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Origami Around

roma★

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Jules of Nature
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Mike Driver
Xuebing Du
Not today Justin
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
sheepfilms

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
ojovivo
DEAR READER
Claire Keane
taylor price
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@desertwhisperer
Mark You Red
SUMMARY: Reader makes Jason do a TikTok trend. Bat-siblings get to discover the big bad has a girlfriend he's totally whipped for.
PAIRING: Jason Todd x Fem! Reader TAGS: I was talking about this trend, fluff, a little mature but mostly fine, fatson todd mention, bruce wayne flies to tokyo cause he can, jason loves her but dosen't wanna be teased about it (harms his street rep) , a little ooc? , a little beta read 𖦹 Word Count: 1,718 𖦹 Ao3
"I can't believe you made me agree to this," Jason said, leaning back into the couch, making himself comfortable. "As if you're not right where you wanna be," you shot back, straddling him as his hands naturally come to rest on your hips. "I'm not complaining about-mmhm" he completely melts as soon as you shut him up with a kiss, your nails softly scraping the back of his neck the way he likes, making him groan into it. But you know Jason. Know exactly when he's about to turn an innocent little makeout shesh into toe-curling sex, so you were quick to pull away, determined not to get distracted. When you did pull away sucessfully, he looked at you as if you had offended him in 12 different ways. "Oh don't make that face Jace. It's not even gonna take like 10 minutes to get done with the vid!" You said, applying lip gloss as his eyes settled on your lips. "Hey, I'm all for giving up my body so you can do whatever you like with it. But leaving me high and dry for your private following of 50 is so mean," he said, hands disappearing under your top.
Meryem hihiiii dear, Eid Mubarak hope you and yours have a good one.
OMG HIII KHADIJAA
Eid mubarak to you, too!
Trigger Happy
PAIRING: Jason Todd x Reader
SYNOPSIS: "Listen." He grabs her chin, tilts her face to meet his eyes. "Listen to me." The three gunshots are cracks of lightening in the enclosed space. make her flinch, eyes widening as her fingers clutch onto his jacket. "You didn't kill him. I did." Jason says, turning her face to the body. ""Your hands are still clean." He steps back in her line of view, eyes serious and fierce.
NOTE: I'm semi happy with this I fear
MASTERLIST
It was an accident. It was an accident. It was an accident!
She didn't mean it, she would never, it's just...just that she was scared, and she acted on instinct, and-and Jason had told her what to do in situations like this, times when she might be in trouble on the off chance that he wasn't around to handle it.
Her knowledge of the human body is limited, but even she can tell that the bloody knife clutched in her right hand nicked something important. The man at her feet should not be bleeding that much, red trickled out in spurts and nightmarish wet gurgles.
Shaky hands fumble with her phone, fingers slick with blood trying to type in the passcode. A sob punches out of her chest as the liquid makes her thumb harder to register. The blurriness from the tears don't do anything to help her vision either.
A groan comes from somewhere to her right, the sound tightening the band across her chest. The alley walls are too close, the air is too thick and she can't breathe.
Crimson smears her cheek when she presses the phone to her ear, hyperventilating.
"Hey, what's up, baby?"
He picks up on the third ring, and she collapses against the grimy brick wall. She latches onto the voice, lets it ground her enough to find her voice.
"Jason." She sobs out. The knife clatters on the alley floor, a punch of noise in the sudden silence. "Jay..."
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
His spine straightens at the noise, hands stilling with the wrench still in hand. Immediately, he's sliding himself out from under the car he's working on and wiping his hands clean, phone pressed to ear instead of on speaker.
"What's wrong? Fuck, are you hurt?" He demands immediately. Icy dread creeps around him when all he gets as a response is something incomprehensible, and quick, small gasps. "Breathe, angel." He says, pulling up her location. Jason's brow furrows when it shows her in some random alley. There's nothing else to think about because the next moment he's grabbing his helmet, swinging a leg over his bike and kicking off.
"I'm coming, all right? Just need you to stay on the line with me." He tries to keep his voice as steady as possible, biting back the fear and the hint of green rage creeping along the edges of his vision. Someone had made her sound like that and he wasn't there. "Are you safe?" He asks, and the silence that follows nearly makes his heart stop.
"I think." A wobbly voice whispers hoarsely. "It's...it's over, Jay. I didn't..." Her voice breaks and he curses out loud, mind racing. Jason pushes his panic down and hones it into that sharp focus he only ever reaches for when he's on patrol, stepping on the accelerator.
'It's over'
The words play in his head like a broken record as he talks to her, coaxing her to breathe, reassuring her the best as possible while possibilities wreck havoc on his judgement. If someone touched her, if they so much as breathed on her, he swears. No kill room be damned, Jason would cut their fucking hands off.
The bike finally swerves into the alley, and he's off of it before it even fully stops, one hand on his holster, eyes scanning the alley with a desperation he's not felt in forever. There's no active threat, none that he can make out.
Jason doesn't give the body on the ground a moment's glance, instead hones into the figure curled up into herself against the wall a few steps to the side.
"I'm here." He says lowly, immediately crouching next to her. Large, warm hands find her shoulders, prying her upright from how she's curled into herself. He cups her cheeks, frantically looking her over. His thumb wipes away the smear of blood on her face, and the caged, thrashing leash of his anger settles down marginally when he sees no wound under the gore.
The wounded noise she makes makes his throat close up, and he hates himself a little as he tightens his grip to keep her in place against the wall when she tries to lurch forward in his arms.
"I've got you, baby. One minute." He assures, taking a few seconds to smooth a hand over the rest of her body, just to be extra sure. When he doesn't find an injury, he exhales and crushes her against him, chest to chest. Fingers tangle in her hair, rubbing soothingly down her spine. "You're okay, I'm here." His voice is fierce.
A few moments pass, but instead of calming down, her breathing seems to quicken again much to his confusion. "Tell me what's wrong." He finally says, firm but gentle. "What happened? Someone attack you?" When she pulls back, he lets her, still keeping her within arms length.
"Jay." Her breath hitches, shaking her head, eyes drifting to the body close by. Her face twists up again and Jason is quick to start connecting the dots.
"Did he do something?" He keeps his eyes on her.
"He tried." She finally says. "But I...you taught me if it happened to- but he wouldn't let me run-" She gasps, and Jason lets her talk, rubs her arms up and down, brow pinched in worry. "I panicked and he had a gun- and I-..." Her eyes flicker off to the side.
Jason follows her gaze to the bloody knife.
Her initials engraved in the hilt.
Jason had scratched them himself before gifting it to her 'just in case', a couple months ago.
"Fuck." He breathes, as everything clicks. "Shit, baby, it's-"
"I killed him." The sob that heaves out of her is gut-wrenching, and Jason's pulling her to his chest immediately. "I killed him!" She gasps wetly. "I didn't mean to, I...I didn't want to!"
He takes a deep breath, tilting his head back to look up at the sky for a second. Taking a life was never easy, it didn't matter whether it was in self defence or not.
Jason still remembers his first. A hungry kid roaming the streets years ago, shivering from the cold and picking through one of the dumpsters behind a run down movie theatre. He remembers the owners coming out and yelling at him, lunging in anger when Jason lashed out. He remembers pushing. He remembers the crack of a skull against the metal lid. He remembers staring transfixed before vomiting what little he'd managed to scrounge that day.
He presses her tighter against him. She wasn't like him, wasn't like any of them. His girl was no killer, not with how soft hearted she was, and Jason would never want this life for her in any world.
Exhaling slowly, he surveys the scene beside them once more...and does a double take. The artery the knife nicked looks fatal, there's no way anybody was getting that man to a hospital before he bled out, but the way his chest moved in small, marginal gasps said there was still some life in him.
There's something about the life he lives that hardens you, takes away your optimism and fragility. It's why Jason is able to make the decision he does so easily.
He stands slowly, pulling her up with him and twisting her to face the gory scene. "You didn't kill him." He says, squeezing her against his side.
"I did." She says, and Jason knows if she doesn't calm down soon she's going to pass out.
"Listen." He grabs her chin, tilts her face to meet his eyes. "Listen to me." In one smooth motion, he pulls out his gun from the holster around his hip and clicks the safety off.
The three gunshots are cracks of lightening in the enclosed space. make her flinch, eyes widening as her fingers clutch onto his jacket. There's a groan, and then it cuts off.
"You didn't kill him. I did." Jason says, turning her face to the body. It's still, no movement, dead eyes staring up at the cloudy sky. He steps back in her line of view, eyes serious and fierce.
"No- that...but I-"
He interrupts. "Your hands are clean. I killed him. Not you." His voice softens as she starts shaking again, burying her face into his chest. "Understand?"
After a few moments, she nods against his chest, still unsteady, but less shaky than before.
Lips press to the crown of her head, firm and grounding. "I've got you. I'll take care of it." He mutters against her hairline, slowly guiding her away from the scene.
When her hands shake, he's there to hold them steady. When she wakes up with a cry during the night, he's there to hold her back to sleep.
And she lets him, leaning on her boyfriend and letting him mutter soothing nonsense, soft and gentle in a way he only ever is with her.
Reblog, Like and Comment!
(1/11/2025)
The Sister-in-law Chronicles
Part One: The one where Jason met a pretty girl and Damian wants to pay her to be Jason's friend... or more (~650 words)
Will this lead to anything? Idfk don't get your hopes up I have commitment issues
TW: mentions of reader getting drunk, coercion(?), semi-bullying Jason
Pictures from Pinterest, all credits to original artists/photographers
After the night you had, the last place you wanted to be was at a cafe on Gotham University’s campus doing homework. The smell of coffee was too strong, which only made your headache worse. Why did your friends want to go out on a Thursday? You couldn't understand, but at least it was fun in the moment, and there was a hot guy you were able to dance with.
When a little boy walked up to your table and sat opposite you, you wished you'd never drank at all, ever in your life. It would've spared you the even bigger headache heading your way.
"You don't look old enough to be here." You hummed with a raised eyebrow, sipping your coffee and taking in the boy's small frame.
"I am more competent than half of the people on this campus." The boy responded, crossing his arms.
"Sure." You muttered sarcastically. With a sigh you closed your laptop and set your cup down. "How can I help you, kid?"
"My name is Damian, and I am not a kid. I'm here because you were dancing provactively with my brother last night."
"Okayyyy? I was also drunk off my ass last night." You countered and leaned back into your seat.
"My brother does not engage in positive social interaction very often." The boy, Damian, stated and clasped his hands together on top of the table. "You need to befriend him."
"That's sad." The smile you gave him was full of pity he did not need. "It's nice that you're trying to help your brother, but he had lots of people come up to him last night. I'm sure he has options for friends and more."
"He was smiling this morning. Jason never smiles, much less before noon." He argued stubbornly. "You must befriend him."
"Listen, sweetheart, I'm sure your brother is a nice guy, but I'm too busy for this. Maybe find someone else." You laughed airily, the kind of laugh of a woman who was not as busy as she claimed.
"I'll have my father pay for your tuition." Damian blurt out. This was not dicussed with father beforehand, but Bruce would go to great lengths for his childrens' happiness. You didn't need to know any of that, though.
His claim worked to make you pause and narrow your eyes. After a few seconds, you scoffed. "Yeah, right. Be nice to your loser brother and get thousands in tuition paid off. What kind of scam are you running here, kid?"
"It is a very serious offer. I am not foolish enough to make false claims to someone crazy enough to find my brother as a good dance pole." Damian responded and grabbed a pastry from your plate.
"Will your father pay for that danish, too?" You snarked with a grumpy frown. That was supposed to be your hangover cure.
"I will buy ten of them right now on my father's behalf if you are willing to go over a contract with me." Damian hummed and took a bite of his newly aqquired treat.
"Fine." You sighed and rolled your eyes, which prompted Damian to pull out a sleek leather folder. He opened it to reveal a multi-page, multi-clause contract that covered almost any situation you could imagine. He spent the next half-hour going over your duties, how long this scheme would last, and payments. And at the very end, a signature from Bruce Wayne himself (forged, of course, since Bruce still had no idea this was happening, but that's irrelevant right now).
"You're joking." You laughed when Damian was finished explaining everything, flipping through each page of the contract again and again.
"I am not." Damian sighed and slid over a pen and the contract. "Do you accept?"
His question made you hesitate. It was a nice offer. It felt almost too good to be true, but you had always been a little bit too trusting.
"I accept."
Isn’t it weird how some white people will mock things that aren’t from their culture… but the second the original people stop wearing, using, or popularizing them, they suddenly start doing it too? And then they have the audacity to rename it like they invented it themselves??
𐔌 ⋮ ''Can I have...''
''Dami,love, can I have...'' ''COULD YOU STOP DOING THAT FOR GODSAKE!?'' feat. d.wayne x fem!reader wc:1171
✶— Masterlist
“This is the last time I let Tim surprise me with restaurant ideas.”
Across from me, Damian Wayne looked personally betrayed by the existence of the menu.
To be fair—the menu was insane.
Everything had unnecessary adjectives.
“Deconstructed truffle air.”
“Emotionally evocative risotto.”
“Seasonal foam.”
What season? What foam?
“This place serves sparkling water in wine glasses,” Damian muttered, glaring at the table like it had insulted his bloodline. “That is pretentious.”
“You own a sword collection.”
“That is unrelated.”
I bit back a smile and flipped another page.
“Oh my god,” I whispered. “They have squid ink pasta.”
“That should remain in the squid.”
Before I could answer, the waiter approached.
Young. Polite. Slightly nervous in the way waiters always became around Damian’s resting expression.
“Good evening! Have you two decided?”
And suddenly—
An idea.
Terrible.
Beautiful.
Instantly, I straightened slightly and looked at Damian with carefully manufactured hesitation.
“…Can I have the ravioli?”
There was a pause.
Damian blinked once.
Slowly.
“…What.”
The waiter looked between us.
I lowered my eyes slightly, giving the performance of my life.
“The truffle ravioli,” I clarified softly. “It sounded good, but…”
“But what,” Damian asked cautiously.
I glanced at the waiter.
Then back at him.
“…Is that okay?”
Silence.
Immediate.
Violent.
I watched the exact moment Damian’s soul left his body.
The waiter’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly.
“Oh,” they said slowly. “Um… yeah. Of course you can.”
Damian sat up straighter.
“Yes,” he said immediately. “Obviously she can.”
I looked uncertain.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“You won’t get upset?”
His eyes widened just slightly.
“I have never been upset over ravioli.”
The waiter was now staring at him with the subtle concern usually reserved for men who punch drywall.
“I’ll just give you guys another minute,” they said carefully.
“No,” Damian said instantly. “There is no need for—”
Too late.
The waiter fled.
I took a sip of water to hide my grin.
Across from me, Damian turned with terrifying slowness.
“…Explain yourself.”
“I asked about ravioli.”
“You implied I am controlling your dietary choices.”
“I did no such thing.”
“You asked permission.”
“I was being considerate.”
“That was not consideration. That was psychological warfare.”
I gasped softly. “Wow. That’s kind of a strong reaction.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You are enjoying this.”
“A little.”
“A little,” he repeated flatly.
“A medium amount.”
“Habibti.”
I smiled sweetly.
He immediately looked more suspicious.
“You have that expression.”
“What expression?”
“The one you wear before creating problems.”
“That’s hurtful.”
“It is accurate.”
Before I could respond, the waiter returned with bread.
Poor soul.
“Are we ready now?”
I nodded immediately.
“Yes! I’ll have the truffle ravioli…” Then, quieter: “…if that’s alright.”
The waiter froze.
Damian looked moments away from developing a stress-induced migraine.
“It is,” he said tightly.
I hesitated.
“Because I can get something cheaper.”
The waiter’s eyes snapped to him.
Damian stared at me in genuine disbelief.
“I am not restricting your financial autonomy.”
“Oh,” I said softly.
The waiter blinked.
“Oh my god,” Damian muttered under his breath.
“I’ll have the steak,” he said quickly, trying to salvage this. “And she will have the ravioli she independently selected using her own free will.”
The waiter scribbled that down with the careful energy of someone documenting evidence for court.
“Great,” they said weakly.
Then—to me specifically:
“And if you need anything, just let me know.”
Damian closed his eyes.
The waiter left.
I lasted exactly three seconds before bursting into laughter.
Not cute giggles.
Actual, painful laughter that made me fold over the table.
“Oh my god,” I wheezed. “Your face.”
Damian looked deeply betrayed.
“You are attempting to publicly defame me.”
“You looked HORRIFIED.”
“Because you were behaving bizarrely!”
I wiped tears from my eyes.
“You got so defensive.”
“Because now that waiter believes I monitor your spending and food intake like a controlling psychopath.”
I tilted my head innocently.
“Do you?”
“No.”
“You hesitated.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I paused because your behavior was irrational.”
“Mm. Sounds controlling.”
He stared at me.
Long.
Hard.
“You are a menace.”
“You love me.”
“That is unfortunately true.”
I grinned victoriously and reached for the bread basket.
Damian watched me carefully now.
Suspiciously.
Like a man diffusing a bomb.
I waited until I picked up a breadstick.
Then quietly:
“…Can I eat this?”
He actually looked offended.
“Habibti.”
“What?”
“You are not a hostage.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I am literally sitting here.”
“Exactly. Surveillance.”
His jaw twitched.
I saw it.
The twitch meant I was winning.
“You are deriving far too much amusement from this.”
“You’re so easy to fluster.”
“I am not flustered.”
At that exact moment, the waiter walked by again.
And I looked at Damian nervously.
“…I’m still kind of hungry.”
Damian inhaled sharply.
“You may consume as much bread as you desire.”
The waiter slowed down.
“Oh my god,” Damian whispered.
I bit the inside of my cheek so hard trying not to laugh.
“Really?” I asked softly.
“Yes.”
“Even two?”
“Yes, even two.”
The waiter looked one second away from sliding me a domestic violence hotline number.
“I hate you,” Damian muttered.
“No you don’t.”
“No,” he admitted grimly. “I do not.”
The food arrived a few minutes later.
The waiter placed my ravioli down with the gentleness of someone handling a rescue animal.
“There you go,” they said kindly.
I looked down at the plate.
Then at Damian.
His eyes widened immediately.
“No.”
“…Can I put parmesan on it?”
“YES.”
The waiter jumped.
A nearby couple looked over.
Damian visibly recalibrated himself.
“You can put as much parmesan as you wish,” he said in a terrifyingly calm voice.
“Okay,” I whispered.
The waiter looked at him like he belonged on a true crime documentary.
The second they left, Damian dropped his forehead into his hand.
“You are enjoying my suffering.”
“A lot.”
“You are evil.”
“I’m literally just a girl.”
“You are a tactical threat.”
I leaned forward conspiratorially.
“You know what the funniest part is?”
“There are multiple parts?”
“The waiter definitely thinks you’re some terrifying billionaire boyfriend who controls my every move.”
“…I am aware.”
“And you keep making it worse.”
“I am attempting damage control.”
“You shouted about parmesan.”
“Because you asked permission to use cheese!”
I dissolved into laughter again.
He stared at me for another long moment before finally—finally—something in his expression softened.
Tiny.
Barely there.
But real.
“You’re ridiculous,” he said quietly.
I grinned. “And you’re panicking.”
“I am adapting.”
“You looked like you were about to call your lawyer.”
“I was considering legal action against you.”
“That’s love.”
“That is harassment.”
I reached across the table and hooked my foot against his ankle under it.
His expression softened again despite himself.
Traitor.
“You know,” I said, smiling, “you’re kinda cute when you’re stressed.”
“I was not stressed.”
“The eye twitch says otherwise.”
“My eye did not twitch.”
“It did.”
“It did not.”
I leaned back smugly.
“Can I have dessert?”
Damian pointed at me slowly.
“Do not start.”
A/N: i want raviolis so bad
🔖 𓂃⋆.˚:: @simpingmyassoff @shootingstargirl2001 , @dreamerwhofell , @gothamwing , @amiratheangel , @virtaideen , @asterwriter221 , @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore , @supahnohvaa , @vivian-555 , @piatosniathenie , @sonyboos , @beanxiv , @animegamerfox , @desertwhisperer , @kh4dij7 , @rivv11 ,
(if you want to be added comment down below!!)
Damian's face when he heard Reader asking for permission:
tumblr should add a "what the fuck are you talking about" button alongside reply, like, and reblog. you click the what the fuck are you talking about button when op is on some discourse they brought back from another reality that no one on this earth has ever heard of. and if a post gets more what the fuck are you talking abouts than reblogs op gets muted for 12 hours
quarterly reminder that if i reblog something ai-generated it is 110% and always an accident and for the love of god please tell me so i can delete it from my blog
If you ever wondered why they call tattoos and piercings "unprofessional" and "unsophisticated"
Source: Lainey Molnar
jason's upset.
he knows it's petty. yet, that does nothing to abate the furrow of his brows and the pout on his lips.
your mii is refusing to date his mii. the stubby big-headed character he poured way too much effort into making it look like you using the face paint and tinkering with the facial placement— though it is but a pittance compared to the real deal. not to mention the fact that he had to make you based off memory since he had been too shy to confess that he made both of you as miis on his island and wanted a reference.
the only two residents on his island, in fact.
and he's still getting rejected.
if he was lucky you'd let him talk to you whilst sitting together on the fountain. only for his mii to vaguely ask to hang out and make things awkward.
he had even made place holder miis, before unceremoniously removing them, until he got the island expansions! the restaurant. photo booth. pawn shop. hell, even the ferris wheel! yet, no juice could be made from the fruit of his labor.
your mii had been adamant in constantly rejecting his advances, even having the gall to fall in love with one of the placeholder miis.
and after every rejection, his own mii kept falling back in love after a trip to europe to subside his despair. after the first few times the love bubble inevitably popped up, jason had told his mii-self that it was too soon to ask your mii out only for that equally big-headed bunch of pixels refuse his advice and ask you out anyway. rinse and repeat.
perhaps it was a cruel joke on him for even trying. was it because your mii wasn't accurate enough? jason swears to himself that he'll keep a small photo of you in his wallet from this day forth.
perhaps it was poetic. that, no matter what happens to him, he'll always come to love you.
𐔌 ⋮ ''Double MM (Midterms & Matchas)''
''It tastes pretty good actually'' ''I've tasted better things'' ''Like what?'' ''Your lips'' feat.medicine major!d.wayne x law major!fem!reader wc:1250
✶— Masterlist
Midterms have reduced you to something fragile.
Not weak—never that. Just… worn thin.
Your apartment looks like a crime scene, but instead of blood there are casebooks, sticky notes, and half-empty mugs of cold coffee scattered across every available surface. Highlighters bleed neon across pages. Legal terms loop in the margins like incantations.
“Mens rea,” you mutter, staring blankly at the same paragraph for the seventh time. “Actus reus. Consideration. Duty of care—oh my god, I don’t care anymore.”
You drop your head onto the table with a soft thud.
“I’m going to fail. I’m going to become one of those cautionary tales professors tell to scare first-years.”
A beat.
“…I’m going to end up working corporate law.”
The horror in your voice is genuine.
The window slides open.
Soundlessly.
Of course.
You don’t even lift your head.
“You know,” you mumble into the wood of your desk, “one day I’m going to install a bell on that window and ruin your entire personality.”
“I would remove it within seconds,” Damian Wayne says as he steps inside.
You groan. “See? This is why you have no whimsy.”
He takes in the scene in one sweeping glance—books, notes, the tight set of your shoulders, the exhaustion written into the way you haven’t moved in what looks like hours.
“You have not slept,” he says.
“I blinked slowly a few times.”
“That is not sleep.”
“It’s adjacent.”
He walks over, nudging a stack of papers aside just enough to sit on the edge of your desk.
“You are deteriorating.”
“Thank you,” you say flatly. “That’s exactly what every stressed law student wants to hear.”
“It is an observation.”
“It’s a mean observation.”
His gaze softens—just slightly.
“You are overwhelmed, habibti.”
That—
That lands.
You lift your head, eyes tired, hair a mess, expression somewhere between annoyed and on the verge of tears.
“I have three exams,” you say. “Three. Constitutional law, criminal law, and contracts. Do you know how evil contracts are? They pretend to be boring and then suddenly you’re arguing about whether a napkin counts as a legally binding document.”
“…It can,” Damian says.
“I know,” you groan. “That’s the problem!”
He studies you for a moment.
Then—quietly:
“Come with me, ya amar.”
You blink.
“…Where?”
“Out.”
“I can’t go out, Damian, I have—” you gesture wildly at the chaos around you—“this.”
“You have been staring at the same page for twenty-three minutes.”
“…You timed me?”
“I observed.”
“That’s worse.”
He stands, already moving toward the door.
“You require a break, qalbi.”
“I require a law degree.”
“You will not obtain one by collapsing at your desk.”
You squint at him.
“You’re suspiciously right.”
“I am often correct.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
But you’re already pushing your chair back.
Already grabbing your hoodie.
Already letting him pull you out of the apartment before you can change your mind.
—
The café is small.
Warm.
Quiet in a way that doesn’t suffocate.
There’s soft music playing, something instrumental, and the smell of something earthy and sweet hanging in the air.
You exhale the second you step inside.
“…Okay,” you admit. “This is nice.”
“I am aware.”
You nudge him lightly. “Don’t be smug.”
“I am not smug.”
“You’re always smug.”
They step up to the counter.
You scan the menu, blinking slowly.
“…What is matcha.”
Damian follows your gaze.
“…A powdered green tea.”
You tilt your head. “Why is it so aggressively green.”
“It is derived from ground tea leaves.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“It is the answer.”
You hum.
“Okay, but like—should we try it?”
Damian looks at you.
At the slight spark returning to your eyes.
At the way you’re leaning into curiosity instead of drowning in stress.
“…Yes,” he says.
—
They sit by the window.
Rain taps lightly against the glass, soft—gentle, not the kind that feels like it’s trying to drown the world.
You wrap your hands around the cup, watching the steam curl upward.
“It’s so green,” you murmur again.
“Yes, habibti.”
“It looks like it’s judging me.”
“That is unlikely.”
“You don’t know that.”
He watches you carefully as you lift it.
Take a sip.
Pause.
Your entire face goes very, very still.
“…Oh.”
Damian raises a brow.
“…That is not a positive reaction.”
You lower the cup slowly.
“…It tastes like grass.”
He considers that.
Then takes his own sip.
And immediately—
Regrets it.
His expression tightens.
Subtle.
Controlled.
But unmistakable.
“…This,” he says carefully, “tastes like henna.”
You choke.
“Henna?!”
“It has the same earthy bitterness.”
“You’ve tasted henna?”
“I have encountered it.”
“That is not the same thing!”
“It is similar.”
You stare at him.
Then—
You start laughing.
Not a polite laugh.
Not a quiet one.
A full, bright, unrestrained laugh that turns heads and makes you clutch your cup like you might drop it.
“Oh my god,” you wheeze. “You hate it.”
“I do not hate it, ya amar.”
“You hate it.”
“I find it… questionable.”
“You look like you just licked a tree.”
“I did not—”
“You did! You did! That was a full ‘I regret my life choices’ face.”
He exhales, slow and controlled.
“It is an inefficient beverage.”
“It’s tea.”
“It is poorly executed tea.”
You laugh harder.
And there it is.
The thing he came for.
The thing he needed to see.
Your shoulders aren’t tense anymore.
Your eyes aren’t glassy with stress.
You’re just—
You.
“You’re so dramatic,” you say, still smiling.
“You are the one who insisted on acquiring it.”
“And you let me.”
“I was evaluating your judgment.”
“And?”
“It is flawed.”
You grin. “You love me anyway.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Yes, qalbi.”
Your smile softens.
Just a little.
“Good answer.”
You take another sip.
Winces.
“…Okay, yeah, no, this is bad.”
“I told you.”
“You didn’t tell me, you just silently judged me.”
“That is my primary method of communication.”
You nudge his foot under the table.
“Next time we get something normal.”
“Define normal.”
“Coffee.”
“Acceptable.”
You lean back in your chair, sighing softly.
“Okay. I feel… better.”
“I am aware, habibti.”
“You’re not allowed to say that like you engineered it.”
“I did engineer it.”
“You suggested coffee.”
“I executed a strategy.”
You roll your eyes.
But you’re smiling.
And you reach across the table—absently, without thinking—and hook your fingers around his.
Grounding.
Warm.
Real.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
He studies you.
The faint exhaustion still there—but lighter now.
Manageable.
“You will succeed,” he says.
“In law?”
“Yes.”
You snort. “That was very confident.”
“I do not make uncertain statements.”
“And if I fail?”
“You won’t.”
“But if I do.”
He squeezes your hand—just slightly.
“Then we will adjust, ya rohi.”
We.
It settles in your chest like something steady.
Something safe.
“…Okay,” you murmur.
A pause.
Then, lighter again:
“But you’re never allowed to insult my drink choices like that again.”
“I did not insult—”
“You said it tastes like henna, Damian.”
“That is an observation.”
“That is violence.”
He almost smiles.
And you catch it.
Of course you do.
“You’re smiling,” you accuse.
“I am not.”
“You are so smiling.”
“I am not.”
“You are!”
“I am—”
You lean forward.
Grinning.
“Admit it.”
He exhales.
Defeated.
“…Perhaps, habibti.”
You beam.
“Wow. Midterms cured and I got you to smile. I’m unstoppable.”
“You are insufferable.”
“And you love me.”
“…Yes.”
And somehow—
Between the bad matcha, the rain against the window, and the quiet warmth of his hand in yours—
Everything feels a little less heavy.
A/N: ugh i love him
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