Percyjacksonlover

Welcome to my blog! Don’t expect much, I just repost things here. Wattpad: FanficsBoysAreBea Ao3: FanficsBoysAreBea_2

[misdollie]

a beautiful piece of cheesecake would fix a few of my problems

[stcrgazerlily]

━━━━━━━ TIED HIM DOWN TO MY QUEEN BED

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: boyfriend!jason todd x female!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: steph calls jason drunk, he has to come pick you up right now. only problem? you insist you won’t be leaving with anyone who isn’t your amazing boyfriend, not recognising the man in front of you.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: none, fluff, crack, reader is lowk a freak for jason (#me2) , flustered jason, 1k words, working on a jason version of this!

<𝟑: art creds to @quezartt

Jason had broken several speed limits, but he didn’t really care. His mind was solely focused on you—or more specifically, you in the background of Steph’s call.

He'd checked his phone enough times to kill the battery twice over. Not because he was worried, Steph was with you and he knew you were more than capable of taking care of yourself.

Still, the movie had long faded into background noise. Every time his phone buzzed, his head snapped up before he could stop it.

Pathetic. Jason blamed you.

He was only half-aware that he’d parked the bike somewhere out of view—someone was bound to steal it if not—and entered the bar where you and Steph had gone for drinks.

"I miss him," you’d drawled, stretching out the i's, clearly drunk, while Stephanie giggled as she spoke. "Oh yeah, definitely come pick her up."

At the end of the place, where the music was loudest and didn’t bother the other patrons as much, were you and Steph, with an empire of empty drinks populating the wooden table.

Your head was tossed back, smiling and laughing as you played with the edge of Steph’s dress.

"Where is myyy husband?" You frowned—bottom lip wobbling—then you giggled. "Well, we aren’t married just yet, but in my mind we are."

Steph nodded very seriously, feeding into your delusions.

"Mrs. Todd has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?" You looked the blonde girl dead in the eye. "Doesn’t it?"

She nodded. "Mrs. Todd sounds kind of expensive."

Jason coughed awkwardly, hands shoved into his jacket pockets.

Stephanie smiled. "Took you long enough."

You swept your eyes up and down him.

His heart kicked once against his ribs. You were unfairly gorgeous. Not that he'd ever tell you that to your face of course.

"Is this your ride, Steph?"

She looked between the two of you. "No?"

You raised a brow, still looking him dead in the eye. "Then why is he standing there looking at us?"

Steph’s brows furrowed before she began laughing as if there were no tomorrow.

"It’s not funny, Steph," Jason said.

She pretended to wipe a tear from her eye. "It’s hilarious."

"Do you need something?"

"I’m picking you up." He stated.

Your eyes widened so much it was almost comical. “No way! I have a boyfriend, thankyouverymuch, and I won’t be leaving if it’s not with him!"

Jason bit the inside of his cheek. "Baby, I’m your boyfriend."

You scrunched your nose. "Stop lying. My boyfriend is the prettiest man there is, I’d recognise him anywhere.” You sighed dreamily. Wow, talk about whiplash. "He has beautiful eyes," you continued, licking your lips, "and amazing biceps." You looked at him in anger again. "You either leave, or I’ll tell him to beat you up."

Funny thing was, Jason didn’t exactly know how to feel. He was slightly heartbroken that you didn’t recognize him. But the same time, you were threatening complete strangers on his behalf.

Something stupid happened in his chest, right where his myocardium was. "Beat me up, huh?"

"Yes!" you said, very self-assured. The you dropped your voice to a whisper. “He’s a massive softie, though, but don’t tell him I told you."

Steph patted your back. "He won’t, babes."

"Good." You rested your chin on your fist. "He’s so dreamy."

"Good for you," Jason said, and headed to the bar to ask for two glasses of water.

When he came back, you were still mumbling about munching on his bicep like it was an apple.

He was never recovering from this.

He offered the drinks, and Steph drank hers down without hesitation.

"This is not tequila."

Jason pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. "It’s water."

You eyed him skeptically. "You again. Didn’t we tell you to shoo?"

He offered you the drink.

You stared at it, then at him. “I’m not taking drinks from strangers."

"You’re clearly drunk, baby."

"Only my boyfriend calls me that, you can’t." Your lip wobbled again. "I miss him."

Jason's chest tightened. "I think you should take the water."

Steph pulled out a couple crumpled bills and left them on the table. "Let’s go."

You let her drag you out of your chair, but at the last moment, you nearly lost your balance— Jason immediately caught your waist, steadying you.

You shrieked.

Like a cat that had just been kicked in the street, the whole bar turned toward the source of the noise and Jason thought death didn’t sound that bad after all.

"I." You smacked his arm. "Have." Again. "A boyfriend!"

And because things couldn’t possibly get worse, a tall, jacked man approached the two of you.

"Is he bothering you?"

You sniffled. "Yeah."

The man gave Jason the meanest stink-eye. "I think you should leave, man."

Jason was suddenly very aware that this was exactly how kidnappings looked.

"It’s her boyfriend. She’s just really drunk," Steph said, coming to his rescue like an angel.

The man crossed his arms. "And I’m just supposed to believe that?"

Steph sighed and pulled out her phone. Her movements were shaky as she tapped the screen with too much force. At least she could still see it. "Here. This was last week."

The man inspected the photo for a beat too long before nodding and leaving. Not before glaring at Jason one last time.

You rested heavily against Steph as he walked the two of you—a pair of newborn fawns learning to walk—outside. Jason right behind you, making sure that if any of you fell nothing bad would happen.

He immediately scanned the street; parked cars, empty sidewalk, three people across the road. No apparent problems.

Then you started singing. "You know that song by Doja Cat?" You coughed and began singing extremely off-key.

"Tie him down to my queeeeen bed—ugh, I love him so much. I’d let him put me in—"

Steph smacked a hand on your mouth. “Ew, not about Jason.”

You shrugged and raised your arms.

Heat crawled up the back of Jason’s neck. He ignored it.

Thank God it was late at night and there wasn’t sufficient light to rat him out.

"I’m sure he knows." He said finally.

You spun around, and for a horrifying second he thought you’d fall.

Somehow, you stayed upright.

“Jason!"

Before he knew it, you were wrapping your arms around him and dropping like dead weight.

He caught you automatically. Of course he did.

He hoisted you up gently so you wouldn’t get dizzy, then you nuzzled your face into his chest.

"I missed you. There was this guy who kept standing there. What a creep!"

He rubbed slow circles into your back. "I’m sure he was."

"But you’re here now, so it’s okay."

Steph could be heard laughing in the background.

Jason didn’t care.

[yvanilleespress0e]

Bf! Martin x Short! Reader headcanons

৻ꪆ ᩚ . Martin who just can't seem to stop teasing you for how tiny you look next to him! Outside in public, the studio, near the group, anywhere as long as you're okay with it

৻ꪆ ᩚ . He would purposely hide your things in areas you can't reach, watching you as you stretch your short legs as far as they'll let you

৻ꪆ ᩚ . Martin would lift you up randomly and sit you down on the kitchen counter top, his lap, or an empty space in the studio room. Sometimes doing this to see you fuse and beg him to put you down

৻ꪆ ᩚ . Loves to hook one of his fingers on your belt to pull you closer to him. It does give you a little scare the first time he did it, but you gradually have gotten used to his habit

৻ꪆ ᩚ . Always takes photos of your guy's hands laced together due to the size difference. He can't get enough of how is hand dwarfs yours completely. And not just your hands, your entire body

৻ꪆ ᩚ . Likes to be on top of you and wrap his arms around your smaller frame. He likes how easy it is to have you beneath him and hold you close, his thumbs tracing faint circles on your hips

৻ꪆ ᩚ . He lets you borrow his shirts, or you steal them, and sometimes laughs because they look like short dresses on you with how tall he his and how short you are

—

Authors note: Criticism on my writing is very much appreciated. As well as likes and reblogs 🎀

[aquariel88]

claimed by the dawn after a lifetime of dusk

(bruce wayne x neglected!reader x dcu various)

we all know how the story goes; bruce adopts reader, reader either has no skill nor interest to become a vigilante and gets neglected. but what if reader got neglected (sort of..) growing up, and when bruce and the rest of the batfam meets his first biological daughter, they decide to give her all the love and care she deserves. but that ends up being more difficult than expected.

chapters coming out soon

please do not steal my work, post it as your own or put my work through ai chatbots

[gloomycatz]

i think bsf!tim would love grinding his tip against your clit until both of you are soaked (♡⸃ ◡ ⸂♡)

he’d have you lie on your back, guiding the flush pink of his glistening tip through your folds with an agonizing slowness, smearing pre-cum against your slick. every firm nudge against your puffy clit has both of you whimpering.

“fuck, you’re so wet for me,” he mutters, voice wrecked as he catches on your clenching entrance for the umpteenth time.

“j-just the tip, okay? i promise. i just need to feel you for a second.”

famous last words.

because the second your tight heat takes the first few inches of the head of his cock, his abs flex, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as a pathetic moan escapes him.

“i-i’m sorry—“ and he slides all the way in in one go until he’s buried to the hilt inside you, pelvis pressed firm against your clit. “shit, i’m sorry— i didn’t mean— you just feel so good.”

he doesn’t immediately start fucking you hard, just starts off with slow grinds. enough to make you claw at his shoulders and beg for him to go deeper <3

every time you don’t reblog you’re discouraging writers!! reblog and support us!!

[semenriley]

SIMON HAS HIS NAME ON YOUR PALM

Pairing : Simon Riley × Desi! Reader

Enjoyyy guyss. For non-desi readers : Sometimes married women in here hide names of their husbands or lovers in their henna. And the harder it is to find - the stronger love will be....a cute asf thing to do!!!

Likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated. 🦢

Masterlist 🌷

Simon Riley who goes dead quiet the moment you come back with fresh mehendi, still darkening on your palms, smelling like earth and something sweeter. His eyes drop straight to your palms.

“…that for me, that?” he walks closer, already reaching for you.

You barely get a laugh out before he’s hauling you into his lap with his thumbs hovering over the patterns like they might smudge. (They will idiot)

“Si baby, I need to sleep.”

“Yeah? Sleep here then.” he mutters, dragging you closer and hooking his chin over your shoulder. God this will be a long night huh.

“Ain’t movin’ till I find it.”

You swat at him grinning. “You’re insane.”

“Shut it.” he grumbles tilting your wrist toward the light.

He squints. “Where’s it then?”

You blink. “Where’s what?”

“Don’t play daft.” His thumb brushes dangerously close to the design. He never touched it deliberately until it dried. Not when he knows it’ll smudge.

“Me name. You always hide it.”

You smile teasing him, “Maybe I didn’t put it this timeee.”

He glares and ignores what you just said. He'll be damned if you didn't hide his name in henna patterns this time.

Hours. Actual hours. He holds you for two straight hours.

You’re half-dozing against his chest, his stubble scratching your temple, while he traces every swirl like it’s a map. Every now and then –

“that an S?”

“No.”

“…looks like one.”

“It’s a leaf, Simon.”

“Shite leaf then.”

You laugh softly, your eyelids growing heavier. “Si… seriously…bed”

“Nah.” he presses a kiss to your knuckles without looking away.

“Be worth it when I find it.”

And when he does...oh boy.

It’s like a switch flips.

“–there. There!!!” his breath catches, rough, almost disbelieving. “Tha’s mine. That’s me.”

Before you can even react he’s dropping to his knees in front of you, dragging your hands up like something sacred, kissing your palms over and over. You are swaying from sleep while he is acting rabid.

“Oi! Simon–!”

“Mine.” he mutters against your skin. Jesus even his voice goes soft. “Got me name on you… fuckin’ hell…”

His thumb presses over the letters, like he’s memorizing the exact feel of it. He looks up at you then with such sweet hopeful eyes.

“–this permanent, yeah?”

You pause.

Because you know it isn’t. You know it’ll fade in a week.

But he’s looking at you like this means something carved in bone. Something his...finally something permanent.

“…yeah.” you whisper anyway. Stupid Bri*ish man.

He exhales like you just handed him the world.

“Good.” he murmurs, kissing your palms again, slower now, almost reverent. “S’how it should be.”

And after that?

You start getting it done every week.

Different patterns. More intricate. Hiding his name deeper each time just to watch him lose his mind all over again.

And he always does.

Every single time.

..........................................................................................................

Later on the base he’s soo insufferable about it.

Leaning back with his arms crossed and oh that smug edge in his voice as the lads try to ignore him-

“Missus got my name on her hands.”

Soap snorts. “Aye? Painted it on yerself, did she?”

Simon just smirks. “Nah. Proper done. All pretty an’ that–flowers n’ shite round it.”

You walk past and he catches your wrist immediately, dragging your hand up for them to see. You gasp being stopped midway with him showing your palm to the room. Like it's some damn museum artwork.

“Look at it.” he orders, like it’s not a suggestion.

“You’re embarrassing!!” you hiss trying to pull away.

“Good.” he cuts in, pressing a kiss right over where his name sits hidden.

“Next time, hide it better, yeah? Wanna see how long it takes me.”

Yeah, Simon Riley was completely gone for you.

🌷🌷🌷🌷🦢🦢🦢🦢🦢🦢🦢🦢🦢🌷🌷🌷🌷

Taglist : @niialuv @moraxrexviaa @theclassicvinyldragon @saeish @lowkeydepressedandscared @cascade05 @deriley @corpsebrideswife @tessakate @sunflowertime @madibookmarks @hshahabs @cringeycookies @soapy-washcloth @xoxobooksstuff @sutancha @ilovetaquitosmmmm @iraaiitz @xoxobooksstuff @soapy-washcloth @wowtheuniverse @mrsmalfoy1005 @h0ney-xxx @onceuponanightmareisawme @iwannabeinthesequalmrghostface @thecraziestcrayon @candlelight-reading @bloodyhellvictoria @thorn-morose @persephone-has-fallen @muraaaaaa @maddiebuckleysthings @frankiedafurter @burymeinjericho @ah-blossom @maggiel9 @kxnnxy @rahi3066 @bloodyhellvictoria @fadocahiii @itsmadamehydra @anxiouslybrittlesiren @kyluskaye @lizabethcrum @hypertail

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

[stardust-dreamer07]

I simply cannot escape

[silverlullabies]

Simon Riley is the kind of man who will be staring at his tray in the middle of the mess, poking at whatever slop they’ve been handed, and say something like “my wife used to make this. Hers was better” in this low, hollowed out voice that makes every man at the table go quiet and exchange a look.

Nobody says anything.

Oh, they’re all thinking. She’s gone, then.

He keeps a folded photo in his front breast pocket, worn soft at the creases from how many times he’s handled it. He doesn’t show anyone. He just takes it out sometimes and looks at it with this expression like he’s being slowly gutted and then puts it away again.

Half drunk at the pub between deployments, leaning heavy on the bar, he’ll say “I just miss her, s’all. Wish she was still here with me” and someone will quietly offer to get him another pint because what else do you say to a grieving man.

Whole time you’re at home perfectly fine, he just really fucking misses you.​​​​​​​​

[moxxiethenarrator]

I hate that feeling where you wanna write but you can’t write so you don’t write but you wanna write

[rosaeh]

band au jason in which he's like both the singer and guitarist, and everyone think he's got a girlfriend or something cause he keeps writing love songs but turns out the lyrics are just about the lead singer (reader!!!). but like he doesn't confirm nor deny having a girlfriend so youre just like "can't cross that line it's disrespectul towards his girlfriend!". but theres obviously tension and chemistry between you two during sets, so one day youre just like "what do your girlfriend think about that?" and he's like, girl, what girlfriend???

bonus point to reader being oblivious and getting kinda fed up of singing about her crush's girlfriend when it's just...all about her. like you're his dream girl. the one he writes deep and meaningful lyrics that convey all his yearning for you. like, jeff buckley level. and he's there hoping youll catch on, but the boy is getting so desperate he's starting to think youre just not interested in him but trying not to hurt his feelings. i love pinning idiots in love, and friends to lovers with jason.

[fromrory]

Yes I am mad about what Sabrina Carpenter did,Yes I found it offensive. Yes,yes,yes and yes

[solekpilled]

big purr

[starr-jazz]

just fell to my knees

[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)

[ruya4four]

Eywa, Forgive Me 𓂃⋆.˚ ao'nung x sully!reader

𓂃⋆.˚ synopsis: ao'nung can't stop thinking impure thoughts about one of the sully siblings.

𓂃⋆.˚ content warnings: aged up characters, NSFW (MDNI), pervy ao'nung, innocent reader, explicit & pervy thoughts, hands on learning

𓂃⋆.˚ word count: 1.5k

𓂃⋆.˚ author's note: based on this request!! i had so much fun writing ao'nung's thoughts hehe

Aonung stared at the back of your head, his gaze tracing the way your hair floated in the humid, salt-heavy air of the reef. He felt like a predator, though not the noble kind that hunted the skimwings or the ilus. No, he felt like something bottom-feeding, something that lurked in the silt and watched with hungry, wide eyes. It was a rot in his chest, a heavy, pulsing heat that made his palms itch and his throat feel like he’d swallowed a handful of dry sand. 

He knew what people said about the Sully’s—they were half demons, they were outcasts, they were the bringers of war—but to Aonung, you were a feast he wasn't allowed to taste. You were the sister of those two hot-headed forest boys, Lo’ak and Neteyam, and that fact alone should have been enough to make him turn away.

If Lo'ak ever saw the way Aonung’s eyes lingered on the curve of your waist where your loincloth met your deep blue skin, the forest boy would probably try to slit his throat with one of those animal bone knives. If Neteyam ever caught wind of the imagery currently dancing behind Aonung’s eyelids—images of you pinned against the rough, woven floor of a marui, your legs tangled with his thicker, oceanic ones—there wouldn't be enough of Aonung left for the Eywa to reclaim. 

He was the son of the Olo’eyktan; he was supposed to be a leader, a paragon of Metkayina strength. Instead, he was standing here, hidden by a thicket of mangrove roots, watching you practice your swimming and feeling a shameful, agonizing tightness in his loincloth.

I am a monster, he thought, his pupils blown wide until the turquoise of his irises was a mere sliver of light. I want to see her cry, but not from pain. I want to see her eyes roll back while I find out if her skin tastes like the forest or the sea. I want to ruin that look of pure, agonizing sweetness she gives everyone. I want to be the reason she can’t walk straight for a week. 

He didn't care about the consequences. The threat of Tonowari’s scolding or Ronal’s piercing, judgmental stare felt distant and flickering compared to the roaring fire in his gut. The danger actually made the hunger intensify. It added a metallic, electric tang to his obsession. He was a prince of the sea, and he had decided that the most precious thing the ocean had ever spat out was a forest woman with too-big eyes and a smile that made him want to commit sins that he didn’t even know existed.

The sun beat down on the shallow flats, the scent of crushed sea-lilies and sun-warmed kelp rising in thick, sweet waves. Aonung stepped out from the shadows, his heavy tail leave a rhythmic drag in the wet sand. He watched you struggle with the buoyancy of your own body, your tail—thin and twitchy like a lemur's—splashing uselessly against the surface. You looked up, blinking water from your long lashes, and when you saw him, your face lit up with a genuine, guileless warmth that made his stomach do a slow, sickening flip of desire.

"Aonung! You're back," you chirped, your voice like the chime of shells hitting one another in a breeze. "I've been trying to do the rhythmic breathing Lo'ak showed me, but I keep floating up like a cork. Am I doing it wrong?"

He walked into the water until it reached his hips, his thighs cutting through the surf with practiced ease. His skin was cool, but inside, he was boiling. "The forest way is not our way," he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low, vibrating rumble in his chest. "Your brothers are clumsy. They teach you to fight the water. You must learn to invite it in."

I want to invite myself in, he thought, his gaze dropping to the rise and fall of your chest. I want to feel those lungs gasping against my own skin until you don't know where the air ends and I begin.

He moved behind you, the proximity sending a jolt of static through his nerves. You didn't pull away; you simply adjusted your stance, trusting him completely. 

To you, he was the mentor, the friend, the boy helping your family find their place. To him, you were a soft, pliable thing that he wanted to mold to his own dark whims.

"Put your hands here," he commanded softly, reaching around to place his large, three-fingered hands over your diaphragm.

His touch was firm, his palms rough with the callouses of a diver. He could feel the delicate lattice of your ribs, the terrifyingly soft texture of your skin that felt like wet silk. You let out a tiny, surprised huff of air but stayed still. "Now, breathe. Not from the throat. From here. Deep. Slow."

"Like this?" you asked, taking a lungful of air.

As you inhaled, your back pressed firmly against his chest. Aonung’s eyes closed for a brief, tortured second. He could smell you—a musky, floral scent like crushed hibiscus and the damp earth of a jungle floor after a heavy rain. It was intoxicating, a physical weight that pressed against his senses. He leaned down, his chin hovering just above your shoulder, his breath hot against the sensitive curve of your neck.

"Slowly," he hissed, his fingers splaying out across your stomach. He began to knead the muscles there, ostensibly to help you relax, but his thumbs traced the dip of your navel with a lingering pressure. 

She is so small. I could break her. I could wrap my hands around her waist and meet my fingers on the other side. I want to feel her trembling under me while I tell her exactly what I'm going to do to her.

"It feels... different when you do it," you whispered, looking back at him with those wide, innocent amber eyes. You actually smiled, a tiny, dimpled thing that should have been illegal. "Thank you, Aonung. You're a much better teacher than my brothers. They just yell."

He felt a surge of pride. He liked that you were comparing him to them and finding them wanting. He liked that you were leaning into his touch, completely unaware that his mind was currently stripping you bare, imagining the way your tail would curl around his leg as he drove himself into you. He imagined the sound you would make—not a thank you, but a shattered, high-pitched keening as he took everything you had to give.

"Your brothers don't understand the depth of the water," Aonung murmured, his hand sliding lower, his pinky catching the top edge of your loincloth. He lingered there for a heartbeat too long, feeling the heat radiating from your hips. "They only see the surface. But there is so much more beneath, isn't there? Secrets."

You nodded, oblivious, turning back to the horizon to try another breath. "The Way of Water has no beginning and no end. That's what your sister says."

"Guess my sister can say wise things," Aonung said, trying not to think of his dumb sister right now. He stepped even closer, his pelvis brushing against the back of your thigh. He could feel the firmness of your glutes through the thin fabric, the way your body was toned from a lifetime of climbing trees. He wondered if you would be just as strong when you were trying to hold onto him. 

I want to bite that shoulder. I want to leave marks that your mother can see from across the village, so everyone knows you belong to me.

"Try again," he whispered, his hand moving up to trace the line of your throat, his thumb resting right over your pulse point. He felt it leaping, a frantic little bird trapped under your skin. Was it from the exercise, or did some small, primal part of you recognize the predator standing at your back? "Deep breath. Hold it. Feel the weight of the ocean pressing in on you. Let it take you."

You obeyed, closing your eyes and sinking slightly into the water. Aonung watched the way the water beaded on your collarbones, the way your nipples peaked against the cool air as the tide ebbed. He felt a literal ache in his jaw from clenching his teeth so hard. He was drowning in his own depravity, and the most delicious part was that you were holding his hand while he did it.

She’s thanking me, he thought, a jagged, silent laugh vibrating in his throat. She’s smiling at me while I’m thinking about how much I want to hear her beg.

He reached out, his hand dipping beneath the surface to steady your hip as a small wave rolled in. His fingers brushed the soft skin of your inner thigh, a touch that was entirely unnecessary for the lesson. You didn't flinch. You just adjusted your balance and leaned your weight into his hand, trusting him to keep you upright.

"I think I'm getting it!" you said, beaming at him.

"You are doing perfectly," Aonung lied, his voice a gravelly rasp. 

Eywa, forgive me, because I’m never going to stop.

[mrssullyy]

༄ UNEXPECTED BEAUTY

jake sully! x fem!omitikaya!reader

synopsis: jake can’t help falling when a cute na’vi girl who barley speaks two words in english takes an interest in him

tags: fluff, friends with feelings, broken English

wc: guys my laptop charger is still MIA but as soon as i get my hands on it i WILL place a number. This is one decently lengthed deffo longer than my last one im thinkinggggg 1.1? 1.3 maybe max

a/n: prompt 28 for pandora in bloom by @junebugonjupiter - “thank eywa you’re awake, i couldn’t wait-” (i didn’t put the exact quote is that okay guys 🥹)

a/n pt.2: guys past and present tense don’t exist in my realm of living, you get what u get. FUN FACT when I started nursery all i could say was my name and toilet in english😛 bet my teachers were having a field day figuring out what i wanted

The life Jake was living was not one he had expected for himself.

He didn’t expect that he’d be on a moon 4.65 light years away from his home. Didn’t expect that he’d be able to walk on his own two legs again. Or even be a big blue alien that’s nine feet tall.

But most of all he didn’t expect a sweet Na’vi girl to become his closest friend.

You’re incredibly cute to him. Smile always bright and body radiating sunshine everywhere you went. When you see him you come running over and give him a hug, immediately starting a conversation with him in a language you really struggled to speak and understand. It made him want to pinch your cheeks and squeeze you till you popped, something humans called ‘cuteness aggression’.

When you first met him, you were hesitant. Naturally. Everyone was. A dream walker had made his way into your clan and caused a slight disruption in the peace. So you stayed away.

But then he almost ran you over with his pa'li (direhorse).

He had jumped of quickly, helping you up from the ground and apologising profusely, the word 'sorry' leaving his mouth multiple times.

It took your brain a minute to understand what was being said, the language being something you hadn't used in a long time, but you only laughed it off, telling him in Na’vi ‘it’s okay, you’re lucky you’re cute’. And of course he didn’t understand, but he smiled and laughed with you anyway.

You both became close quickly after that.

It started off with simple hello’s when passing by, or good nights when he purposely walked past your hammock. Then he’d actively seek you out during the day, sitting beside you at breakfast, then lunch and dinner. You didn’t see him much other than that, he was always with Neytiri, the Olo’eyktan’s daughter, learning the ways of your people.

It wasn’t long before you in turn started seeking him out too. Finding him before he usually went to bed just to catch up with him about his day, or ask him what he had planned for tomorrow.

The language barrier between you was incredibly strong, but somehow you understood each other.

A month into his stay and Jake sully was your best friend.

Jake was still in his hammock when you reached him early in the morning, presumably asleep, or as he'd explained to you (or asked Neytiri to translate to you), in his human body.

It was an 'off day' today, which meant that everyone was off of work and could do whatever they wanted, and you obviously wanted to spend your day with Jake as the Oloeyktan’s daughter wasn't obligated to give him a lesson.

He usually showed up when the sky was at its brightest, so you rushed off to breakfast and brought back a portion for yourself and for him, before sitting on the tree branch above him and starting your meal, listening to the animals chirp and roar.

You had so much you wanted to do with him today, your excitement making you restless as you kept glancing down at his hammock waiting for him to wake.

You needed to feed your ikran first, so you were going to fly her down to the lakes at the edge of the forest so you and her could fish. Then in the evening some of the other na’vi your age were having a party and they allowed you to bring your new friend.

You were going to bring him regardless, but you found it very nice they wanted to include him.

All you had to do now was figure out how you were going to tell Jake this stuff without it sounding like absolute gibberish.

You had just placed the last bite of your breakfast into your mouth when Jake’s hammock opened up, his arms stretched above his head.

He jumps when he feels a body land right in front of him, ur face coming into view as you shove his breakfast in his face. “Thank Eywa you wake, you too long, yom (eat).”

“Well good morning to you too.” He chuckles, taking the wrapped food from your hand and very slowly beginning to eat.

“Morning, yes,” you nod at him in a quick greeting, then immediately start trying to form coherent sentences, “okay, today, no work.” He nods at you to show he’s listening and understanding, and you continue.

“You,” you place a hand on the top of his chest, between his collarbones, “with oe (me).” You then place that same hand on your own chest, and again he nods.

“We go on my ikran, toooo eh.. ‘ora. You know?” The poor man had a very confused look on his face, but non the less nodded and gestured for you to continue. “Where the fishes, you know?” And this time he nodded confidently.

“Yes, ikran eat. Makrr (later), in night, awnga (we),” you gestured between you both, “go pongu (party) with friends.” Again Jake nodded, but you could see by his facial expression that he didn’t quite understand that last part. Your only solution was to act it out, so you started imitating music with your mouth and shimmying your shoulders, your best attempt at translating party.

His loud laughter cut through the silence of this part of the home tree, and your hands were immediately on him shushing him. “Jake! Shhhh! Loud!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Ngaytxoa (sorry).” His laughter turned silent, but his shoulders were still shaking as he doubled forward. “You’re funny, errr Hiyìk (funny).”

After staring at him, you too began to giggle.

“Säpi (hurry) Jake.” You reach your hand out and take the food from his hand, shoving what was left into his mouth and immediately standing up and dragging him with you. “Ikran hungry.”

You heard him cough lightly as you dragged him down the tree, but you didn’t stop to check on him, too eager to see your ikran.

So like he found himself doing a lot recently, Jake let you drag him along, a hidden smile on his face, and had one of his favourite days ever.

By the time eclipse passed, both your smiles were bright enough to replace the sun and light up the whole of pandora.

Your day had gone slightly off track. After heading to the lakes, instead of the original plan of quickly fishing and returning straight home, you had both instead decided to go for a swim (you pushed Jake in, he didn’t actually have a choice in the matter).

After that you found out that no one had ever taken him to the Ayram Alusìng (hallelujah mountains) and you couldn’t pass up an opportunity on sharing their beauty with your friend. You arrived late to the communal dinner, but either way you took the food and sat up in the trees munching and talking.

Now you were dragging him (again) through the forest and further away from home tree, hands intertwined. “Säpi Jake!” You whisper shouted, the sound of upbeat Na’vi songs becoming louder.

“I am! I’m coming.” You both ran through the trees, watching as they reduced and a clearing full of already drunk Na’vi’s came into view.

You slowed down to a walk, your grip on Jake still tight, and lead him straight to the drinks your friends had made. “Okay,” when you reached the table, you turned to him and intertwined your other hand with his. “This, drink. Like ehh alc-ohool.” Jake grinned and nodded, looking over at each one as you pointed them out and explained what was inside as best you could.

“Okay, Oe new fì'u 'aw (I want this one),” you pointed at yourself then at the drink, “and you?”

“I’ll have the same please lor (beautiful).” You blushed slightly at the new nickname, especially because he had specifically asked you to translate it for him.

When you poured the first drinks you both finished them quickly. You had taken Jake around to meet all your friends and took it in turns getting drinks for each other. Before anyone knew it, you were both incredibly drunk.

“Okay! Okay oe kame (I understand)! I dare you, jump!” Jake leaned on you and laughed, shaking his head.

“No, no! It has to be bad ones like… I dare you to take your tweng (loincloth) off and jump in the lake.” You gasped loudly at his dare, slapping your hand over his mouth. Your head swivelled around to make sure no one heard what he said.

“Kehe (no) Jake! Rude!” But Jake only laughed louder, shaking his head at your childlike innocence.

Later you both ended up on the makeshift dance floor, Jake teaching you his Sky people dances and you teaching him the dances of the Na’vi. “No, no you’re too stiff, you need to move smooth like you have no bones.” Still you didn’t understand any of his movements, none of them had meaning and in all honesty he just looked a bit silly.

As the night went on your energy increased. Other Na’vi joined you in your dances, then very quickly left when Jake and his human-ness joined. You climbed trees as a challenge to see who could get the highest drunk, then raced to see who could get the furthest without tripping.

The whole evening was just a replica of your afternoon, but drunk.

Eventually though, the high faded, and you and Jake were left slumped against a tree. “Oe (I’m) tired Jake.”

“Me too.” He groaned, leaning off the tree and instead onto you, head on your stomach. “I had a lot of fun with you today though, irayo (thank you).”

Your hand came to rest on his head, three fingers sliding through his hair. “Kehe (no) Jake no thank,” then you took a deep breath, “I had fun with you too.” He lifted off of you and turned to look at your face, smile bright.

“Oh my gosh that was perfect.” You smiled proud and shrugged. You wanted to say it even if you struggled. You didn’t mind struggling for him. Then very quickly your smile vanished. Jake had leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek.

You felt your face light on fire and your eyes widen. “‘Upe (what)…” But Jake only shrugged, his grin teasing, and lay his head back on your stomach.

You fell asleep against the tree that night, but the only thing on your mind was Jake Sully had kissed me.

[tinyleafwritings]

Captain Price doesn’t really discuss his private life, but you’ve decided that he must secretly be married. You have no evidence, except look at him, how could he not have some beautiful wife tucked away in an idyllic, rustic cottage in the countryside.

That’s the image you try to keep in mind when it’s late at night and you’re alone with John in his office. Otherwise, you’ll conjure visions of him spreading you out on top of his desk, and you are no homewrecker.

Admittedly, you haven’t been doing a great job of battling against the various temptations he throws your way. Once John starts leaning in close and casually touching you and speaking directly into your ear, all logic leaves your brain and you just indulge. Lately, he’s been dropping a few “sweetheart”’s into his conversations with you, which has got you spinning. The sanctity of marriage means something to you, though. You resolve to set some professional boundaries and stick to them.

It’s a good thing too because a week later, you finally get your first real confirmation of his secret wife. Your whole body seizes up when you overhear John confiding to his men that the missus seems to be upset with him. Pivoting in place, you scuttle back the way you came from before he realizes you’re there. You’re so embarrassed now that it’s truly been established that you’ve been flirting with a married man. After that, you avoid ever being alone with him and can barely look him in the eye, but it's for the best.

The captain seems to have a different opinion on the way you’ve settled this matter, though.

He’s got you cornered in his office, literally, with an arm pressed against the wall above you. John starts to speak of how he wants to be clear about his intentions, and you’ve got to stop him before you kiss his wonderful face that’s creeping closer and closer to yours.

“Captain Price, what about your wife?!” you blurt out, keeping your hands glued to your sides and to yourself.

John pauses, but he looks more amused than guilty. “Is that what all this has been about?” he asks with a chuckle. You get about five words into your practiced speech on how infidelity is unacceptable to you on any level when he drops a bomb on your whole scenario. “I’m not married.”

You’re floored with this new information, eyes wide and mouth agape. “W-what? But I heard you tell the others about your missus and–”

“I was referring to you, sweetheart,” he declares. Your jaw snaps shut at the interruption, and your face heats up as you start processing what this all means. “Glad we're on the same page when it comes to loyalty, though.”

You’re mortified, of course, but at least you’ve hit rock bottom with your dignity already, so it’s not much more of a stretch to next very timidly and quietly request that he place you on top of his desk. John happily obliges. Anything for his little missus.

He’ll make a Mrs. Price out of you yet.