud expression on your face looked so much like Alfred's that Bruce's chest ached unexpectedly.

"You think so?"

"I know so."

Your smile widened. Bruce immediately decided he would destroy anyone who made you sad. Judging by the expressions around the room, every member of the family had reached the same conclusion.

🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍☕️🤍

Several nights later, Alfred found you sitting alone in the library. You were looking through an old photo album. Carefully. Quietly. Alfred settled into the chair beside you. Neither of you spoke for a while. Your small fingers rested against a photograph of his daughter. The resemblance was obvious. Around the eyes. Around the smile.

Little pieces of someone Alfred had loved dearly. "She looks kind," you said softly. Alfred's expression gentled. "She was." You nodded. "I wish I could have met her." For a moment, Alfred didn't answer.

The room stayed quiet except for the crackle of the fireplace. Then Alfred reached over and rested a hand atop yours. "So do I." You leaned against his shoulder. Alfred looked down at you.

His grandchild.

Safe.

Loved.

Home.

A blessing he had never expected to receive. Across the hallway, Bruce happened to glance through the open doorway. He paused. Saw the two of you together. And smiled. Because Wayne Manor had always been many things.

A headquarters.

A battlefield.

A refuge.

Now it was something else, too.

It was a home where Alfred finally had someone who fussed over him as much as he fussed over everyone else. And if Bruce caught you later that night reminding Alfred to take a break and drink water?

Well.

Nobody needed to mention the fact that Alfred obeyed immediately. The family had already learned an important truth.

There was one Alfred. That was enough to keep everyone in line.

Two Alfreds? The rest of them never stood a chance.

[fawnindawn]

faint of heart.

summary: post-mission, you land yourself in the hospital with a concussion. in your daze, you plead for someone to tell damian so he won't tear the hospital down to find you, for him not to worry. only problem? you and damian are supposed to hate each other.

pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader

The faint beeping, the low hushed voices—it's an annoying, distant commotion that's disrupting your sleep, enough to rouse you from the heavy, dark haze enveloping your senses. Your heavy lids peel open, blinking slowly as your vision adjusts to the sight of the hospital ceiling.

The striking scent of disinfectant hits you, and your nose instinctively wrinkles. A low rasp escapes your throat, just enough to stop the whispers.

"—She's awake!"

It’s a familiar voice, you think. Dick. It wasn’t the voice you wanted to hear, no matter how reassuring—not when the one you're familiar with holds a much more begrudging tone.

"I need..." Who? There's an urgent pressure building up in the back of your mind, an important request hanging right off your tongue. "To tell him."

"Hey-hey, you're okay. Just a little disoriented." Dick’s face comes into view, his messy locks covering the fuzzy halo of light above you. “You have a minor concussion, but no fatal injuries.”

"No. You need to tell him." Your face contorts, straining with visible effort to rack your brain for a name, trying to fight past the thick fog. "I am okay. It's him you have to worry about."

The corner of Dick's mouth tugs down briefly, confusion lighting his features. "Who?"

There's that damn question you're trying to answer. The fluorescent lights are much too oppressive—overly bright and sharp. You needed a shadow, someone who would know what to do when your teeth grinds together in discomfort.

"...Damian." You mutter. Ah, there it is. You don't notice the abrupt confused glances exchanged around the room, of how Damian's name was the last thing they expected to hear.

Your lids fall shut not a second after your job was done, body screaming to rest. At least you won't have to deal with Damian tearing down the hospital to find you.

"They despise each other." Tim reminds for the fifth time.

"I am aware.” Dick mutters, thumb scrolling through his contacts list. "What did I say about hacking my contacts list, Best Robin?"

"You didn't say anything about that specifically." Tim's foot taps impatiently against the tiles. “And why'd you think that contact name was meant for the demon spawn—never mind, that's besides the point right now. She's clearly disoriented.”

“I just have a gut feeling.” Pressing the phone against his ear, Dick runs a habitual tug over his locks whenever another situation pops up that he has to solve. Being in this line of work is bound to give him early greys.

"A gut feeling." Tim huffs, shaking his head in disagreement. “We better hope this doesn’t start another scuffle. Wouldn't want to toss another bone to the press. 'Blood son of Bruce Wayne attacks hospital patient'. I can already smell the print.”

Dick's frown sticks as he eyes you through the open door frame, laying in a hospital bed—unconscious ever since your first waking. The dots aren't connecting, not when the soot from the explosion still singes the edges of his jacket and his mind is all fuzzed up from a lack of sleep and endless documents. Still, the world had a knack for surprising him whenever he least expects it.

The ringing on the other side stops after two seconds.

"Damian." Dick addresses, re-running his fingers habitually through his hair. "There's been a situation at the hospital..."

Here's the thing, Dick knows Damian. He understands the passing trait of impatience among their family, which is why he's already summarised the facts down to twenty seconds. The call abruptly ends at ten.

"Huh." Dick mutters, brows pressed together as he looks back to Tim. "He hung up."

Dick barely got to explain anything beyond the mention of your name and their current location. Your voice echoes in reminder as he stares at his screen, the duration of the call staring back at him. It's him you have to worry about.

Damian's anything but subtle. Of his frigid attitude—his blatant dislike towards you. Putting the two of you in the same room, it was guaranteed disaster. Yet, Damian was the first name that came out of your mouth.

"Told you it doesn't make sense." Tim shrugs. "Logically, he's the last person we should've called."

"We'll see." Dick answers, head leaning back to rest against the wall. "He's surprised us both plenty of times."

"Yeah, by attempting murder on us both. Your point being?"

Dick restrains a much-needed sigh.

Barely fifteen minutes later, Dick stirs at a loud commotion beyond the walls of the waiting room. His neck is cramping from this unergonomic chair, and his feet are nerved with pins-and-needles. Tim's ears are plugged in with wired earphones, jammed high with Green Day as he concentrates on his tablet, opting to work through his insomnia instead.

There’s a slamming of doors, rapid footsteps thundering against the tiles, coming closer and closer. Dick barely has time to nudge Tim’s shoulder before the hallway door slams open.

Damian comes through like a storm, movements overly controlled in the way a person would seize up before a fight. As if he's expected the worst, and is prepared to battle whatever he might encounter.

“Where is she?” Damian commands, voice echoing off the tiles.

Staring back at Dick are frantic, darkened eyes pinpointed on locked targets—searching for his answer. It's so abruptly intense, almost inhuman, that his mind stutters in regaining its grasp on reality. He hasn't seen that look in a long time, not since their first meeting where one wrong answer would make Damian your enemy.

“She’s asleep.” Tim answers for him, one side of his earphones still plugged in throughout this entire mess. “She needs the rest.”

Damian disregards his words, brushing past him. “I have to see her.”

Dick must’ve subconsciously shifted his glance to your room, towards the shine of the metal carvings of 78 placed in the centre, as Damian doesn’t hesitate in heading for the door.

Dick catches Damian's arm right before he enters, and the glare he receives? Murderous. As if everything in his way of getting to you has become mere obstacles he has to overcome.

"Grayson." Damian's voice is all wrong, shortened and taut, syllables used to convey only what was needed. "Unhand. Me."

"Dames." Dick tries to make sense of this adverse reaction, but nothing from that brief phone call provided him any clues. "She's still unconscious, and I don't think it's a good idea for you to be in there—in this state."

Damian's chest heaves once, but the storm in his gaze has only darkened. "She called for me, didn't she?"

Dick blinks once. "Well, yes but—"

"Then, I will be there for her."

Damian disarms his grip with an alarming quickness, and Dick doesn't even have time to recalibrate his mistake before he's slipped through.

Dick's palm splays onto the door right before it closes, pushing it fully open with a warning ready on his lips to not disturb your recovery, only to find that—Damian hadn’t moved from his spot since he entered. Dick feels Tim pressing into his side, curious eyes flickering at the situation, but Dick is too busy watching to care about how they're practically hanging onto the doorframe.

When Damian catches sight of you, his entire frame freezes into place. He's watching you, and Dick's watching him—and he sees it then, and realises what an idiot he's been.

Damian's entire expression immediately shifts. Loosening in relief at the sight of you mostly unharmed, at the sound of a calm beeping from the heart monitor. It's frighteningly out of place, the tenderness softening his wrath-like panic mere seconds ago. He moves almost mindlessly towards your side, forgetting the presence of his two brothers gawking at him from outside the doorframe, peering into what must be a fever dream.

"Idiot." Damian mutters, but it sounds more like a prayer answered.

"We've got it all wrong, didn't we?" Tim mutters, staring at the sight in awe.

"Told you." Dick whispers, his lips tilting upwards into a smile. "Gut feeling."

You stir not long after Damian’s arrival, as if your body is already attuned to his presence. Lids peering half-open, you squint at the shadow towering over you. For a moment, there was nothing but held breaths and a long pause as you familiarise yourself with forest green.

Then, the most miraculous thing happens. You smile, completely unaware of the turmoil and confusion you've caused.

“Dami.”

Dick decides today is an absolute possibility for the world to be at its end.

“You're an idiot.” Damian hurls the practiced insult out like he’s been running it off in his mind for the past few minutes, but his weakened voice holds no bite against the sight of his overwhelming relief.

Under the sheets, Dick swears he sees his brother’s fingers intertwining with yours.

“I told them to tell you not to rush.” You mutter hazily, still readjusting to reality. “At least—I think I did.”

Damian sucks in a breath, low, undistinguishable mutters whispered. Your lip twitches up slightly, which could only mean another insult you're brushing off.

“Yet, you’re still here.” You tease. “Fretting.”

The thin line of his lips creases deeper. “I do not fret.”

“Arguing with the patient?” Your body shifts, tilting closer to Damian.

“I prefer arguing with you unharmed.” Damian mocks lowly. Dick sees the stiffness bleed out of Damian’s expression the longer his gaze is locked onto you, as if materialising your talkative state in his mind.

"I am unharmed."

"A mild concussion, a hospital bed." Damian's frown deepens. "At least attempt at a reasonable lie."

Damian’s body tilts just slightly, lowering to match yours, and the light catches your features once more. Your lips tilt downward for a single second, the sting of the fluorescent lights irritating your vision.

In a sudden movement without words exchanged, Damian adjusts. His shoulders block the light over your face once more, covering you with his shadow.

You can't help the grin that escapes. "That is what I was thinking about, before I passed out again."

Damian's expression contorts, as if his mind can't decide on hyper-focusing on the details of you falling unconscious again or on what you were imagining about him. You decide for him.

"The lights were all in my face and—" You suck in a breath. "I kept trying to remember your name. I tried so hard to find it, this person who knows that I hate hospital lights without me needing to say it. Then, your name just slipped out."

“Oh.” Tim murmurs from afar.

“Oh.” Dick agrees.

“Don’t do that again.” Damian mutters in the quiet buzzing of the machines.

“Save people?” You tease.

“Put yourself in harm’s way.” Damian pushes back.

"Hey, what about the two of us?" Tim calls out, and Dick's quick to shove his elbow into the idiot's stomach. "Ow—what? We never got this treatment and all the fretting."

Damian's gaze shifts at the disruption, the softness creased into the corners of his eyes fading into annoyance. "Leave us."

"Woah." Tim holds a hand to his abdomen, still feigning hurt. "That's just cold."

Damian's eyes narrow further, and Dick's reminded instantly of how the press is probably waiting outside the hospital for any hints of a scuffle. It's already news enough for not two, but three members now of the Wayne family rushing to the emergency ward. Grabbing Tim by his hoodie, Dick tugs roughly. "We'll leave you two be to—catch up. No attempted murders, if the reminder's still needed."

It had slipped out so easily, the old warning, but it feels strangely out of place with this tender atmosphere. Dick's most definitely intruding on something he's not meant to see, but questions can be reserved for later.

You snort, a sheepish expression caught between your teeth, watching for confirmation as the door shuts with a click. When you have a shred of confidence that they're at least out of hearing range, you turn your attention back to Damian with growing excitement.

“You know they’re probably freaking out right now?” You mutter conspiratorially. "They'll never buy into us hating each other anymore."

“That is not my concern.” Damian frowns. “You are.”

“That might be the sweetest thing you've ever told me.” You coo. "I matter enough for you to deal with family dinner interrogations now."

Damian's stare remains unimpressed. “I will smother you with pillows.”

“That’s unhygienic—and cruel.”

His tongue clicks softly as his hand comes up behind the pillow, instinctively propping them up higher as you adjust your neck, an action completely unrelated to his threat. “Only you would be concerned of bacteria before attempted murder.”

“Yeah, I’m a piece of work." You murmur distractedly, choosing to gaze intently at him instead. His hair's fallen into different directions, all un-Damian-like. "That’s why you rushed all the way here, didn’t you?”

He stiffens, hand shifting away from the pillow, but still lingering near you. After a moment, the inner workings of his mind battling between his logic and his emotions must've finally faltered, as his fingers delicately cup the back of your head. He doesn't move you towards him, choosing to come over to you instead, his body hovering halfway over yours before finally letting his weight topple gently over you.

His arms wrap around you gently as his comforting weight falls over you, and the first thing you feel is how quickly his heart is racing. He needs this, you realise, as he settles with his arms wrapped protectively around you. To be physically present as your shield, even when there is no danger present.

He is more affected than he seems with his tightly concealed expressions, now that you physically feel the effects on his body. There's the slight twitches of his fingers when he's still afraid, waiting for the noise in his head to calm down. You know Damian, that he needs time to process before he reveals his cards.

“I didn't want you to worry.” You mumble into his embrace.

“Impossible.” Damian huffs softly, tracing his other hand over your wrist, feeling the soft thudding of your pulse. “You're my problem to handle."

You feel a soft, imperceptible kiss pressed onto your temple, and your eyes flutter shut. This is the side of Damian only you get to have, the proof of its existence ghosting your skin. You have to force your eyes open, the lure of sleep already trying to dig its claws into you—and that's something you absolutely refuse. You don't want to miss this rare side to Damian, all soft and disarmed.

"You scared me." Damian admits after a long pause, barely audible.

You blink, surprised. "You're never scared."

"For you, I am." Damian confesses, his grip tightening slightly. "You tend to render me painfully exposed to weakness."

"Weakness, huh? You haven't got rid of me yet." You hum lightly.

"No." His tone is decisive, stern. "If I haven't decided that I've had enough of you, the world doesn't get to."

"I'm starting to think threats are your love language, Dami." Your hand lifts, struggling twice before you manage to run your fingers through his hair, resting its weight over the nape of his neck.

His body shudders slightly, and his nose buries itself deeper into the crook of your neck. If anyone were to look into hospital room 78, they'll encounter the strange sight of Damian Wayne embracing you as if you were his lifeline. No one would believe them, but the truth remains.

He was yours. Completely yours.

He was also definitely sentenced to a long interrogation the moment he steps out of this room.

"Who was the perpetrator?" He mutters after a moment.

"Damian." You're stuck deciding between a snort and a sigh. "It was an accident."

"You don't know that." He huffs. "I sincerely doubt in your ability to detect an attempted murder while you're unconscious."

Your grip tugs at his hair playfully, a pretty effective way of shutting him up. "Argue with me later."

You feel his lashes flutter against your skin, processing. "...Fine."

He breathes you in, his heart rate finally starting to calm the longer he hears your voice so close to his eardrums, your touch grounding his senses.

"It was torture." His voice is too still, stating the facts without the emotion that's driven behind them. "The drive here. I kept envisioning the worst, that you had called out for me—and if I didn't make it in time—"

His grip tightens with his words, and you're pressed into his chest, feeling what his words refuse to convey, starting to thud again below his ribcage.

"Damian." Your hand traces reassuringly over his neck. "I'm right here."

He listens, his rampant thoughts slowing in pace at the reminder. "I had never been so terrified." His voice remains level, his attempt at reinforcing his reality over his fears. "To receive a call from Grayson, hearing your name—I couldn't let myself think of anything else other than finding you."

"You did." You mutter reassuringly. "You found me. I'm safe."

He lets out a low breath, a slow exhale at the sound of those two words he'd been needing to hear. "Sometimes, I think you've ruined me." He murmurs in truth.

You think he's unused to this. Letting down his walls, experiencing the blatant terror for another person's life that is completely out of his control—that he's left with nothing but pieces to readjust, to compromise. By letting you into his life and allowing you to be his person, he has abandoned his need to preserve himself, to be above fear.

"You're not escaping the argument." He notes down distractedly. "I still have my reservations."

"Anything you need, Dami." You reassure.

"Anything?" He murmurs, head shifting out of the crook of your neck to face you fully.

His green eyes are narrowed with intent now, gazing at you with unhidden intensity.

You swallow, nodding slightly.

When he leans in, the palm of his hand slips from the back of your head to over your jaw. His thumb traces over your lips softly, and he leans in replacing the ghost of his touch with his own mouth. It's tender, a separate language to convey the emotions he hasn't learnt to spell out, on what you do to him. Yet, with the way he's handling you, nose brushing against yours, in a way so precious it makes your heart ache—you think that impending argument's worth it.

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

damian taglist: @supercheesygarlicbread @bloomfaery @enmzgn @jxybirdiv @vanillakirstein @celestills @katzenia @chikenuggetrat @mrrayjay @arabellas-barbarella-swimsuit12 @amandjslpz @mossmydarling @batslilwhore @dclover567 @gojoswaterbottle @annabelleleefrench @neonsquad303 @strawberryfire17 @treebranch23 @vampiranne @tofudubicho @roszszs @vaderuby @revesephemeres @moon-cakei @manachiichan @caterppillar @hoshi-no-koinu @living-that-chronic-life @nxx-jordiepord @elysian-groves @pearly-pebble @fandom-fae @ninareads25 @grace-loves-to-read @jarofstarsxx @favorite-fan-fics @radheadphones @freakkay09 @mydeliciouscookies @fea-tastic @starr-jazz @yourclutched-pearls @bearhug120 @devilslittlehelper @izumi0708 @prettysweet02 @spideyskywalker @dontmindmeimjustchilling @outpostsworld (to be added, check masterlist)

[astronautlawliet]

Hi sweetie! I would like to request this !

Summary:

You and Leon had been together since the Raccoon City incident. You have a secret that you don't want to let Leon know.

What if Leon found a file in ARK on you being a test subject and a spy to undercover DSO. He is angry. He confronted you. His eyes showed distrust, betrayal, and coldness that you never since before. Leon demanded you not to follow him as he needed space to think.

You are aware of the risk of creating a vaccine - which can lead to death. You have decided to use your blood to create a cure for Leon as an apology.

In My Veins

The air in the ARK Laboratory was stale enough to taste, thick with dust and the faint metallic bitterness of chemicals that had long since seeped into the concrete. Leon moved through the corridor with slow, deliberate steps, his flashlight carving a narrow path through the darkness. Every surface looked embalmed, sealed beneath years of undisturbed gray, as if the facility had been entombed rather than abandoned. Raccoon City had burned above this place, collapsed into a crater, been written off as a wound in the earth that was safer left closed. Down here, nothing had healed. It had only waited.

His shoulders had been tight since they descended into the ruins, tension settling into muscle memory he had never managed to unlearn. This city had been his first day on the job, his first night of real terror, the place where naïveté had died screaming. It was also where he had found you, half-injured, terrified, stubbornly alive. The two of you had clung to each other through smoke and blood and impossible horrors, strangers forced into partnership by the simple need to survive. Everything that followed, every year, every quiet morning, every mission he came home from, had grown out of that single night like something fragile insisting on life in poisoned soil.

A reinforced door stood ajar at the end of the hall, its security panel gutted, wires dangling like exposed nerves. Leon nudged it open with the barrel of his handgun and stepped inside. The room beyond had once been a control station, rows of terminals arranged in orderly lines, most of them dark and dead. One screen still glowed faintly, its pale light cutting through the gloom like a stubborn pulse. Emergency power, maybe. Or some backup system that refused to die, just like everything else Umbrella had left behind.

He approached cautiously, the chair scraping against the floor when he pulled it back, sounding unnaturally loud in the silence. Dust coated the keyboard in a fine, undisturbed layer. No one had touched this station in years. He brushed it aside with a gloved hand and tapped a key. The monitor flickered, brightness stuttering before stabilizing, lines of text and folder icons resolving slowly as if waking from a long sleep.

Research data. Personnel logs. Experiment records.

He was already reaching to close the window, planning to flag it for the tech teams, when something caught his eye. A single entry buried among the others, stark in its familiarity.

Your name.

For a moment, he simply stared, his brain refusing to process what he was seeing. It didn’t belong here. Not in a place like this. Not in the bowels of the city that had nearly killed you both. You had escaped this nightmare together. You had left it behind. The idea that any part of you could still be cataloged down here felt obscene, like finding a living person listed among the dead.

“There’s no way,” he murmured, the words barely audible even to himself.

His cursor hovered for only a second before he opened the file. The first thing that greeted him was a classification header dense with codes and warnings, most of them above his clearance even now. Beneath it, a designation printed in clinical, indifferent text.

SUBJECT.

Leon’s stomach tightened, a cold, instinctive reaction that had nothing to do with logic. He scrolled, jaw hardening as lines of medical data filled the screen. Charts mapping blood composition. Notes referencing abnormal markers, resistance patterns, controlled exposure trials. The terminology was technical, detached, the language of people discussing specimens rather than human beings. Dates ran down the margins, some from before the outbreak, others stamped during the chaos when the city had already been collapsing into madness.

His pulse began to pound, each beat heavy and uneven. You had never mentioned any of this. Another section header appeared, bolded against the sterile background.

FIELD OBSERVATION REPORT.

Leon felt a prickle of unease crawl up the back of his neck. He kept reading.

Subject demonstrates high survivability under stress conditions. Continued proximity to designated asset recommended for monitoring behavioral stability.

A line below it listed the asset’s identification.

Kennedy, Leon S.

The room seemed to contract around him, air turning thin and difficult to draw into his lungs. He read the line again, then again, as if repetition might change the words into something else. It didn’t. Your name remained at the top of the file. His remained embedded in its body like a foreign object.

Memories rose unbidden, sharp and disorienting. You grabbing his arm in the police station, refusing to let go even as the world outside fell apart. The two of you running through smoke-choked streets, sharing ammunition, sharing fear, sharing the fragile belief that if you stayed together, you might actually make it out alive. Nights afterward when neither of you could sleep unless the other was close enough to touch. Years of quiet routines built on the understanding that whatever else the world took, you had each other.

Had that been real?

Leon’s hand curled slowly against the edge of the desk, leather creaking as his grip tightened. A dozen explanations fought for space in his mind, each one grasped and discarded in the same breath. Mistaken identity. Fabricated data. Umbrella’s records were notoriously unreliable, full of half-truths and outright lies. That had to be it. It had to be.

He scrolled further down. Additional notes populated the screen, colder, more precise. References to behavioral attachment. Deviation from assigned parameters. Refusal to disengage from asset despite direct instruction. The language suggested frustration, as though whoever authored the report had been documenting a problem rather than a success.

Leon swallowed, throat suddenly dry. You had stayed with him when you could have run. When it would have been safer. When survival alone should have been the priority.

Leon didn’t realize he had stopped blinking until his eyes began to burn. The cursor pulsed at the bottom of the screen, a small, indifferent heartbeat marking time while his own felt too loud, too heavy, as though it were trying to escape his ribcage. He forced himself to scroll, thumb stiff against the mouse wheel, every line of text revealing itself with the slow inevitability of something already decided long ago.

A new document opened automatically, layered with higher clearance warnings and authorization codes that made his jaw tighten. This one wasn’t medical. It read like a field report, stripped of anything resembling empathy, written in the detached tone of someone cataloging weather patterns instead of human lives. Your name appeared again at the top, followed by a designation number and a status marker that had never been updated.

ACTIVE.

Leon exhaled through his nose, the sound thin and uneven in the dead air. Active. As if you were still down here somewhere, pacing the corridors like a ghost assigned to haunt him personally. As if the last several years, the apartment you shared, the quiet mornings with coffee and sunlight filtering through the blinds, existed outside the scope of whatever this was.

He kept reading.

Initial objective: Integration with local law enforcement presence. Maintain proximity to the designated asset to acquire intelligence on survivor networks and government response capabilities.

His stomach turned, a slow, nauseating roll that had nothing to do with the stale air. Integration. Proximity. Intelligence acquisition. The words rearranged his memories into something unfamiliar, like furniture shifted in a room he thought he knew by heart. He remembered the way you had grabbed his arm outside the police station, your fingers shaking but unyielding, refusing to let him walk into the dark alone. He had thought you were scared. He had thought you needed him.

Had you been following orders?

A faint tremor passed through his hand. He clenched it into a fist,  grounding himself in the pressure, in the present, in anything that wasn’t the sudden vertigo of doubt opening beneath his feet.

Further down the report, the tone shifted.

Subject exhibits increasing emotional attachment to asset. Compliance with directive compromised. Multiple opportunities to disengage ignored.

Leon’s breath caught, sharp and involuntary. The sentence didn’t read like an accusation. It read like a complication. Like something inconvenient had developed where there should have been control. Ignored. You had stayed.

Images surfaced unbidden, vivid as if projected onto the dark walls around him. You collapsing against him in an alley, exhausted and shaking, your forehead pressed to his shoulder while distant gunfire echoed through the city. The way you had looked at him afterward, eyes red-rimmed but steady, as if the mere fact that he was still there had anchored you to reality. Nights after the rescue, when you would wake from nightmares and reach for him without thinking, your hand finding his wrist, his sleeve, any proof he was real. None of that had felt calculated. None of it had felt like a mission.

He scrolled again, slower now, dread pooling thick in his gut.

Recommendation: Continued observation. Emotional bond may increase asset stability and survivability. Risk of operational compromise acceptable.

Leon leaned back slightly, chair creaking under his weight, the sound jarringly loud. The report framed your connection as a tool, something useful, something measurable. Not love, which you told him just this morning. Not trust, which you'd built in the years since. Just a variable that improved outcomes.

His reflection stared back at him faintly from the dark edges of the monitor, pale and drawn, eyes shadowed in a way that had nothing to do with the poor lighting. For a fleeting second, he barely recognized himself. This wasn’t the rookie cop who had stumbled into hell with more determination than experience. This wasn’t even the seasoned agent who had learned to carry his scars quietly. This was someone hollowed out, a man watching his own life rewritten in sterile bullet points.

At the bottom of the page, a final addendum had been appended, time-stamped days before the city was destroyed.

Subject failed to report asset termination opportunity. Rationale unknown.

Leon’s chest tightened so abruptly it bordered on pain. Termination opportunity. The phrase sat on the screen with brutal simplicity, offering no context, no explanation, just the implication hanging heavy in the air between what was written and what it meant.

Were you supposed to kill him?

For a long moment, he didn’t move at all. The lab hummed faintly around him, some ancient system cycling air through vents clogged with dust, a mechanical breathing that made the silence feel almost sentient. Beneath the weight of the earth, beneath the ashes of a city that had once burned bright enough to be seen from miles away, he felt very small, very alone, as though he had uncovered something that should have remained buried not for secrecy but for mercy.

Anger didn’t come first. Neither did grief. What settled into him instead was a cold, creeping numbness, spreading outward from his chest like frost. It dulled the sharp edges of panic, muffled the chaos of competing thoughts, left behind a brittle kind of clarity. The kind that allowed him to stand up, straighten his shoulders, and step back from the terminal as if physical distance could put space between him and the words that had just rearranged the past, the present, and the future.

You saved him, but you lied to him.

Leon shut down the monitor with a decisive tap, the screen going dark in an instant, your name disappearing into black as if it had never been there at all. The sudden absence felt worse than the presence had, like a door slamming on answers he wasn’t ready to stop searching for. 

He stared at the blank glass for a few seconds longer, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. Then he turned and walked out of the room without looking back, boots echoing down the corridor like the ticking of a clock that had finally started again.

It had been three days since Leon found the files. He had been distant, barely talking, saying he was 'tired'. He was working late hours, going in for early mornings. Hardly calling and texting throughout the day. 

Leon came home from a late-night mission. Late enough that the apartment had already sunk into that fragile, after-midnight quiet where every small sound felt magnified. The lock clicked softly behind him, followed by the muted thud of the door sealing shut, and for a moment he just stood there with his hand still on the knob as if he had forgotten what came next. The familiar scent of your detergent lingered in the air, clean and warm, threaded with the faint trace of something you had cooked earlier. It should have felt like relief. Instead, it settled over him like a weight.

You stirred on the couch, where you had apparently fallen asleep waiting for him, a blanket pooled around your legs and the television casting dim, flickering light across the room. Your eyes opened slowly, soft with drowsiness, and when you saw him, they brightened in a way that used to loosen something tight in his chest.

“You’re back,” you murmured, voice rough from sleep.

Leon forced a nod, already moving past you toward the kitchen before you could sit up fully, before you could reach for him the way you usually did. He set his keys down with careful precision, each movement deliberate, controlled, as if any sudden motion might shake loose something he was barely holding in place. The overhead light stayed off. He didn’t want to see too clearly. Didn’t want to risk you seeing him.

“You okay?” you asked after a beat, more awake now, the concern in your tone sharpening.

“Yeah.” The word came out flat, automatic. He opened the fridge, stared inside without really looking, then closed it again without taking anything. “Just tired.”

You watched him in silence, and he could feel it, that quiet attention like a hand hovering just short of contact. Normally he would have crossed the room by now, leaned down to kiss your forehead, rested his weight against you like coming home meant something physical as much as emotional. Instead, he kept his back turned, shoulders rigid beneath his jacket.

“You didn’t call,” you said softly.

Leon swallowed. “Mission ran long.”

He heard the blanket rustle as you stood, slow steps approaching, stopping just short of touching him. Close enough that he could feel your warmth at his back, the faint brush of your breath against the fabric of his shirt. For a split second, he nearly turned, nearly gave in to the instinct to fold you into his arms and bury his face in your hair until the world stopped spinning.

Instead, he stepped sideways, creating space. The movement was small. It landed like a gunshot, sticking out like a sore thumb. Your hand, half-lifted, fell back to your side. The silence that followed now had an edge, thin and sharp as broken glass.

“Leon,” you said, and there was no sleep left in your voice at all. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

He hated himself for it immediately, but the alternative, the words clawing at the back of his throat, felt impossible to shape into something survivable. How do you ask the person you love if your entire life together was built on a mission report? How do you look at them and not see every memory overlaid with doubt?

You stepped in front of him, forcing him to meet your eyes. The concern there had deepened into something closer to fear, your brows drawn together, lips pressed tight as if bracing for impact.

“You won't even touch me,” you said quietly.

Leon’s gaze flickered past you, to the floor, to the dark window, anywhere but your face. He could feel the pull of you like gravity, the familiar comfort of your presence now twisted into something dangerous. If he looked too long, he might see the person he loved instead of the subject designation on a dead screen beneath a dead city.

“I just need some space,” he said at last, voice low, controlled to the point of strain.

Your expression crumpled slightly, hurt flashing across it before you could hide it. “Space? From me?”

He didn’t answer. Because yes... and no. Because he didn’t trust himself to say anything that wouldn’t either shatter you or give himself away. The quiet stretched until it became unbearable. Then you did something he hadn’t prepared for.

You squared your shoulders, lifted your chin, and asked, very clearly, “What did you find?”

Leon’s head snapped up, eyes locking onto yours for the first time since he walked through the door. There was no accusation in your face, no panic, just a terrible, steady understanding that made his stomach drop. Something inside him hardened, brittle and defensive. If you already knew, then the pretending was pointless. The fragile illusion of normalcy shattered with a soundless finality.

Without a word, he turned and walked down the hallway to the bedroom. He didn’t check if you followed. He didn’t need to. Your footsteps came a moment later, hesitant but determined, trailing behind him like an echo.

He stopped at the dresser, opened the top drawer, and pulled out a thick manila folder. The paper inside had been handled too many times already, edges slightly bent, corners softened by the pressure of his grip. Printed copies of the files, because something about seeing them in ink had made them feel horribly real in a way a screen never could.

When he turned back to you, his face was composed in a way that felt wrong, stripped of warmth, stripped of the easy familiarity you had known for years. His eyes, usually so alive even when tired, looked distant, shuttered, cold in a way you had never seen directed at you before.

“You want to tell me what this is?” he asked.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. He stepped forward just enough to place the folder in your hands, not quite touching you in the process. The weight of it made your arms dip slightly, the pages shifting with a soft, damning rustle.

For a moment, you didn’t open it. The color drained from your face anyway, recognition blooming like a bruise beneath your skin. Leon watched every micro-expression, every flicker of emotion, searching for something, guilt, deceit, indifference, anything that would make this make sense. What he saw instead was devastation. Not the panic of someone caught, but the quiet horror of someone whose worst fear had just come true.

“I was going to tell you,” you whispered, though it sounded like the words were being dragged out of you. “Eventually.”

“When?” His voice sharpened, the first crack in the ice. “After another ten years? Twenty? Or was I supposed to just never find out?”

Your fingers tightened around the folder, knuckles blanching. “It wasn’t like that.”

“It looks exactly like that.” The control in his tone was fraying now, anger seeping through in thin, dangerous lines. “Test subject. Infiltration. Observation. Termination opportunity.” Each word hit the air like a dropped piece of glass. “You want to explain which part I’m misunderstanding?”

Tears welled in your eyes, but you didn’t look away from him. “I didn’t kill you.”

The simplicity of it stunned him into silence.

“I could have,” you continued, voice trembling but steady enough to carry. “I had chances. Orders. I ignored them. I stayed because I wanted to, not because anyone told me to. I stopped reporting. I stopped being what they made me.” Your breath hitched, shoulders shaking as you struggled to keep control. “Everything after that night... that was real. You were real.”

Leon’s chest tightened painfully, something twisting deep inside where anger and grief tangled together. Part of him wanted to believe you so badly it hurt. Another part, colder, more wounded, whispered that he had already believed once.

"We..." you pause, pointing between the two of you. "We are real."

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, quieter now, the question stripped down to its rawest form.

Because you might leave. Because you deserved better. Because loving you was the first choice that was ever truly mine. The answers hovered in your eyes even before you spoke.

“Because I couldn’t lose you,” you said.

You wiped at your face with the back of your hand, breath shuddering in and out as if you were trying to steady yourself for something worse. When you spoke again, your voice had shifted, threaded with a grim resolve that made Leon’s stomach drop in an entirely new way.

“There’s something else,” you said. “Something you need to know.”

He went very still.

“The experiments didn’t just change me,” you continued softly. “My blood… it carries antibodies. A stable strain. They were trying to weaponize it, but it can also be used to neutralize active infections. A cure.”

Leon’s eyes narrowed slightly, confusion cutting through the emotional haze. “Why are you telling me this now?”

Your gaze flickered down, then back up, shining with unshed tears. “Because the process to extract enough of it is dangerous,” you said. “There’s a high chance I wouldn’t survive it.”

The words landed with the force of a physical impact, knocking the breath from his lungs. For a second, he couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, could only stare at you as the implication unfolded in slow, horrifying clarity.

“You were going to do it anyway,” he said hoarsely.

Leon felt something hot and violent spark through the numbness, cutting clean through the fog that had settled over him since he walked into the lab. Fear. Not the distant, professional kind he knew how to manage, but the raw, animal terror that clawed straight for his throat.

“Absolutely not,” he said, the words out before he even realized he was speaking.

Your shoulders flinched as if he had shouted, though his voice never rose above a harsh whisper. The denial in it was unmistakable, immediate, and total, leaving no room for negotiation, no space for compromise.

“You don’t get to make that call,” you said quietly.

His laugh was short and humorless, more exhale than sound. “Like hell I don’t.”

He dragged a hand down his face, fingers pressing hard into his eyes as if he could physically force the world back into something that made sense. Betrayal, love, anger, relief, horror, it all churned together until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began. The idea of losing you, of you choosing to walk knowingly toward something that might kill you, sliced through him with a clarity that made everything else feel distant by comparison.

“You should’ve told me,” he said, voice rough, fraying at the edges. “Before it got to this point. Before you decided you were just going to... what, die quietly and leave me a suicide letter?”

"It's a solution to something plaguing this world."

"At your expense."

"If that's what it takes."

Leon dropped his hand, eyes snapping back to yours, and whatever you saw there made your breath hitch. The cold distance was still present, but it had fractured, exposing something far more dangerous beneath it, something desperate and furious and painfully alive.

“You don’t get to decide that your life is expendable,” he said, each word deliberate, as if he were forcing them past a barricade in his chest. “Not to fix this. Not for me.”

Your gaze softened, heartbreak bleeding through the determination. “Leon…”

“No.” He shook his head sharply, stepping back as if proximity itself was a threat. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to lie to me for years and then turn around and act like throwing yourself into a meat grinder makes it better.”

The cruelty of the phrasing seemed to wound him as much as it did you, his jaw tightening immediately afterward, but he didn’t take it back. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he needed the anger to keep from collapsing under everything else.

Silence crashed down, heavy and suffocating.

When you spoke again, your voice was barely above a whisper. “You think I want to die?”

Leon didn’t answer. He didn’t think that. Because the alternative, that you loved him enough to risk it anyway, was infinitely worse.

“I want to live,” you continued, tears spilling freely now, unchecked. “I want mornings with you and stupid arguments about takeout and complaining about your alarm going off too early. I want the boring stuff. I want all of it.” Your voice broke, splintering around the edges. “But I also want you alive. And if something happens to you and I did nothing when I could have done something, I wouldn’t survive that either.”

Leon felt his chest constrict, breath catching halfway in as if his lungs had forgotten how to work. He had spent so long assuming he was the one protecting you, the one carrying the weight, that the idea you had been quietly bracing yourself to carry him instead felt disorienting, like gravity had shifted without warning.

“You don’t know that I’ll need it,” he said, though the words sounded hollow even to his own ears.

Your eyes held his, steady despite the tears. "We both know you do."

A long moment stretched between you, fragile as a thread pulled too tight. The apartment, once warm and familiar, now felt alien, every object a witness to a conversation neither of you had ever imagined having. The folder still rested on the bed where you had dropped it, papers half-spilled like the aftermath of an explosion, silent proof that there was no going back to before.

Leon’s gaze flicked to it, then back to you. Something shifted in his expression, the anger draining away just enough to reveal the exhaustion underneath. The bone-deep weariness of someone who had been fighting too many battles for too long.

“You should’ve trusted me,” he said quietly.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out; the truth was too complicated, too painful to compress into something that wouldn’t shatter on contact. How could you explain that trust had never been the issue? That fear had been louder, heavier, a constant shadow whispering that if he saw the worst parts of you, he would finally realize you didn’t belong in the life you had built together?

“I was trying to protect you,” you said at last, the words thin but honest.

“From what?” he asked, though something in his tone suggested he already knew.

“From having to choose.”

That, more than anything else, seemed to break something in him. His shoulders sagged slightly, tension bleeding out as if the fight had drained away, leaving only the raw aftermath. He looked suddenly older, the hard lines of his face softened by something dangerously close to pain.

The distance between you remained, a physical gap filled with too many unsaid things, too much damage still fresh and bleeding. Neither of you moved to close it. Neither of you seemed sure how.

Leon’s hand curled loosely at his side, fingers flexing once, twice, like he was resisting the urge to reach for you. His eyes traced your face as if memorizing it, cataloging every detail with a quiet intensity that made your chest ache.

“I need time,” he said finally, voice low, stripped of everything but weary honesty. “I can’t... I don’t know how to process all of this. Not tonight.”

The words felt like another kind of blow, softer but no less painful. You nodded anyway, because what else could you do? 

"Okay," you whispered.

He hesitated a second longer, something unspoken flickering across his face, then turned and walked out of the room. The quiet click of the latch echoed through the apartment like a period at the end of a sentence neither of you had finished writing. In the silence that followed, the absence he left behind felt louder than any argument.

The apartment felt too large without him in it, every room carrying the faint imprint of his absence like a bruise beneath the skin. Morning light crept through the blinds in pale stripes, illuminating dust motes that drifted lazily through the air, undisturbed by movement or conversation. You sat at the kitchen table long after the coffee in your mug had gone cold, fingers curled loosely around it as if the residual warmth might anchor you to something solid.

Leon had left before dawn. You had heard the front door open, pause, then close with painful care, as though even the sound of leaving might be too much. He hadn’t come back to the bedroom. He hadn’t said goodbye. Could you blame him?

The folder still lay on the bed where everything had unraveled, papers spilling out like exposed nerves. You had tried to put them away once, hands shaking too badly to manage it, and ended up sitting on the edge of the mattress staring at the clinical descriptions of a person you barely recognized as yourself. Subject. Asset proximity. Termination opportunity. Words that stripped away every soft, human memory and left only the machinery beneath.

Eventually, you had closed the folder and set it aside. Eventually, you had stopped waiting for the door to open again. By midafternoon, the decision had settled into your bones with a strange, terrible calm. Not impulsive. Not dramatic. Just inevitable, like stepping onto a path you had known was there all along.

You moved through the apartment slowly, touching things as you passed. The back of the couch where Leon liked to sprawl after long missions. The chipped mug he refused to throw away. The jacket he had draped over the chair two days ago, still carrying the faint scent of gun oil and laundry detergent and something uniquely him that made your throat tighten. Each object felt suddenly precious, painfully ordinary reminders of a life that had never been guaranteed to begin with.

At the desk by the window, you sat down and pulled a sheet of paper toward you. For a long moment, you just stared at it, pen hovering uselessly above the blank surface, the enormity of what you needed to say pressing down until breathing felt like work.

When the first word finally came, it opened a floodgate.

You wrote until your hand cramped, ink smudging where tears fell and weren’t wiped away quickly enough. Lines scratched out, rewritten, abandoned. Apologies that felt inadequate the moment they touched the page. Memories you couldn’t bear to leave unsaid. Confessions you had carried for years because speaking them aloud had always felt too dangerous, too final. The letter grew longer than you intended, pages sliding across the desk in uneven stacks, the sound of paper shifting loud in the quiet apartment.

When you finished, you didn’t reread it. You folded the pages carefully, smoothing the creases with trembling fingers, and sealed them in an envelope with Leon’s name written across the front in handwriting that barely looked like your own. For a moment, you held it against your chest, eyes squeezed shut, as if memorizing its shape, its weight, the last tangible piece of yourself you would be able to give him.

Then you set it on the kitchen table where he couldn’t possibly miss it.

Leon knew something was wrong the second he opened the door. The apartment looked the same, smelled the same, sunlight spilling across the floor in the late-afternoon glow he usually found comforting. But the silence felt different, hollow in a way that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. No television murmuring in the background. No movement from the bedroom. No soft clatter from the kitchen.

"Hello?" he called, voice rough from disuse.

No answer. He looked around, gaze landing on the table.

The envelope sat in the center like a gravity well, stark against the wood, his name written across it in unmistakable strokes. A cold, sinking sensation opened in his stomach, instinct firing before logic could catch up. He crossed the room in three quick strides, picking it up with hands that were suddenly not as steady as he would have liked. It felt heavier than paper should. Leon didn't open it. Not yet.

His eyes swept the apartment again, sharper now, cataloging details with trained precision. Your shoes were gone by the door. The jacket you wore most often wasn’t on its hook. The folder from the lab had disappeared from the bedroom. Understanding crashed into him with brutal clarity.

“Damn it,” he breathed.

His thumb slipped beneath the flap and tore it open. Several folded sheets slid free, edges uneven, faint smudges where ink had been disturbed. He unfolded the first page with fingers that had begun to shake in earnest, breath already coming too fast, too shallow.

Leon,

If you're reading this, I couldn't find the courage to say any of this while you were here last.

I kept telling myself there would be a better time. After the next mission, after things calmed down, after I figured out how to explain without losing you.

The words began to blur as he read. He blinked hard, a single tear rolling down his cheek.

There was never a better time. I hate that you found out this way. I wasted the only time I had to tell you. Everything in those files is true. I was a test subject. I was placed with you on purpose. I was supposed to watch, report, and then disappear. But I couldn't.

His grip tightened, paper crumpling at the edges.

I stayed because of you.

The apartment felt suddenly too small, walls pressing inward as memories flooded in uninvited. Your hand in his that first night, sticky with blood and grime. The way you had refused to leave him behind, even when escape routes collapsed, and ammunition ran low. The quiet, fragile life you had built afterward out of shared nightmares and stubborn hope.

I stopped reporting long before it was safe to do so. They called it deviation. Compromising their operations. I was a failure to them.

I called it choosing you.

Leon pressed his free hand to his mouth, shoulders trembling despite his effort to stay upright, to stay composed, to not fall apart in the middle of the room where you should have been standing.

I need you to understand this one thing, even if you never forgive me. Nothing about us was fake. Not the way I fell asleep on your shoulder the first time we felt safe enough to close our eyes. Not the way I leave the hall light on when you come home late. Not the way I fix your coffee in the morning, or the way I say I love you.

Leon squeezed his eyes shut, a sob forcing its way out anyway, harsh and unsteady.

You weren't just an assignment to me. You were the only thing in my life that ever felt like it belonged to me. I know I should have told you. I know you deserved the truth years ago. I was so afraid to lose you that if you saw all of me, not just the parts I wanted to be, you would finally realize I wasn't someone you could love.

But I love you. I loved you that night in Raccoon City when we were too stubborn to die. I loved you every morning you woke up beside me afterward. I love you now, even if this is the last thing I ever get to say to you.

My blood will keep you alive. If you're reading this, it means I decided the risk is worth it, to save you, to save others.

“No,” he whispered, voice breaking completely.

I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you and knowing I did nothing when I could have done something. You’ve carried enough ghosts. I won’t become another one if I can help it.

His knees buckled, forcing him to catch himself against the table, the letter dragging with him, pages scattering slightly but never leaving his grip.

Please don’t think this is me giving up. It’s the opposite. It’s me fighting for the life we were supposed to have.

A drop of water fell onto the page, then another, his vision dissolving into wavering shapes.

I wanted to grow old with you. I wanted to see who we would become when the world finally stopped trying to kill us. If I don’t make it, don’t blame yourself. Don’t go back to being alone just because I’m not there to argue with you about it.

Leon bowed forward over the paper, shoulders shaking, breaths coming in ragged bursts that sounded dangerously close to breaking.

Thank you for choosing me that night. Thank you for every day after.

The last line blurred almost beyond legibility.

I love you. I always will.

The facility was colder than you remembered, sterile air humming through vents, fluorescent lights casting everything in a flat, unforgiving glow. Medical equipment surrounded you in silent readiness, monitors blinking patiently as if they had all the time in the world. The technicians who had once run experiments down here were long gone, but the machinery remained, obedient and indifferent to who used it or why.

You sat on the edge of the treatment table, hands folded tightly in your lap to keep them from shaking. A line had already been prepped, supplies laid out with meticulous care. Once you started, there would be no stopping midway without risking failure. No safe undo button.

Your gaze drifted to the doorway, a reflex you couldn’t quite suppress, hope flaring and dying in the same heartbeat. He wasn’t coming. Of course, he wasn’t. You hadn’t told him where you were. And even if he guessed, even if he found the letter in time, even if he understood, he might still choose not to come. He had every right to stay away. After everything, you had forfeited any claim on his trust.

Your chest tightened painfully, but you forced the thought down. This wasn’t about what you deserved. It was about what he needed.

“Okay,” you whispered to the empty room, voice trembling. “Okay. We can do this.”

Leon shoved away from the table so abruptly the chair toppled backward, barely registering the crash as he stumbled for the door, grabbing his keys with hands that no longer felt entirely under his control. The apartment blurred past him, every familiar detail now sharpened into something painful and final.

He drove like a man outrunning a bomb. Traffic lights blurred into meaningless color, the engine protesting as he pushed it harder than he should, one hand clenched white-knuckled on the wheel. His mind ran ahead of him, assembling worst-case scenarios with ruthless efficiency.

“Don’t you dare,” he muttered hoarsely, whether to you or the universe itself he couldn’t have said.

Every second stretched into an eternity measured in heartbeat spikes and shallow breaths. He kept seeing your face from the night before, tear-streaked and determined, the quiet resolve in your voice when you said you wanted him alive. He had walked away from that. Left you alone with it. Left you to make this decision without him. Guilt burned hot and corrosive, eating through the last remnants of anger.

By the time he reached the facility, his chest burned, and his pulse felt erratic, adrenaline pushing him forward on pure momentum. The corridors were bright, sterile, smelling sharply of antiseptic and something colder beneath it. No personnel. No voices. Just the distant, mechanical rhythm of equipment in use somewhere ahead.

At the end of the hall, reinforced doors stood sealed, a red indicator glowing steadily above them.

ACTIVE PROCEDURE.

Leon’s heart seemed to stop. He reached the doors in two long strides, grabbing the handle and yanking hard. It didn’t budge. He hit the panel beside it, pounded against the metal, every impact reverberating painfully up his arm.

“Open it!” he shouted, voice cracking. “Do you hear me? Open the damn door!”

He pressed his forehead to the surface, one hand flattening against it as if he could feel through steel and insulation, as if proximity alone might reach you.

“Please,” he whispered, the word stripped of everything but raw desperation. “Please hold on.”

Leon slid down until his back hit the wall, staring at the unyielding red light, chest heaving, the echo of your letter still ringing in his ears like a final goodbye he refused to accept.

The red light above the doors bled into everything, tinting the sterile hallway with a low, warning glow that never dimmed, never flickered, never offered even the illusion of progress.

Time stopped behaving like time. It stretched, warped, doubled back on itself. Minutes could have been seconds. Seconds could have been hours. The steady mechanical beeping beyond the door drilled into his skull until it felt indistinguishable from his own pulse.

He replayed the letter in fragments, lines surfacing and dissolving without order.

Nothing about us was fake. I chose you. I love you. I always will.

Leon pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until sparks flared behind his lids, as if pain might anchor him, keep him from drifting into the dark places his mind kept trying to go. Images he refused to fully form crowded the edges of his thoughts anyway. A silent room. A still body. Machines going quiet one by one.

The beeping beyond the door stuttered. His head snapped up. For a single, frozen heartbeat, there was nothing. No sound at all. Just silence so complete it roared in his ears. Then the tone changed. Faster. Irregular. Urgent.

Leon scrambled to his feet, palms slamming against the doors as if he could force them apart through sheer will. “Hey! What’s happening in there?” His voice came out raw, shredded, the sound of someone who had nothing left to lose. “Open it! Open the damn door!”

Nobody answered. No footsteps came closer, and nobody was in the hallway to talk to. All he heard was the escalating chaos of machines working overtime. And then, abruptly, the beeping slowed. One long, steady tone cut through the noise, thin and merciless.

Leon went completely still. The sound tunneled straight through his chest, hollowing him out from the inside. For a moment, he couldn’t even breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t process anything except the terrible, final certainty carried in that single note.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head, the word barely audible. “No, no, no—”

The tone stopped. Silence crashed down, absolute and suffocating.

Something inside him collapsed under the weight of it. His hand slid down the metal door, leaving a faint smear where sweat and tears had mingled, his knees threatening to give out again. This was it. This was the moment the world tilted permanently off-axis. The moment everything before became something you survived, and everything after became something you endured.

“I’m here,” he said hoarsely, forehead pressed to the seam between the doors as if proximity could bridge the impossible gap. “I’m here, okay? I’m right here.”

A soft chime sounded overhead. Leon blinked, disoriented. The red light flickered once. Twice. Then shifted to green. He didn’t move, his brain refusing to reconcile what his eyes were seeing with what he had just heard. Green meant complete. Green meant safe. Green meant...

The locks disengaged with a heavy, mechanical thunk. The doors slid open.

Cold air spilled out first, sharp with antiseptic and something metallic beneath it. The room beyond was too bright, too white, a clinical space filled with equipment that hummed quietly now, as if nothing catastrophic had just occurred. At the center, a treatment bed stood surrounded by machines, cables snaking outward like the roots of some artificial tree.

Leon stopped breathing. You lay motionless against stark white sheets, skin drained of color, an oxygen mask obscuring the lower half of your face. Tubing ran from your arm to a collection unit now dark with blood, far more than seemed possible for one person to lose and still remain anything resembling alive. Monitors displayed fragile, wavering lines that dipped and rose with agonizing slowness. Still alive.

The realization hit so hard his vision went white at the edges. He staggered forward, each step uncoordinated, like his body had forgotten the mechanics of movement and was relearning them on the fly. By the time he reached the bedside, his hands were shaking uncontrollably, hovering over you without quite daring to touch.

“Hey,” he said, voice wrecked beyond recognition. “Hey, I’m here.”

Your eyelids didn’t flutter. Your fingers didn’t twitch. The only sign of life was the faint rise and fall of your chest beneath the tangle of wires and blankets, shallow enough that it barely seemed real.

Leon sank into the chair beside the bed with a dull thud, one hand finally closing around yours with painful gentleness, as if you might shatter under anything firmer. Your skin felt cool, clammy, frighteningly fragile. He brought your hand to his mouth, pressing it there, eyes squeezed shut as something broke loose inside him completely.

“You don’t get to leave,” he whispered against your knuckles, voice shaking violently. “You hear me? You don’t get to do that. Not after all this. Not after I finally know the truth. Not after—”

His breath hitched, the rest dissolving into a sound that was closer to a sob than speech.

“I love you,” he choked out. “I don’t care what was in those files. I don’t care who you were before. You’re mine now. You stayed. You chose me. That’s all that matters.”

Your fingers twitched. Leon froze. It was tiny. Barely there. Easy to dismiss as a reflex, a dying nerve firing at random. But he felt it, a faint tightening against his palm that sent a jolt through his entire body.

“Hey,” he said urgently, leaning forward, hope flaring so bright it hurt. “Hey, can you hear me? It’s me. I’m right here.”

Your brow furrowed slightly beneath the harsh lights, lashes trembling as if lifting them required more strength than you possessed. A soft, broken sound escaped behind the oxygen mask, almost lost beneath the quiet hum of machines. Leon’s free hand came up to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek with infinite care.

“Easy,” he murmured, voice gentler now, thick with emotion. “You did enough. Just... just stay with me, okay? That’s all you have to do.”

Your eyes opened a fraction, unfocused at first, pupils struggling against the brightness. It took several seconds before they settled on him, recognition dawning slowly, painfully, like surfacing from deep water.

Tears spilled from the corners immediately. Leon let out a broken laugh that dissolved into another sob, pressing the back of your hand to his face.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, that’s about how I feel, too.”

Your hand tightened weakly around his, the effort visible in the tremor that ran through your arm. When you spoke, the words were muffled by the mask, barely audible.

“I’m... sorry.”

Leon shook his head sharply, tears falling freely now, landing warm against your skin. "No, don't do that."

Your eyes searched his face desperately, fear lingering beneath the exhaustion. “It... was real,” you whispered hoarsely. “All of it. I love you. I never stopped. Not for a second.”

Something inside him gave way entirely.

“I know,” he said, the words breaking apart as they left him. “I know. I read the letter. I know.”

A fresh wave of tears slid down your temples, your grip on his hand tightening as much as your depleted strength allowed, as if you were terrified he might vanish if you loosened it.

“I thought... you’d hate me.”

Leon leaned closer, pressing a trembling kiss to your forehead, lingering there as if committing the moment to memory.

“Not a chance,” he murmured. “I was hurt. But hate you?” He let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know how. I don’t think I ever could.”

Your eyes closed again, exhaustion pulling you under now that the fight was over, but your fingers remained stubbornly entwined with his. Leon tightened his grip immediately, anchoring you in place.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised softly.

He settled beside the bed, one hand wrapped around yours, the other resting lightly over your heart as if he needed to feel each fragile beat to believe it was real. The machines hummed quietly, the harsh lights no longer feeling accusatory, just bright enough to illuminate the miracle of breath continuing where it had nearly stopped.

A doctor cleared her throat in the doorway.

“She’s stable,” the woman said gently, glancing between the monitors and the tangle of lines feeding into your arm. “But the extraction took a severe toll. She’ll need time. And rest. A lot of both.”

Leon nodded without looking away from you, thumb tracing slow, absent circles against the back of your hand as if reacquainting himself with the shape of it. Stable. The word sounded unreal, too clean for what the last few hours had been.

“There’s something else,” the doctor continued. “The serum synthesis was successful.”

He looked up slowly, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion carved into every line of his face. “Successful how?”

She held up a small containment case, no larger than a glasses box. Inside, cushioned in sterile foam, rested a single syringe filled with a faintly amber fluid that caught the overhead light like diluted honey.

“Enough for one full treatment,” she said. “It should neutralize the infection in your system completely.”

Leon stared at the syringe as if it might detonate. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t even blink. The reality of it pressed in from all sides, heavy with implications he hadn’t allowed himself to consider while panic drove him forward. A cure paid for in blood, in pain, in the risk of never waking up again. Your blood.

His gaze drifted back to you automatically. You were watching him through half-lidded eyes, pale and exhausted, oxygen mask still in place, but unmistakably aware. Something fragile flickered there, hope tangled with fear, as if this moment mattered just as much to you as surviving had.

You shifted weakly, fingers tightening around his with surprising urgency. The effort made your brow crease, breath hitching behind the mask. He leaned closer immediately, free hand coming up to steady your shoulder.

“Easy,” he murmured. “You don’t have to say anything.”

You shook your head faintly, stubborn even now, eyes locking onto his with an intensity that burned through the haze of medication and exhaustion. Your voice, when it came, was hoarse and thin but unmistakably determined.

“Take it,” the words scraped raw, each syllable costing you more than it should.

Leon’s chest constricted painfully. “You almost died.”

“And you...” Your breath hitched, forcing you to pause and gather strength. “...you don’t get to die later.”

A broken sound escaped him, half laugh, half sob. He bowed his head, pressing his forehead gently to the back of your hand, shoulders trembling.

“You don’t fight fair,” he whispered.

Your fingers twitched, brushing weakly through his hair in a gesture so achingly familiar it made his vision blur.

“Please,” you murmured.

Leon lifted his head slowly, eyes shining, the last of his resistance dissolving under the weight of everything that had happened, everything that had almost been lost. For so long, survival had been something he endured, something he carried like a burden because someone had to. This was different.

“Okay.”

Relief washed across your face so quickly it was almost visible, tension draining from your shoulders, from your eyes, from the tight line of your mouth. Your hand slackened in his, not from weakness this time but from release, like you had been holding your breath for years and could finally let it go.

The doctor stepped forward, efficient and quiet, preparing the injection with practiced movements. Leon rolled up his sleeve without prompting, gaze never leaving yours, as if anchoring himself to you would make the moment less surreal.

“Ready?” she asked.

Leon gave one short nod, tightening his grip on your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles in a slow rhythm.

The needle slid in with a brief, sharp pressure. Coolness spread through his arm almost immediately, a strange tingling sensation that traveled upward, threading through muscle and nerve like liquid electricity. He barely registered it. The only thing that mattered was the way your eyes stayed locked on his, wide and bright with unshed tears.

“It’s done,” the doctor said after a moment, withdrawing the needle.

Leon exhaled slowly, tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying draining out in a shaky rush. He flexed his fingers experimentally, then tightened them around yours again, unwilling to let go even for a second.

“See?” you whispered faintly. “Still here.”

He huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh on another day, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss against your temple, lingering there as if memorizing the warmth of your skin.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Still here.”

Your eyes drifted closed, exhaustion finally claiming what adrenaline had postponed, but your lips curved just slightly, a fragile echo of a smile.

Leon settled back into the chair, still holding your hand, the containment case now empty on the nearby tray. For the first time since reading your letter, since seeing that red light, since imagining a world where he had to learn how to exist without you, the knot in his chest loosened enough to let a full breath in.

Thanks for reading<3 Just a reminder, my requests are open!

[astronautlawliet]

Hi sweetie! I would like to request this !

Summary:

You and Leon had been together since the Raccoon City incident. You have a secret that you don't want to let Leon know.

What if Leon found a file in ARK on you being a test subject and a spy to undercover DSO. He is angry. He confronted you. His eyes showed distrust, betrayal, and coldness that you never since before. Leon demanded you not to follow him as he needed space to think.

You are aware of the risk of creating a vaccine - which can lead to death. You have decided to use your blood to create a cure for Leon as an apology.

In My Veins

The air in the ARK Laboratory was stale enough to taste, thick with dust and the faint metallic bitterness of chemicals that had long since seeped into the concrete. Leon moved through the corridor with slow, deliberate steps, his flashlight carving a narrow path through the darkness. Every surface looked embalmed, sealed beneath years of undisturbed gray, as if the facility had been entombed rather than abandoned. Raccoon City had burned above this place, collapsed into a crater, been written off as a wound in the earth that was safer left closed. Down here, nothing had healed. It had only waited.

His shoulders had been tight since they descended into the ruins, tension settling into muscle memory he had never managed to unlearn. This city had been his first day on the job, his first night of real terror, the place where naïveté had died screaming. It was also where he had found you, half-injured, terrified, stubbornly alive. The two of you had clung to each other through smoke and blood and impossible horrors, strangers forced into partnership by the simple need to survive. Everything that followed, every year, every quiet morning, every mission he came home from, had grown out of that single night like something fragile insisting on life in poisoned soil.

A reinforced door stood ajar at the end of the hall, its security panel gutted, wires dangling like exposed nerves. Leon nudged it open with the barrel of his handgun and stepped inside. The room beyond had once been a control station, rows of terminals arranged in orderly lines, most of them dark and dead. One screen still glowed faintly, its pale light cutting through the gloom like a stubborn pulse. Emergency power, maybe. Or some backup system that refused to die, just like everything else Umbrella had left behind.

He approached cautiously, the chair scraping against the floor when he pulled it back, sounding unnaturally loud in the silence. Dust coated the keyboard in a fine, undisturbed layer. No one had touched this station in years. He brushed it aside with a gloved hand and tapped a key. The monitor flickered, brightness stuttering before stabilizing, lines of text and folder icons resolving slowly as if waking from a long sleep.

Research data. Personnel logs. Experiment records.

He was already reaching to close the window, planning to flag it for the tech teams, when something caught his eye. A single entry buried among the others, stark in its familiarity.

Your name.

For a moment, he simply stared, his brain refusing to process what he was seeing. It didn’t belong here. Not in a place like this. Not in the bowels of the city that had nearly killed you both. You had escaped this nightmare together. You had left it behind. The idea that any part of you could still be cataloged down here felt obscene, like finding a living person listed among the dead.

“There’s no way,” he murmured, the words barely audible even to himself.

His cursor hovered for only a second before he opened the file. The first thing that greeted him was a classification header dense with codes and warnings, most of them above his clearance even now. Beneath it, a designation printed in clinical, indifferent text.

SUBJECT.

Leon’s stomach tightened, a cold, instinctive reaction that had nothing to do with logic. He scrolled, jaw hardening as lines of medical data filled the screen. Charts mapping blood composition. Notes referencing abnormal markers, resistance patterns, controlled exposure trials. The terminology was technical, detached, the language of people discussing specimens rather than human beings. Dates ran down the margins, some from before the outbreak, others stamped during the chaos when the city had already been collapsing into madness.

His pulse began to pound, each beat heavy and uneven. You had never mentioned any of this. Another section header appeared, bolded against the sterile background.

FIELD OBSERVATION REPORT.

Leon felt a prickle of unease crawl up the back of his neck. He kept reading.

Subject demonstrates high survivability under stress conditions. Continued proximity to designated asset recommended for monitoring behavioral stability.

A line below it listed the asset’s identification.

Kennedy, Leon S.

The room seemed to contract around him, air turning thin and difficult to draw into his lungs. He read the line again, then again, as if repetition might change the words into something else. It didn’t. Your name remained at the top of the file. His remained embedded in its body like a foreign object.

Memories rose unbidden, sharp and disorienting. You grabbing his arm in the police station, refusing to let go even as the world outside fell apart. The two of you running through smoke-choked streets, sharing ammunition, sharing fear, sharing the fragile belief that if you stayed together, you might actually make it out alive. Nights afterward when neither of you could sleep unless the other was close enough to touch. Years of quiet routines built on the understanding that whatever else the world took, you had each other.

Had that been real?

Leon’s hand curled slowly against the edge of the desk, leather creaking as his grip tightened. A dozen explanations fought for space in his mind, each one grasped and discarded in the same breath. Mistaken identity. Fabricated data. Umbrella’s records were notoriously unreliable, full of half-truths and outright lies. That had to be it. It had to be.

He scrolled further down. Additional notes populated the screen, colder, more precise. References to behavioral attachment. Deviation from assigned parameters. Refusal to disengage from asset despite direct instruction. The language suggested frustration, as though whoever authored the report had been documenting a problem rather than a success.

Leon swallowed, throat suddenly dry. You had stayed with him when you could have run. When it would have been safer. When survival alone should have been the priority.

Leon didn’t realize he had stopped blinking until his eyes began to burn. The cursor pulsed at the bottom of the screen, a small, indifferent heartbeat marking time while his own felt too loud, too heavy, as though it were trying to escape his ribcage. He forced himself to scroll, thumb stiff against the mouse wheel, every line of text revealing itself with the slow inevitability of something already decided long ago.

A new document opened automatically, layered with higher clearance warnings and authorization codes that made his jaw tighten. This one wasn’t medical. It read like a field report, stripped of anything resembling empathy, written in the detached tone of someone cataloging weather patterns instead of human lives. Your name appeared again at the top, followed by a designation number and a status marker that had never been updated.

ACTIVE.

Leon exhaled through his nose, the sound thin and uneven in the dead air. Active. As if you were still down here somewhere, pacing the corridors like a ghost assigned to haunt him personally. As if the last several years, the apartment you shared, the quiet mornings with coffee and sunlight filtering through the blinds, existed outside the scope of whatever this was.

He kept reading.

Initial objective: Integration with local law enforcement presence. Maintain proximity to the designated asset to acquire intelligence on survivor networks and government response capabilities.

His stomach turned, a slow, nauseating roll that had nothing to do with the stale air. Integration. Proximity. Intelligence acquisition. The words rearranged his memories into something unfamiliar, like furniture shifted in a room he thought he knew by heart. He remembered the way you had grabbed his arm outside the police station, your fingers shaking but unyielding, refusing to let him walk into the dark alone. He had thought you were scared. He had thought you needed him.

Had you been following orders?

A faint tremor passed through his hand. He clenched it into a fist,  grounding himself in the pressure, in the present, in anything that wasn’t the sudden vertigo of doubt opening beneath his feet.

Further down the report, the tone shifted.

Subject exhibits increasing emotional attachment to asset. Compliance with directive compromised. Multiple opportunities to disengage ignored.

Leon’s breath caught, sharp and involuntary. The sentence didn’t read like an accusation. It read like a complication. Like something inconvenient had developed where there should have been control. Ignored. You had stayed.

Images surfaced unbidden, vivid as if projected onto the dark walls around him. You collapsing against him in an alley, exhausted and shaking, your forehead pressed to his shoulder while distant gunfire echoed through the city. The way you had looked at him afterward, eyes red-rimmed but steady, as if the mere fact that he was still there had anchored you to reality. Nights after the rescue, when you would wake from nightmares and reach for him without thinking, your hand finding his wrist, his sleeve, any proof he was real. None of that had felt calculated. None of it had felt like a mission.

He scrolled again, slower now, dread pooling thick in his gut.

Recommendation: Continued observation. Emotional bond may increase asset stability and survivability. Risk of operational compromise acceptable.

Leon leaned back slightly, chair creaking under his weight, the sound jarringly loud. The report framed your connection as a tool, something useful, something measurable. Not love, which you told him just this morning. Not trust, which you'd built in the years since. Just a variable that improved outcomes.

His reflection stared back at him faintly from the dark edges of the monitor, pale and drawn, eyes shadowed in a way that had nothing to do with the poor lighting. For a fleeting second, he barely recognized himself. This wasn’t the rookie cop who had stumbled into hell with more determination than experience. This wasn’t even the seasoned agent who had learned to carry his scars quietly. This was someone hollowed out, a man watching his own life rewritten in sterile bullet points.

At the bottom of the page, a final addendum had been appended, time-stamped days before the city was destroyed.

Subject failed to report asset termination opportunity. Rationale unknown.

Leon’s chest tightened so abruptly it bordered on pain. Termination opportunity. The phrase sat on the screen with brutal simplicity, offering no context, no explanation, just the implication hanging heavy in the air between what was written and what it meant.

Were you supposed to kill him?

For a long moment, he didn’t move at all. The lab hummed faintly around him, some ancient system cycling air through vents clogged with dust, a mechanical breathing that made the silence feel almost sentient. Beneath the weight of the earth, beneath the ashes of a city that had once burned bright enough to be seen from miles away, he felt very small, very alone, as though he had uncovered something that should have remained buried not for secrecy but for mercy.

Anger didn’t come first. Neither did grief. What settled into him instead was a cold, creeping numbness, spreading outward from his chest like frost. It dulled the sharp edges of panic, muffled the chaos of competing thoughts, left behind a brittle kind of clarity. The kind that allowed him to stand up, straighten his shoulders, and step back from the terminal as if physical distance could put space between him and the words that had just rearranged the past, the present, and the future.

You saved him, but you lied to him.

Leon shut down the monitor with a decisive tap, the screen going dark in an instant, your name disappearing into black as if it had never been there at all. The sudden absence felt worse than the presence had, like a door slamming on answers he wasn’t ready to stop searching for. 

He stared at the blank glass for a few seconds longer, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. Then he turned and walked out of the room without looking back, boots echoing down the corridor like the ticking of a clock that had finally started again.

It had been three days since Leon found the files. He had been distant, barely talking, saying he was 'tired'. He was working late hours, going in for early mornings. Hardly calling and texting throughout the day. 

Leon came home from a late-night mission. Late enough that the apartment had already sunk into that fragile, after-midnight quiet where every small sound felt magnified. The lock clicked softly behind him, followed by the muted thud of the door sealing shut, and for a moment he just stood there with his hand still on the knob as if he had forgotten what came next. The familiar scent of your detergent lingered in the air, clean and warm, threaded with the faint trace of something you had cooked earlier. It should have felt like relief. Instead, it settled over him like a weight.

You stirred on the couch, where you had apparently fallen asleep waiting for him, a blanket pooled around your legs and the television casting dim, flickering light across the room. Your eyes opened slowly, soft with drowsiness, and when you saw him, they brightened in a way that used to loosen something tight in his chest.

“You’re back,” you murmured, voice rough from sleep.

Leon forced a nod, already moving past you toward the kitchen before you could sit up fully, before you could reach for him the way you usually did. He set his keys down with careful precision, each movement deliberate, controlled, as if any sudden motion might shake loose something he was barely holding in place. The overhead light stayed off. He didn’t want to see too clearly. Didn’t want to risk you seeing him.

“You okay?” you asked after a beat, more awake now, the concern in your tone sharpening.

“Yeah.” The word came out flat, automatic. He opened the fridge, stared inside without really looking, then closed it again without taking anything. “Just tired.”

You watched him in silence, and he could feel it, that quiet attention like a hand hovering just short of contact. Normally he would have crossed the room by now, leaned down to kiss your forehead, rested his weight against you like coming home meant something physical as much as emotional. Instead, he kept his back turned, shoulders rigid beneath his jacket.

“You didn’t call,” you said softly.

Leon swallowed. “Mission ran long.”

He heard the blanket rustle as you stood, slow steps approaching, stopping just short of touching him. Close enough that he could feel your warmth at his back, the faint brush of your breath against the fabric of his shirt. For a split second, he nearly turned, nearly gave in to the instinct to fold you into his arms and bury his face in your hair until the world stopped spinning.

Instead, he stepped sideways, creating space. The movement was small. It landed like a gunshot, sticking out like a sore thumb. Your hand, half-lifted, fell back to your side. The silence that followed now had an edge, thin and sharp as broken glass.

“Leon,” you said, and there was no sleep left in your voice at all. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

He hated himself for it immediately, but the alternative, the words clawing at the back of his throat, felt impossible to shape into something survivable. How do you ask the person you love if your entire life together was built on a mission report? How do you look at them and not see every memory overlaid with doubt?

You stepped in front of him, forcing him to meet your eyes. The concern there had deepened into something closer to fear, your brows drawn together, lips pressed tight as if bracing for impact.

“You won't even touch me,” you said quietly.

Leon’s gaze flickered past you, to the floor, to the dark window, anywhere but your face. He could feel the pull of you like gravity, the familiar comfort of your presence now twisted into something dangerous. If he looked too long, he might see the person he loved instead of the subject designation on a dead screen beneath a dead city.

“I just need some space,” he said at last, voice low, controlled to the point of strain.

Your expression crumpled slightly, hurt flashing across it before you could hide it. “Space? From me?”

He didn’t answer. Because yes... and no. Because he didn’t trust himself to say anything that wouldn’t either shatter you or give himself away. The quiet stretched until it became unbearable. Then you did something he hadn’t prepared for.

You squared your shoulders, lifted your chin, and asked, very clearly, “What did you find?”

Leon’s head snapped up, eyes locking onto yours for the first time since he walked through the door. There was no accusation in your face, no panic, just a terrible, steady understanding that made his stomach drop. Something inside him hardened, brittle and defensive. If you already knew, then the pretending was pointless. The fragile illusion of normalcy shattered with a soundless finality.

Without a word, he turned and walked down the hallway to the bedroom. He didn’t check if you followed. He didn’t need to. Your footsteps came a moment later, hesitant but determined, trailing behind him like an echo.

He stopped at the dresser, opened the top drawer, and pulled out a thick manila folder. The paper inside had been handled too many times already, edges slightly bent, corners softened by the pressure of his grip. Printed copies of the files, because something about seeing them in ink had made them feel horribly real in a way a screen never could.

When he turned back to you, his face was composed in a way that felt wrong, stripped of warmth, stripped of the easy familiarity you had known for years. His eyes, usually so alive even when tired, looked distant, shuttered, cold in a way you had never seen directed at you before.

“You want to tell me what this is?” he asked.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. He stepped forward just enough to place the folder in your hands, not quite touching you in the process. The weight of it made your arms dip slightly, the pages shifting with a soft, damning rustle.

For a moment, you didn’t open it. The color drained from your face anyway, recognition blooming like a bruise beneath your skin. Leon watched every micro-expression, every flicker of emotion, searching for something, guilt, deceit, indifference, anything that would make this make sense. What he saw instead was devastation. Not the panic of someone caught, but the quiet horror of someone whose worst fear had just come true.

“I was going to tell you,” you whispered, though it sounded like the words were being dragged out of you. “Eventually.”

“When?” His voice sharpened, the first crack in the ice. “After another ten years? Twenty? Or was I supposed to just never find out?”

Your fingers tightened around the folder, knuckles blanching. “It wasn’t like that.”

“It looks exactly like that.” The control in his tone was fraying now, anger seeping through in thin, dangerous lines. “Test subject. Infiltration. Observation. Termination opportunity.” Each word hit the air like a dropped piece of glass. “You want to explain which part I’m misunderstanding?”

Tears welled in your eyes, but you didn’t look away from him. “I didn’t kill you.”

The simplicity of it stunned him into silence.

“I could have,” you continued, voice trembling but steady enough to carry. “I had chances. Orders. I ignored them. I stayed because I wanted to, not because anyone told me to. I stopped reporting. I stopped being what they made me.” Your breath hitched, shoulders shaking as you struggled to keep control. “Everything after that night... that was real. You were real.”

Leon’s chest tightened painfully, something twisting deep inside where anger and grief tangled together. Part of him wanted to believe you so badly it hurt. Another part, colder, more wounded, whispered that he had already believed once.

"We..." you pause, pointing between the two of you. "We are real."

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, quieter now, the question stripped down to its rawest form.

Because you might leave. Because you deserved better. Because loving you was the first choice that was ever truly mine. The answers hovered in your eyes even before you spoke.

“Because I couldn’t lose you,” you said.

You wiped at your face with the back of your hand, breath shuddering in and out as if you were trying to steady yourself for something worse. When you spoke again, your voice had shifted, threaded with a grim resolve that made Leon’s stomach drop in an entirely new way.

“There’s something else,” you said. “Something you need to know.”

He went very still.

“The experiments didn’t just change me,” you continued softly. “My blood… it carries antibodies. A stable strain. They were trying to weaponize it, but it can also be used to neutralize active infections. A cure.”

Leon’s eyes narrowed slightly, confusion cutting through the emotional haze. “Why are you telling me this now?”

Your gaze flickered down, then back up, shining with unshed tears. “Because the process to extract enough of it is dangerous,” you said. “There’s a high chance I wouldn’t survive it.”

The words landed with the force of a physical impact, knocking the breath from his lungs. For a second, he couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, could only stare at you as the implication unfolded in slow, horrifying clarity.

“You were going to do it anyway,” he said hoarsely.

Leon felt something hot and violent spark through the numbness, cutting clean through the fog that had settled over him since he walked into the lab. Fear. Not the distant, professional kind he knew how to manage, but the raw, animal terror that clawed straight for his throat.

“Absolutely not,” he said, the words out before he even realized he was speaking.

Your shoulders flinched as if he had shouted, though his voice never rose above a harsh whisper. The denial in it was unmistakable, immediate, and total, leaving no room for negotiation, no space for compromise.

“You don’t get to make that call,” you said quietly.

His laugh was short and humorless, more exhale than sound. “Like hell I don’t.”

He dragged a hand down his face, fingers pressing hard into his eyes as if he could physically force the world back into something that made sense. Betrayal, love, anger, relief, horror, it all churned together until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began. The idea of losing you, of you choosing to walk knowingly toward something that might kill you, sliced through him with a clarity that made everything else feel distant by comparison.

“You should’ve told me,” he said, voice rough, fraying at the edges. “Before it got to this point. Before you decided you were just going to... what, die quietly and leave me a suicide letter?”

"It's a solution to something plaguing this world."

"At your expense."

"If that's what it takes."

Leon dropped his hand, eyes snapping back to yours, and whatever you saw there made your breath hitch. The cold distance was still present, but it had fractured, exposing something far more dangerous beneath it, something desperate and furious and painfully alive.

“You don’t get to decide that your life is expendable,” he said, each word deliberate, as if he were forcing them past a barricade in his chest. “Not to fix this. Not for me.”

Your gaze softened, heartbreak bleeding through the determination. “Leon…”

“No.” He shook his head sharply, stepping back as if proximity itself was a threat. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to lie to me for years and then turn around and act like throwing yourself into a meat grinder makes it better.”

The cruelty of the phrasing seemed to wound him as much as it did you, his jaw tightening immediately afterward, but he didn’t take it back. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he needed the anger to keep from collapsing under everything else.

Silence crashed down, heavy and suffocating.

When you spoke again, your voice was barely above a whisper. “You think I want to die?”

Leon didn’t answer. He didn’t think that. Because the alternative, that you loved him enough to risk it anyway, was infinitely worse.

“I want to live,” you continued, tears spilling freely now, unchecked. “I want mornings with you and stupid arguments about takeout and complaining about your alarm going off too early. I want the boring stuff. I want all of it.” Your voice broke, splintering around the edges. “But I also want you alive. And if something happens to you and I did nothing when I could have done something, I wouldn’t survive that either.”

Leon felt his chest constrict, breath catching halfway in as if his lungs had forgotten how to work. He had spent so long assuming he was the one protecting you, the one carrying the weight, that the idea you had been quietly bracing yourself to carry him instead felt disorienting, like gravity had shifted without warning.

“You don’t know that I’ll need it,” he said, though the words sounded hollow even to his own ears.

Your eyes held his, steady despite the tears. "We both know you do."

A long moment stretched between you, fragile as a thread pulled too tight. The apartment, once warm and familiar, now felt alien, every object a witness to a conversation neither of you had ever imagined having. The folder still rested on the bed where you had dropped it, papers half-spilled like the aftermath of an explosion, silent proof that there was no going back to before.

Leon’s gaze flicked to it, then back to you. Something shifted in his expression, the anger draining away just enough to reveal the exhaustion underneath. The bone-deep weariness of someone who had been fighting too many battles for too long.

“You should’ve trusted me,” he said quietly.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out; the truth was too complicated, too painful to compress into something that wouldn’t shatter on contact. How could you explain that trust had never been the issue? That fear had been louder, heavier, a constant shadow whispering that if he saw the worst parts of you, he would finally realize you didn’t belong in the life you had built together?

“I was trying to protect you,” you said at last, the words thin but honest.

“From what?” he asked, though something in his tone suggested he already knew.

“From having to choose.”

That, more than anything else, seemed to break something in him. His shoulders sagged slightly, tension bleeding out as if the fight had drained away, leaving only the raw aftermath. He looked suddenly older, the hard lines of his face softened by something dangerously close to pain.

The distance between you remained, a physical gap filled with too many unsaid things, too much damage still fresh and bleeding. Neither of you moved to close it. Neither of you seemed sure how.

Leon’s hand curled loosely at his side, fingers flexing once, twice, like he was resisting the urge to reach for you. His eyes traced your face as if memorizing it, cataloging every detail with a quiet intensity that made your chest ache.

“I need time,” he said finally, voice low, stripped of everything but weary honesty. “I can’t... I don’t know how to process all of this. Not tonight.”

The words felt like another kind of blow, softer but no less painful. You nodded anyway, because what else could you do? 

"Okay," you whispered.

He hesitated a second longer, something unspoken flickering across his face, then turned and walked out of the room. The quiet click of the latch echoed through the apartment like a period at the end of a sentence neither of you had finished writing. In the silence that followed, the absence he left behind felt louder than any argument.

The apartment felt too large without him in it, every room carrying the faint imprint of his absence like a bruise beneath the skin. Morning light crept through the blinds in pale stripes, illuminating dust motes that drifted lazily through the air, undisturbed by movement or conversation. You sat at the kitchen table long after the coffee in your mug had gone cold, fingers curled loosely around it as if the residual warmth might anchor you to something solid.

Leon had left before dawn. You had heard the front door open, pause, then close with painful care, as though even the sound of leaving might be too much. He hadn’t come back to the bedroom. He hadn’t said goodbye. Could you blame him?

The folder still lay on the bed where everything had unraveled, papers spilling out like exposed nerves. You had tried to put them away once, hands shaking too badly to manage it, and ended up sitting on the edge of the mattress staring at the clinical descriptions of a person you barely recognized as yourself. Subject. Asset proximity. Termination opportunity. Words that stripped away every soft, human memory and left only the machinery beneath.

Eventually, you had closed the folder and set it aside. Eventually, you had stopped waiting for the door to open again. By midafternoon, the decision had settled into your bones with a strange, terrible calm. Not impulsive. Not dramatic. Just inevitable, like stepping onto a path you had known was there all along.

You moved through the apartment slowly, touching things as you passed. The back of the couch where Leon liked to sprawl after long missions. The chipped mug he refused to throw away. The jacket he had draped over the chair two days ago, still carrying the faint scent of gun oil and laundry detergent and something uniquely him that made your throat tighten. Each object felt suddenly precious, painfully ordinary reminders of a life that had never been guaranteed to begin with.

At the desk by the window, you sat down and pulled a sheet of paper toward you. For a long moment, you just stared at it, pen hovering uselessly above the blank surface, the enormity of what you needed to say pressing down until breathing felt like work.

When the first word finally came, it opened a floodgate.

You wrote until your hand cramped, ink smudging where tears fell and weren’t wiped away quickly enough. Lines scratched out, rewritten, abandoned. Apologies that felt inadequate the moment they touched the page. Memories you couldn’t bear to leave unsaid. Confessions you had carried for years because speaking them aloud had always felt too dangerous, too final. The letter grew longer than you intended, pages sliding across the desk in uneven stacks, the sound of paper shifting loud in the quiet apartment.

When you finished, you didn’t reread it. You folded the pages carefully, smoothing the creases with trembling fingers, and sealed them in an envelope with Leon’s name written across the front in handwriting that barely looked like your own. For a moment, you held it against your chest, eyes squeezed shut, as if memorizing its shape, its weight, the last tangible piece of yourself you would be able to give him.

Then you set it on the kitchen table where he couldn’t possibly miss it.

Leon knew something was wrong the second he opened the door. The apartment looked the same, smelled the same, sunlight spilling across the floor in the late-afternoon glow he usually found comforting. But the silence felt different, hollow in a way that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. No television murmuring in the background. No movement from the bedroom. No soft clatter from the kitchen.

"Hello?" he called, voice rough from disuse.

No answer. He looked around, gaze landing on the table.

The envelope sat in the center like a gravity well, stark against the wood, his name written across it in unmistakable strokes. A cold, sinking sensation opened in his stomach, instinct firing before logic could catch up. He crossed the room in three quick strides, picking it up with hands that were suddenly not as steady as he would have liked. It felt heavier than paper should. Leon didn't open it. Not yet.

His eyes swept the apartment again, sharper now, cataloging details with trained precision. Your shoes were gone by the door. The jacket you wore most often wasn’t on its hook. The folder from the lab had disappeared from the bedroom. Understanding crashed into him with brutal clarity.

“Damn it,” he breathed.

His thumb slipped beneath the flap and tore it open. Several folded sheets slid free, edges uneven, faint smudges where ink had been disturbed. He unfolded the first page with fingers that had begun to shake in earnest, breath already coming too fast, too shallow.

Leon,

If you're reading this, I couldn't find the courage to say any of this while you were here last.

I kept telling myself there would be a better time. After the next mission, after things calmed down, after I figured out how to explain without losing you.

The words began to blur as he read. He blinked hard, a single tear rolling down his cheek.

There was never a better time. I hate that you found out this way. I wasted the only time I had to tell you. Everything in those files is true. I was a test subject. I was placed with you on purpose. I was supposed to watch, report, and then disappear. But I couldn't.

His grip tightened, paper crumpling at the edges.

I stayed because of you.

The apartment felt suddenly too small, walls pressing inward as memories flooded in uninvited. Your hand in his that first night, sticky with blood and grime. The way you had refused to leave him behind, even when escape routes collapsed, and ammunition ran low. The quiet, fragile life you had built afterward out of shared nightmares and stubborn hope.

I stopped reporting long before it was safe to do so. They called it deviation. Compromising their operations. I was a failure to them.

I called it choosing you.

Leon pressed his free hand to his mouth, shoulders trembling despite his effort to stay upright, to stay composed, to not fall apart in the middle of the room where you should have been standing.

I need you to understand this one thing, even if you never forgive me. Nothing about us was fake. Not the way I fell asleep on your shoulder the first time we felt safe enough to close our eyes. Not the way I leave the hall light on when you come home late. Not the way I fix your coffee in the morning, or the way I say I love you.

Leon squeezed his eyes shut, a sob forcing its way out anyway, harsh and unsteady.

You weren't just an assignment to me. You were the only thing in my life that ever felt like it belonged to me. I know I should have told you. I know you deserved the truth years ago. I was so afraid to lose you that if you saw all of me, not just the parts I wanted to be, you would finally realize I wasn't someone you could love.

But I love you. I loved you that night in Raccoon City when we were too stubborn to die. I loved you every morning you woke up beside me afterward. I love you now, even if this is the last thing I ever get to say to you.

My blood will keep you alive. If you're reading this, it means I decided the risk is worth it, to save you, to save others.

“No,” he whispered, voice breaking completely.

I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you and knowing I did nothing when I could have done something. You’ve carried enough ghosts. I won’t become another one if I can help it.

His knees buckled, forcing him to catch himself against the table, the letter dragging with him, pages scattering slightly but never leaving his grip.

Please don’t think this is me giving up. It’s the opposite. It’s me fighting for the life we were supposed to have.

A drop of water fell onto the page, then another, his vision dissolving into wavering shapes.

I wanted to grow old with you. I wanted to see who we would become when the world finally stopped trying to kill us. If I don’t make it, don’t blame yourself. Don’t go back to being alone just because I’m not there to argue with you about it.

Leon bowed forward over the paper, shoulders shaking, breaths coming in ragged bursts that sounded dangerously close to breaking.

Thank you for choosing me that night. Thank you for every day after.

The last line blurred almost beyond legibility.

I love you. I always will.

The facility was colder than you remembered, sterile air humming through vents, fluorescent lights casting everything in a flat, unforgiving glow. Medical equipment surrounded you in silent readiness, monitors blinking patiently as if they had all the time in the world. The technicians who had once run experiments down here were long gone, but the machinery remained, obedient and indifferent to who used it or why.

You sat on the edge of the treatment table, hands folded tightly in your lap to keep them from shaking. A line had already been prepped, supplies laid out with meticulous care. Once you started, there would be no stopping midway without risking failure. No safe undo button.

Your gaze drifted to the doorway, a reflex you couldn’t quite suppress, hope flaring and dying in the same heartbeat. He wasn’t coming. Of course, he wasn’t. You hadn’t told him where you were. And even if he guessed, even if he found the letter in time, even if he understood, he might still choose not to come. He had every right to stay away. After everything, you had forfeited any claim on his trust.

Your chest tightened painfully, but you forced the thought down. This wasn’t about what you deserved. It was about what he needed.

“Okay,” you whispered to the empty room, voice trembling. “Okay. We can do this.”

Leon shoved away from the table so abruptly the chair toppled backward, barely registering the crash as he stumbled for the door, grabbing his keys with hands that no longer felt entirely under his control. The apartment blurred past him, every familiar detail now sharpened into something painful and final.

He drove like a man outrunning a bomb. Traffic lights blurred into meaningless color, the engine protesting as he pushed it harder than he should, one hand clenched white-knuckled on the wheel. His mind ran ahead of him, assembling worst-case scenarios with ruthless efficiency.

“Don’t you dare,” he muttered hoarsely, whether to you or the universe itself he couldn’t have said.

Every second stretched into an eternity measured in heartbeat spikes and shallow breaths. He kept seeing your face from the night before, tear-streaked and determined, the quiet resolve in your voice when you said you wanted him alive. He had walked away from that. Left you alone with it. Left you to make this decision without him. Guilt burned hot and corrosive, eating through the last remnants of anger.

By the time he reached the facility, his chest burned, and his pulse felt erratic, adrenaline pushing him forward on pure momentum. The corridors were bright, sterile, smelling sharply of antiseptic and something colder beneath it. No personnel. No voices. Just the distant, mechanical rhythm of equipment in use somewhere ahead.

At the end of the hall, reinforced doors stood sealed, a red indicator glowing steadily above them.

ACTIVE PROCEDURE.

Leon’s heart seemed to stop. He reached the doors in two long strides, grabbing the handle and yanking hard. It didn’t budge. He hit the panel beside it, pounded against the metal, every impact reverberating painfully up his arm.

“Open it!” he shouted, voice cracking. “Do you hear me? Open the damn door!”

He pressed his forehead to the surface, one hand flattening against it as if he could feel through steel and insulation, as if proximity alone might reach you.

“Please,” he whispered, the word stripped of everything but raw desperation. “Please hold on.”

Leon slid down until his back hit the wall, staring at the unyielding red light, chest heaving, the echo of your letter still ringing in his ears like a final goodbye he refused to accept.

The red light above the doors bled into everything, tinting the sterile hallway with a low, warning glow that never dimmed, never flickered, never offered even the illusion of progress.

Time stopped behaving like time. It stretched, warped, doubled back on itself. Minutes could have been seconds. Seconds could have been hours. The steady mechanical beeping beyond the door drilled into his skull until it felt indistinguishable from his own pulse.

He replayed the letter in fragments, lines surfacing and dissolving without order.

Nothing about us was fake. I chose you. I love you. I always will.

Leon pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until sparks flared behind his lids, as if pain might anchor him, keep him from drifting into the dark places his mind kept trying to go. Images he refused to fully form crowded the edges of his thoughts anyway. A silent room. A still body. Machines going quiet one by one.

The beeping beyond the door stuttered. His head snapped up. For a single, frozen heartbeat, there was nothing. No sound at all. Just silence so complete it roared in his ears. Then the tone changed. Faster. Irregular. Urgent.

Leon scrambled to his feet, palms slamming against the doors as if he could force them apart through sheer will. “Hey! What’s happening in there?” His voice came out raw, shredded, the sound of someone who had nothing left to lose. “Open it! Open the damn door!”

Nobody answered. No footsteps came closer, and nobody was in the hallway to talk to. All he heard was the escalating chaos of machines working overtime. And then, abruptly, the beeping slowed. One long, steady tone cut through the noise, thin and merciless.

Leon went completely still. The sound tunneled straight through his chest, hollowing him out from the inside. For a moment, he couldn’t even breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t process anything except the terrible, final certainty carried in that single note.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head, the word barely audible. “No, no, no—”

The tone stopped. Silence crashed down, absolute and suffocating.

Something inside him collapsed under the weight of it. His hand slid down the metal door, leaving a faint smear where sweat and tears had mingled, his knees threatening to give out again. This was it. This was the moment the world tilted permanently off-axis. The moment everything before became something you survived, and everything after became something you endured.

“I’m here,” he said hoarsely, forehead pressed to the seam between the doors as if proximity could bridge the impossible gap. “I’m here, okay? I’m right here.”

A soft chime sounded overhead. Leon blinked, disoriented. The red light flickered once. Twice. Then shifted to green. He didn’t move, his brain refusing to reconcile what his eyes were seeing with what he had just heard. Green meant complete. Green meant safe. Green meant...

The locks disengaged with a heavy, mechanical thunk. The doors slid open.

Cold air spilled out first, sharp with antiseptic and something metallic beneath it. The room beyond was too bright, too white, a clinical space filled with equipment that hummed quietly now, as if nothing catastrophic had just occurred. At the center, a treatment bed stood surrounded by machines, cables snaking outward like the roots of some artificial tree.

Leon stopped breathing. You lay motionless against stark white sheets, skin drained of color, an oxygen mask obscuring the lower half of your face. Tubing ran from your arm to a collection unit now dark with blood, far more than seemed possible for one person to lose and still remain anything resembling alive. Monitors displayed fragile, wavering lines that dipped and rose with agonizing slowness. Still alive.

The realization hit so hard his vision went white at the edges. He staggered forward, each step uncoordinated, like his body had forgotten the mechanics of movement and was relearning them on the fly. By the time he reached the bedside, his hands were shaking uncontrollably, hovering over you without quite daring to touch.

“Hey,” he said, voice wrecked beyond recognition. “Hey, I’m here.”

Your eyelids didn’t flutter. Your fingers didn’t twitch. The only sign of life was the faint rise and fall of your chest beneath the tangle of wires and blankets, shallow enough that it barely seemed real.

Leon sank into the chair beside the bed with a dull thud, one hand finally closing around yours with painful gentleness, as if you might shatter under anything firmer. Your skin felt cool, clammy, frighteningly fragile. He brought your hand to his mouth, pressing it there, eyes squeezed shut as something broke loose inside him completely.

“You don’t get to leave,” he whispered against your knuckles, voice shaking violently. “You hear me? You don’t get to do that. Not after all this. Not after I finally know the truth. Not after—”

His breath hitched, the rest dissolving into a sound that was closer to a sob than speech.

“I love you,” he choked out. “I don’t care what was in those files. I don’t care who you were before. You’re mine now. You stayed. You chose me. That’s all that matters.”

Your fingers twitched. Leon froze. It was tiny. Barely there. Easy to dismiss as a reflex, a dying nerve firing at random. But he felt it, a faint tightening against his palm that sent a jolt through his entire body.

“Hey,” he said urgently, leaning forward, hope flaring so bright it hurt. “Hey, can you hear me? It’s me. I’m right here.”

Your brow furrowed slightly beneath the harsh lights, lashes trembling as if lifting them required more strength than you possessed. A soft, broken sound escaped behind the oxygen mask, almost lost beneath the quiet hum of machines. Leon’s free hand came up to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek with infinite care.

“Easy,” he murmured, voice gentler now, thick with emotion. “You did enough. Just... just stay with me, okay? That’s all you have to do.”

Your eyes opened a fraction, unfocused at first, pupils struggling against the brightness. It took several seconds before they settled on him, recognition dawning slowly, painfully, like surfacing from deep water.

Tears spilled from the corners immediately. Leon let out a broken laugh that dissolved into another sob, pressing the back of your hand to his face.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, that’s about how I feel, too.”

Your hand tightened weakly around his, the effort visible in the tremor that ran through your arm. When you spoke, the words were muffled by the mask, barely audible.

“I’m... sorry.”

Leon shook his head sharply, tears falling freely now, landing warm against your skin. "No, don't do that."

Your eyes searched his face desperately, fear lingering beneath the exhaustion. “It... was real,” you whispered hoarsely. “All of it. I love you. I never stopped. Not for a second.”

Something inside him gave way entirely.

“I know,” he said, the words breaking apart as they left him. “I know. I read the letter. I know.”

A fresh wave of tears slid down your temples, your grip on his hand tightening as much as your depleted strength allowed, as if you were terrified he might vanish if you loosened it.

“I thought... you’d hate me.”

Leon leaned closer, pressing a trembling kiss to your forehead, lingering there as if committing the moment to memory.

“Not a chance,” he murmured. “I was hurt. But hate you?” He let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know how. I don’t think I ever could.”

Your eyes closed again, exhaustion pulling you under now that the fight was over, but your fingers remained stubbornly entwined with his. Leon tightened his grip immediately, anchoring you in place.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised softly.

He settled beside the bed, one hand wrapped around yours, the other resting lightly over your heart as if he needed to feel each fragile beat to believe it was real. The machines hummed quietly, the harsh lights no longer feeling accusatory, just bright enough to illuminate the miracle of breath continuing where it had nearly stopped.

A doctor cleared her throat in the doorway.

“She’s stable,” the woman said gently, glancing between the monitors and the tangle of lines feeding into your arm. “But the extraction took a severe toll. She’ll need time. And rest. A lot of both.”

Leon nodded without looking away from you, thumb tracing slow, absent circles against the back of your hand as if reacquainting himself with the shape of it. Stable. The word sounded unreal, too clean for what the last few hours had been.

“There’s something else,” the doctor continued. “The serum synthesis was successful.”

He looked up slowly, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion carved into every line of his face. “Successful how?”

She held up a small containment case, no larger than a glasses box. Inside, cushioned in sterile foam, rested a single syringe filled with a faintly amber fluid that caught the overhead light like diluted honey.

“Enough for one full treatment,” she said. “It should neutralize the infection in your system completely.”

Leon stared at the syringe as if it might detonate. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t even blink. The reality of it pressed in from all sides, heavy with implications he hadn’t allowed himself to consider while panic drove him forward. A cure paid for in blood, in pain, in the risk of never waking up again. Your blood.

His gaze drifted back to you automatically. You were watching him through half-lidded eyes, pale and exhausted, oxygen mask still in place, but unmistakably aware. Something fragile flickered there, hope tangled with fear, as if this moment mattered just as much to you as surviving had.

You shifted weakly, fingers tightening around his with surprising urgency. The effort made your brow crease, breath hitching behind the mask. He leaned closer immediately, free hand coming up to steady your shoulder.

“Easy,” he murmured. “You don’t have to say anything.”

You shook your head faintly, stubborn even now, eyes locking onto his with an intensity that burned through the haze of medication and exhaustion. Your voice, when it came, was hoarse and thin but unmistakably determined.

“Take it,” the words scraped raw, each syllable costing you more than it should.

Leon’s chest constricted painfully. “You almost died.”

“And you...” Your breath hitched, forcing you to pause and gather strength. “...you don’t get to die later.”

A broken sound escaped him, half laugh, half sob. He bowed his head, pressing his forehead gently to the back of your hand, shoulders trembling.

“You don’t fight fair,” he whispered.

Your fingers twitched, brushing weakly through his hair in a gesture so achingly familiar it made his vision blur.

“Please,” you murmured.

Leon lifted his head slowly, eyes shining, the last of his resistance dissolving under the weight of everything that had happened, everything that had almost been lost. For so long, survival had been something he endured, something he carried like a burden because someone had to. This was different.

“Okay.”

Relief washed across your face so quickly it was almost visible, tension draining from your shoulders, from your eyes, from the tight line of your mouth. Your hand slackened in his, not from weakness this time but from release, like you had been holding your breath for years and could finally let it go.

The doctor stepped forward, efficient and quiet, preparing the injection with practiced movements. Leon rolled up his sleeve without prompting, gaze never leaving yours, as if anchoring himself to you would make the moment less surreal.

“Ready?” she asked.

Leon gave one short nod, tightening his grip on your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles in a slow rhythm.

The needle slid in with a brief, sharp pressure. Coolness spread through his arm almost immediately, a strange tingling sensation that traveled upward, threading through muscle and nerve like liquid electricity. He barely registered it. The only thing that mattered was the way your eyes stayed locked on his, wide and bright with unshed tears.

“It’s done,” the doctor said after a moment, withdrawing the needle.

Leon exhaled slowly, tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying draining out in a shaky rush. He flexed his fingers experimentally, then tightened them around yours again, unwilling to let go even for a second.

“See?” you whispered faintly. “Still here.”

He huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh on another day, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss against your temple, lingering there as if memorizing the warmth of your skin.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Still here.”

Your eyes drifted closed, exhaustion finally claiming what adrenaline had postponed, but your lips curved just slightly, a fragile echo of a smile.

Leon settled back into the chair, still holding your hand, the containment case now empty on the nearby tray. For the first time since reading your letter, since seeing that red light, since imagining a world where he had to learn how to exist without you, the knot in his chest loosened enough to let a full breath in.

Thanks for reading<3 Just a reminder, my requests are open!

[puncertainty]

oh worm?

[fawnindawn]

reign over my heart.

summary: damian al ghul never left the league, carved to become the sole heir to carry his grandfather’s legacy. as his betrothed, you’re meant to be a useful pawn, nothing more. not a soul could have predicted that damian will betray his only purpose and burn it all to the ground—for his one weakness... you.

pairing: damian al ghul x fem! reader

content: al ghul au, arranged marriage, shared childhood in the league, his affections for reader are complicated by his upbringing, brief mentions of kidnapping/blood, devoted damian yearns till the point where the only weakness he can't let go of is the reader

Damian Al Ghul, your betrothed—is an isolated weapon. That was the first thing you noticed about the unnerving prodigy who was meant to be your future husband. The barrier that separated him from humanity. His grandfather—separated by unreachable expectations for his only grandchild. Servants who refused to meet his gaze—separated by fear that was ingrained since his birth, of who he was meant to be.

You are no different. A mere pawn, a piece to the legacy Ra's Al Ghul has crafted with a millennia of planning. Damian’s betrothed, but only in name did the title actually matter. This union has been formed long before you, a promise sealed by your ancestors, binding you to the demon head's only grandson—a political unity to benefit both parties.

All except the two souls forced into the marriage. You are no different, but not because you fear him like the rest. It is in the untouchable barrier that separates Damian from others, that you find yourself unexempted from. You irked Damian, as much as he unnerved you. Maybe because you were the only one who always dared to meet his gaze when he scanned over his territory as if he were above it all, only to meet your defying stare.

It made no sense to you. You were meant to stand by his side, as his future wife, so why did you have to bow your head?

Your lack of fear—for a boy raised to believe terror instilled in others was power, already struck the wrong nerve. If it wasn’t obvious from his cold, scornful tone whenever he spoke down to you, it would be his stubborn will to avoid you.

Every year, as fallen branches wither in the snow, it had been agreed upon your two families that you must reside with the League during the months of winter, to partake in the same trainings as Damian. Thanks to Damian, your classes were quickly separated.

"I refuse to be slowed down by some incapable child." His gaze never once drops to you, trained on his instructor instead with barely concealed fury when you had entered his personal training session.

"We are of the same age." You scoff. There it is again, that shock that flickers in his gaze when you respond with the same fire, unwilling to leave the room simply because he commands it.

"Think twice before spouting your incompetence as if it were some achievement." He mocks, bumping against your shoulder as he made it towards the exit. "Isn't it shameful to be as slow-witted as you are, if we really are of the same age?"

He was cunning, ruthless, a perfect soldier—but frustratingly immature. He refused to see you as an equal, so you refused to see him as yours. With a personality like his, you strongly vowed to never let your heart soften for the demon spawn crafted meticulously from Ra's Al Ghul’s hands to dominate the world.

The first time you see Damian cry, you had only turned ten. His grandfather had punished him to be isolated in his room, for failing to kill. An insubordination, Damian’s longest tutor—revealed to be an assassin.

Hesitance from Damian to strike—was all it took for his grandfather to name it weakness, and Damian took his punishment in obedience. He didn’t break, not as he watched the execution of his personal tutor. He didn’t break, when his grandfather instructed that Damian was to be left in isolation till he proved himself to be deserving, capable—worthy.

No, it was when you peeked through the slim crack of the door to his bedroom, did you hear his quiet sniffles.

The balm hidden behind your palm, under your sleeve, grows warm under the tightening of your fingers over the metal. You had only seen his wound because you had been hiding in the corner, watching as Damian hid the blood on his sleeves from his grandfather’s view. Stubborn, too prideful to admit the assassin has spilt his blood with a blade.

It wasn’t your place to go against the strict instructions given that Damian was to receive no visitors, but—wasn’t your duty to your betrothed, before anyone else?

Gritting your teeth, you slipped through the door with a subtle push before sliding it close. You don't recognise your mistake till you're shrouded in darkness, alone with the demon head's prodigy. There wasn’t a single second spared between the click of the door and Damian tackling you into the ground.

You both fell with a harsh slam onto the floor, your back digging into the wood—the balm sliding around to land above your head.

“What are you doing here?” He hisses.

You wince, feeling the grip of his fingers tighten into your wrists, pinned above you to immobilise your movement. “Ridiculous.” You hiss. “This is the thanks I get for sneaking in healing ointment?”

His painful grip finally falters at your words, but the shadows that shield the depths of his eyes from you makes it impossible to gauge his reaction. Only the pauses between his breath and your own, measures the time stretched between his calculations—before he pushes himself off with a grunt.

“I never asked you to.” He mutters, and from his tone alone—he sounds offended. As if you’ve insulted him with your offering.

“That’s the role of a betrothed.” You spat, hands flaying around for the balm before capturing it with your left. “To take care of her partner, when he’s being too stubborn to do it himself.”

His entire body freezes, movement stilled in the admission of your words. You’ve surprised him. Getting up onto your knees, you don't miss your chance as you wobble over to where he’s sitting, your hands landing on his thighs to stabilise yourself.

He hisses, ready to push you off but you grab his wrist before he’s able to.

“Let me treat you.” You say, one hand raised to show the balm in your hand. “I saw the wound you hid.”

He hesitates, and you expected stubbornness—but not till this point of idiocy. “My grandfather will have you punished, or worse—if he discovers that you were here.”

“Good thing he won’t know then.” You reply coolly. “This balm is scentless, and leaves no trace. My family was chosen for this alliance for a reason.”

Specialised in herbs, ointments, poison—the League has kept an eye on your family for centuries.

His annoying fretting to snatch his wrist out of your grip weakens, but it's clear he hasn't fully given in. “Why should I trust you?”

You purse your lips. It’s the right question, as expected of Ra's heir. Damian has a clear target on his back, leaving him in a position where not even his betrothed could be ruled out from an assassination attempt.

“Here.” You click open the clasp, and your fingers dig into the balm. You apply it on the exposed area of your arms, rubbing the ointment into your skin.

He watches, eyes driven to your revealed skin like a hawk, as you wait—and wait.

“No stings, or rashes.” You show, leaning in closer so that your arm was near his eye view. Up close, you feel the sensation of his long lashes fluttering against your arm.

He swallows, drifting his gaze between your arm and your face. “My grandfather has given clear orders.” His voice is weaker than you’ve ever heard it, ending in a low rasp that signals his pain.

“And your grandfather has taught you that survival comes first, above pride or following orders blindly to your death.” Your words cut through without a hint of remorse. “I will not have my betrothed die of something as minor as wounds, and be forced to marry another child younger than either of us.”

He grits his teeth at your mocking, before letting out a low ‘Tt.’ Turning around, he lifts off his tunic, and you see it immediately despite the low light.

The cut has worsened on his side, healing wrong—covered in sweat mixed with both dried and new blood. You mutter a curse as you grab for other supplies you have snuck in through the useful, hidden pockets you’ve sewn into your garments—cloth, alcohol, bandages.

A louder hiss escapes his gritted teeth when you dab alcohol to clean his wounds, but Damian makes no complaint. If anything, it seemed almost as if he’s punishing himself for falling weak to your temptation of medicine, and submitting himself to the sting of the pain.

By the time you’ve finished, Damian has leaned almost fully into your shoulder, shuddering breaths leaving his lips as you gently apply the balm over his scarred skin.

“Why?” He whispers weakly. You suspect if it weren’t for the pain, he wouldn’t have dared ask you such a question. It sounded uncharacteristically vulnerable coming from him.

“You’re my betrothed.” You answer simply, as if it answered everything.

Maybe it did, but to you—the answer was a mere simplification. Damian is the only person you know, who looks you straight in the eyes instead of cowering like the other children do in your homeland. With a strange look of contempt and understanding, knowing exactly how it feels to be born into a world that rejected you outright before you even had the chance to form a semblance of identity—in the face of what they preferred you to be.

A cracked mirror, and your only, twisted sense of a companion.

Damian doesn’t speak of the incident to you ever again. It’s a silent promise that you don’t bring it up either. A forced truce, because even a whisper of what happened will reveal your insubordination and his shame.

You half expected him to fully ice you out for your insolence. Not only have you disrespected his grandfather's orders, the man he admired most, you had also seemed him at his most vulnerable. Damian was a prideful person, and he didn't bare vulnerabilities easily.

So, it surprised you—when things began to shift.

Damian begins to linger after his trainings to watch over yours, insulting your stance and muttering sudden tactics mid-way through your own fights. His distractive presence is frustrating, but knowing his assessing gaze is locked onto you—it pushed you further than any instructor has. When you tackled your opponent down for the first time, his eyes flashed with brief pride.

Damian sits beside you during meals, instead of across the table. Making pointed remarks when you opt too much for fruits instead of meats—muttering strange declarations of not being able to accept your unbalanced diet. "I can't afford to have a betrothed who will collapse on herself by not prioritising her meals." He tuts. "It will be a disgrace if you are weak."

Damian so happens to cross your guest bedroom most nights, opting for a longer route back to his. He’ll slide the door open, tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth as he eyes your décor with distaste, commenting on how one should never be attached to material things. Yet, he finds himself seated next to you on the tatami mat, listening to you rant of your snuck-in possessions—of bands with loud electric guitars, and comics of superheroes that actually exist in this world.

Damian isn't easy to read, but it was a quick realisation that he was strangely obsessed with one of your collections in particular—Batman. A crime-fighting vigilante that rose to popularity after being introduced in the Justice League collections. He's practically mere myth. A terrifying, dark crusader who hides in the shadows of Gotham. Damian claims that the depictions you own is pure bogus fiction, that they didn’t even get the facts right, but you spot that rare glimmer in his eyes. Curiosity, longing.

"I don't get your fixation on him." You tut mockingly, a habit that's only sprung thanks to his constant clicking of his own tongue. "Wonder Woman is clearly the best member of the Justice League."

His glare flashes with a familiar defensive fire, and you're quick to smother your teasing smirk as you keep up your pretense. Holding out your collection of the Dark Knight, you wave it callously in your hand. "I suppose since you don't want to take it, I'll just throw it in the trash."

He's quick to swing his arms, capturing the collection before you can even aim for the bin. His glower is down-right murderous, but the way he's holding onto the binding as if it were something precious... your lips are practically bitten past the point of recovery to hide your smile. He's so stubborn. He's clearly wanted it from the start, and yet, he was so desperately trying to restrain himself.

You don’t comment on the obvious, of his presence orbiting around you whether consciously or not—and you allowing him to do so. Just maybe, you found it more pleasing than you'd like to admit, seeing this side of him that only revealed itself the longer he continued to seek you out. It felt as if this version of Damian, was only yours.

"Tell me about your father."

Three years have passed since the incident. At thirteen, Damian still sucks in coming up with excuses when he visits your sleeping quarters. His excitement had been brimming since your arrival, obvious through his impatience, when you returned to the League with more collections piled under your bundles of cloth to prepare for a harsh winter—comics, manga, posters, you name it.

You don't tell Damian that you purposely brought more Batman publications, just because you liked the way he furiously flipped through the pages—or snuck in more shoujo, because you noticed how he secretly cared for the endings more than he'd like to admit.

Comics are scattered around the both of you, and he's tucked under your sheets as the lamp shines a low, muted orange over his features. His gaze reflects a hazel-like hue, the green in his eyes mixed with a softened, yellowed rim.

"Haven't you collected most of his depictions?" He mocks lowly. "Stories by my mother barely compare to your obsession with my father."

You snort, because sure, you're the one obsessed with him. Deciding that mocking him could be reserved for another time, you push forward. "You say none of it is real."

He tuts condemningly. "Because it isn't."

"So, tell me." You murmur. "You say he's a great man."

"He is." Damian huffs with a hint of pride. "There is no man my grandfather respects more than my father. His detective prowess and his martial skills, it is only a waste that he did not continue his training. He would have been carrying the League's legacy, if he had accepted my grandfather's offer."

"Do you hate him for it?" You swallow, your words touching a forbidden territory. "For leaving this world behind."

The faint smile in Damian's lips drops at your question. You're nearly convinced he's one breath away from telling you to drop the subject, but he doesn't. He does that less nowadays, pushing you away. "...Hatred is useless. He has made his choice, and I must fill the gap that he has left."

Your brows furrow at his choice of words. The way his tongue stressed on the word, must. "...Because you want to?"

He nods firmly, leaving no room for hesitation. "I will make my grandfather proud."

"Isn't it pressuring?" You ask, your head already weighing heavy just at the thought of it. "To be the one and only heir of the Ra's Al Ghul. He is... harsh on you."

Ah, was that too on the nose? You've been noticing the strange dynamic between Damian and Ra's, as if they were master and pupil, rather than family of the same blood. It's no secret that Damian admires his grandfather with a loyalty carved of steel, but you can never forget that look on Damian's face... when Ra's had declared his hesitation as weakness. That barely concealed fear swarming in Damian's eyes.

“My grandfather—” Damian rushes through gritted teeth. “—I am and always will be his sole heir. His trust to shape the world he’s envisioned is given to me, because I am worthy—because he deems me worthy.”

Your brows furrow, and—it isn't pity, but your heart aches unwillingly. “You don’t have to convince me that he loves you, Dami.” You whisper.

He scoffs, abrasive and rushed. “I do not need to convince you. He is family. He has told me himself—of my value, of how the combination of my father's blood and his teachings will make me his greatest pupil. Of course he—”

His words falter, quieting into a thickened silence. It had hung right there, on the tip of his tongue. What was making him hesitate?

“Do you think your family will love you—even if you’re not worthy?” You ask after a moment.

Damian doesn’t reply you. The silence stretches, and you think you’ve found it. That aching core that made him who he is. The reason why he has never failed—even with every task and expectation soaring higher than before, even when exhaustion plagues him and discipline carves him raw off anything but his defined role.

“I would.” You mutter, and you're not sure why you're saying this. It's not like your opinion matters over his family's, a stranger to blood. “As your wife, I mean. You have many roles to fill, but as my husband, I don’t really have any expectations.”

He’s quiet still, and you almost believe he’s fallen asleep, right beside you in your mattress. He had overexerted himself today during training, gruelling his body past its limits—till it reached a newer level surpassing his previous record. Maybe that's why he still hasn’t left your room, hidden under your sheets and laying beside you to hide the ghastly bruises coating his arms.

“That’s what a moron would say.” He finally speaks, his voice a weaker imitation of itself. “You should have expectations for your future husband.”

Surprised he was willing to delve into a topic like this, when even the mention of romance and marriage used to make his cheeks flush—you turn your head towards his shadowed silhouette with a delicate curiosity.

“And what are these expectations?” You prod. “I’ll let you define them since you’re the one who has to live up to your words.”

Your question catches him off-guard, and his lips part in a rare loss for words. “Well—for one, a husband should swear their life to protect their wife.” He answers, the tone of his voice off—awkward. Making him sound more his age than he usually does. “To be her shield and sword.”

You blink slowly. “Isn’t that what you’re already doing?”

He clears his throat, uncomfortable. “And a husband should make sure their wife is of good health.”

These all sound… incredibly familiar. Your lips curl into a knowing smile, and you hide it behind your palm, pressed against your mouth.

“And?” You press on, muffled by your fingers.

“I suppose a husband should spend time with their wife.” He admits, and you're sure even in the dim light, his ears must be a bright red. “Why else would you be paired with another in a vow sealed for life?”

“That was… the most romantic thing that’s ever come out of your mouth.” You tease. “Have you been sneaking another read at my shoujo?”

“Silence.”

Your laughter trickles under the sheets, muffled by the cotton as you close your eyes, a warm smile etched in your lips. Maybe your arrangement wasn’t so bad after all—if it meant Damian was willing to take his role as your betrothed so seriously. Who would’ve thought—that little, bratty kid with the tongue of a viper, would turn out so considerate?

"Those are your words, not mine." You taunt. "You're the one who has to keep your promises—since you made them yourself."

He scoffs lowly, but much—much later, when your eyelids grow heavy and the edges of your room blur into one, you hear his voice, soft—unguarded in the mistaken belief that you've fallen asleep. "Of course I will."

At sixteen, Damian sneaks you out for the first time. Despite his discipline, years of knowing him has revealed the underlying rule-breaking tendencies running through his veins. He's practically memorised the blind spots where guards loosen up during patrol, especially in the crooks where only he could climb.

His hand is wrapped around your waist, stabilising you as you climbed into an abandoned watchtower, hidden behind tiles of roofing. At your first peek as your hands make contact with softened snow coating the tiles, your breath stills in awe. A rare snowfall has coated the entire mountain terrain, twisting the surrounding forests into an icy, winter wonderland.

A huff of warm breath leaves your lips, caught off-guard as Damian climbs up, offering you a hand and lifting you onto the platform, which overlooks the mountain valleys where the frozen river separates the banks. The sun hasn't completely risen, and in the serene quiet of the world, you suspect maybe only you and Damian were blessed with this rare sight.

"You—woke me up at the crack of dawn for sightseeing?" Your teeth chatter slightly as you spoke, a gust of wind numbing your reddened cheeks.

He huffs a low breath, light snow particles dusting his lashes. Looking over to you, you spot a rare amused smirk. A heavy weight drops onto your shoulders—his coat. He doesn't give you a chance to process or tease him, his lips parting to speak.

"You were always boasting of your homeland and its beauty." He mocks, a puff of air leaving his lips. "You know I'm not fond of letting you gain the upper hand."

You scoff. "As if you've ever let me have the upper hand, Dami."

The nickname rolls off easier when it's just the two of you alone. Something you had once picked up, teasing him when you overheard his mother calling out for her son in a sweet, low voice. It had reddened his ears in such a violent red that you never lost the habit of doing it.

It doesn't affect him as much as it did the first many times, much to your chagrin, but he still blinks slowly, processing the soft call of his nickname like a feline, before forcing himself to look away from your face, a slow bob of his Adam's apple.

"This is where I come to—rest." He admits. "No one will finds us here."

He's showing you a place that has previously only been reserved for him. His hiding spot.

You swallow thickly, unable to form your strange, erratic heartbeat into proper words. "You sure this isn't you orchestrating my murder before we're wed?"

He snorts, hand tugging you closer so you'll have a clearer view of the terrain. His back envelops you with warmth, shielding you from the gusts of chilling wind, and his hand comes up to shadow yours, guiding your index finger with his own towards the river banks.

"On the left." His low voice brushes past your ear. "Those are hunting grounds. In the spring, that's where animals are most fond of frolicking—and you'll find the rarest beasts only known in these lands."

Right, you're usually back in your homelands for spring. You've gotten used to the cold, near unbearable winters in the mountains here—that imagining the lands covered in green instead of frost, was almost impossible.

"To the right." He gestures, coaxing your hand once more. "That path leads towards the waterfalls. The spring water is said to be blessed with good fortunes."

"Your grandfather bathes in those too?" You tease.

Damian's chest rumbles lowly, amusement flickering in his features when you twist your head slightly to meet his gaze. "Focus." He mutters, a warm breath falling over your neck that has goosebumps appearing down your skin.

You turn your gaze back towards the lands, his lands. You realise he's teaching you, helping you understand the terrain because... in a few years from now, this will be your home.

"It is beautiful." You admit. The sun has risen past the spruce trees, coating the icicles with a warm, emitting golden light.

"It is yours." He reminds you.

You blink, unable to contain your—what was this feeling? This strange, erratic tugging in your chest. You've gotten used to teasing Damian, to his grumblings and pulling of your sleeves as he drags you wherever he pleased.

"Isn't it common sense that you are to accompany me?" He once scoffed, ears brimming a faint red. "Your duty as a betrothed is to remain at my side."

It only occurs to you now, in this rare morning light—that without putting it into words, these years have blurred together and you've grown closer to him without realising. To be worthy of his trust in sharing this private spot with you, of his low murmurs in your ears as he mapped out the landscapes of the mountains, of his soft grip over your waist to ensure you didn't slip.

Without being ambushed by the expectations of others, you've begun to truly feel the true weight of being his betrothed on your shoulders. It no longer felt like a simple term encasing you in another role to fulfil, another shackle. It's... starting to mean something new, to be his—and he yours.

At seventeen, you successfully tackled Damian down in your shared trainings. It had been his suggestion, to resume shared classes if you truly meant to keep up with him.

”No way.” Your voice lowers in disbelief, sweat pooling at your brows, hovering over Damian’s disgruntled expression. “That was a completely, fair takedown. I won.”

He scoffs lowly, his expression unsurprised. “I was going easy on you.”

“Sure you did.” You tease, leaning in so that your nose brushes against his. His lashes flutter, a habit he doesn’t notice he does when he’s flustered. His ears redden, but he doesn’t push you off.

“This isn’t an advisable tactic for distracting your opponents.” He mutters hoarsely, voice dropping several octaves as his gaze narrows on you. You love when he does that, the green of his eyes darkening into a similar shade of spruce leaves shadowed by his lashes.

“It’s working on you, isn’t it?” You mutter.

His breath hitches, his chest slowly rising as if fighting for oxygen against the impact of your question. His mouth curls into a scowl, before finally pushing you off.

He shouldn’t have gone easy on you if you were willing to pull tricks like that. Warmth burns at the back of his neck, trickling down with sweat—and he runs a hand through his wet hair to discard useless thoughts concerning the whisper of your question brushing against his lips.

He hears your light laughter, a sound rare within these walls, but it’s delightful enough that he wishes he could bottle it and drink it dry—another mad thought only you’re capable of summoning.

He only catches himself smiling—a foolish mistake, when he turns his head away to avoid your teasing gaze. His eyes lock onto another pair matching his own. His mother was watching him with a set line across her lips—disapproval. The twitch in his lips drops immediately.

When had she returned?

Careless. It's an immediate reprimand, and he senses an error he's made, somewhere lost between the languid smiles you dragged out of him, and his own guard loosening around you. Too often, has he gotten used to indulging in your presence, that he has forgotten the very reason why the exchanges of your smiles and banter never happened in public, around the many eyes and ears surrounding the estate.

A strong union was encouraged, but it was also expected to be emotionless, a mere contractual linkage. If word got around that there he carried a genuine fondness, it would complicate everything. A strategy meant to strengthen his legacy will become a thorn at his side, something easily exploited.

When his instructor dismisses him, he finds his mother stationed outside the corridor. He hasn't seen her in nearly a week, sent off on an escapade his grandfather has ordered her for, and he snuffs out any relief at the sight of her uninjured—or disappointment when his mother's eyes remain narrowed upon his arrival.

Talia Al Ghul stands before him, gaze assessing. “Pulling your punches?”

His jaw twitches. "It is practice, Mother."

His response does not please her.

“Remember, Damian.” His mother’s voice echoes along the walls. “Weakness does not survive in the world we shall build.”

Damian flinches at the accusation. It is not weakness, he wants to argue. You are not his weakness.

Yet, he sees it. The knowing, the pity in his mother’s eyes. She has stood in his place, and till this day—he’s never truly unraveled the truth from his mother’s tightly sealed lips. She once whispered of a secrets she cherished when he was but a boy, still soft enough to lay in her arms without being deemed weak for coveting her embrace. When it had been only the two of them, for his father never returned.

“Your purpose is greater than fleeting, young affection.” Her voice doesn't waver, carrying a tone that is meant to will him from disobeying. “Your grandfather has gifted you with the right to reign over his empire. You will not lose this honor.”

"That thought has never left my mind." He mutters, for it is the truth. How could he ever forsake his grandfather's blessing, to be born with an honor only he is worthy of holding?

A loud slam echoes through the corridors before he can convince his mother further, and he makes the mistake of searching for you instinctively with his gaze. He feels the way his heart thrashes into his ribcage when he finds your body pinned to the ground through the agape door, your expression twisted in pain. His fingers twitch to reach out for you. To be your shield.

Weakness. The voices that have judged his every action, every word, line of thought—combine into one coherent word that slithers down his throat.

His mother places a hand on his shoulder, her voice softening in a way that slithers through his defenses. “I understand, my child. More than you realise—which is why you must listen.”

His fists tighten, digging crescent moons into his palms. He must not be attached. Before his mother’s suspicions are proven right, before his grandfather notices—he mustn’t let you be his weakness. For as much as alliances have let his grandfather prevail in his reign, allies are as easily cut off the moment they no longer serve their purpose to the League.

If even a possibility of you being a liability holds true, you will be eliminated.

He will—no, he must protect you. Even if it’s from himself.

Damian has remained distant ever since that training. You had thought it was mere pride—it was your first success in tackling him down after all. Despite your attempts to coax him out of his sudden walls by teasing him softly, he does not budge.

It felt like a slap to your face when it was announced that your trainings were to return to being one-on-one. A horrid, cruel prank that demanded an explanation. Yet, by the end of the first week of this sudden change, his footsteps do not come by your door.

The comics he once poured over with you remained in their kept box, too painful to scour through when reading them lacked the company of his disgruntled expression and opinionated comments. Even during meals, he opts for different timings—and you end up sitting alone, poking at your fruit with no voice ranting to you on the importance of iron in a cold climate like his.

The silence gnaws at you, and loneliness accompanies you as a shadow when you return to your chambers, lips bitten to silence the ache in your chest and the tears that slide down your cheeks when the night grows too cold, and the wind whips at the windows.

Three months pass by in cyclical days, with hope dying out in your chest when Damian’s shadow doesn’t even cross ten feet of yours during the night and day. You catch servants pitying you, believing you to be thrown away by their master, his affections souring dry. Your own instructor berates you for your lack of focus, and again for your anger that slips between the cracks of your fists pummeled into the punching bags, spilling its contents over the floor.

Controlled. Composed. Obedient.

You didn’t know how to be those things anymore. Not when you had begun to see this place as a home after all these years, accompanying Damian’s side. Exposed to his humanity and a warmth that still lingers in his soul, despite the freezing cold of his climate and family.

After all, he had been the one who promised you, didn't he? Made you promise too, in that quiet, indirect way of his—that your first duty to him was to be his companion.

The loss wasn't only your routine, or your consistent stability as Damian’s betrothed—but also... your best friend. In a world as cold and isolating as the only one you've ever known, you never expected he would take his company from you too.

For the first time in years, when your winter visit is over and you return to your homelands—you choose not to return to the League.

When Damian hears of the news—of your delayed visit, with claims from your family that your trainings with Damian has been more than sufficient and you will continue your own studies in your homeland, he should have felt relieved.

He was—he had to be. No longer did he have to battle himself every morning, to avoid the path he’s succumbed to for years when passing your room, spotting your shadow illuminated by the dim light of your lamp. A room now desolate of your belongings and character, posters and colourful bedsheets removed in a hollow ache of what used to be a comforting sight. He didn’t have to wrestle with discipline, at the sight of your lonely gaze that lingered on his silhouette, twisting something horrid in his chest.

He wasn’t mourning the loss of your laughter, or your warmth. Distractions—that’s all it was. These pointless, fleeting memories that flickered in a passing servant’s movement, similar to your height—or when he stumbled over a fallen manga stuffed in the corner of your room's shelves, forgotten and torn in its pages.

He does not miss you, because you are not his weakness. He will function perfectly as he always has, even in your absence—because to admit anything else other than that is to give power to—No, he has never let himself linger on that teetering, dangerous edge. If he were to admit it, he'll never recover from his admission. So long as he didn’t let the words slip from his lips, and his heart didn’t tremor too strongly when his fingers flip over the teared pages of the volume you had left in your absence, hidden under his sheets. He does not miss you, because doing so will only endanger you.

So... why couldn't he stop these incessant thoughts of you, consuming his every waking moment? Not only have you left a gaping hole in his wake, but you refuse to leave him to rest even in his dreams, haunted by your tears and a piercing disappointment in your gaze. He hates making you cry. He hates it so much, that he has to remind himself, hand over his chest when he wakes, that it is not real. That you are gone, and you are better off for it.

...

The mountain peaks seemed more intimidating in your mind. Once looming over you, towering giant waves as a child—the pointed edges have now disappeared into the greyed clouds. Up at the highest point, that is where you shall be married.

To your betrothed whom you haven’t seen in three years. Unanswered letters on his part, cancelled visitations on yours, Damian has completely isolated himself from you aside from name.

Your gown feels impossibly heavy on your limbs. The paint on your lips has long dried, and your legs have gone numb from the journey. You had always known this was the outcome—set before Damian had even mattered to you as more than a shackle. Today, Damian—your betrothed, a blurred figure in your memories despite your many attempts to recall the green flecks of his eyes, the warmth of his scarred hands—he will be the one to place a ring on your finger and seal this arrangement.

You will be his wife, and he, your husband.

You wonder if he has grown any taller, his scowl any crueler. The hidden twitches in his expression, did they still shine through when the smallest, mundane things astonished him? Did he still sneak up to that hidden watchtower, observing the faint cracks of ice flowing along the rivers when winter began to thaw?

Did he still secretly flush reading shoujo, or has he never touched a single page since you left? You had left a singular volume in your room years ago, but you doubt he would’ve found it. It was his favourite—you would know because his eyes always lingered on the title, despite all your efforts to push him to take it for himself.

You know you're only avoiding the most likely truth—that you wouldn’t recognise the man you’ll marry. He wasn’t a boy anymore—who once carried the world’s weight on his shoulders. By now, he must’ve already learnt to harness it in the palms of his hands—without weakness, without attachment. That is the way of the League, and it shall be his.

The journey uphill is no easy feat, requiring careful turns to ensure there is no skidding along the icy roads, and the slow trickling of time has made you recklessly sentimental. You didn’t need this whirlwind path down memory lane, not when you were a mere pawn used as a symbol for this union.

Not when he's made it clear with his aversion, his piercing silence—that you have always mattered only to that extent.

The vehicle hasn’t moved in minutes, and your surroundings are deafeningly silent aside from the harsh whips of cold wind. Your gaze flickers to the darkened windows, to the deep caverns that disappeared into mist.

The car has been in a standstill for too long. Enough for your gut to churn in anxious dread. No… something was wrong.

Your knuckles knock against the separator between you and the driver, an opaque black blocking your sights from seeing what was up ahead. It's a simple three knocks that is meant to be returned with a knock pattern you're used to.

...There is no response.

Your heart stills, unable to breathe. There are only two possible options. The driver either hasn't heard you, which is nearly impossible from the weight of your fists against the material. Or he has left the vehicle, possibly dead. And someone else has taken his place.

"Is everything alright, miss?" An unfamiliar, detached voice responds to your knocks, snapping you out of your calculations.

Your test has answered your suspicions. You can barely think over the erratic pounding of blood in your ears, but you muster a response before the culprit suspects that you know something is off. "Fine." You respond quickly, eyeing the child lock that's been activated on both doors on either side. "How long is the duration till we reach the League?"

"Not too long from now, miss."

Lies. From the angles of the mountain peaks alone, you can tell there's easily an hour left to reach the League. You are trapped, on a one-way road that's accompanied by a cliff to its left, with a fall that's non-survivable. Even if you escaped now, you'll be easily captured with nothing but snow and gravel in your surroundings.

There is no choice. You'll have to play along till you reach your destination. Your phone has no cellular connection up in these mountains, but you can only hope to send an SOS and it'll catch onto a satellite, anything—to alert the League, to warn Damian.

“A husband should swear their life to protect their wife.” You hope that at the very least, he'll keep his first promise to you.

Damian has lost. He has obeyed his grandfather’s every command, to keep you safe from his prying eyes, to prove that you are nothing more than a useful pawn—and not his weakness. He has parted himself from you for years, despite his every thought being consumed by you even with the distance, carving himself hollow through burying trials and trainings and bloodshed, and he has still lost.

You have gone missing. Kidnapped, despite being escorted by your homeland's guards. All vehicles have veered off into an untraceable path, and if it hadn't been for your quick thinking, he wouldn't have found your blinking location sent from your phone before it had mysteriously disappeared too without a trace.

He’s barely present in this nonsensical meeting, discussions of the culprit and tactics to recover you—when he should already be down in the mountain valleys, looking for you himself. He has failed to protect you.

His grandfather doesn’t bother with the pretense of caring. His hand waves loosely, as if he had matters more important to deal with than the loss of his grandson’s betrothed. “Send men to find her. Alive or dead, as long as we have found her body. That shall suffice as an explanation to her family. Our alliance can continue in other forms.”

Damian’s blood runs cold. How dare he—acting as if you were replaceable. Something horrid churns in his chest, an anxious, writhing pain over the flashing thought of you dead. If this world has lost you, it is not one he could remain in. All his years of teachings, of the new world he's meant to build—he'd let it all burn if you were its sacrifice. He has had enough of this pretense, of this madness.

“You will not send these fools in my place.” It is the first time he’s spoken in this entire meeting, and his voice slithers almost inhumanely—daring anyone to cross him. “I will find her.”

“You will not.” The order cracks like a whip. All nearby warriors freeze, but Damian doesn’t slow in his movements as his fingers scout across the map laid out before him.

“We do not know who is desperate enough to threaten this alliance.” His grandfather reminds him, his voice tinged with slight impatience—viewing Damian as an incompetent boy who’s refusing to see the bigger picture. “Be wise, Damian. She is a mere pawn that can be replaced. To go off on your own, when your importance to the League—"

“She is not a pawn.” Damian snarls. “She is my wife.”

Ra’s glare falters at the sight of his grandson, willing to defy him. His narrowed eyes sharpen, darkening in fury. “You will go against my word, boy?”

It's a challenge, his last warning for Damian to step down.

“You may view this as a mere alliance, but I pledged my loyalty to her.” Damian declares. “She awaits for me. I will not fail her.”

“If you turn away from me now.” Ra's threatens. “You will never be welcomed back, Damian. Choosing your weakness over your purpose, is a fool’s dying wish. You will regret this.”

Damian’s back is turned to his grandfather, his fingers trembling over the grip of his katana. His head raises, facing forward without once looking back.

“She is not my weakness.” Damian announces. “And if I find her blood soiled in the snow, I shall make it your life’s regret for stalling my time—and no Lazarus Pit can save you then.”

He hears the sound of his grandfather’s sword un-sheave, and he readies his own—his steps never faltering towards the gates.

"Damian—you insolent child! I command you to stop."

He must not make this long. You are his priority, and there will be nothing stopping him from getting to you.

Blood streams from your forehead. Not yours, but of your captors surrounding you, littering the floor. Exhaustion plagues your bones, and every movement forced from your limbs is sluggish from what must be an hour of brutal survival—battling again and again with nothing but a stolen sword and numbed fingers.

The League's training has prepared you for this, but even you're at your limit. How much more can you take—before you collapse too? You hear more yelling echoing from beyond the walls trapping you, and a heaved sigh escapes your lips. You're so tired, and you don't know how much longer you can remain on your own two feet.

The frantic shouts echo into piercing screams, before it's replaced with a sudden, deafening silence. You force yourself to crane your neck from the wrecked floorboards, gaze locked onto the closed door.

The grip of the sword in your hand tightens, the blade trembling from the spasms in your fingers, and you ready yourself. It's a simple stance, one Damian taught you long ago.

"To preserve your energy." His hands guide your waist, linger over your skin. "A simple, head-on strike."

How rude of him—to plague your thoughts even here, when life is dancing on the thin edge that's bound to snap.

The door slams open. You squint your eyes, vision blurring as your steps forward tremor. Then, it clears—and you're convinced you must still be unconscious, hallucinating a dream that you desperately wanted to be true. You let out a disbelieving huff, close to a maniacal laugh. Your grip loosens on your sword, the blade falling to the ground with a loud clang. Finally.

How much time has been wasted in between these lonesome years, since you've met his eyes head-on? No, it's been far too long.

Your knees bend in on themselves, and the world tilts in its axis. Only your betrothed could fill you with such mind-numbing relief that strength would leave you so easily.

His silhouette is a blur, moving almost inhumanely across the many bodies you've slaughtered. You only register his touch, your body having never even touched the floorboards, when your heavy eyelids force themselves open again. Despite the impulse to fade away into your unconscious, you fight it because—you need to see him up-close with your own eyes.

Damian has grown taller, shoulders broader than you remember under all his armour. Time has carved his face into sharpened edges, stained with blood trickling down his cheekbones. His eyes finally familiarise themselves in your mind, that haunting green that you've been trying to remember since they faded from your memories. It's softer than you remember, his gaze. Trembling, frantic—desperate as he finally reaches you.

He's kneeling, and that's what snaps you of your daze. The heir of the demon head, Damian Al Ghul, he never kneels for anyone. The grip of his hands pull you into his chest the moment he meets your widened gaze. His chest heaves, a shuddering breath leaving his lips. Relief, you recognise—a shaking Damian was holding you in his arms as if he needed you to breathe.

“Took—you long enough.” You cough out, barely able to inhale without the soreness of your body punishing you. “Thought you gave up on me.”

“Never.” His fingers dig tighter into your frame, and you don't mind it even if it digs into the bruises he's unaware of. He's here—and real. “You are mine—the only opening for Death to find you is if he found me first."

You... are his?

“...Is this you repaying back for the ointment?” You mumble, light-headed from the pain and exhaustion. “Or something more.”

He’s silent, and you think maybe you screwed it up by mentioning that incident. You promised secretly after all, to never speak a word of his moment of weakness.

“Don’t abandon me.” You whisper, hugging him as tightly as you could with your weakened grip. Reality and hope are converging, and you find yourself lost in time—back to when that stubborn boy had just begun to open up to you. Don't turn your back, and leave. “I’m sorry for mentioning it.”

“I will never abandon you.” He responds immediately, his voice a frightened tremor, as if your words have struck him. “Never again. From the moment you chose to defy orders and save me, I already knew I was past the point of return. You are my beloved, and I will always come for you.”

"I made a promise, remember?" He swears. "I will be your sword and your shield. And—you need to keep yours."

Your... promise? "What's—that?"

"To remain by my side." His hands are now assessing, checking your pulse, the blood that covers your gown to make sure it isn't yours. "That's all you need to do from now on."

"I thought you... didn't want me anymore." You mutter weakly.

He lets out a strained breath. His head falls onto your shoulder, buried in the crook as he whispers. "I have always wanted you."

His admission is all that keeps you conscious.

"Even when I knew it was wrong, I allowed you to be my weakness. I could not push you away." He confesses. "I have loved you from the moment you stumbled into my room, declaring yourself as my wife. I have loved you in every single moment spent, in every memory I refused to part from. You are my wife, and I will never promise myself to anyone but you."

"I love you." His voice is softer than you've ever heard it, so raw in its honesty that you have no choice but to accept it. "I have failed you, and I shall never make that mistake ever again. From this moment on, I will never fail you."

The way he's holding onto you now, as if you were his only anchor in this world—how could you ever doubt the desperation seared into his voice, his touch?

"What's going to happen to us?" You ask weakly. This bloodshed will complicate the circumstances of the arrangement, his presence here will surely exacerbate the process.

"We shall be wed." He answers, his arms wrapping around you and hoisting you gently into a bridal-carry. He doesn't falter once as he walks towards the exit, his grip a stable anchor, latching you to him.

"Then?" You ask tentatively.

"Your captors will pay the price for their insolence." His voice darkens, blood staining his shoes. You can't tell if that came from outside, when he had forced his way in, or from your own doing. "Whatever is left of them, they shall perish from this world."

"...I will keep you by my side." He murmurs. "Till spring arrives, and I shall bring you to the waterfalls. When it is summer, I will watch you soak in the sunlight that you adore, to your heart's full content. When autumn comes, I will carry you on my shoulders so that you shall collect as many crimson leaves as you'll like. In the winter, I shall bring you to the watchtower, and we can watch the snow fall together."

"What happens after winter?" For as long as you have known Damian, you had only been able to keep him encased in memories of winter, of snow landing on his lashes.

A soft kiss is pressed to the crown of your head. "We shall begin over again, till your heart's desire."

"I'd like that." You whisper, eyes drooping shut in the weight of your exhaustion.

"Rest, my beloved." His voice is a comforting lure, and it works. "When you wake, it shall all be sorted. I will take care of everything."

Distance hasn't changed the way your body caves into his, the tension of survival fading from your bones because you know. There is nowhere safer than in Damian's arms.

He'll keep his promise, and in his embrace, you'll live to see the snow melt into spring. With his hand in yours, there is nothing more sturdy, more devoted than the bond sealed between the two of you. From the moment you snuck into his room all those years ago, carrying a simple balm for a child that mattered more to you than some political union.

From the moment he uttered his promises to you under the bedsheets as your betrothed—your husband, he vowed to keep them till his dying breath, and even then. For there is no world... Damian has envisioned without you by his side.

His one and only beloved.

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

damian taglist: @supercheesygarlicbread @bloomfaery @enmzgn @jxybirdiv @vanillakirstein @celestills @katzenia @chikenuggetrat @mrrayjay @arabellas-barbarella-swimsuit12 @amandjslpz @mossmydarling @batslilwhore @dclover567 @gojoswaterbottle @annabelleleefrench @neonsquad303 @strawberryfire17 @treebranch23 @vampiranne @tofudubicho @roszszs @vaderuby @revesephemeres @moon-cakei @manachiichan @caterppillar @hoshi-no-koinu @living-that-chronic-life @nxx-jordiepord @elysian-groves @pearly-pebble @fandom-fae @ninareads25 @grace-loves-to-read @jarofstarsxx (to be added, check masterlist)

[kay-imma-head-out]

You Have to Play the Part…. Right?

batboys x reader

Clark Kent x Reader

Conner Kent x Reader

Includes: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Conner Kent and Damian Wayne

Summary: You knew he was going undercover. But… you didn’t know about the outfit, and the hair, and the accessories. You’re not sure if you are going to let him leave the room let alone the house.

A/N: Another self-indulgent piece. This is a little hotter than some of my other posts, but its all fade to black (who knows maybe I'll do a part two)

Bruce Wayne:

You thought you had seen Bruce in every shade and style of clothes.

You were wrong.

You’ve seen suits, model attire, naked, a towel, the cowl, and all of them are splendid.

If given the option, you would watch him in every form with a bowl of popcorn.

But this…

This is something else.

“You-“ you cough to clear your throat, “you’re going undercover in that?”

Your eyes rake over him, sliding over the muscle tank and black jeans.

There is a large gap leading from his shoulder to his hip showing all skin.

He turns abruptly, taking your view away from you, “Yes, Dick said I need to look “cool”. He’s the one who picked it out.”

Your head nods slightly, “Of course he did”

Bruce’s voice tunes out a bit as he slides the black, white, and red racing jacket over the black tee.

You sit there staring for longer than necessary.

It’s not that he looks hotter than usual right now… but it’s different.

He looks… younger maybe?

“-He said I dress like a CEO and that ‘wouldn’t fly’ at the race track-“

Your head tilts to the side as Bruce attempts to maintain his hair in his normal style.

It- clashes with the look.

He looks… normal?

Like on an average day he is classy, elegant, and very rich

This… he looks hot

Like the kind of man you would see on the street and just stare at.

“Mmmhmmm-“

“Darling? Are you listening to me.”

Your eyes squint, “the hair’s wrong.”

He looks up at the mirror, “This is how I do it for Matches Malone?”

You shake your head and gently push him down in a chair in front of the mirror.

Standing next to him. You grab a section of the gelled hair and… pull

His breath hitches suddenly at the sliver of pain “Hey!”

Not entirely necessary but DAMN

You can’t hide the smirk as you continue your chosen path.

“This is a different role than Brucie or Matches, hun,” you start threading your hands through his hair attempting to style it in the perfect in between of styled and ‘just rolled out of bed’, “This is a hot older man role right? You're trying to… win over some young thing with daddy issues at the race track.”

Another pull at the scalp.

“Ugh,” you watch his eyes glaze over just a little, “yeah,… yes”

“Then you have the look, but you always look hot. But you need the aura.”

You pull your hands out of his hair, not breaking eye contact with his through the mirror.

“Really and what ‘aura’ is that, my dear.”

You tilt your head just a little enough for your lips to rub against his ear while keeping that intense eye contact. 

“The just had a good fuck aura.”

“I think I can accomplish that.” Bruce moves faster than you can comprehend, grabbing your hip and flings you onto the other side of the chair.

Straddling his hips.

Bruce briefly checks his watch and grimaces before turning off his phone and flipping it over.

You feel the smile on your face widen.

He definitely is not going to be leaving on time.

You grab the last part, the aviator sunglasses and slide them onto the bridge of his nose.

If you have a say maybe he won’t leave at all.

Clark Kent:

“Honey! Can you come look at this? I think Bruce got the wrong size.”

Bruce Wayne needs a personal photographer for the night at a high end event, but he needs to be able to slip away without being tracked.

This is where Clark comes in.

Bruce (never one to tolerate an ill-fitting suit) sent one that was ‘tailored to his measurement’

You walk in holding your cup of ramen in your hand, the noodles hanging slightly out of your mouth.

The noodles are shoved into the back of your throat by a sudden intake of air as you see your partner.

The suit fits.

It definitely fits.

Clark runs over, “Hey, hey, hey. Breathe, okay” He rubs his hand over your back as you regain the air in your lungs.

Finally able to breathe again, Clark continues, “I knew it looked bad but you didn’t have to go and try to die on me.”

You shake your head fervently still clutching your chest, “No, it looks amazing, Clark.”

He huffs a laugh and leans away, “You don't need to lie, dear. It's way too tight.”

“Not lying. Here come on.” You drag him back in front of the mirror. You smooth your hands across his shoulders.

Which are somehow more impossibly broad in the grey suit.

“Suits like this are made to be a little uncomfortable in order to look…” You grab his chin and tilt it to the mirror, “like this.”

“You’re messing with me.”

You turn and look at him incredulously, “No, I wouldn’t lie about something like this.”

He looks unconvinced, “You promise.”

You nod and kiss his cheek, “I do.”

Clark straightens slightly, testing the suit, his confidence, and the appearance of the both of you in the mirror.

You see him settle a bit back into his skin.

You pull away and now convinced, Clark is ready to tease… just a little.

He turns to you “So… the choking situation. Did you see something you liked or-”

Your cheeks heat up, “Just an accident is all.”

He nods and takes a step towards you, “An accident?”

You take a brief step back, “Yep.”

Is… is he taller?

You glance down, Bruce sent dress shoes as well, the bastard.

Now that's just unfair, you think as Clark keeps herding you.

“Not any particular reason?”

You look anywhere but him, “Nope, just… tripped I guess.”

“Well, it's not right to… leave it unchecked.”

Your back thumps against the wall.

You’re stuck

You glance over and stutter, “Unchecked?”

Clark nods, “Of course. Here” He grabs a hold of your hands and gently drags them up his waist, across his shoulders, and finally to his neck.

Cruel. He is cruel.

You feel the heat on your face as you feel the muscles around his neck.

“Is it alright if I do that to you really quick? Or you could just tell me what's gotten you so riled up?”

Ten minutes, Clark has ten minutes before he is supposed to leave.

If you get started, there’s no way he’s leaving on time.

“You… look really nice in the suit.”

He nods, you gave him too much power, “Really? What do you like about it?”

Your head thunks against the wall and murmurs, “Your shoulders look nice.”

He leans forward and asks, “I’m sorry?”

“Your shoulders look hot in that blazer, and your waist is gorgeous! Okay?” You duck under his arm in a desperate last ditch to flee.

He grabs you fast, “You can’t just say stuff like that, honey.”

“You need to go save the world, remember?”

Clark shrugs, “Bruce is always fashionably late. I think I can return the favor this time.”

Dick Grayson:

“Supermodel, Richard John Grayson, is a secret vigilante protecting Bludhaven in the new double feature. Heaven is Bludhaven.” You yell from the bedroom as Dick changes in the closet.

“Ha Ha Ha, very funny,” is your muffled response through the closet door.

“Are you gonna let me see, or?”

The door swings open and Dick stands in front of you in a black turtle neck and dress pants.

But the real star is the accessories, silver jewelry.

A watch

Several rings

The splash of silver powder in his waterline

And a cuff earring on his cartilage.

You don’t say anything as Dick walks toward you.

Letting your eyes roam greedily over your boyfriend

He has this smirk on his face that truly pulls it all together

There is something… familiar about it.

What is it…?

Dick hasn’t taken his eyes off you the whole time.

Like he is waiting for something.

This is easily the best he has ever looked.

Like something out of a teenage dream… of… yours…

His eyes lock with your as you grab his hand and delicately twirl one of the rings on his fingers.

The smirk only grows as you lock into the small band.

“You know I haven’t worn anything like this since a gala Bruce threw when I was.... Gosh. How old was I?”

Your eyes widen as your face tilts back up to parallel Dick’s.

He couldn’t have. You left all of that stuff at your parent’s place.

Dick smiles at your state of fear before slowly pulling out a very well loved magazine.

“Ah, right 16!”

You are up and chasing him in a second.

Dick easily keeps the magazine out of your reach.

“Where did you find that!?” You say trying to jump and reach the magazine.

He pushes you over onto the bed easily, and hovers over you.

“You mom gave it to me the last time we went over. Said that if anyone should have it, it should be me.”

You can never go home again, but there are bigger problems to handle, “Ha ha, there's a good story to tell with that…”

“Oh yes, she told me all about that little crush you had on me when you were younger. The magazine clippings, the ranking of outfits, the playlists,... the blog.”

…

You stop any remaining struggle.

“She didn’t”

Dick nods and gently traces his nose up your neck and whispers, “Why didn’t you tell me.”

“It’s weird.”

He laughs, “We were both teenagers, it's far from weird. I am extremely flattered.”

You playfully hit him, “Shut up. I’m gonna kill her.”

He leans back up and moves your hands to his face, “You sure?”

Your eyes trace over that line of silver for what feels like the hundredth time.

“A very firm discussion at least.”

He nods, “Why this one?”

You move your admiration towards his earring, “What one?”

“Why’d you rank this one so high?”

“You look like everything I have ever wanted.”

You feel the blood rush to his face beneath your hands.

His smirk falters.

“Well-” he coughs and abruptly pulls away, “We can um-” He bumps into the bed frame, “finish this later, but I gotta go to that event.”

The… event?

The runway event!

Dick tries to make a break for it. Dick tries to make a break for it, shutting down the dynamic… 

He attempts to escape into the excuse of the event.

No, not now.

You sit up quickly and slide yourself between him and the door, “You just showed me a teenage dream that I had and now you want to leave? Sorry, Mr. Grayson. I can’t let that happen.”

Jason Todd:

Walking into your bedroom expecting everything to be normal was your first mistake.

Staring at Jason for so long was your second.

“Just spit it out Doll,”

Your eyes blink rapidly before you manage to squeak out, “Hubba,”

His head tilts suddenly, “That's a new one for ya.”

You walk over to him, the outfit is something you never would have seen him in.

A white button down shirt with a deep v that's rolled up to the elbows.

It's large enough to just expand his frame but still trim at the waist.

The black dress pants are high waisted as well only furthering the image.

Stunning, absolutely stunning.

You were about to tell him as much when you notice something else

The small necklace balanced right between his chest only exaggerated by the white shirt.

A necklace he got for you

The only thing on the small golden chain is your initial.

“You’re scaring me a bit here.” He asks, walking forward and taking your hands in his before lightly kissing your knuckles. 

His eyes trace over your face looking for some cause of distress.

“Where- Where are you headed, Jay?” You stutter out before abruptly dropping his hand and turning to look anywhere but that damn necklace. 

“There’s some big wig drug party at the casino. Dick and Bruce would be too recognizable so I was the best option.” His voice drops a bit, his tone turning soft, “Doll, you’re freaking me out can you just tell me what's wrong.” He rubs his hands down the front of his shirt, “It’s the outfit right? I told them it was too much. Babs was adamant about it, said the necklace would be a nice add on. I can take it off-”

“NO.” You turn abruptly.

Jason quickly raises his hands almost like he would need to block you.

You breathe, “Please don’t do that.”

He slowly lowers his hands, “Then you gotta talk to me.”

“It’s… the outfit…” You stop and walk towards him gently holding the charm of the necklace in your hands, “You’re drop dead gorgeous.”

He was not expecting that.

He huffs and pulls away abruptly, “That's a bit much doll, I know you're sorry for scaring me-”

You throw yourself onto the mattress and quickly cover your eyes with your elbow, “Jaaassssooonnn”

He throws himself next to you (you cringe as he wrinkles the fabric that likely cost more than your apartment), “Whaaaaat?”

You turn onto your elbow to look down at him, “You want me to be honest?”

“Always” he says seriously 

“My brain short circuited when I saw you, then I started panicking about who all was going to flirt with you tonight-” You gesture with your hands.

“-and then I saw the necklace.” You move the small charm with your finger, 

“and I realized that I wanted to earn that initial on your chest. Make it so ingrained in you that no one else will even try.”

A moment passes as you think over what you just said.

God.

Jason must think you're crazy.

He blinks at you, “Oh”

Feeling extremely embarrassed, you roll over and begin to make your speedy retreat,“I’m gonna go… take a cold shower. See you after the uh….. Thing.”

You do manage to make it to the bathroom and lock it before Jason moves off the mattress.

You sit with your head in your hands as you whisper aloud, “Oh, my, god. I need to be put down.”

Jason, having regained his head, easily opens the locked door,“You can’t just say stuff like that.”

You nod not removing your head from your hands, “I’m sorry, I just started talking and I couldn’t-”

As you begin your ramble you don’t even notice Jason walking towards you, so the abrupt pulling of your hands and the connection of your lips with his makes you jump.

Allowing Jason to deepen the kiss. 

He pulls back just as suddenly and tilts your head to look at him.

The necklace floating away from his chest directly in your eyeline.

His jaw tightens, “don’t say that again unless you mean it.”

You nod waiting for further direction.

“You wanted to prove something to me right?”

You nod again, slightly less confident.

“Then let's get to work.”

He drags you onto your feet and turns on the showerhead.

Tim Drake:

You never understood the hype for “bad boys”.

They often end with you being heartbroken and them moving on.

But after this?

You are starting to see the appeal.

Tim is, likely unconsciously, laying like a model on the den couch.

The fake tattoo sticking out of his sleeve as his hand plays with the box of cigarettes he stole from Jason.

You know the prompt, Tim has to try and capitalize on the perceived angle the press is pushing.

Tim is going through his “rebellious party years”

He is supposed to walk around the manor grounds looking like “a mess”

(Bruce’s words)

Luckily after a second all nighter, Tim is already half way there. 

With a slight hiccup.

He looks absolutely devastating.

You’ve been staring for a while, probably too long.

When Duke says, “That just isn’t fair.” Tim doesn’t even turn around at Duke's lament,  "How does he look better dressed as a hungover party boy than he does well rested?”

Stephanie hops on the barstool next to Duke and turns in your direction, “You are going to catch flies if you keep your mouth open like that.”

You briefly stop your gawking to glare at her choosing to ignore the following laughter as well. 

In that brief moment, you miss Tim’s eyes flick to you, then back to the small box like he’s filing something away.

Right before you turn back to him.

Tim lies on the couch in the den, a mostly undone black suit with the white undershirt unbuttoned to his chest.

Eye shadow has been applied to his under-eyes to emphasize the bags under his eyes, but the cherry on top is the poorly applied hickey on his neck.

“Hey, Tim.” He turns from his reclined state to look over at Stephanie, “Did you lose a fight with an octopus?”

“Very funny Steph.”

You should likely know better by now not to drink water around Stephanie, and yet.

“I bet your angel over here would give you a real one. They’ve been watching you since you walked out here this morning like they want to eat you.”

You slam the glass of water back on the table and quickly turn away from your boyfriend.

“And that my dear Duke, is our cue to leave.” She grabs his arm and pulls him into another room.

Tim sits up and lays his elbows on his knees.

He doesn’t need to say anything, just looks at you and slightly tilts his head.

You scoff cleaning up any spilled water, “You know Steph, she's just trying to rile me up.”

Still not saying a word, Tim stands up and leans next to you on the counter,

A minute passes and Tim realizes he likely won’t get what he wants without chipping in, “Mhm.”

A pause.

He lightly taps your leg with his dress shoe, “So you weren’t staring.”

You scoff and turn away to look at anything else, “Please, I think you’ve been hanging out with Dick too much.”

“Right of course,” He agrees.

And for a moment, you think you’ve won. You can move on with your day without-

“So what were you looking at?”

…

Shit

You hesitate.

He tilts his head, just slightly.

“Because from where I was sitting,” he adds, softer now, “it looked pretty focused.”

Fuck

He was not about to let this go.

You might as well join in on his game, “I was just trying to figure out what you feel when you watch the security cameras in the apartment.”

…

A beat.

Then, quieter:

“So she was telling the truth.”

“Maybe.” You grab a small piece of chocolate off the table and walk back over to the couch.

“Oh no,” He walks over and steals the chocolate out of your hand, “Say it again. Properly.”

“And what, exactly, would you like me to say, Mr. Drake?”

“Dangerous giving me the ability to choose. How about you fix whatever this mess is-” He gestures to his neck, “And then you tell me everything you liked while you were watching me. Okay?”

Conner Kent:

You’ve seen Conner wear a lot of things.

Most of them stolen.

Some of them borrowed.

Very few of them… intentional.

This?

This is intentional.

“Okay,” you say slowly, eyes dragging over him, “what is this.”

Conner looks down at himself like he’s just remembering what he put on.

“Oh… this? Tim bought it but it was too big. I thought it fit perfectly for tonight's mission.”

You tilt your head, “Oh, and what mission is that, recovering farm boy?”

Conner has ditched his usual leather jacket for a brown one.

Beneath it sits an open flannel and a white t-shirt.

He looks… soft.

Like the kind of boy your mother would just adore.

“Closer than you would think, I gotta stake out in some small town coffee shop. I figured the normal fit would scare people off.”

It would… you would greatly prefer that to… whatever this it.

Because it’s not just the clothes.

It’s the way he’s standing.

Relaxed.

Loose.

Like he knows exactly what he looks like.

Like he’s waiting.

Your eyes flick back up to his face.

He’s already watching you.

Grinning.

There it is.

“You good?” he asks, way too casually.

You cross your arms, trying to recover, “I’m fine.”

“Yeah?” He steps closer. “Because you’ve been staring at me for like—”

He tilts his head, pretending to think.

“-a while.”

You clear your throat, “It’s.. just different is all. I’m trying to get used to it.”

“Really? That wasn’t what your face was telling me.”

You roll your eyes, "That's just how my face looks, dear”

“Sooo,” he laughs, scooches just a little closer to you, “You always look at me like that?”

You scoff, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Not flattering,” he says easily. “Just asking. Unless there’s a reason.”

He starts to lean towards you.

The flannel matches his eyes

His smile shifts.

Okay,” he says, quieter now. “There it is.”

You swallow.

“There what is?”

“That look.”

Another step.

Oh, he’s enjoying this.

You freeze.

…damn it.

He laughs under his breath.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

You duck under his arm, “Okay, I think you're hot. You knew that already.”

He laughs harder this time, “I did, but I wasn’t sure you would like this. Especially enough to be dazed about it.”

“SHUT UP”

He is almost chasing you now, “What is it that you're thinking about so hard in that gorgeous head of yours, huh?”

You mumble something, so quite even Conner can’t hear it.

“Oh it can’t be that bad,” 

The back of your knees hit the bed causing you to flop onto your back.

Con stands above you keeping your legs locked to the mattress.

“I was wondering if that's what you looked like working on the farm.”

He blinks.

Once.

That lands.

“Oh yeah?” he says slowly.

You nod.

“Acting like the love interest in some shittily made hallmark movie that I have watched way too many times.”

This caught him off guard.

But you keep going, “Like you could save me from anything you wanted, and I would let you.”

The grin fades just a little.

Not gone.

But different.

“You know I will always save you if you want me too.”

“Promise?”

“Of course, my heart.”

You smile and pull him on top of you, “Okay, I might need saving then.”

Damian Al-Ghul-Wayne(aged up):

You have an odd relationship with the Wayne family, this is only amplified when you and Damian start dating.

They affectionately call you, “the last case scenario”

You always assumed this was a joke until you receive a call from Alfred asking for your immediate presence at the manor.

A driver shows up the moment after you hang up the phone.

Rationally, you assumed Damian had gotten hurt or was sick.

There is nothing rational about this family.

Bruce Wayne appears and begins pushing you into his room,“Damian wants to go undercover as Ra’s puppet in the League of Assassins. I need you to stop him. I don't care how. I also don’t want to know how you do it. Just stop him.”

The door then slams in your face, you are now locked inside with an impossible task.

You sigh.

“Beloved?”

You turn to the sound of his voice.

Damian stands near the window, already dressed.

Of course he is.

Black pressed to perfection, sword at his side like he’s already made his decision.

You’ve both talked about his past, but you’ve never seen him in the role of ‘prince’

It.. suits him.

Likely more than anything else you have seen him in.

His eyes narrow slightly as they land on you.

“You were not expected,” he says slowly.

A pause.

Then, sharper-

“Father sent you.”

Always straight to the point. Okay then, “He did, he’s worried. If Ras gets you again he’s not going to let you go, Dami.”

Damian scoffs, “They think too little of me.”

You shake your head, “No, if they thought too little of you. They would have let you go.”

Damian’s hands freeze as they move to adjust the gold bangles on his wrists.

You’ve found a window.

“You can’t go,” Your breath catches, “I… can’t let you.”

“You presume much.”

“I know you.” You tilt your head, studying him right back. “You’ve already decided you’re going to do something stupid and noble and incredibly annoying.”

A beat.

His eyes flick

just for a second.

There it is.

“You misunderstand,” Damian says, quieter now. “This is necessary.”

You push off the door and take a step toward him.

“No,” you say softly, “it’s not.”

Damian’s eyes soften for a moment before he grabs your hand and leads you deeper into his room.

“Careful,” he warns.

You don’t stop.

“I’ve never been careful,”

Now you’re close.

Close enough to see the conflict he refuses to name.

Damian snarls, “He knows who you are.”

Oh

This is bigger than you originally thought

Time to change tactics. 

The one thing you have more knowledge on than Damian.

Emotions.

You take a slow breath, forcing your racing thoughts to settle.

Then you look at him.

Really look at him.

The gold at his wrists, the sharp lines of black fabric, the way he holds himself like something untouchable.

Like he already belongs to that world.

It hits you all at once.

He is planning on walking away from you

because of you, some idea of your safety.

Your breath stutters.

“…That’s why you dressed like this.”

Damian stills.

You step closer, slower this time, your eyes tracing over him in a way that makes something shift in his expression.

“You’re not just going undercover,” you murmur. “You’re slipping back into it.”

His jaw tightens. “I have always been this.”

“No,” you shake your head softly. “You were.”

Another step.

Close enough now that you can see the flicker of something uncertain in his eyes.

“You don’t get to look like this,” you continue, quieter, “like you belong to him-”

Your hand lifts before you can stop it, brushing lightly against the gold at his wrist.

“-and expect me to just… let you walk out that door.”

That does it.

His grip tightens as his hand closes around your wrist.

“Beloved,” he warns, lower now, “do not interfere.”

Your heart jumps.

But you don’t pull away.

Instead, you tilt your head, stepping even closer-closing the space completely.

“Or what?” you ask softly.

A beat.

“You’ll leave anyway? I’ll just follow you, you must realize that”

That lands harder than anything else.

You feel it in the way his grip falters just slightly.

So you push.

“You’ll go back to him,” you whisper, eyes locked on his, “looking like this-”

Your fingers trail up, just barely brushing the open line of his collar.

“-and I’m just supposed to be okay with that?”

His breath catches.

There it is.

“I cannot allow-” he starts.

“You don’t have to,” you cut in gently. “I do.”

A pause.

Then, softer-

“I’m not letting you leave like this.”

“You presume you have such authority,” he says quietly, but it lacks bite now.

“Maybe I don’t,” you admit softly. “But I’m still here.”

Something in his expression fractures.

His hand tightens again, sharper this time, as he pulls you into him in one swift motion.

The breath leaves your lungs as your chest meets his.

“Beloved,” he murmurs, low and strained, “you test me.”

You barely have time to respond before his other hand comes up to your jaw, tilting your face toward his with precise, unyielding control.

There’s a pause.

One last chance.

Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt, grounding yourself as you meet his gaze.

That’s all the permission he needs.

The kiss is not gentle.

It’s not rushed either.

It’s deliberate, like everything Damian does, but there’s heat under it, something restrained for far too long finally given space to surface.

His grip on your jaw softens just slightly as he deepens it, pulling you closer instead of holding you still.

You feel the shift.

Not control.

Not entirely.

Something closer to surrender.

Your hand slides up, catching on the gold at his wrist, and that-

that makes him break properly.

His breath stutters against your mouth, and suddenly you’re moving, backwards, until your shoulders meet the nearest surface.

He follows without hesitation.

“No one else,” he says against your lips, quieter now but no less intense.

A statement.

A promise.

A warning.

You don’t know which.

You don’t care.

Your fingers press into his chest, right over his heart, steady and certain.

“Then don’t go,” you whisper.

Damian stills completely.

You feel it, the exact moment the decision is made.

Slowly, his forehead rests against yours.

His grip shifts, no longer restraining, just holding.

“I will not,” he says.

[bundaskifli]

help me budget this, my family's dying

[fawnindawn]

the heart remembers.

summary: damian's short-term amnesia from a concussion causes complications when he refuses to believe the break-up ever happened—and his missing memories dissolves all defenses and unravels the true depths of his undying devotion for you.

pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader

content: fluff+angst+hea, yearner damian who even without his memories, refuses to part from you ever again.

“Beloved.” Damian Wayne, your ex-boyfriend, is chained to the hospital bed in the most literal sense. Strapped down by physical restraints, he looks at you as if he's found his solace. “You’re here.”

He hasn’t called you that in months.

Dick, who barely made sense over the phone other than needing you to come over immediately for 'an emergency', approaches you with the same precaution to a frightened lamb. “He's had a concussion.”

You know that—it was the first thing you registered over the phone, but it didn’t solve the puzzle for why Damian wanted your presence.

“A minor concussion.” Damian scoffs. “Nothing worth the fuss of being chained to a hospital bed.”

“I wouldn’t call amnesia minor.” Dick says sternly.

..Amnesia?

“The doctor is over-exaggerating.” Damian argues. “There are no important events that I have forgotten.”

The pieces are clicking together, the missing fragments for why Damian's gaze doesn't grow cold when he sees you. Your shocked gaze meets Dick’s, who only nods subtly.

He doesn’t remember the break-up.

There are too many questions, none that can be addressed in this room when Damian is staring at you like he used to, completely unguarded and softened into a blurred memory of someone who used to hold your heart delicately.

“Damian.” You mutter briskly, even when the notion of addressing him weakens you. “I need to have a talk with Dick. Outside.”

Damian’s brows furrow. “Why did you call me that?”

Your steps that are halfway turned towards the door falter. “Your name?”

“Yes. You only call me that when you are angry.” He states, trying to lift himself from the bed. The restraints tighten, marking angry red lines over his wrists, but he doesn’t even flinch as he tries to reach for you.

Dick is quick to stop him, pushing him down by the shoulders. “The doctor says no movement.”

“I have given my opinion on the doctor’s expertise repeatedly.” Damian scoffs, irritated—but his gaze is distracted, trying to meet yours past Dick's shoulders. “Beloved, if you’re mad that I endangered myself, I assure you I am in perfect health.”

“That’s not—” You swallow, feeling an awful sink in the pit of your stomach and harshly avert your gaze. “Dick, outside. Now.”

Damian calls out your name, but you’re out the door before he—or whatever version of him was waiting for you in that room, can twist your emotions further.

You hear the door close gently behind you and sense the lingering guilt that hovers in the air.

You stare blankly at the chipped paint of the hospital walls. “You shouldn’t have called me here.”

“I know.” Dick sighs, and only now can you truly hear his distress. “You should’ve seen him. He was convinced you were in danger—that we were hiding something when you didn’t show after the first hour of his consciousness.”

“I can’t—” Your voice breaks. “I can’t go back in there pretending everything’s fine.”

Dick hesitates. There's a reason you were called over—which he purposely excluded in the call. “The doctor said we have to keep his stress to a minimum. We’re worried his condition will be unstable if you’re.. not around.”

You whip your gaze to meet his, but he's looking back at the door, where his youngest brother laid—unaware of the turmoil that was happening outside. You suck in a breath. “It’s not my job to be his keeper.”

“I know. That’s why I’m asking you… as a friend." He pleads, looking back at you. "He’s my brother, and I know something happened between the two of you—and that he’s been stupid, which is why he ended up getting a concussion in the first place.”

His suggestion is loud in the silence, that the possibility of Damian's impulsivity which led to his injury is because of you. It couldn't be true. Not when he made it so evidently clear that you mattered the least to him out of everything in his life's priorities.

“He doesn’t want to admit it.” Dick tries. “He never does when it comes to his emotions, but he needs you. I know you won't believe me, not when he’s the one that should’ve told you, but you saw that look on his face. It’s like he finally allowed himself to breathe when he saw you.”

“So—" Your hands flail, desperate to release some tension. "What do you expect me to do?”

“Just.. be around him, the same way it was before, till he gets his memories back.” He sighs again, running a hand through the mess of his hair, knowing how unfair it sounds. "If anything, it may help speed up his recovery. You won't have to deal with him for long."

Your fingers run over the crescent moons your nails have indented into your palms. The silence drags, and you know there's already a conclusion being made without your consent. “...This is insane.”

—

“Something's wrong.” Damian comments, watching you shuffle around his apartment, well, you had to get used to it being your shared apartment again—when he straight up refused on staying over at his family's manor.

Something doesn't quite cut it. “Nothing's wrong.” Your voice is stiff even to your own ears and as you pull out the kitchen drawers. Your heart squeezes at the sight of your mugs still kept inside, unchanged since you moved out.

It wasn’t just the mugs, but almost everything inside the apartment—as if time has frozen within these walls, because he didn’t throw any of your leftover belongings away.

“I can feel it. There is something you’re hiding.” He pushes.

"Since when were you the empath?" Taking out a dusty mug, you rinse it over the open tap, focusing heavily on the task to avoid his prying stare. “Dick said not to tell you.”

“It doesn’t matter what Grayson said.” Despite obvious instructions from the doctor, Damian disregards them and moves abruptly from the couch, hand still clutching an icepack to the back of his head. “You can tell me anything.”

You slam down the mug with more force than necessary, causing a loud screech through the air. It freezes the atmosphere in the apartment, and you make the mistake of glancing over to see his reaction. Taken aback, the rarest hurt displays itself across his face, forcing you to look back down at the counter. This is going to be impossible.

"Damian, please sit down." You plead, refusing to look at him. "You're not meant to be moving."

His frustration ticks. You can feel it in the barest hunch of his shoulders, because the curse of reading his habits still comes so easily. He rounds the counter, stopping right in front of you. His free hand comes to lift your chin with the intention of forcing you to meet his gaze, but you grab his clothed wrist before he can even come close to contacting your skin.

Shock doesn't come close to describing the parting of his lips, the widening of his pupils. "You are angry." He states, but it comes out in a huff of disbelief.

"Damian." Your voice comes out as a warning. "You should be resting."

"No."

"Why?" You snap.

"The woman I am in love with is clearly upset with me, and I have no recollection of why." He answers briskly. "You’re calling me by my birth name which I have never hated more to hear, because it means I have disappointed you. Forgive me, if I am concerned."

The word 'love' sets off the wrong trigger.

“Love? It didn’t seem like it when you broke up with me.” It spills out before you can stop it. You suck in a breath, already regretting it. There goes your promise to Dick.

You expect his expression to fall into the one you’re familiar with, cold—cutting, but as the seconds pass, the hit doesn’t come like you expect it to. His brows knit together in complete bafflement. “Why would I do such a thing?”

You shrug, an aloof act that fools not even you. You’re the last person who can answer a question that’s been haunting you since he did it. “Beats me.”

“I would never—ever leave you, Beloved.” His voice is strained, as if the mere thought confounds him with disbelief. "If this is your punishment for me going on that mission without your permission, I am sorry. Just—"

His lips purse together, and his hand still caught in yours loosens itself from your grip to grab hold of your fingers, tentatively interlacing them together. "Don't ever say those words again."

Your lips part and close, confusion etched in your features. The Damian in front of you—doesn't coincide with the one in the last memories you have with him at all.

He struggled when you weren't there. Dick's voice rings in your ears, having said that right when you were signing the papers for Damian’s discharge, listing your name to be put as his emergency contact to provide updates on his condition.

"Right, fine." You dismiss, even when you can see how your short response stings him. "If you don't want me to be pissed, please go back to the couch. I will call the hospital on you if you don't listen."

His expression stiffens at the thought of being trapped in that stuffy room flooded with fluorescent lights, of the pushy nurse who demanded he’d get bed rest for at least forty-eight hours as he exited the doors. In restrained obedience, his expression flickers in contemplation. "Then you’ll come with me."

Your lips part to argue, but he's already pulling you along, his hand still intertwined with yours, dragging you along to the couch. He sits, forcing you right into his lap.

"You are to remain here till I am well." He states, his free arm coming to rest on your thighs, trapping you in his hold.

"That is—" You splutter. "I didn't agree to this."

"Call it compromise." He remarks, his scarred fingers squeezing yours. "I will not feel better till you are no longer mad."

You stare at him in disbelief. Had he ever been this clingy before? Your brain has trained so hard on forgetting the details that it's hard to make sense of what's real and what isn't.

"You're unbelievable." You mutter.

"And you're mine still." He responds easily.

It stills your heart, so sudden in tearing open the wreckage that lays hidden that you have to settle on staring at the windows instead, at the row of your wilted plants that he's struggled in keeping alive.

He sets the ice pack on the end table, his freezing hand coming up to caress your chin, sending a shiver down your spine at the cool temperature. "Will you truly not tell me what has displeased you?"

You had. Quite abruptly too with all your honesty. It still shocks you that he rejected the possibility of a break-up so quickly.

"Patients shouldn't speak so much." You mutter, knowing his stubbornness will get you nowhere closer to convincing him.

His lips quirk up into the faintest smile. "You worry."

"Of course, I am worried." When Dick had called you, Damian and emergency room was enough to toss your senses to the wind. Nothing of the past even made its way into consideration when you had rushed over, barring Gotham's traffic laws and all.

"For someone who prides himself on the least concussions among his siblings, you're not doing a very good job in living up to your word."

“But I have lived up to my word.” He answers.

You shift your gaze to him, confused.

“My promises to you mean more than some tally.” He declares. “I gave you my word that I will always make it back home to you, alive.”

His promises mean nothing. They shouldn’t—but the way he looks at you, filled with utter devotion, makes you wonder when he decided this version of him didn’t belong to you anymore.

It’s like you’re tossed into a time loop, forced to experience what you’ve lost over and over with every reminder.

“I should make dinner.” You announce abruptly, desperate to be out of his arms.

He stares at you in surprise, blinking slowly. “Alright, I shall accompany you.”

“What happened to staying on the couch?”

He shrugs. “That was the doctor’s orders, and I don’t recall making any promises to that loon.”

—

Dinner settles as a silent staring competition, tension running thick through the air with only him as the singular active participant, his eyes staring unblinkingly, digging a hole into your very bones as you poke at your plate, long after the meal has finished.

Just when sleep finally arrives, and you think you’re free from your nightmarish duties, caught between torn memories and thin lies, do you realise your mistake. Sleeping arrangements.

Damian pulls at the sheets, clearly expecting you to sleep by his side. Your mind scrambles for an excuse to sleep elsewhere but there is only one bedroom, and sleeping on the couch will only reinforce his suspicions of you being upset.

Just act like normal. Dick had suggested, like it’s that easy to resume being the girlfriend to your ex who doesn’t remember that he is one.

"Beloved?” He calls, snapping you out of your stupor.

You’re truly in for it. Your foolish decision to play pretend has reached its limits, and you’re to bear the consequences.

“Coming.” You respond weakly, making your way over to the bed.

You settle at the very edge, laying down stiffly as you pull the sheets over you. Seconds pass in silence and you think you’ve done it, completed your task without complications, when you hear a sudden displeased grunt.

Large hands wrap around your waist, and tugs you into a broad chest. Your eyes snap open wide, completely frozen as Damian tucks his nose into the crook of your shoulder.

“It is cruel even of you to be so far when I am injured, habibti.” He whispers against your ear.

You can barely breathe, scared he’ll feel the palpitations of your heart hammering against your ribs, right above his hold. He only calls you that when he is desperate, when a single language can’t capture what he wishes to convey.

“You told me yourself.” He grumbles. “Even if it carries to the next morning, we must never go to sleep angry at one another.”

Your lip quivers, and you force your eyes shut. “I am not angry.”

He’s silent, but his grip tightens ever so slightly, as if afraid you’ll drift further away if he doesn’t. “...I choose to believe you.”

—

Desperation is a rare look on Damian, but you think even this is cutting close to your given patience.

“I am unable to feed myself.” He shrugs, hands crossed over in obvious pretence.

“Damian—”

His gaze sharpens.

You resist a sigh. “Dami. I have to head to work, and you’re not starving yourself.”

“Five minutes.” He rebuts. “That is my usual speed for breakfast. You can spare that.”

He is right. You usually get to the office early anyway, but that doesn’t make his weaponised incompetence any easier to swallow—even for five minutes.

“Last I recall, concussions don’t erase your ability to use a spoon.” You retort, grabbing the utensil with more force than necessary. “And you were eating perfectly fine last night.”

“I suppose the doctor is right.” He remarks. “I require bed rest—and last night, I did not sleep well. A certain someone was desperate to escape my hold.”

“Petty.” You mutter, scooping the porridge and blowing on it. He watches you intently, seemingly very pleased with himself.

You lift the spoon to his lips, your lips pursed in impatience. With a deliberate slowness, he leans in, his fingers sneakingly wrapping around your wrist. He brings the spoon to his lips, but his eyes are trained on you.

He takes a bite, and hums. He lets his fingers drum softly against your wrist for a few more seconds before he comments. “My appetite is satiated.”

You scoff, but you can’t help the smile that quirks up involuntarily. “Liar.”

He shakes his head, feigning ignorance. “I suppose for my survival, you will have to feed me every morning."

"Since you clearly need to be babied, why don't I call Dick over to spoon-feed you then?"

His expression sours comically. "That is a horrible suggestion."

"Then, figure out how to use your hands." You mock, forcing the spoon into his fingers. "I'm heading off to work, don't do anything stupid."

"That's reserved for my siblings." He mutters, and his gaze traces over you, searching. Whatever he wants to find, it's not there, hidden by the mask you've put on, and his shoulders droop.

Crossing his arms, he looks at you with a thick expression. "I'll wait for you."

Grabbing your bag, you give him the barest nod as a response and you’re halfway to the door when his throat clears. You resist a sigh, and force yourself to look back at him. "Yes?"

“Aren’t you forgetting something important?” He mutters briskly.

Your brows furrow, thinking. He’s on his prescribed meds, has attempted at breakfast, and is on house arrest till he recovers, barred from all patrols till he’s able to function without an ice pack to his scalp.

His expression contorts briefly in disappointment, before he mutters something incoherently. Walking over to you, he stares at you with a narrowed expression before he leans in—and presses a kiss to your forehead.

You blink rapidly, growing flustered.

“For good luck.” He murmurs. “Since you’re the one leaving earlier this time, I’ll forgive you for forgetting.”

Right, you used to always give him a kiss before you left, till it became a ceremonious habit. He always seemed so undeterred to them, that you assumed he was merely tolerating your teasing by standing as still as a statue.

You never thought he actually waited for them.

Staring at him speechlessly, you find your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. For someone who’s lost his memories, he was strangely hyper-aware of all your previous habits.

“Have a good day, beloved.” He wishes, eyes softening in a cruel, dangerous form of lowering your defences.

Blinking harshly and regaining your senses, you mutter a quick goodbye and leave as quickly as you can. You wish you could tear out the beating organ in your chest that refuses to calm down at his affections.

He is not your Damian and hasn’t been for months. You refuse to fall for him again, not when it meant having your heart broken twice when he wakes from this feverish nightmare and remembers… that he doesn’t love you anymore.

—

Twilight has long settled among the darkened dusky clouds, and your back aches from hunching over your desk for the last couple of hours.

It was a reprieve to be away from Damian, to be sucked into a part of your life where it was constant with your past and present. So much so, you over-did yourself on your workload, starting on more tasks than you were supposed to.

Checking the clock, you wince. Eight p.m.

You were supposed to be home three hours ago. Checking your phone, you’re surprised to find no notifications, asking for updates on your location or the time you’ll reach home. Only to remember you blocked him eight months ago.

You curse, quickly unblocking him. You can only imagine his reaction—of you not coming back home at your usual hour and being unreachable?

Quickly packing your bag, you grab for your coat, stumbling as you tug it on and exit through the revolving doors. One hand haphazardly scrolls through your phone, pressing on his contact, and you’re busy thinking of some flimsy excuse that didn’t involve avoiding his entire existence. Too busy to notice someone approaching you at alarming speed.

The harsh yell of your name, echoed in a deep timbre that could only belong to him, snaps you out of your daze.

You wince, readying yourself before you turn. You expect him to be angry, disappointed. A mirror of the perfect statue you remember in your memories, cold and detached.

You didn’t expect to see him panting, hands on his thighs, hair sticking in all directions, and his eyes—filled with an uncharacteristic panic. Damian Wayne, the epitome of a man carved into a sharpened blade, stands before you as a complete mess.

"You didn't come home." He states, voice barely constrained to be levelled.

"Damian."

"Whatever I have done, forgive me." He exhales, sweat pooling at his forehead, cheeks reddened from running as he lifts himself back up, towering over you. Yet, he has never looked so vulnerable. "I just needed to make sure you were okay."

Damian Wayne never begs, not even when you walked out the door eight months ago.

Yet here he was, one hand coming up to clutch his head, gritting his teeth and trying to conceal his pain. Whatever pretence you held, the cold front you’ve desperately tried to upkeep to distance yourself—completely vanishes as you rush towards him.

“Damian, you’re not supposed to strain your head. Much less run all the way here.” Your stern expression falls short, replaced with worry as your eyes rapidly look him up and down. “It could lead to complications.”

“It felt wrong.”

The crease between your brows deepen. “What felt wrong?”

“Letting you walk away.” He grits. “Seeing you close the door on me. My body exhibited strange symptoms—palpitations, nerves—and somehow, I was convinced if I let you go, you’ll never come back. My head’s been hurting since and I waited. I truly tried.”

"I found notes." He says through the clenching of his jaw. "From the last few months in my phone."

You freeze.

"It contained your routine of how often you water your plants, your favourite recipes, and half-written texts I've never sent." He lists out. "As if I'm afraid I'll forget. Like you weren't there to remind me."

"Just stop. You're hurting yourself." It's hard to see him like this—so unguarded, filled with pain. It's hard to hear his efforts, when neither of you can understand what went through his mind, lost in his scattered memories. "I'll go home with you."

"I can't remember what I've done." Abruptly removing his hand from the back of his head, his fingers come up to caress your cheek. Even distressed, his touch is so soft, so gentle. His eyes search yours, trying to find the answer he seeks. "I don't know if I deserve to ask you to go home. Not when I haven't made it up to you."

"No matter how angry I am, I will never want to see you in pain." You plead. Grabbing onto his fingers, you interlock them with yours and tug him along back to the apartment. "We’re going home."

—

The kitchen counter is filled with your favourite flowers, even when you know he can’t stand the smell of them wilting two days later. An uneaten plate has grown cold on the dining table, evidence of a meal he’s cooked for you.

It's unbearable, because the guilt that drowns your chest, deepens into a painful tug at every controlled breath, pulling at the thought of him waiting for you alone. You drop your bag on the sofa, but the pretense is holding on by a thin thread and when you turn—he's standing there and watching, his gaze locked onto you as if he could look at nothing else.

You haven’t even noticed the tears streaming down your face, but you’re just so tired. Of fighting this obvious battle you were never meant to win.

You still love him. Even if he’s forgotten the fight, and the words he said that tore you apart.

Maybe it's the sight of your tears. He hated it whenever you cried, no matter how bad a fight’s ever gotten—but the distance he maintained out of respect for you vanishes as he moves in an instant, arms wrapping around you. He mutters into your hair, begging. “I’m sorry, hayati. Do not cry because of me.”

“I missed you.” Your voice cracks. “So much. It killed me to be away—but it was what you wanted.”

"Never." His voice lowers, desperate to make you believe, pulling away with his hands still wrapped around you, lowering his head to force you to meet his eyes. "I will never wish for your absence.”

He leans in, forehead pressed against yours. "You are all I could ever want. You're the reason I fought tooth and nail to make it back from that mission. You're what makes sense when everything else crashes. The idiot I was, I rebuke all his decisions because I want you. Now. Forever."

"I don't know if you'll mean it." Your voice comes out hoarse, broken. "When you remember the reason that you pulled away."

"I may have lost my memories." He says sternly. "But I know who I am. That has never changed. Not before, and certainly not now. You’re the only one who’s ever been the keeper to my heart, and it’ll be you till my last breath.”

You want to believe him. So desperately, you want to love him again and not fear that he'll drift away, with the fear of disappointing his father, or letting his never-ending mission break the two of you apart again.

"If losing my memories is what it takes to get you back, I will do it again and more." He says with absolute conviction. "I have never been more sure. This is what I want. You are all I need. So, stay. We'll figure this out together. Even when my memories return."

"Just—don’t leave me." His voice softens, his gaze pooled with a deep-set fear that his body seems to remember, even when his mind is frayed. "I can’t bear it.”

—

His plea follows you into your dreams. This version of him is still hard for your mind to wrap around, that when you wake from a shuffle of movement, it takes you a moment to readjust and recognise your surroundings. Or rather, the arms pulling away from your waist. You force your eyes open, blinking blearily before turning around to face him.

"Dami?" You murmur.

He doesn't answer. Instead, he's looking at you with a sober, dreaded realisation, like—he's woken up from a dream.

It strikes you immediately, the fog in his gaze that has lifted, and you're quick to pull away fully to your side of the bed, the sheets dragging along your legs. "You remember."

"Beloved." His hand reaches out, disbelieving—but it freezes mid-air and pulls back, a quiet guilt filling his gaze. "You're here."

You swallow, pulling your knees under your elbows. "Are you going to kick me out?"

His expression cracks—revealing a cold rage taking over his expression, but it wasn't directed at you. It was for himself.

"No." He answers shortly, disgust creased into the tension between his brows. "I should be the one to leave. I have hurt you, deeply. I took advantage of your kindness while I was unable to recover my memories, and trapped you into being here with me."

His jaw clenches, and he averts his gaze. "I understand if you want to be done with me. Permanently. I will have it all sorted by the morning."

No. That is not what you want. You want him—honest and bearing his heart to you, the way he did earlier. You didn't want kindness, or polite pity, because you still see the man you love under the mask that he's desperately trying to upkeep.

"No." Your voice echoes against the walls, and his gaze snaps to you. "I do not want you to go. I want you to tell me everything. What you were thinking, what you did while I was gone, and what you want from me. I'm not letting you let me go this time, Damian. So, talk."

He inhales, and even as his fists dig into the sheets, there is a quiet, trembling hope you find when his eyes soften, tracing over your features like he's finally able to breathe with you in his vision.

"I lost sight." He speaks, his voice weaker than you've ever heard it. "Of what truly mattered. The mission, the fights with Father—it consumed me as a never-ending battle to prove myself. With every failure, it escaped as a lash, a punishment that slowly began to trick my mind into thinking that I did not deserve life's blessings. That I did not deserve you."

"I thought you were better off without a partner who always came back needing stitches, bleeding across the floorboards." His gaze darkens, and somewhere in him, he sounds as if he still believes it. "That you deserved someone who was stable, warm, kind. Who knew how to use his words instead of wielding them like a dagger. Who could hold your heart without being so afraid of breaking it."

"I was so sure of it." He mocks, a cold dagger dragging over the open wound of his regret. "I made the decision for us without asking."

"I regretted it." He says quickly, gaze flickering with a sudden intensity. "Immediately. On the first sleepless night, when I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the side you always occupied. When the plants started to wilt as if they couldn't bear anyone's hands but yours. When I made two coffees in the morning and had to drain it in the sink."

"I had reserved a space in each part of my life unknowingly, for you." He admits. "When I lost you, I felt it—this unbearable loss—and I knew I’ve made it impossible to live without you.”

"But you did." You mutter. "For eight months."

"Living?" He smiles wryly, and not a hint of it reaches his soulless gaze. "I knew that I had hurt you, and I would’ve been an even more selfish bastard if I asked you to forgive me. But I was not living.”

“I carried on in the only way I knew how before meeting you. By surviving—barely. I grew reckless. Impulsive. Threw myself into mission after mission. By the time I realised how far gone I was, I was bleeding out in an alleyway and Dick was dragging me to the hospital."

You could only let silence answer for you. His honesty, which was all you ever wished for, was simultaneously so much to bear.

"Did you mean what you said earlier?” You ask quietly.

"Every single word." His fingers twitch, a slight tremor he tries to hide by digging deeper into the sheets. "You are all I want. There wasn't a day since you left that I haven't regretted letting you go. I may have survived, but the clock on my life stopped till you came back into it."

A lock that's been trapped in that hollow cavity in your chest, weighing you down since the first time you saw him in the hospital, and maybe even before then—finally breaks. Your hands come up to shield the pain you’ve desperately tried to hide, tears running down to no avail.

Whatever semblance of dignity he was trying to uphold, it completely shatters as he reaches for you, pulling you into his arms. He lets out a deep exhale, hands rubbing against your back, comforting and warm.

"I am sorry I hurt you." He mutters into the crown of your head. "I am sorry I've been a fool. No apologies can make up for what I've done to us—only that I regret every moment I wasted, and that it took me this long to tell you what you deserved to hear."

"I don't want you to go away, Damian." It’s the most genuine plea you’ve ever asked of him, bearing your heart so deeply that it terrifies you of its vulnerability. "Don't disappear on me again. Don’t shut me out. I hated not being able to read you, and feeling like I was isolated in what was meant to be a partnership between the two of us."

He shakes his head wordlessly, pulling away slightly to lower his gaze, meeting yours and there’s a raw desperation in the green of his eyes. “I will never leave. Not as long as you’ll have me—I will spend the rest of my life forging myself to be the man you deserve. I will communicate. I will apologise. I will do anything you want, hayati.”

“You have a lot to make up for.” You remind him.

“As long as you’ll give me the time.” He answers. “I will not waste a moment more.”

“I want grovelling.” You go on. “Like—on your knees grovelling.”

“I can do it now.” His response is quicker than sound, and he’s already ready to obey your every command.

“I want you to tell me when you feel something is wrong. When you feel you’re not enough, you have to say it.” You demand.

“Yes, my love.” He answers, a soft nod brushing against your forehead.

“I want you to call the hospital now, because we need to get a scan to make sure everything’s okay.”

His expression falters—a brief hesitation at the thought of the pushy doctor and his accompanying nurse.

“Damian.”

He flinches at the sound of his birth name, stressed in that particular tone that signals you're not joking about your conditions if he wanted to be with you again. Not even his hatred for hospitals will risk him even the slightest chance of losing you.

With or without his memories, he had always known that you're the peace in his life that he thought he didn't deserve, but cherished so deeply that he finds no meaning in the word if it weren't for you.

“I will call the hospital immediately, Beloved.”

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

[bunarii]

but who can you really go to?

[rawme-price]

Now imagine cat hybrid!reader being kidnapped by leopard!ghost for the purposes of ransom, right?

You're a heavy hitter on your own team, a valuable asset that can't easily be replaced. That's the conclusion ghost came to when he watched grainy footage of you tearing though soldiers, claws glinting and small body moving with absolute efficiency.

He's not sure what he expected when he knocked out out and brought you to a secure location but....he definitely didn't expect this.

For you to just...stare at him. Slow, unblinking, as if your mind is using all it's energy in an attempt to process the situation. Pushing his worry down, he grabs the camera and approaches "i need a proof of life. Don't be stupid."

You do so willingly, repeating the lines he feeds you with a dead, blank voice. You act nothing like a hostage should. Your ears don't move, your tail is limp against cold concrete. You don't even hiss. It's weird. It makes ghost uneasy.

It's not until he brings you your meal that things make sense.

Raw meat, nothing fancy, he tosses it in front of you and steps back. Usually ghost doesn't watch captives eat but...he's curious.

That's when you finally perk up, whole body shuddering to life at the scent of blood. You scarf the cut of meat down in two bites, stunning ghost. He had planned for you to take your time, the meal size was proportional to a cat hybrid like you. Yet you lean down and lick the plate clean, as if starving for more.

A deep, rumbling purr spills out of you. Much deeper than a cat hybrid.

That's....that's the sound of a panther hybrid.

The lethargy, the lack of interest in your situation, the intense focus on food. You aren't a cat hybrid at all, you're a panther hybrid who's been starved. Willingly, by your team it would appear, and for a considerable time seeing as you're half the size you should be.

Ghost doesn't know what to think about that. It makes the cat in his brain hiss at the mere thought of being hungry for that long.

He doesn't send the proof of life or ransom. He calls price, hoping he might have an answer.

[elysiumae]

nerolis and nectarines.

⟢ pairing: phainon x f!reader

⟢ word count: 14.2k

⟢ tags: abo dynamics, omegaverse, beta!reader, omega!phainon, mention of discrimination against betas, secondary gender stereotypes/roles, eventual smut (mdni), more fleshed out reader, much much unnecessary yapping about amphorean history

Back in your home village, betas were often regarded as unmateable—half-formed things left out of Cerces and Mnestia's blessings of perfect union. They could not carry on family lineage like alphas, nor were they fertile enough to command a bride price the way omegas did. They could not scent, could not bond, and were therefore regarded as socially worthless. You'd quickly learned not to expect—or desire—otherwise. Or, on the journey to Loukas, an encounter with Phagousa's Soul-Purifying Spring causes everything to go sideways for you and Phainon—the most desirable alpha in the Eternal Holy City.

⟢ chapters: one | two

The road to Loukas exists less often than not.

Progress has been slow-going the past half a week, and it doesn't seem as though today is going to be any different. The sun's already nearing its zenith in the sky and you have yet to make any headway. Not for a lack of effort—the ground before you simply refuses to match the lines on your maps—but the outcome remains the same, regardless. Perhaps you were too generous in calling the loose stone crumbling beneath your feet a 'road' at all.

This relentless heat isn't helping your mood, either.

You finally give up poring over your maps, wincing at the stiffness in your neck as you look up. To your right, the cliffs rise upwards in jagged lines before falling away sharply, giving way to the Aegean sea beyond. Sunlight splinters over its waves like mirror shards scattered across phthalo blue.

Were this any other time, the sight might have captivated you. Instead, you turn your gaze inland, a hand raised against the sun's glare to scan the rocky slope.

It hadn't been your intention to split up earlier, but your companion had noticed your breaths flagging during the uphill climb and insisted you rest—here, beneath the shade of this fig tree—while he went ahead in search of your landmarks. A rocky outcrop in the shape of a clenched fist, the annotations stubbornly insist, in minute script crammed between the weaving ink lines of the coast. With how old these records are, you'll be surprised if he finds it still standing, if he finds it at all.

But Fortune favours the fair—and so, he does.

"I found it!"

You turn just in time to see a familiar white-clad silhouette crest a small rise. Phainon's hair is half-wild and tousled over his forehead—presumably the result of the balmy wind rising from the coast—but he doesn't seem to pay it much mind as he jogs over. The soles of his boots crunch over stone and dry scrub until he comes to a stop in front of you, panting lightly but grinning wide.

"I found it," he repeats, more clearly this time. You raise a brow.

"You found it?"

"I did. Just a short distance north of here, actually." Phainon hunches over as he confirms, both hands bracing on his knees to catch his breath before glancing up at you again. His blue eyes are bright behind his sweat-damp fringe. "It's crumbling somewhat, but definitely recognisable." His grin widens. "See? Told you there was nothing to worry about."

That's easy for him to say, when he isn't in charge of navigation. Still, perspiration beads along the line of his brow, sliding down the curve of his jaw. You retrieve your waterskin. It's heavy in your hand, probably filled about three-quarters or more. You hold it out to him.

"You've been gone less than an hour," you say.

"Hm?" Phainon's smile falters slightly as he takes it from you. "Am I such poor company you were hoping I'd be gone longer?"

You ignore his quip. "We've been scouring this area ever since sunrise."

"I… suppose so?"

"And yet the moment we split up, you find it within three quints?"

"Ah." Phainon pauses mid-swallow at that, his lips curling into a grin around the waterskin. "Well, when you put it that way, it does sound rather impressive."

You give him a decidedly unimpressed look.

He wipes at his dripping mouth with the back of his hand. "You seem as though you suspect foul play."

"Merely considering the statistical improbability."

His eyes brighten.

"Does that mean you're impressed?"

Trust Phainon to spin your words into something flattering. "No, it means I'm questioning whether you found the correct landmark at all."

"Wow. I return bearing triumph and victory only to be received with doubt and suspicion. I thought you'd be more relieved."

You are relieved—more than you appear to be, probably. Back in the days of the Era Bellica, the city-states of Amphoreus had been connected by proper stone-laid roads that had sustained trade in the region for centuries. But after Loukas fell to the Black Tide, the road that once led there had followed: first into neglect, then into ruin—slowly reclaimed by Georios over the years. What remains of it now is little more than fractured stone, its purpose long since crumbled back to dust.

Navigating by these centuries-old maps hasn't been the easiest undertaking, too.

"Alright, fine," you concede as Phainon returns your now empty waterskin. "I suppose I can confirm that we aren't lost, at least." And that you haven't been leading the two of you in circles for the past three days. Forget Phainon; you wouldn't let yourself live it down, if that were the case.

Phainon shrugs easily.

"Getting lost is just another term for scenic detour." His tone is expressedly serious, though the curl of his mouth and the quick flick of his eyes in your direction betrays him. "It's all a matter of perspective. Wouldn't you agree?"

You pinch your nose for good measure. Normally, you wouldn't pay getting lost much mind—you could always wait for night to fall, take your bearings from the stars—but Phainon's time is too valuable to be wasted tramping aimlessly across the Jerichan countryside. There are more important duties than safeguarding you waiting for him back in the Holy City, and the sooner you retrieve the documents Lady Aglaea sent you for, the better.

It's this thought that has you moving quickly to roll up your maps. "When we get back to Okhema, remind me to buy you a dictionary," you say dryly, paying additional care to their fraying edges. Phainon cocks his head, curious.

"What for?"

"So that you can start looking up the definition to words."

His laughter rings out amidst the scorched, dreary landscape. "That was rude." Phainon tries to sound affronted, but it's no use when he's smiling so widely. "Oh—and speaking of detours, I spotted a settlement to the west earlier." He hooks a thumb over his pauldron. "I couldn't make it out clearly, but it looked to be a small town. Not too far from here, I wager."

His offhanded tone tells you this is leading somewhere more. You narrow your eyes at him, feeling like a fish just shy of closing its mouth around a line.

"…And?"

"I was thinking we could stop by and ask the locals for directions." Phainon pauses just long enough for you to consider the suggestion before adding, "Perhaps get a drink to cool down too, while we're at it."

You eye his overly innocent look, his spread hands. "You're remarkably predictable, you know?"

"I'm nothing if not reliable."

"This isn't another one of those occasions where you've already decided and are now generously allowing me to pretend I have a say?"

Phainon puts up both hands as though you've accused him of a grave crime. "Preposterous," he insists, despite the faint smile tugging at his mouth. "I'd never attempt to manipulate you so blatantly. Naturally, we'll go wherever you decide."

"Mm, I'm sure…"

He's playing that little game of his again—mildly exasperating for you, endlessly amusing for him. Once, Phainon's habitual deference to you had kept you perpetually on edge—a trait so distinctly out of place on an alpha it'd bordered on unsettling—but now, it's become little more than a familiar song and dance after so many journeys together. You fight the urge to swat him with your maps—they're far too precious for that—and instead focus on tucking them carefully into your satchel.

When you glace up again, Phainon still has yet to say a word. His eyes seem to be smiling now, too.

You sigh.

"We could," you say at last, in an attempt to frame your words as ambiguously as possible. Phainon's grin widens.

"We could."

You shoot him a sideways look and start down the rocky slope without him. Phainon's laughter trails behind you like a loose ribbon caught in the wind. It takes him all of three strides to catch up, anyway, and you click your tongue as he falls into step beside you—Mnestia and their favourites—and resist the urge to quicken your pace.

The settlement Phainon spotted turns out to be a small town of sorts. A modest scattering of buildings sits tucked into the shelter of a hillside slope, humble homes with whitewashed walls reminiscent of those in Okhema, clustered around a central agora. And fish are everywhere—laid out on wooden boards, strung up to dry beneath shallow eaves. It's an common sight for a seaside community.

Next to you, Phainon wrinkles his nose as he passes by a particularly ripe market stall, before he hastily smoothens his expression back into one of polite interest. You hide your snort behind your hand. One of the few benefits of being a beta, you suppose.

Only a few townspeople are out in the sun at this time of day, and the pair of you draw a handful of watchful looks as they go about their business. It's only to be expected as strangers in a small municipality—it doesn't look as though this town gets much in way of visitors at all. The first establishment you come across is a simple tavern with a low loft built above it, and its door creaks faintly when you push it open.

A girl jolts from one of the tables by the entrance. She's young, by the looks of it—roughly your age if you had to hazard a guess—with a stained apron around her waist. Despite this, she blinks owlishly at you and Phainon as you enter, moss-green eyes flickering over your dust-caked boots and travel worn clothes before darting to the man at your side.

Her posture straightens almost imperceptibly.

You clear your throat. She startles again, cheeks colouring, and hastens behind the counter.

Phainon steers you over towards a vacant table beneath an arched window. Sunlight spills across its wooden surface through the shuttered slats.

"Try not to frighten any of the locals," he teases, the ghost of a grin on his face as he pushes you into a seat. "I'll take a look at what they have."

He's gone before the protest can even find its way to your lips. Left to your own devices, you sigh and lean back in your chair to take stock of the tavern. It's not too crowded—several groups of older men sit scattered about round tables nursing cups over low conversation, while a portly woman in the far corner shells a steadily growing heap of legumes into a wooden bowl. The air smells faintly of brine and watered down wine.

More than that, you feel the weight of curious stares on your back.

When your eyes search instinctively for Phainon once more, you find him leaning over the counter, seemingly engaged in easy conversation. It comes as little surprise—people have a way of warming to him quickly. Lady Aglaea likes that about him. Whatever they're talking about is too muddled to make out amidst the low buzz of the tavern, but you catch the way she stumbles over her words, the faint pink creeping into her cheeks as she speaks.

Omega, your mind supplies unhelpfully before you can stop yourself.

The Grove's research insists that there are no meaningful differences in appearance between alphas and omegas, save for reproductive anatomy. Theory, however, rarely survives contact with reality. You dislike relying on outdated and narrow-minded stereotypes—alphas are territorial and domineering, omegas gentle and naturing—but such ideas rarely arise without some basis. Besides, betas like you are completely pheromone-blind. Navigating society would be impossible, otherwise.

You occupy yourself with staring at the sun-baked streets just beyond the window. A few minutes later, Phainon returns, a large cup in each hand.

"I got us kykeon," he announces. Your fingertips brush when he slides one over to you. "Here. Drink up."

You hum your thanks and take a sip. The taste is both familiar and not at the same time: watered down barley with a hint of local herbs, creamy with goat's cheese but finishing wih a briny tang. You take your second mouthful more slowly, parsing the flavours as they settle across your tongue.

"It's… a little salty?"

Your comment comes out more inquisitive than you intend. Phainon smiles as he slides into the seat opposite yours, his coat tails brushing across the wooden floor. He seems amused by your reaction.

"They add seawater to the drink." He lifts his own cup to his lips. "It's a specialty here."

"Oh? According to who?"

"Leona."

Phainon nods over his shoulder at the counter. Leona. You turn her name over in your mind once, then twice. It shouldn't come as a surprise that he's already on a first name basis with her.

"You're making friends quickly."

He doesn't rise to the bait, disappointingly. "She was very friendly. Very helpful, too."

You note the way the serving girl continues to steal glances in Phainon's direction, even as she pretends to busy herself behind the counter. Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—the object of her attention seems to remain oblivious.

"I don't doubt it."

The topic ends up drifting, as it often does, back to the road ahead. Between measured sips of kykeon and the low murmur of the tavern, you fall back into the familiar rhythms of conversation—distances to cover, landmarks to confirm, the steady arithmetic of time and terrain. By the time the discussion turns to the restocking of your dwindling supplies, the two of you are bent over the maps spread out across the table, heads lowered in concentration once more.

"Distance wise, continuing down the coastal path would be the quickest route." You tap at a long, thin line that cuts across the land. It chases the curve and bend of the coast, forging upwards. "But Leanor's maps mention a river that swells in summertime when ice from the nearby mountains melts. It might be too wide for us to cross now."

Phainon's eyes track your finger dutifully as it traces across the topography of your maps, thoughtful and alert. Navigation has never been his forte but he's always eager to learn. You're about to point out a possible crossing farther downstream—a bridge you've seen mentioned in several of Kremnos' war annals—when a large hand suddenly plants itself between the two of you, thick fingers splayed across the vellum.

"Excuse me."

The two of you look up simultaneously at the interruption. Towering over your table is a heavyset man, tufts of dark hair bristling at his temples. His gaze sweeps over you and Phainon like a bear sizing up potential prey. For someone who's just asked to be excused, there is little way of apology in his expression.

"It's not often we get new faces around these parts, especially with the Black Tide spreading nearby," the man says, in manner of a greeting. His voice is a low rumble in the back of his throat. "What brings the two of you to this place?"

There's a wary note in his voice that he makes no effort to disguise—confrontational, almost tipping over into hostile. You've heard that tone enough times to become familiar with it. Most often, from the more aggressive alpha members of the Okheman council, when a debate sin't going the way they prefer. Lady Aglaea does a far better job at restraining herself, but sometimes you still catch the instinct beneath that water-tight composure slipping through.

A few patrons at the tables nearby pause mid-drink, heads lifting to catch the cloud of pheromones that must be flooding the air. Your own breathing quickens traitorously in turn.

Phainon, however, doesn't respond outwardly to the challenge. His posture stays relaxed and his expression neutral, though you notice the faint tightening of his hands and feet, like a blade settling into its sheath. Then he smiles, disarmingly polite.

"We're just passing through on our way to Loukas," Phainon replies. His tone skirts the edge of amiability while remaining uncowed. "We're on business for the Flame-Chase."

The mention of the Flame-Chase seems to have snared the man's attention. His eyes flick briefly to you, then back to Phainon. The suspicion in them is tempered by cautious interest.

"Loukas, you say? The Prison City?"

"The very one."

"It's nothing but a ruin now. The place is overrun with the Black Tide." He pauses. "Ain't that dangerous?"

Phainon inclines his head in acknowledgement. "We can handle ourselves," he says simply, without arrogance or boast. It's as though simply stating a fact. The man considers his claim for a long moment, carefully taking in the broad shoulders and untroubled confidence, before he lets out a grunt.

"Sorry about that," he says, and this time the apology sounds more genuine. "Like I said, we don't see many new faces around here, and the ones that we do are usually up to no good. You two are Chrysos Heirs?"

"Only him," you say, and he nods.

"Of course." Before you can ask what exactly that is supposed to mean, the man shifts his attention back to Phainon. "I'm the owner of this tavern here." Your eyes track the movement as he offers Phainon his hand—a brief clasp, palm to palm, the scent glands there brushing in passing. "I overheard you talking about restocking for your journey ahead."

A polite if blunt way of admitting he'd been listening in. Phainon seems to be frowning faintly, though he conceals it well. But he makes no mention of it and so neither do you.

"We were discussing the matter, yes."

The barkeeper seems to hesitate at that. He shifts his weight from his left foot to his right, the fingers of one hand twisting in the ties of apron. He looks as though carefully weighing his next words.

"I'd like to offer to supply you with whatever you might need, Chrysos Heir," he says, eventually. "If you'd assist us—the people of this town—with an issue."

You and Phainon exchange a brief glance. The two of you are in no dire need of coin—the Goldweaver supplies you with more than enough to cover your travel expenses—but it can't hurt to hear out his concerns if it affects the entire town. Phainon seems to reach a similar conclusion, because he leans forward, fingers lacing over his knee.

"What's the problem?"

The barkeeper drags a hand over the back of his neck, then sighs. "There's an old temple down by the coast," he begins. "It used to be dedicated to Phagousa, but it was abandoned ever since the Ocean Titan disappeared. I'd like for you to take a look at it."

Abandoned. Not an uncommon fate for shrines tied to fallen divinity, especially since the Daythunder Knight had first felled Aquila. Phainon's curiosity seems piqued, regardless.

"Is there a reason you're so concerned about this particular temple?"

The barkeeper nods reluctantly after a moment. "It's the source of this town's Soul-Purifying Spring."

Now that makes your eyes go wide. You can count the number you've seen on one hand—the rest are either dried up or long destroyed in wars of centuries past—so you never thought you'd stumble across one by accident. They're nowhere near as powerful as the fragments of Phagousa's chalice, but still, as a relic containing the power of a Titan…

Phainon glances over at you, not quite comprehending.

"This, uh, Soul-Purifying Spring is…?"

You open your mouth to answer, but the barkeeper beats you to it. "It's spirit water," he explains. "Blessed by Phagousa herself—the pride of our town." His chest puffs out a little as he says it, though a mote of worry lingers in his eyes. "The water flows from beneath thetemple grounds and into a fountain in the agora." His jaw tightens. "Or it did, until about a couple of years ago."

"You didn't send someone to investigate earlier?" you mutter, incredulous. The barkeeper's eyes dart to you, almost as though he'd forgotten you were there in the first place. The question seems to catch up a beat later, and he lets out a quiet huff.

"We did. But the younger lads we sent said they saw movement in the inner chambers—creatures resembling Black Tide monsters—and didn't dare venture further." He grimaces. "We're fishermen and salt traders, not fighters."

Phainon nods slowly, contemplative.

"I see."

When you glance over, Phainon's expression has gone thoughtful. The mention of Black Tide creatures has clearly caught his attention—he'll want to investigate, temple obligations or not. The sages at the Grove would value any information you can offer; accurate predictions mean better resource allocation, faster evacuations, more lives saved.

Across from you, the barkeeper straightens, pride and worry warring visibly across his face. The latter wins.

"So," he says, the edge in his voice faltering to a reluctant appeal, "would you be willing to help us, Chrysos Heir?"

He does not look at you as he says it. It has been quite clear, since the beginning, that he's seen only Phainon as someone worth addressing—the leader, the decision-maker, the alpha, the fighter—and you as little more than accompanying afterthought. It doesn't bother you very much. If anything, you might even prefer it this way. You've grown accustomed to standing just outside the centre of such exchanges, and besides, you already know what Phainon's answer will be.

Or, you thought you did. Instead, Phainon tilts his head. His ivory fringe slips into summer blue eyes, unreadable for the space of a breath, before he smiles.

"Oh, I'm not the one you should be asking." He glances at you, a brow raised. "I'm not in charge, here."

The map corner you'd been fidgeting with slips from between your fingers. You look up, bewilderment creeping in. The barkeeper's eyes meet yours, equally perplexed.

"Your companion?" Faint disbelief colours his voice.

You cut a sidelong look at Phainon only to find him already watching you. There's no trace of his usual lightheartedness in his eyes, although he maintains it in expression. You purse your lips, unsure what he's playing at, brows drawing together warily.

Drop it.

He doesn't. "My companion is the one with unparalleled expertise in ancient temples. I'm only here to swing my sword around and look intimidating."

You find yourself wishing that the two of you were in private company—then, at least, you would be able to freely elbow Phainon in the ribs. But if you were, then there would be no need for this entire conversation in the first place. Precisely why you prefer ancient ruins to most people…

After a silence that drags long enough for it to become uncomfortable, the barkeeper finally clears his throat. He turns to you.

"…Then," he starts, clearly deciding that the matters of the temple takes precedence, "will you take a look at our temple? At least find out what's blocking the spring?"

You bite back the sigh that threatens to slip out. You can already feel the shape of the detour settling into your originally intended route, your schedule, as persistent as the unwavering gaze coming from your left.

"…We will."

The discussion that follows finds its way back to Phainon despite his earlier insistence otherwise, but you find yourself unbothered—moreso than usual. Instead, you stare out of the window and sip at the remainder of your drink as they talk logistics and directions, more occupied with the odd discomfort that seems to have lodged itself in the back of your throat.

The barkeeper finally excuses himself to fetch a few things from the storeroom upstairs. The second he disappears out of the back door, Phainon pivots in his seat to face you, half-empty cup of kykeon raised high.

"Well, that was certainly unexpected," he muses. His easy charm has settled back as though it never left. "Here I thought you didn't care much for detours—"

"You shouldn't have done that."

"Hm? I haven't the faintest idea what you could possibly be referring to."

He looks too pleased with himself for your liking. Self-righteous fool. Mindsets like the barkeeper's are hardly uncommon, especially in more rural areas like this one. Perspectives on betas range far and wide depending on region, but they rarely stray far from the same conclusion: that betas exist somewhere outside of the neat social order built around alphas and omegas.

Back in your home village, betas were often regarded as unmateable—half-formed things left out of Cerces and Mnestia's blessings of perfect union. They could not carry on family lineage like alphas, nor were they fertile enough to command a bride price the way omegas did. They could not scent, could not bond, and were therefore regarded as socially worthless. You'd quickly learned not to expect—or desire—otherwise.

Something tells you that trying to explain this to Phainon would only make him double down, though, so you refrain. "It didn't bother me," you clarify, instead. "You didn't need to do anything."

"Oh?" Phainon leans forward, setting his elbows on the table to properly meet your gaze. "It bothered me, though."

You can't help but feel as though you've been here before. It's a conversation you've had one time too many. At least he isn't playing ignorant any longer. It doesn't suit him.

"Betas don't have scents. It's normal to be overlooked."

He arches a brow. "Is that so? I look at you all the time."

That silver tongue of his. He's going to give someone the wrong idea, one day. "You're abnormal. You don't count."

Phainon laughs at that, head tipping back just enough to reveal the dark band of his choker, stark against the pale line of his throat. "People often read too much into secondary gender. They see what they want to see." His chin shifts to prop itself atop his knuckles as he regards you, half-smiling. "It saves them the trouble of having to think any further."

You spend a moment attempting to decipher whatever meaning is veiled behind his words before giving up. It might be easier to reason with a mule, you think. At least it can't talk back.

"Next time, just answer on both our behalfs and spare us the unnecessary exchange."

Phainon shrugs. "If you insist, I'll keep that in mind."

Conversation seemingly over, Phainon leans back to take a longer, more leisurely sip of his kykeon. His chair tilts precariously on its rear legs. You watch him for a whole five seconds, frowning before you speak again.

"You won't, will you?"

His smile sharpens into a grin.

"No, I won't."

The barkeeper returns just as the two of you are finishing your drinks. He hands Phainon two maps—one, a simply guide marking the route down to the temple, the other, a rough charcoal sketch of its interior. The latter is clearly drawn by an untrained hand: its lines are smudged, proportions skewed, and it's not of much use. Fortunately, you've picked up in your time exploring the ruins along Milios' coasts. As long as the structures don't differ too drastically, it shouldn't pose too much of an issue for you.

The two of you are halfway out of the door when a voice calls out from behind.

"W—wait!"

The shy serving girl from earlier—Leona, if you remember correctly—hurries over. Her steps slow as she nears. She fumbers with a tightly wrapped bundle in her hands for a moment, fingers curling bashfully over the knot at the top before she holds it out to him. The faint scent of something warm and freshly baked permeates through the undyed linen.

Phainon looks genuinely startled. It's almost cute, how receiving unsolicited favour still catches him off guard.

"Apologies, this is?"

"S—Some bread," she stutters, ducking her head. It does nothing to hide the blush spreading over her cheeks, the colour of ripe nectarines. You wonder briefly if she smells just as sweet. "For, um, h—helping with the Spring."

Phainon looks at it. You think you catch a glimpse of some indecipherable emotion flickering behind the blue ocean-depths of his eyes, before it's quickly replaced by a courteously apologetic, pinned-together smile.

"That is very kind of you." His hands lift, hovering over her offering but not quite touching, as though he's unsure how to properly respond to her gesture. "But I couldn't possibly…"

"No, no, I insist—"

Titans above. Whether Phainon is simply being polite or deliberately obtuse is anyone's guess, and you're rapidly running out of the patience required to discern which it is. The two of you will be here all until nightfall if he keeps this coyness up, and besides, food is food. There's no reason to hesitate.

Before he can protest again, you step between them and intercept the bread. She startles, hands jerking back to her chest, eyes going as wide as silver coins as she stares at you.

"Thank you for your generosity," you force yourself to say, inclining your head in a courteous, if somewhat brief, bow. "We'll make good use of it."

Her gaze flicks to you, lips pursing. She appears almost indignant for a second before her expression dissipates into one of reluctant resignation.

"…Of course."

You don't wait for the exchange to continue. Turning around, you stride out of the tavern with the hurried sound of Phainon's footsteps quick at your heels, and back into the harsh afternoon light.

The temple of Phagousa is older than you expect.

Built directly into the cliffside, the entire structure is more carved than constructed. The limestone façade is darkened with centuries of exposure to salt and wind. It'd taken you and Phainon about an hour to reach the coast, and then another three quints to spot, its silhouette almost swallowed by the Parting Hour's shadow. By then, the darkening sky had only made your descent more treacherous, and Phainon had insisted on gripping your hand tight as he led you down the flights of crumbling stairs.

Now, what remains of the portico you're standing on juts outward over the sea. When you'd peered over the edge earlier, you could just barely make out great chunks of white marble beneath the foam swirling atop the waves. It's as though the entire structure is slowly crumbling into the ocean that had once defined its worship.

"So," Phainon calls out after several minutes of wordless pacing. "Your professional opinion?"

You glance up from a pair of heavy, rusted hinges. Your travel companion seems to have made himself comfortable atop a fallen column, one leg tucked beneath his thigh while the other kicks idly at the broken ground. He's also tucked the end of his cape into his belt—the wind would have a field day with it, otherwise—though it does little to spare his hair from being blown every which way.

He looks like he's just stepped out of a hurricane, or came out wrestling barehanded with Aquila and lost. Phainon frowns when he notices you glance to the side, his lips moving.

What?

"You look ridiculous."

Phainon's brows pinch together in visible confusion.

"Whaaaaat?"

You cup your hands around your mouth, raising your voice to be heard over the rushing of the wind.

"I said, this entrance is blocked!"

"Ohh!"

He hops off the fallen pillar easily, stepping over the scattered rubble to join you. You gesture towards the massive double doors you'd been examining as he draws nearer—more than twice your height and several wingspans across.

"The hinges are completely rusted through." You brush a hand along the weathered stone, and a thin layer of salt crystals come away on your fingertips. "Even if we did manage to get through the locking mechanism—which doesn't seem to be working either, by the way—the doors themselves wouldn't budge."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously," you echo dryly, if only to humour him.

Phainon lifts his head to study the door. His hands are planted squarely on his hips, as though he's sizing himself up against it.

"Even if I put all of my strength into it?"

You open your mouth, a confirmation hovering at the tip of your tongue only to pause. You've witnessed him perform feats that border on absurd—tearing apart several of Strife's corrupted Titankin with his bare hands, and lifting an anvil for the Grand Craftsman that you'd estimated to weigh about the same as a young dromas. Of Phainon's strength, you have no doubt. But even so—

"These doors can weigh up to about eight hundred Attic talents each." You lift a hand to rap your knuckles lightly against them for emphasis. They might be corroded and weakened from the seawater, but they're still made of solid stone. "They're mounted on internal pivot mechanisms that let them swivel open when properly unlocked. Not even ten Mountain Dwellers would be able to force them open otherwise."

Your gaze lifts.

"Besides, even if you succeeded somehow, you'd probably bring the entire temple down on top of us."

Phainon cranes his head back to follow your line of sight. He winces when he sees the crack stonework overhead, the fissures webbing across weathered lintel.

"I'd prefer not to make an acquaintance of Thanatos just yet," he agrees, though his gaze lingers on the doors for a few seconds before he glances at you, sidelong. "I suppose you know another way in?"

"Interesting assumption."

He just shrugs, still looking at you. "You don't seem too bothered by the main entryway being completely blocked off."

You cross your arms across your chest, raising a brow. What an astute observation. You're not entirely certain you appreciate being the subject of it. Turning on your heel, you nod towards the temple's shadowed depths.

"There's most likely a secondary entrance somewhere inside. Come on."

Phainon follows you past the portico and along the corridors of the peristyle. The howling of the wind gradually dwindles behind you until it fades to a distant whistle. Even in a state of abandonment, the temple's once-glory is evident—bronze basins filled with water line the walls, faded murals stretching across the inner corridors. Most of them depict Phagousa's infamous undersea banquets in jewelled shades of ultramarine and turqoise, their scenes brimming over with unrestrained indulgence and revelry. Her chalice gleams gold betwixt her pale fingers.

You gesture idly at one of the panels as you pass. "Mid-Bellican, most probably. It looks like the pigments were mixed with crushed mother-of-pearl. See the way it shimmers? Some scholars think it was meant to mimic the way light refracts beneath the sea."

Phainon listens with rapt attention. His gaze drifts from one mural to the next with open fascination as you speak. Once, you would have grown self-conscious the moment you realised you were rambling—a habit you'd unknowingly developed after wandering ancient ruins alone for years—and promptly cut yourself off mid-explanation. But over time, you'd come to recognise that Phainon's interest in the topic was genuine.

Now, it's often this sort of idle conversation that fills the silence during your long journeys together.

"How can you tell?"

"Tell what?"

"That it's Mid-Bellican." Phainon's brow furrows as he stares down one of Phagousa's many painted forms, as though she might yield the answer under sufficient scrutiny. His eyes are the same shade of blue as the waves glimmering along the murals. "I tried reading that compendium you mentioned, but I don't think there was anything about era-specific pigments."

You're faintly surprised. You'd only referenced it in passing while explaining about a Skyfolk Pavilion—you hadn't expected him to actually seek it out, much less read it.

"Oh. It's more of an inference on my part, actually. Mid-Bellica is the period where large-scale trade roads first began to appear, and Pyria was the only major exporter of maritime goods back then." A wry edge slips into your voice. "Coincidentally, it's also when Kremnos started lauching its first military campaign against the Seaside States."

You'd only added on that last part as a passing remark to yourself, but Phainon's head lifts.

"Castrum Kremnos?"

"Roads built for commerce also make it very convenient to transport siege engines and war supplies. Soldiers, too." After a moment's hesitation, you add, "I'm sure Lord Mydeimos would be more familiar with this topic than I am. You can ask him about it, if you're curious."

It's common knowledge in the Holy City—Phainon's longstanding rivalry with Kremnos' crown prince. You'd heard the stories of how they'd clashed for ten consecutive days and nights the first time they'd met; how an insignificant farm boy from some nameless, remote village had come within a hair's breadth to the heir of a nation forged by war for war. Now, both of them fight shoulder to shoulder for the Flame-Chase. Fate truly works in mysterious ways.

Phainon barks out a laugh at that. The sound travels down the length of the empty corridor, echoes back strange and distorted. "I could ask him, I suppose. Though I'm not certain if he'd entertain me…"

He scratches at the back of his head, a sheepish look spreading across his face. You send a faintly puzzled look his way.

"Aren't the two of you friends?"

He makes an odd expression at that. "We're on friendly terms. Mydei would probably disagree on the word 'friends'…" He trails off, frowning, as though the right description eludes him.

You return your gaze to the walls. You've heard other rumours as well—speculative whispers and tavern gossip about a bond that seems to run deeper than mere camaraderie. They're of no substance, of course, and you briefly consider mentioning them before you think the better of it. A pairing of two alphas is uncommon, but hardly unheard of.

Besides, whoever Phainon may or may not be involved with is none of your concern.

You quicken your pace. Your fingertips graze cool stone as your eyes scan the walls. If you listen closely enough, you can just manage to make out the faint trickle of running water… right about there.

"Allies? No, that's not quite it. Brothers-in-arms? Comrades?" Phainon hums under his breath. "Hmm… I guess comrades would be—"

"Here." You come to a sudden halt, and Phainon very nearly walks straight into your back. Only his quick reflexes save the two of you from colliding at the very last second. "Found it."

The two of you are standing before yet another door, though this one is significantly smaller. Inlaid within its surface is a series of concentric rings crafted from alternating gold and aquamarine, and at the very top, two carved fish. A shallow runnel spills from their mouths, trickles over stone. There's a clear resemblance to the door at the main entrance, though this one is, thankfully, far better preserved.

Phainon takes one look at it and sighs.

"Yet another one of those unsmashable doors?"

"There are only so many of these left across all of Amphoreus," you say, eyeing him as you return your attention to the door. "Please refrain from the urge to destroy every ancient relic you come across."

He sputters behind you.

"I was only asking!"

You turn away to hide the twitch of your lips. "Anyways, the inner sanctum should be behind this door." You drop into a crouch, tracing one finger along the carved grooves in one of the outer rings. It's bone dry, dust gathering along its tracks. When was the last time anyone made use of this entrance? "The grooves need to be aligned so that water can descend to the bottom. This might take a while."

You get to work in silence. The stone is cool beneath your palms, and each movement produces a soft, grinding click as ancient gears stir after years of disuse.

The mechanism quickly proves more intricate and challenging than you'd initially expected—the channels align and subsequently diverge, and one incorrect adjustment causes all the pooled water to drain uselessly into the sides. Things would be much easier if you could feel the flow of water like the priestesses of Phagousa back in your hometown did, you lament to yourself. Still, the lock is engaging enough, and it doesn't take you long to slip into a state of focus.

All the while, you feel a gaze resting intently on your back.

"I had a sudden thought," Phainon says.

"Don't hurt yourself," you reply absently, without looking up.

"Ha ha, very funny." Phainon ignores your jab and presses on. "Where did you learn to do all this?"

"All this?"

"All this… temple-related business." You pause, peeling your eyes from the mechanism. Phainon has positioned himself against the wall to watch you work, arms crossed loosely over his chest while one shoulder rests against stone. "You didn't study at the Grove, right? None of the schools there teach anything remotely similar, anyway."

Caprists, Erythrokeramists, Helkolithists, Lotophagists, Nodists, Venerationists, Nousporists. Phainon comes from the last and newest of them, if you remember correctly. Hyacine and Lady Castorice had, too.

You turn back to slide another ring into alignment. A thin stream of water trickles a little further along one of the grooves.

"Why the sudden curiosity?"

"It's hardly sudden. I've been trying to get to know you better for over a year now, in case you haven't noticed."

You huff out a breath that might pass for a laugh at his admission.

"And how is that going for you?"

"Terribly." You hear the sulk in his voice without seeing it. "Getting you to speak about yourself is harder than squeezing water from a rock."

He's one to talk. Phainon does speak—often, in fact,and to a remarkable degree—yet for all the words he offers, he reveals very little of substance about himself. Not deliberately, you think, because the man standing behind you isn'tone to withhold any part of himself if it would benefit another. And yet, somehow, conversations with him always turn outwards: to his hometown, to other people, anything that isn't quite truly about him. You're not certain if he's even aware of this habit himself, despite his considerable self-awareness.

Most of it is misplaced, anyway.

You decide to humour Phainon for once. "I didn't."

He perks up immediately, like a dog being thrown a bone.

"Didn't?"

"Didn't study at the Grove." Water slips along a newly aligned path, pooling in a crevice. Phainon remains silent but you can feel the curiosity radiating off him in waves. "The village I was born in was located in an area fraught with natural disasters, so they worshipped all three Titans of Foundation. The surrounding cliffs were littered with the ruins of their temples. I used to spend hours as a child playing there and talking to the gods, pretending they could answer me."

"Woah. You started out young."

You smile faintly at the sincere amazement in his tone. "I guess so."

"I remember running around Aedes Elysiae all the time with Cyrene too, when I was younger. We'd stay out past Descent Hour and our parents would find us sleeping in the wheat fields." The timbre of his voice softens. You don't have to turn around to know that there's a wistful, faraway look in his eyes. He always gets nostalgic whenever he talks about his home, and you briefly wonder what it must be like to miss your birthplace so fondly. "I bet you got up to all kinds of mischief too," he adds, the tail-end of a laugh snaking its way in.

"I did. The village elders used to make us kneel on Georios' temple steps as punishment." At the movement of another ring, a thin stream of water slips along the outer circumference. Oh, you're getting somewhere. "I almost missed it, after everyone started presenting."

"Oh. What happened?"

Phainon sounds a little more measured now. You don't spare much thought to it, mind and fingers occupied with the mechanism in front of you.

"My friends started attending courtship dances to find mates, or serving in the temples." Or at least that's what they'd said—but you'd always suspected that the truth was far simpler, and far less kind. "My village was small, so I was the only beta there at the time. They didn't kow what to do with a defect like me." You move another ring, and the water continues its slow descent down the door. "I stuck around for a year or two before I left to explore on my own. That's how I ended up in Okhema."

You keep working the door. When the silence stretches on for longer than you expect, you turn your head again, bemused.

"Phainon?"

Even in the dim light, you can just make out the tight set of his jaw. He's… unhappy, you think. About what, though, you can only guess. Hyacine once mentioned that Phainon's scent reminded her of summer warmth—vanilla and neroli and fresh linen left out to dry, sunlight distilled into something you could put in a bottle. You wonder distantly how that might change when soured by displeasure.

"I wish you wouldn't talk about yourself like that."

You blink, suddenly pulled from your musings. "Like what?"

"Like calling yourself defective." The words leave him in a rush, like he's been holding his breath. "Or anything remotely similar, actually."

"I am, though," you reply, more matter-or-fact than argumentative. "No scent glands or receptors, remember?"

A troubled look flickers across Phainon's face. His gaze darts over you, a migratory bird unable to settle—like he wants to say something more but cannot find the words. Eventually, he settles on, "You should have come to Okhema earlier. If you had, you would definitely have been accepted into the Grove. The sages would have been fighting over you."

You turn back to the door, snorting softly. Almost there.

"That's so silly. I'm just a nobody."

"You're not," Phainon insists. His footsteps draw closer. You can almost imagine the stubborn set of his expression even without looking. "We would have been friends."

The notion is so ridiculous you don't even bother dignifying it with a proper response. Phainon isn't just any alpha—he's highly regarded, well-built, intelligent and good-looking to the point of envy. To make matters worse, he's kind and respectful. Omegas would have flocked to him in droves. And you… you would have remained precisely where you always do—at the periphery, unnoticed and unremarkable.

No, you want to say. We wouldn't have been.

"Professor Anaxagoras would have liked you, I think. He's always taken an interest in other betas," Phainon continues without waiting for your response, unfazed. "He used to ask the strangest questions during lectures, the sort that would send half the class struggling to figure out what he meant. Sometimes he would just up and leave in the middle of them, too."

"Wow."

"His lectures could be rather esoteric, but I think you would have gotten him. You could have woken me up, too! I kept falling asleep during classes, and the professor would call on me at the worst possible moments."

"…Perhaps."

"Though the Nousporists' cohort was rather small at the time, so you might not have been very impressed by it…" Phainon hums, as though genuinely considering the thought. "Which school do you think you would have gone to?"

"The Venerationists, most likely." The answer slips out without your meaning to, and you pause. "…what are you doing, Phainon?"

Phainon holds your gaze. There is nothing overt in his expression—no usual teasing smile, no easy deflection—yet the attention in his eyes feels strangely intent. The sort of look that makes you suddenly aware of yourself, as though he's not merely looking through you but at you. You shift slightly, a strange unease stirring beneath your skin wherever his gaze lands.

Right before you can look away, Phainon drops his gaze first. "Nothing. Just wondering what it would have been like, if the two of us had been students at the Grove together. Oh!" He ducks his head to riffle through the satchel tied to his belt, fumbling for a moment before producing a pastry—some of the flatbread the serving girl had given him earlier. "I just remembered that you like this. Snack?"

Normally, you'd reach for pita without second thought. Now, there's something making you hesitate.

"…My hands are dirty."

Phainon beams. He holds it up to your mouth, excuse rolling off him like water off a duck's back. After a brief moment of reluctance, you lean forward and take a small bite.

It's good. Warm and airy and soft. You don't know why that's annoying you so much.

Between growing bites of flatbread and several more rounds of trial and error, you finally manage to coax the rings into proper alignment. When the last one slides into place, the water at the top finally begins to flow unimpeded, racing along the newly connected grooves to pour into the narrow channel at the base of the door. The mechanism within the stone whirs, so low you can feel it grating in the back of your skull. Faint blue light seeps through.

Soundlessly, the doors part.

You exchange glances, and Phainon reaches up to pluck one of the torches from its sconce. The two of you step through the doorway. The firelight flickers across the walls, revealing rows of pockmarked recesses—probably where jewels or inlays once rested, long since pried free. The work of temple robbers, most likely. Your footsteps echo softly as the passage opens into a small, gilded chamber.

Mounted upon the far wall is a massive fish-shaped gargoyle carved from pale stone. Its lips are parted over a shallow basin that looks bone dry, its surface cracked and dulled with age. It's as though the poor creature has been begging for water for years.

"That's it," you murmur, starting forward.

Phainon's hand closes around your upper arm before you can take more than a few steps. "Wait."

There's a sharp undercurrent in his voice that makes you halt at once, hands instinctively withdrawing to your chest. He's already still, head tilted ever so slightly to listen. You follow his line of sight despite seeing nothing.

And then, you hear it.

It starts off faint—so faint you could almost mistake it for breath, or a trick played on your ears by your hypervigilant mind—almost like what you would imagine whalesong to sound like. But this sounds less of a song and more of a wail. It echoes through the corridor in slow, undulating waves, rising and falling like the tide, gradually getting louder.

Getting closer.

"Abyssal sea sirens," Phainon echoes your thoughts. A pale glow gathers in his left hand, outstretched, his greatsword materialising within his grasp. The flickering flames catch in his eyes as he holds out the torch to you, and he smiles briefly, reassuring. "Stay behind me, alright?"

"I don't have a death wish," you mutter, but you take the torch anyway.

The words have barely left your mouth when monsters spill into the inner sanctum—amorphous, ink-dark shapes resembling all manner of marine creatures, illuminated by an eerie, violet glow. Titankin of Phagousa, gone mad in their search for the broken pieces of her chalice. They're nothing more than mindless Black Tide creatures now.

Phainon surges forward to meet them, a dam bracing against a rising swell head-on. Never before did you think that you would describe fighting as beautiful, until you'd watched Phainon fight for the first time. His greatsword cleaves through the tide in brutal, sweeping arcs, silent grunts slipping past his teeth with each strike. You remain pressed against the wall behind him, torch gripped tightly in your useless fingers. The rupturned Titankin crumble into brittle fragments that clatter against the stone ground.

He makes quick work of them. The sirens wail—thin, distorted echoes that ripple through the chamber—but their voices have since lost whatever power they once held. Their warped forms shatter beneath his blade until the ground is littered with lifeless stone husks, their eerie glow fading into nothing.

Only when the last of them breaks apart does the tension in Phainon's stance finally ease. He turns back to you almost immediately, the weapon in his hand dissipating into a scatter of fading light.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine."

You don't know why he bothered asking. Not a single Titankin made it past his guard. The torch in your hand wavers slightly, its light dancing across the slopes and planes of his face. The corners of your mouth dip into a frown when you catch sight of a thin scratch along his cheek.

"…You're bleeding."

It's minor, more the result of stray fragments than any real injury, but golden ichor still beads along the side of his face, the colour of ripened wheat under sunlight. Phainon lifts a hand; it comes away smeared on his fingertips.

You reach for your satchel. "I have a—"

"No need." He waves it off with a short laugh and, when your frown deepens, quickly continues. "We should hurry. There might be more sea sirens still lurking in the temple."

A protest lingers at the tip of your tongue, but he's not without sense. Yet the irritation remains. Phainon has always been like this since the first day Aglaea introduced you both—so quick to dismiss himself, his own well-being, as though he is the least important thing in any given situation. You're just about to give voice to the thought when your gaze suddenly lands on the fish gargoyle behind him.

A sudden idea sparks in your mind.

"I have an idea," you say, grabbing Phainon by the sleeve of his coat. "Come with me."

Phainon quirks a brow at you, clearly bemused, but he allows himself to be tugged over to the basin without protest. You drop his sleeve and turn your attention to the gargoyle, leaning forward to peer into the pipe hidden within the fish's mouth. The interior is cast into shadow, pale stone worn smooth by centuries of running water. At the moment, it's tragically dry.

You slide your hand into its maw. Your wrist and forearm disappear past its thick lips, shoulder twisting with the awkward angle. After a few seconds of rooting about the back of its throat, your fingers meet something solid.

It's clogged with debris, most likely. You're not certain how it got there, but the more pressing matter still stands: you don't know how to get it out. The channel is too narrow to properly dislodge by hand, andyou have no way of checking how far the blockage extends. If only you could get the water flowing once more, even for just a moment…

You exhale softly, withdrawing your hand to press a palm against the carved gills.

"Are you going to…?"

Phainon leans in almost unconsciously. It's as though the sight never grows mundane to him, no matter the number of times he's witnessed it. You push aside the sudden distraction of his attention, his proximity, focusing instead of recalling the words you've long committed to memory.

"O Oronyx, Lord of Time, Weaver of the Evernight Veil…"

For a brief instant, the air itself seems to still. A second of silence, and then a faint rattling begins to echo from deep within the pipe as the grains of Oronyx's hourglass flow back upwards. It's followed by a sputtering gurgle, the sound of trapped water attempting to force its way through, and Phainon bends over the rim to peer up into the fish's throat just as the final clump of debris collapses into another pocket of time.

Water rushes out in a sudden rush. It bursts from the gargoyle's mouth in a powerful stream, directly into Phainon's face. He sputters.

You drag him out of the way in alarm, but it's too late. Phainon stands before you, mouth slightly agape and completely drenched from head to toe. Water streams from his hair in steady rivulets, darkening the white of his coat to a dull grey, dripping from the tails. He blinks the wetness out of those too blue eyes before they fall on you. Your teeth catch your bottom lip on instinct, bracing yourself for the irritation that is sure to follow.

"I—"

Instead, Phainon just starts laughing.

"Was this the idea you had in mind?" Phainon manages between sputtering giggles as he scrubs a hand over his face. You hastily step forward to help without thinking, and he lowers his head to meet you halfway, eyes slipping shut while you wipe at his forehead and cheeks with your sleeve. A faint pang of guilt rises in your chest all the same.

"Ahh—no. Water blessed by Phagousa is meant to possess restorative properties…" A trace of embarrassment slips into your voice. "Apologies. I wasn't expecting the water to just surge out like that."

"No worries. It was my fault, sticking my head there like I did. Woah." Phainon's eyes flutter open again when you withdraw your hand. He lifts his own to touch the cut along his cheek—or rather, where it'd been. He rubs over the spot a few times, brows raised. "Restorative properties, you said?"

"The ancient texts say its supposed to soothe the soul. It mends minor wounds and cleanses the body, too."

"Well, I've definitely been cleansed." Phainon smiles around a humoured exhale, pushing back the damp hair clinging to his forehead. The two of you watch the gargoyle in silence for a moment. Water gushes now from its mouth in a steady stream, the sound of it echoing gently through the enclosed chamber as it pours into the basin. From there, it must flow down to beneath the temple grounds, and eventually, the Soul-Purifying Spring in the town.

You linger just long enough to ensure the flow remains steady, before turning to the exit.

"Let's get out of here."

That night, the town celebrates.

The people have strung up burning lamps along the perimeter of the square, their flames reflecting in the now rippling waters of the Soul-Purifying Spring. While the air still clings to the heat of the day, the temperature's dropped together with the setting sun, just enough to be pleasant. A pair of brewers had cracked open a cask earlier in the evening, too—vinted with water from the Spring," they'd proudly declared.

Now, that amber liquid swishes in your cup as you idle at the edge of the agora. Water spills endlessly over the lip of the fountain, as though it'd never ceassed flowing in the first place.

"I'm glad to see you stayed," a familiar voice says.

You look up just as Phainon lowers himself onto the diphros next to you. His own cup is grasped loosely between his slender fingers, eyes glimmering like cut sapphires in the firelight. There's already the beginnings of a flush high on his cheeks—the combined result of drink and spending the past hour fending off a crowd of admiring townsfolk. They'd swarmed him when you'd returned from the temple earlier, and it'd been almost amusing to watch his increasingly frazzled—and futile—attempts at redirecting the praise while you observed from a short distance away.

"It's not as though I had much of a choice." You return your gaze to the fountain, lifting your cup to take a measured sip. The honey brew is a tad smokier than what you're used to but goes down remarkably smooth.

If it had been up to you, you would have long retired to the rooms the townspeople had provided for the night. Or at the very least, spent the remainder of the evening sorting through the supplies they'd given you. As it stands, the townspeople had unsurprisingly insisted that Phainon join their celebrations. Phainon had all but begged you to join.

Well, the atmosphere is lively enough, and spirits are high. The drink is good, too.

"It's only right that you're here. You did most of the heavy lifting." Phainon leans over to nudge your shoulder with his. He seems to have shed both his pauldrons and his coat, leaving him only in his lighter underlayers. It makes him look lighter, you think. Less like the Chrysos Heir of Okhema and more like any other young man simply enjoying the evening. He glances sideways at you, a hint of amusement lingering in his eyes. "You vanished rather efficiently earlier, by the way."

"Easy to do when you don't have a scent. Watch."

You thrust out your free hand, wriggling your fingers in his face before you let it fall back into your lap. Phainon stares at you, clearly bemused.

"What was that supposed to do?"

"It's how I disappear. You can't see me any longer."

He stares down at your hand, then back up at you. The corner of his mouth twitches inelegantly.

"Oh, dear. Where did you go?"

"Precisely."

Phainon manages one—no, two sharp exhales through the nose, before his restraint breaks.

The sound of his laughter rings through the air, soon joined by the soft pluck of stringed instruments. A few musicians have brought out what seems to be lyres while someone starts an upbeat rhythm on the castanets. The music falls into a jaunty tune. It doesn't take long for the townsfolk to begin drifting towards the fountain, forming a loose circle around it for a dance.

It doesn't take long for someone to notice Phainon, either. The serving girl from the tavern spots him from across the square. She breaks away from the dance circle to make a beeline straight for him, catching him by the sleeve before he can react.

"Please, join us for a dance, Sir Phainon!" Her smile is still abashed but wide with expentance. Her early shyness has clearly been dispelled by drink and festive atmosphere. "You musn't refuse!"

She doesn't so much as spare you a glance. There are a pair of ribbons braided into her hair now, twin ends trailing down her shoulders. Silk, cornflower blue. Phainon blinks, visibly flustered by the sudden attention.

"Ah, I'm not sure if—"

"Everyone is excited to meet you," she continues brightly, tugging at his arm. "They want to hear more about that massive sword you carry!"

"I'm really quite terrible at dancing, so—"

"That doesn't matter! The fun of it is in the mingling, isn't it?"

She manages to displace him a few inches closer to the fountain, and Phainon glances back at you helplessly from the half-crouch he's risen into, his eyes a silent plea. He is, you've come to realise, remarkably terrible at saying no on his own behalf. Any other time, you would have found it faintly amusing, almost endearing, even. But now…

You banish that thought before you can finish it, tilting your cup at him with a raised brow. Go on.

Phainon hesitates, seemingly torn. Then, abruptly, he changes tactics.

"Come with me," he says. The blue of his eyes softens in the firelight as he looks back at you. He holds out a hand, fingers outstretched in invitation. "Just one dance."

"I don't dance."

"Neither do I. You can learn with me." There's something almost beseeching in Phainon's tone now. The same sort of careful persistence he's been directing at you for weeks, perhaps months now, that you've never allowed yourself to interpret. You drop your eyes back to the cup in your hands. "It'll only be for a little while. Please?"

"Don't worry about her, Sir Phainon," the serving girl interjects, already starting to pull at his sleeve again. "She'll be fine here."

"But—"

"You heard her," you cut in evenly. "I'll be fine here. Don't keep everyone waiting, Phainon."

Phainon's expression falters for just a brief second—something frustrated and unreadable flickering across his face—before it vanishes, like a trick of the firelight. When he turns back to the serving girl, he's traded his disappointed countenance for a polite, gentle smile, and he allows himself to be pulled over to the fountain. The dancers part readily to make room for him.

The music quickens, lapses into a vivacious triple-beat. You watch them circle the fountain without really observing, sipping idly at your honey brew. Phainon's not a practiced dancer—or any sort of dancer, for that matter—his feet shuffle awkwardly, the effortless grace he shows in combat entirely absent here. The serving girl spins him beneath the lamplight anyway, their feet moving in tandem across the painted flagstones. Her intent is unmistakeable in the way she moves—the subtle lean of her shoulder towards him, the light brush of her palm against his as she guides him through a turn. An invitation to scent, to mingle.

You lower your gaze to your cup. The drink is good—strong, heady, the taste of honey lingering uncloyingly on your tongue. And yet, for all its sweetness, it is a poor consolation for the situation you've put yourself in.

Phainon's voice carries easily across the square, and your attention betrays you by honing in on that sound with frustrating precision. It's as though some part of you has become irrevocably attuned to him without your permission, despite your knowledge that such a thing would be biologically impossible. And yet, you seem to notice him all the same.

He laughs again. You don't look up, raising your cup once more to drain it instead.

It's easier than putting a name to the emotion stirring inside your chest.

The two of you set off the next day as planned at the break of dawn, the sun hanging low in a sky the colour of overripe plum. The townsfolk are still fast asleep or only just beginning to stir, worn out from a night of dancing and revelry in Phagousa's honour that had stretched long past Curtain-Fall Hour. The road to Loukas stretches north, further than your eyes can follow, though the map assures you that the terrain should be mostly forgiving—wide paths, gentle inclines, a little more than the occasional ridge to break the monotony. An easy stretch of travel, all things considered.

Despite this, Phainon is drinking more water than usual.

Not excessively enough for you to remark on outright, but enough to noticeable. The two of you stop by streams and rivers more frequently than you're accustomed to, his water skin seemingly always emptying before yous. You also catch him wiping at his forehead with the back of his hand more often than should be necessary. The repetitive motion makes you frown.

At first, you manage to brush it off. Perhaps he simply had one cup too many last nights—he's always been terrible at holding his alcohol, and it wouldn't be the first time he's felt its aftereffects longer than he should have. But when the same behaviour carries into the next day, and then the one after that, that same reasoning begins to wear thin at the edges.

You confront him eventually one afternoon, rounding on him beneath the shade of an olive tree.

"Phainon."

"Yeah?"

"Are you feeling alright?"

"Hm?" He glances over, blinking once, then twice. "I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

"You don't look fine."

"That's not a very polite thing to say."

You gesture at the waterskin he's holding to his lips, ignoring his attempt at humour. "That's the third drink you've had in the past quint."

Phainon pauses as if to consider it. "I'm thirsty?"

"You're also sweating more than usual."

"I'd be surprised if I wasn't, with how the weather's cooking us alive."

You resist the urge to roll your eyes to Aquila. You don't know why you even bothered with questions—he'd give you the same answer even if impaled through the gut by a Titankin's arrow. You settle for studying him out of the corner of your eye instead. His complexion is slightly off as he continues to drink from his waterskin, a faint flush high on his cheeks that bleeds down his neck and beneath the collar of his undershirt. Aside from this, he seems lively enough to walk it off, so you decide to let it go—for now.

The road continues to wind steadily north. Along the way, you insist on longer breaks in the shade, inns over roadside camps. But despite your deliberate efforts to slow your pace, Phainon's condition only seems to worsen.

He comments on the heat more frequently. He's also taken to tugging absently at the collar of his shirt, whether he's in the sun or not, fingers dragging roughly over the sun-mark at the side of his neck. And yet, no matter how many times you bring it up, Phainon dismisses your concern with the same, stubborn insistence—I'm fine, just a little under the weather, it's nothing unbearable.

The more you push, the more determinedly Phainon shoves back. That much is predictable. But what really concerns you is the inexplicable shift in his temperament. Usually, Phainon is the one to converse with strangers—the obvious choice between the two of you—with his charisma and genuine warmth. Now, you're not so sure. At times, his replies have come out more clipped than yours—an achievement in itself—and he's even begun interrupting your conversations on occasion, something you have never known him to do.

You give him a pass the first time, then the second. He's unwell, and therefore more irritable. But the third time he does it, cuts short yet another harmless exchange for directions, your patience finally wears thin.

"Phainon!" you hiss, rounding on him once the confused traveler is out of earshot. "What are you doing?"

Phainon blinks before stiffening. His gaze still lingers in the direction the man you'd been speaking to left, eyes faintly narrowed. They drop to you when you plant yourself squarely in his line of sight, though, the sharpened edge of his expression faltering before he manages to paste a half-convincing smile over it.

"What do you mean? I didn't do anything."

You drag a hand through your hair and back, frustrated. You can't believe that you, of all people, are the one telling him this.

"You can't give people death stares for helping us."

His lips press into a thin line. "I was just watching him. He was standing too close to you."

"He was looking at the map I was holding."

A complicated expression mars Phainon's delicate features. His normally pleasant countenance falters, hands working into fists before he tugs at the edge of his coat.

"…He was trying to scent you," he mutters.

Now that takes you slightly aback. Scenting. It's always been a foreign concept to you, part of a world you've never and will never be able to understand. When you think back to the exchange, though, the man had been standing rather close, one hand resting lightly on your elbow as he leaned in to glance at your maps. At the time, you'd simply dismissed it as simple curiosity.

Had he been trying to scent you then? The thought of a stranger doing so without your notice is… uncomfortable at best. But that's not the point right now.

"Even if he was, it shouldn't matter to you." You cross your arms, heels digging in stubbornly. "I'm just a beta. Scenting doesn't mean anything—"

"It does!"

The force with which those words leave his mouth startles you both. Phainon falters almost immediately, brow knitting. A faint tremor runs through his hands before he curls them into tight fists at his sides.

"It meant that he wanted—" Phainon cuts himself off abruptly. His jaw tightens even as the rest of him seems to shrink in on himself. Vanilla and aternoon sunlight and sharp neroli. It's as though he can't decide whether to double down or swallow the thought back into his mouth entirely. "It meant that he was… interested."

In you, goes unsaid.

You stare at him, barely comprehending the words. You're still attempting to wrap your head around the intensity of his previous response. He's never raised his voice—not like that, at least—before.

"Oh. O—Okay…"

Phainon meets your uncertain look for a long, drawn out moment. There's a volatile tempest behind those too blue eyes, a whirlpool of emotion churning until the tension in his expression suddenly gives way.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles. "I just—I don't know why I did that either. I just…"

Phainon trails off, helpless. All his earlier defensiveness seems to have crumbled like poorly constructed stone fortifications, leaving him strangely disoriented. It's a jarring sight. Phainon normally carries himself with the effortless sort of confidence that makes everything seem easy. Seeing that certainty stripped from him is…

He tugs at his collar again, lower lip catching briefly between his teeth—an anxious tick you've come to recognise in him. All in all, Phainon looks downright miserable.

It's impossible to remain upset. You sigh, the last of your irritation dissolving in the face of his distress, and reach out to squeeze his wrist.

"It's okay," you say. You try to be gentle—you don't know if you manage. It's almost akin to soothing a spooked oryx—jittery, skittish, and all too ready to bolt. "But you're starting to worry me. If this, whatever this is, gets worse, we'll go to the healer the first town we come across. Alright?"

Phainon inhales an unsteady breath through his teeth. For a moment, you think he might still protest—the delay in the mission, that he can still go on—but he doesn't. The tension in his shoulders linger for a beat longer before he finally releases it, fingers curling loosely around your own.

"…Alright."

You wake the next morning to the insistent glare of morning sunlight.

You refuse to open them at first. They're unbearably heavy, as they often are after sleeping rough on the road, and you turn on your side with a groan in a futile attempt to hide from daybreak. Alas, sleep refuses to take you back into its embrace, the growing warmth and brightness too persistent to ignore.

You lie where you are for an indefinite span of time, half-awake but unmoving. The camp is oddly silent.

"Phainon?" you mutter, voice still thick with sleep. No response.

A faint crease forms between your brows despite the lingering grogginess. You push yourself up onto one elbow, lips parting midway between a frown and a yawn.

"Phainon?"

Still nothing.

That's strange. The sun is bright enough to pierce through the foliage—it must be well past Entry Hour now. Phainon usually wakes you before then, if not with a warm hand on your shoulder then with the sounds of him tearing down the camp, despite his best attempts to be quiet. You're almost certain he couldn't sleep in even if his life were to depend on it.

So, the only reason you could be waking up to sun instead of his usual, overly cheerful greeting is—

You kick off the threadbare blanket covering your legs and scramble to your feet. Your heart lurches into an uneven pound all the way up in your throat. The worry only eases somewhat when your eyes find his bedroll, with a familiar, Phainon-shaped lump beneath the loose drape of his coat.

You hurry over regardless, too impatient to pull on your boots. Loose sand and grit shifts beneath your feet.

Phainon is seemingly fast asleep, his back turned to you rising and falling steadily with each breath. You crouch next to him and grasp his shoulder, gently rolling him over with the intent to shake him awake.

Instead, you find him shivering.

Phainon's face is tight with discomfort, even in sleep, complexion flushed under the morning light flitering through the trees. Loose tendrils cling damply to his temples and the nape of his neck. Concerned, you press a hand to his forehead at once and a small moan slips past his lips as he leans instinctively into your touch, hands curling against his chest.

He's burning up. Your hand drops to his cheek, then to his neck. He's feverish everywhere, skin clammy with cold sweat.

You reach up to shake him. "Phainon," you repeat, more urgenly this time. "Phainon, wake up—"

His fingers close around your wrist. Before you can react, Phainon tugs, and you pitch forward with a startled gasp. The next thing you know, you're half-sprawled over him, one hand braced beside his head while the other remains caught in his grasp. His fingertips are searing points of heat against the skin of your inner wrist. There is only the distance of a hand's breadth between the two of you, and this close, the fever radiates off him like heat from a charcoal brazier, seeping through the damp material of his undershirt.

Phainon blinks down at you, gaze fevered and heavy-lidded. If he's aware of the compromising position he's put the two of you in, he doesn't show it.

"It's hot…"

You swallow hard at the peculiar quality his voice seems to have taken. Focus. The nearest town is still some distance away, and you don't know if Phainon can even stand, let alone walk there.

"Can you—"

You don't get to finish your sentence. Phainon drags you closer still, his other arm sliding around your waist. You're too disoriented to respond, mind empty of everything except the press of his chest against yours, the heat of his hand spread at your lower back. His face buries itself in the crook of your neck with a quiet noise that sounds almost like a whimper, the tip of his nose pressing against your jaw before tracing down your jugular, breath hot and moist against the sensitive skin there and you—

"Phainon!"

You wrench yourself back on instinct, one hand flying to your neck. Your entire face is hot. It's unmistakeable, what he'd been trying to do. Seeking for a scent gland there—where they would typically be on an alpha or omega—on you.

No one has ever tried to scent you there before. Not your own family when you were still young and unpresented, and not any of the few beta partners you'd taken into your bed since. The strangeness of it all leaves you more rattled than it should.

"You…" If you had any subsequent words, they fail you now.

Phainon clutches at his coat as he sits up fully, fingers digging like claws into the fabric as though it's the only thing anchoring him. It looks as though some awareness is returning to him, but his gaze is still unfocused, pale lashes trembling as he blinks. He shivers as though seized by a sudden chill.

'Sorry—" he starts, one hand coming up to clutch weakly at his collar. He tries to muster a smile but fails. "I—"

"Don't apologise."

"Sorry." He apologises again immediately before he cringes, shoulders curling inward. "I… I didn't mean to do that. I don't know what happened, I just…"

"I said don't."

You're struck with the sudden, almost absurd desire for Phainon to make a joke. Some ridiculous, inane remark that would have you hitting his shoulder and him grinnng playfully at you. It doesn't feel that long ago that the two of you were bickering over landmarks and maps, trading verbal jabs with familiar ease. How did things turn south so quickly, without warning?

If only you could bottle the water from that Soul-Purifying Spring. How inconvenient that it loses its potency once removed from its source. You purse your lips around a frustrated sigh.

"We're heading to town," you announce before Phainon can say any more. You're not in the mood to hear any more undeserved penitence from him. "Sit here. We'll leave once I'll pack up camp."

"But I—"

The look that you throw at Phainon shuts him up. He must really be feeling unwell, because he doesn't even try to insist on helping. Instead, he sits where he is, the lower half of his face pressed into his coat's collar as he watches you stamp out the remains of the fire with hazy, half-lidded eyes.

By some stroke of fortune, a merchant with a mule-drawn cart pass the two of you on the road to town. He takes one look at Phainon and immediately reins in, concern spreading across his face before you even have to ask.

"Thank you for stopping," you say, unable to keep the tight worry from your voice as he clambers down from his cart. He has a round face, soft eyes, a pleasant sort of smile that lingers as he takes in the two of you. His gaze flicks between you and Phainon.

"Your partner?" he asks curiously, as he dusts off the knees of his trousers. It takes you a moment to realise what he's asking.

"Oh—no, no. A friend."

The merchant nods easily and helps you load your things onto the cart. Phainon, however, seems to want nothing to do with him—each time the man comes too close, Phainon lurches away weakly, expression tightening like he's caught whiff of something unpleasant.

"Phainon," you whisper when the man moves to the front to soothe his mule, impatient with the delay. "What is with you?"

You feel more than hear Phainon swallow against your shoulder, fingers tightening in your sleeve. When he answers, his voice is small and muffled.

"…His scent."

"What about it?"

"It's making me nauseous."

Now, the man doesn't smell particularly pleasant—judging by the faint briny scent clinging to him, his line of trade is probably in fish and the like—but nothing that should warrant such a strong reaction. You frown, dismayed at his lack of courtesy and how much his condition seems to have deteriorated.

"You can't just say that he smells bad." It feels almost absurd that you have to say this at all. But Phainon just shakes his head, the movement tight.

"Not—Not his smell." He pauses, grimacing, as though struggling to find the words. "It's his scent." You're only slightly bewildered. What's the difference? "It's not that he smells bad, it's just that I can't—"

"I can ride at the front, if it makes him more comfortable."

Phainon's hold on your arm tightens to almost a vice grip. The way his fingers curl into the fabric of your sleeve is almost… possessive, if you had to put a word to it. You ignore that line of thought to turn to the merchant, a hurried apology already on your lips, but he only waves it off gently.

"Don't worry, I understand." He offers you a reassuring smile. "I'm an omega, after all."

You're not entirely sure what that is supposed to mean, but you don't have the luxury of mind to dwell on it. You help Phainon into the back of the cart as the merchant climbs onto his mule. The moment you settle on the thin straw mat that's been laid out, Phainon slumps heavily against you, the heat of his body seeping through both your clothes and his.

He's far too warm.

You manage to fish your waterskin from your satchel, soaking a handkerchief against your palm before pressing it carefully to his forehead. Phainon exhales softly at the contact. His head lolls whenever the cart rocks and sways along the uneven roads, eventually settling on your shoulder.

You almost think he’s fallen asleep when he suddenly pipes up, voice faint and slurred.

"I'm sorry..."

“I told you, don’t apologise.”

"Sorry..."

You huff out an exhale. "You sound like you're dying," you mutter instead, because it's easier than giving voice to the hundred other emotions you're feeling at the moment.

There’s a brief stretch of silence after that, broken only by the creaking of the cart and the uneven rhythm of Phainon's breathing. The wheels of the cart turn over the dirt road. He speaks again.

"The dancers by the founatin…"

You sigh. "Stop talking and go to—"

"I had fun dancing with them."

Something heavy in your chest sinks, a millstone vanishing beneath the dark water.

"Oh."

A pause. You can feel Phainon swallow where his face is half-hidden against your shoulder.

"…I wanted to dance with you, too."

"…Oh."

Phainon doesn't say anything more after that. He seems to have drifted off, breathing slow and uneven where it brushes the side of your neck. The sensation prickles faintly like warmed needles everywhere his breath touches. You fix your eyes on the road stretching out behind the cart and pointedly refuse to dwell on it.

"Seems to be a pretty bad one," the merchant says. You look up to see him glancing back at the two of you from the front, swaying with each slow plod of his mule. His warm brown eyes are soft with sympathy. "Take good care of him, eh?"

Your gaze drops involuntarily to the man next to you. His pale lashes lie against fever-flush cheeks as he sleeps, lips parting around each exhale.

"I will."

He doesn't have to tell you that.

a/n: this was my first time writing omegaverse and i feel like i may have made phainon a tad ooc with this one... that or his personality keeps oscillating wildly 😩 please forgive me for the awful writing </3 why does putting a strap in phainon come with so much grief 😔

[moonstruckme]

Hi! I absolutely love your page and all of your poly!marauders writing! Could I request a poly!marauders where they’re all flirting with r (like pre relationship) and because she’s never really been noticed/flirted with before she thinks they’re kind of making fun of her like it’s a big joke. Then of course she finds out that’s not the case

Thanks for requesting babe, and thanks for reading! I had no idea how long this had become until I checked the wordcount just now haha, and I feel like it got a bit awkward in some places but I hope you enjoy it :)

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 1.8k

As Friday nights go, this one is pretty typical. You’d arrived at the party with all of your friends, and one by one, they’d been pulled away by significant others, flirty strangers, or potential hookups. Now it’s just you, sitting on the couch and trying not to look awkward as the couple on the opposite end endeavors to swallow each other whole. 

“Hey there, gorgeous,” a familiar voice drawls, and Sirius Black sits down next to you. “Having a good time?”

You force a smile, not wanting to insult the party most likely being thrown by Gryffindor’s golden boys. “Yup.” 

“Doesn’t look like it,” he says, not unsympathetically, then nudges the curled-up form behind him. “Moony, you were really going to let this pretty thing sit here all by herself without speaking to her?”

The book they’re holding lowers, revealing Remus Lupin. His eyes start to roll as if it’s an automatic response to Sirius’ interruption, but then they fall on you. “Oh.” He blinks. “Sorry, love, I didn’t see you there.” 

You flush, sheepish and a bit resentful of being party to Sirius’ reprimand, however teasing it might be. You know Remus from the couple of classes you’ve had together, but you wouldn’t expect him to talk to you outside of those contexts. Speaking to someone that’s obligated is so much worse than speaking to no one at all. “It’s fine,” you say quietly, feeling unbearably awkward. 

“See? She’s too sweet to even hold you accountable for it,” Sirius tuts, shaking his head. “I’m sorry about him, dollface. Can I get you a drink?”

“I, um...” You look down at your empty cup, long since drained. “Sure, thanks.” 

He winks. “Be right back.” 

You expect Remus to go back to his book as Sirius struts off, but he folds the corner of his page, setting it down. 

“I really didn’t mean to ignore you,” he says, looking painfully apologetic. “How are your classes this year?”

You give him your most reassuring smile. “They’re good, thanks. And I didn’t think you were ignoring me.” You cringe. “Sorry Sirius made you put away your book on my account.” 

He looks at you with amber eyes full of kindness. “I don’t mind.” 

It’s a conscious effort to quell the ruckus in your stomach. You’d harbored a tiny, secret crush on Remus when you’d had classes together last year, and this is exactly why. He just seemed like such a sweetheart. Soft-spoken but brilliant, he never raised his hand to answer questions but always scored high on assignments, and you’d once caught him feeding answers to the girl next to him so she could win points for her house. You’d become enthralled with the way his smile would tug gently at the scars on his face, making them glint silver in the light that shone through the classroom windows, and how his eyes sparked with quiet amusement even when he wasn’t laughing.

The silence between you is stretching too long. You fumble for something to continue the conversation. “I like your sweater,” you say dumbly. 

“Yeah?” He smiles, scars flashing. “Thanks, lovely.” He lets his gaze roam over you for a moment, and you try not to squirm. “Do you want it? It’s a bit cold in here.” 

You look down, surprised to discover goose bumps covering your arms. “That’s alright,” you say, but Remus is already shrugging off his sweater, revealing the plain t-shirt underneath. “Remus, really, I’m fine.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” he insists, holding the sweater out to you and raising his eyebrows when you won’t take it. “If you don’t put it on, then neither of us will have it.” 

You watch him for a moment, but Remus doesn’t waver. You take it, giving him a look that you hope conveys both admonishment and apology. “Thank you.” 

“No problem,” he replies as you shrug it on. “Considering that this is a school of magic, it does a pretty poor job of regulating its temperature during the winter, don’t you think? Couldn’t let you just sit here and freeze, sweetheart. Sirius would kill me when he got back.” 

You pull Remus’ sleeves over your cold fingers, using the movement to avoid eye contact as your face heats. The way he’s talking to you, the pet names, it’s all so strange. You don’t get it. 

“Not to be rude,” Remus says before you can go deeper into your musings, “but I thought I saw you come in with a bunch of other girls. Where’d they all go?”

Ah. He’s talking to you because he likes one of your friends. “Oh.” You wave your hand about vaguely. “Here and there, pulled aside by various prospects. I’m sure you can find some of them if you go looking.” 

“But they left you by yourself?” He seems to disregard your friends’ whereabouts, his eyebrows coming together just a bit. “That’s not very nice. Lucky for us, though, I suppose.” 

You tilt your head, not quite sure what he means, but then Sirius returns, James Potter in tow. 

“Told you,” Sirius says as he passes you your drink, hand lingering on yours a second too long. James gives one to Remus. “She’s miserable.” 

“Can’t have that,” James replies agreeably, looking for somewhere to sit. His eyes fall on the couple behind you and he leans close to your ear. “Merlin, they’re really going at it, aren’t they?”

You laugh, and he grins at you like that was his aim all along. Meanwhile, Sirius has devised a solution to the problem of seating, making himself comfortable almost entirely in Remus’ lap. He gestures for you to come closer. You comply tentatively, scooting a couple feet towards the two of them. 

“Don’t be shy.” Sirius reaches out and grips your waist, hauling you closer until you’re pressed up against Remus’ leg and Sirius’ side, his arm remaining snugly around your waist. “We don’t bite. Unless you’re into that, of course.” 

“Pads.” Remus’ voice is stern, softened for your benefit. “Take it easy.” 

“Oh, come on,” Sirius scoffs. “I saw you putting the moves on her from over by the punch. You don’t get to have all the fun.” 

Putting the moves on you? Sirius almost makes it sound like Remus had been…flirting. Oh. You suppose maybe he had. But intentionally? Really? Sirius Black will flirt with anything, but Remus is a different story.

It must be a part of some bit they’re all doing, you realize. They are pranksters. Sirius was probably bored and in need of entertainment, and there you were, sitting all by yourself. Practically begging to be the object of his amusement. And then he’d enlisted Remus to go along with it. They’re probably all going to go back to their dorm tonight and laugh about how easily you’d fallen for it. Your face burns.

James has settled into the ample space you’ve made on the couch, allowing you a bit more room that Sirius seems willing to. “You alright, lovely? I’m sorry you haven’t been having a very good time.”

You look at him, finding nothing but sincerity in his warm brown eyes. You don’t suppose he would have been able to get away with so much if he weren’t a good actor. The last thing you’re going to do is give them more to laugh about by making a scene. “No, I’m fine. It’s a good party.” 

“Yeah?” James cocks his head like a puppy. “Well, that’s good, I guess. How’d you end up by yourself though, sweetheart?”

Remus answers for you. “Her friends left her.” 

“They’ll come back eventually,” you say hastily, then realize how pathetic that sounds. It’s all you can do not to shrink in on yourself. 

“I’m sure they are,” James says, and try as you might, you can detect no sarcasm in his tone, “but it’s still not a very considerate thing for friends to do. You seem like excellent company.” 

You scoff, taking a long sip of your drink. “Apparently not.” 

“You are,” Sirius says casually, looking at you over the rim of his cup. “I mean, I’ve only been around you for a little while, but it’s been a delightful experience for me. And Moony seems to like talking to you. That’s high praise.” 

Remus elbows Sirius but gives you one of his soft, kind looks, and it’s too much. It’s all too much. You feel like you’re being eaten alive by shame at how much you’re enjoying their attention, even if it’s all for show. 

“I have an idea,” James says, knee bumping into yours amicably. “We were going to go to Hogsmeade tomorrow to study. Would you come with? We could grab lunch together and convince you of how pleasant you are to have around.” 

You scoff. This charade has gone too far. “Yeah, right. What time should I meet you, at nine in the great hall, where everyone will be watching?” 

Who gets off on this anyway? Flirting is one thing, but all this faux kindness, just to humiliate you? It’s a cruelness beyond what you thought them capable of. 

James hesitates at your tone. “Um, yeah. Nine is good, if that works for you.”

You shake your head, crossing your arms. Sirius gets the message, removing his hand from around your waist. “This isn’t funny.” 

“It’s not supposed to be.” James looks wounded, and Remus leans forward, a concerned set to his brows. “Hey, what’s going through your head?” he asks, all concerned tenderness. 

You look between them, angry and, if you’re being honest with yourself, very hurt. “This is a prank, right? Because I was sitting alone and you were bored? Well, I don’t think it’s funny.” 

“Darling,” Remus breathes, reaching out as if to touch you but hesitating with his hand hovering just above your shoulder, “no one’s pranking you.”

Sirius shakes his head. “That’s not…we would never do something like that, and I’m sorry you think we would. Let me be clear: we want to go on a date with you tomorrow. Obviously you don’t have to, but we’d love it if you came.” 

You feel your eyebrows scrunch up, trying to right your worldview. You feel like you have whiplash. “Wait, are you serious?”

He grins, and it’s half sheepish, half wolfish. “That’s me.” 

You giggle a bit at that, and Remus works up the courage to let his hand land on your shoulder, squeezing gently. “No jokes or catches, lovely girl. I promise.” 

You send him a small smile before turning to James, who still looks like he’s had the wind knocked out of him. “I’m really sorry I accused you guys of that,” you say, guilt replacing shame at the feast of your insides. “I just…I’ve never had someone…notice me in that way before. I thought it was a joke.” 

James’ smile still bears some leftover unease, but there’s no reproach in it. “That’s alright, angel,” he says, earnest as he had been all along. “I’m sorry you thought we didn’t mean it. Let us prove it, yeah? Tomorrow?”

You beam at him, a frisson of excitement going through you. “Yeah, tomorrow.”

[moonstruckme]

do you think you could write poly!marauders just having a calm morning with a gn reader plz? like they lie in a bit and go sit on the couch for breakfast or smthn like that? i’m loving your fics btw babes, reading them everyday LMAO.

also do you think i could be the 🌶️ anon plz? i’m peppers_library, but i can’t request with that account!

Absolutely you can, my love! And this is suchhhh a sweet idea. I can't seem to help making Sirius a nuisance lately, so I'm a bit worried I've missed the mark on a calm morning, but I hope you like it <3

poly!marauders x gn!reader ♡ 907 words

You rise to consciousness slowly, roused by a slight movement at your back. You turn in Sirius’ arms with a soft whining sound.

“Sorry,” Remus whispers. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“S’okay,” you murmur, cracking an eyelid. Buttery morning light has infiltrated the cracks in your curtains, illuminating Remus angelically from behind. It turns the rumpled ends of his hair golden, and when you cup the back of his head to give him a kiss, it’s warm as a cat’s fur after laying in the sun. Remus makes a satisfied humming sound, hands snaking around your waist to bring you closer as he kisses lazily at your bottom lip. 

“Oi,” Sirius grumbles, arm tightening around you and halting Remus’ progress, “get your own.” 

“James left to go on a run already,” Remus replies.

“Doesn’t matter. I had them first.” 

“Wait, has he really?” you ask, propping yourself up on your elbow to see over Remus. Sure enough, there’s only a faint indentation in the sheets where you’d supposed James to be sleeping. “I think I’m going to try and make muffins before he gets back,” you decide, starting to get up, but Sirius keeps you, his arm surprisingly unmovable around your middle. 

“That sounds lovely,” Remus says, watching amusedly as you try to pry Sirius’ fingers from your t-shirt. “Should I make us some tea as well?”

“No,” Sirius protests, reaching around you to clamp his other hand around Remus’ forearm. “Neither of you can leave me, it’ll get cold in here.” 

Remus extricates himself from Sirius’ grip with little effort, standing and leaving you to fend for yourself. “You’re welcome to get up too, Pads.” 

Sirius casts his head forlornly into the juncture of your neck as he moans, “But it’s so early.” 

You make another attempt at escape, and Sirius rolls over you with a vitality that defies his claims of lethargy, pinning you under his weight. “Siri,” you laugh, cupping his face with one hand and pressing a kiss to his cheek, “you can’t keep me here, honey.” 

He all but ignores your tenderness, looking down at you obstinately. “Can’t I?”

“Don’t you want muffins? I’ll let you pick the flavor, so long as we have the ingredients for it.”  

Sirius frowns pensively. “Those blueberries haven’t gone bad yet, have they?”

You grin. “Nope.” 

Time is on your side this morning. James slips in and goes straight to the shower just as you’re setting the timer on the oven, emerging eucalyptus-scented and in his pajama bottoms when the muffins are cooling on the counter. 

“Smells good in here,” he says as he comes into the kitchen, stopping short when he sees you like you’re not in the same disheveled state you were when he left. “Oh, sweetheart, what’re you trying to do to me?”

“James.” You take a tentative step back, all too familiar with the glint in his eyes. “It’s just a t-shirt.” 

It’s no use; he’s hauled you up onto the counter before you can take another breath, pushing between your legs with both hands on your ass. “Don’t play coy with me.” He nips at the underside of your jaw, drawing frenetic giggles out of you. “You put those legs on display on purpose.” 

“Let them go, you neanderthal,” comes Sirius’ hypocritical call. “Bring us the muffins while they’re still warm.”  

James grants you one, sweet kiss to soothe the damage he’s done to your face before giving you a conspiratorial look. “So demanding,” he says lowly, but helps you down from the counter. 

“Finally,” Sirius says as you enter, as though the plate of muffins isn’t still steaming. “What was the point of getting out of bed if I can’t have muffins or cuddles?”

James doesn’t hesitate to indulge him, sidling up to the other boy and holding a muffin under his nose as a temptation. You sit on the floor next to Remus, taking the cup of tea he offers you gratefully. He’s already resumed his work on the puzzle you’d started the night before, which both James and Sirius claim they’re going to “win” despite neither of them having the patience to put much work into it. You pick up an oddly colored piece, studying the picture on the box alongside your pensive boyfriend. 

“Doesn’t look like the same brown as the tree, does it?” he murmurs. 

“No. Maybe the fence, though?”

“Ah.” He takes the piece from you, putting it in its place with a satisfying click. “Nice one, love.” 

“What a couple of nerds,” Sirius drawls, and you look up to find he’s moved into James’ lap, being fed pieces of blueberry muffin like a prince. “How’d we end up dating such losers, Prongs?”

“I don’t know,” James says consideringly. “They make us tea and muffins, so that’s not bad.” 

“I’ll allow that the muffins and tea are perks, definitely.” 

Remus drags his attention from the puzzle to give Sirius a deadpan look. “You seemed alright with us this morning,” he reminds him. “But I suppose Y/N and I could go handle our nerd business elsewhere, if it suits you.”

“No need to leave me, too. I’m not in his camp,” James says, though he breaks off another piece of muffin to give him. 

Sirius rolls his eyes, chewing the muffin before giving you and Remus a benevolent smile. “I suppose we’ll keep you around.” He winks at you. “Thanks for the muffins, darling.”

[moonstruckme]

I feel like jily would see reader and both be like oh fuck and then decide to just adopt/bring them into the relationship. Like they sit by reader at meals, James butters both lily’s toast and readers, lily sits on the couch by reader in the common room and puts her head in their lap while snatching their essay out of their hand to proofread while James sits on the floor and lily mindlessly plays with his hair, they save reader a seat at the three broomsticks on hogsmeade days. And poor reader just thinks they’re friends, or maybe they decided they need a kid since they act so married/mom and dad. And one day Lily or James is like yea my partners and reader is like uh as in plural? And both James and Lily whip their heads around and are like yea moron us three???? What did you think was happening???

Thanks for requesting!

a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas

hogwarts uni au

poly!Jily x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

All three occupants of the table light up when you and Remus enter the Three Broomsticks. 

“Move,” Lily tells Sirius promptly. 

He scoffs, but happily vacates his seat next to James in favor of one on the other side of the table, where Remus can sit next to him. “Fuck off, Evans.” 

James slides out of his chair and into the next. “Saved you a seat,” he says, smiling that megawatt smile that jellies your legs. He pulls out the newly empty chair between himself and Lily.

“Oh.” You falter only a moment at the fact that they’re not sitting together before taking it. “Thanks.” 

“Is this new?” Lily touches the pompom of your hat. It’s the faintest brush of her fingers, and yet your face heats like a struck match. Her eyes find yours, fond. “You look very cute.” 

“Thanks,” you say again, quieter. 

She smiles. “What kept you two?” 

“Transmutation paper,” Remus answers for you, collapsing into the chair next to Sirius’. Your lips tug fondly as you watch how Sirius curls into his side, Remus’ arm coming around the other boy’s shoulders almost unthinkingly. “Our professor’s got his pants in a twist about structure. Wants us to hit every point of the rubric in order.” 

“Tyrant,” Sirius decides immediately. 

“Same one who gave us a paper due during reading week, too.” 

“Knew I hated him. We should spell his shoes into tar.” 

“Do you want me to read it over for you?” Lily offers, while Remus and Sirius sidebar about how a shoe-to-tar spell might be achieved. “I can compare with the rubric if you’d like a fresh set of eyes.” 

“You don’t have to,” you try, but Lily waves you off, beckoning for it. 

“While you do that,” says James, standing, “I’ll go get drinks. Moony, what’ll you have?” 

“Whiskey sour, please,” Remus replies. He’s taking out his own essay, newly paranoid that he’s missed a point. 

“Yuck. And you want a cider, angel?”

You assume for a moment that James must mean Lily, but she already has a drink. He’s looking at you. You didn’t realize he knew your usual order. 

“Yes, please,” you say. 

James goes to the bar, while Lily leans closer to praise you for an apt transition between your thesis and first argument. Her shoulder bumps into yours, a warmth you can feel through the layers separating you. It’s innocuous. But you wonder if Lily would be so comfortable around you if she knew of your giant, shameful crush on both her and her boyfriend. 

It’s hardly your first forbidden crush (you carried a torch for Remus for months after he and Sirius got together) but it’s definitely new for you to have a crush on two people who are in a relationship together. Because fate likes to laugh at you, James and Lily decided they’d like to be your closest friends right around the time you started having feelings for them both. You feel a bit accomplished for having gone undetected for so long. Lily is smart; you thought she’d clock your puppy eyes within a week of getting to know you better, but so far nothing has seemed to deter the couple from wanting to spend more time with you. 

“This is good,” Lily says, still skimming the end of your paper. “I can’t imagine what your professor could fault you for. You’ve laid everything out perfectly.” 

“Ooh, high praise,” James teases, setting down your cider in front of you. A short glass has appeared in front of Remus. James lays his arm across the back of your chair casually. “Give her a break from school, love.” 

“Wait.” Remus sends Lily a sheepish look. “Will you read mine?” 

James laughs. “I think both of my girls deserve a break.” 

“Hear hear!” Sirius lifts his glass, while the words my girls are still echoing around in your head like a song that sticks. “Speaking of, Prongs, do you want to do something off-campus on Friday?” 

“Not this Friday,” James replies unhesitatingly. “We have a date.” 

You turn to him, a bit wounded. “This Friday?” 

James’ eyebrows raise. “Yeah. Did you forget?”

“I just…I thought we were going to the cinema on Friday.” 

“That’s what I meant.” He squeezes your shoulder, giving you a bemused smile. “So like I was telling Pads, we have plans Friday.” 

“Oh, sorry.” You feel silly. “The word ‘date’ threw me.” 

Lily looks up then, her brows bunched to James’ raised. 

“...Why would that be?” James asks. 

“Because…” you say slowly, hoping one of them will finish for you. When they don’t, you flounder. “Well, is it a date?” 

“Of course it is,” James replies. 

You reel. 

“Oh, lovely.” Lily sounds a strange mix of fond and empathetic. “Did you not know we were asking you on a date? What do you think the other night at our apartment was?” 

“Studying,” you say tightly. 

James nods. “A study date.” 

“Right, but—when you called it that, I didn’t take it for—you know, anything. Remus and I have study dates all the time.” 

“You what?” Sirius rounds on his boyfriend, who is doing his best to appear as though he isn’t listening. 

“What did you think was happening between us?” Lily asks you. 

You look at her helplessly. “Friendship?” With the added flavor of one-sided, hopeless pining. 

“Godric.” James runs a hand through his hair. When he breathes out, his lips twitch; it’s like he’s incurable. “Well, would you want to date? Since apparently we haven’t started yet.” 

“How many dates do you think we’ve had?” 

“Four, love.” 

“Five,” Lily corrects him. “You’re forgetting the pond.” 

“Right. Five.” 

You gawp at them, replaying every hour you’ve spent alone together in your head. It did feel strange that they kept inviting you along to things. But you only thought you were their very special third wheel. 

“I’d like to be on a date,” you say. 

James’ grin splits his face, and Lily laughs breathlessly. “Great,” she says. “We can consider this our first.” 

[lilskippity]

man's best friend. dog owner!simon + dog owner!reader thinking about the time I was out for drinks and there was a dude with the biggest fucking dog I’ve ever seen just chilling at the bar. surrounded by ladies.

simon taking riley out for an afternoon walk, but ending up at the pub cuz a man needs pint every now and then.

he's finishing his beer while watching the match on the pub telly when he feels a tug on the leash. he looks down, and finds you petting and cooing at riley. the bugger is all in for the attention, ears perked and tail wagging against his boots.

pretty little thing, you.

he doesn't move, content with watching you like this. maybe a minute later is when you finally notice him staring.

"oh! sorry," your voice is as sweet as you look; too tempting for a man like him. "your dog is so cute! what's its name?"

"riley." he grunts out. wouldn't mind indulging you, just for a while.

"cute name, it suits him," you say. riley nudges your hand with a wet nose begging for scratches. it makes you laugh. the sound is enough to make simon shift in his seat.

would suit you too, he thinks.

"got one of your own?" he asks instead.

you smile. "yes! i have a doberman. she's in her terrible twos right now, though. not as well behaved as riley."

"lots of energy, those ones," he grumbles. "better get a playmate before she rips your couch up."

simon ends up leaving the bar with a new number on his phone and a marked date on his calendar.

wasn't looking; wasn't hunting for anything, but riley sniffed you out for him. fell right into his lap anyway. he spoils the pup with some treats once they get home.

good hunting, riley.