Thinking about spnAU!Dean Winchester being reader's bf who wants her literally all the time, no matter where!
Warnings: unprotected sex (wrap it up), car sex, quickie, semi-public, penetrative sex, creampies<3 BOTTOM DEAN!
(wc: ≈ 1.4k) (genre: smut)
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
| It could be everywhere; after a long day in a motel room, during a hunt in an abandoned house, or at a gas station in some disgusting bathroom.
Today was one of those days again. Dean found himself worked up after a—way too long—drive across the country. Not only haven’t they reached the motel where they were supposed to stay at, but the weather was absolutely unbearable too. Mid July, the hottest of all the months.
Sam was complaining. You were complaining. Dean was already in a grumpy mood to begin with! He refused wearing shorts since he insisted they weren’t manly enough and the Impala he loved so much didn’t really have any sort of AC.
With the windows down and his dad-rock playing from the cassettes he kept in the glovebox, you three eventually did reach some lonely-looking diner. It wasn’t exactly luxury, but hunting didn’t come with a paycheck. In other words; you were too broke for any fancy restaurants.
————————————————————
"Sam, you go and check what’s on the menu— Get me extra fries while you’re at it." Dean called over his shoulder to his brother.
Sam glanced between the two of you from the front seat, catching the shift in Dean's mood.
"I’m just gonna… go order food before I see something I don't wanna see.." He mumbled, as he slammed the car door shut.
"Take your time, Sammy! No need to hurry—" Dean shouted after him, looking way too smug.
As soon as Sam was gone, Dean turned to his girlfriend; you.
Currently, you were sitting in the backseat, trying to get your shoes back on, in order to get out of the car and stretch your limbs. Maybe get some ice cream yourself.
"What're you doin', babe?" Dean's voice was raspy, a twinge of that boyish tone still shining through, despite his best efforts to sound composed.
"What does it look like, De? I'm starving—" You'd complain. He expected nothing less.
"You really wanna go in there with Sammy? C'mon, can’t the food wait? For a moment? Don’t you wanna spend time with your boyfriend?"
"Dean, what—" You'd look up from your shoe laces, only to meet his green eyes, his sickly long lashes, looking at you like he’s starving too. Just.. not for food.
"Baby, please— Sammy’s gone. He’ll be gone for at least twenty minutes. I've been.. I couldn’t stop thinking about you today. Don’t be cruel.." He pleaded. Actually. His voice turned much whinier than before, still slightly cocky nonetheless.
"Seriously?! We fucked last night—" You were cut off by his frame already climbing into the backseat, already pressed against you.
"C'mon, please.. Whatever you want. Let me taste you— Or.. use your mouth on me. Your hands. Ride me, I don’t care—" The way he said it made you feel pretty sure he was about to cry if you didn’t give in.
"You’re such a loser, Dean, like.. you’re worse than a teenager!" You’d laugh, while simultaneously climbing on top of his lap, your arms lazily wrapped around his neck, before you press your lips against his plush ones.
The kiss quickly turned into a makeout session, his tongue swiping along your bottom lip, claiming it’s way into your month, just to intertwine with yours. It was a moment full of tongue and teeth, his hands roaming all over your body, already pulling your tank top over your head, leaving your in your bra.
When he unclasped it single-handedly, his lips were still glued to yours. You could feel the sliver ring he wore, cold metal against your searing skin, leaving goosebumps in it's wake.
You were forced to be the one breaking away from the kiss, since Dean was ready to asphyxiate on your lips and die a happy man. You could tell by his panting, his parted, wet lips, as you looked over his flushed, freckled face.
At this point, neither of you really cared about the people that may walk by and catch a glimpse of the heated moment anymore. The diner's parking lot was pretty much empty anyway.
"Please, baby.. don’t make me wait. I can’t—" He begged. His eyes looking up at you, as you smile to yourself and trail your hands down his chest.
"Patience, De.." You'd scold, although his hands were already palming at your tits, squishing the soft flesh, and trying to drink in the sight. His cock was already hard and leaking in his pants, pleading to be noticed.
His shirt was lost soon enough too. Leaving his amulet to dangle across his freckled muscles. It was a delicious sight, made you almost forget that Sam would be back in ten minutes. That said, you quickly lost your shorts as well.
With this new determination to finish before you got caught, you undid his belt, unzipped his jeans, pulling the fabric down to his meaty thighs, revealing his ratty, grey boxers.
"Can’t wait— wanna taste.. wanna look at you all day.. every day—" Dean had to stop himself from drooling over you, when you finally pulled his precum-stained boxers down and freed his aching cock.
The tip was already flushed in a deep shade of pink, clear pre running down the veins along his shaft, soaking his dark blonde pubes.
Usually, you’d give him a blowjob first, but honestly? You weren’t sure if he could handle that right now, given that he almost came untouched.
You moved your lace panties aside, revealing your already glistening cunt, as your grabbed a hold of his cock, sliding him along your slit to gather the mixed lube of both of your arousal.
Once you finally slid down his length, his eyes fluttered shut and his head tipped back, sweat already beading at his short dirty blonde spikes of hair. His mouth fell slightly open, breathy moans leaving his throat immediately.
"Oh— fuck, Dean.. It’s big—" You should be used to it by now.. but every now and then, you still need a moment to get used to his size.
"You got it, baby— It’s okay. It’s fine— Just move. C'mon.." He urged you on, his hands squeezing and pulling at the flesh of your hips.
Dean was entirely blinded by the pleasure of your warm walls around him, dismissing the fact that you might have needed some time to adjust, because he was just that desperate.
When you did begin riding his cock with a steady rhythm, his face buried against your shoulder, his forehead tipping onto your collarbones, as his arms hugged tightly around your body.
The lewd sounds of skin on skin and the slick between your bodies now started to combine with Dean's whines. He was no longer moaning, no, his sounds bordered on whimpers.
"Baby— I'm not gonna last— I can’t.. feels too good—" He forced those words out, while his body was unconsciously trying to merge with you, his face now smooshed against your chest. His mouth was left slightly agape, his eyes squeezed shut, and his eyebrows furrowed.
He clumsily tried to slide one of his hands down towards your clit, giving it uncoordinated circles. Though, he missed the spot with his thumb about five times, before he gave up and just wrapped both his arms around you.
"Come, De— Fuck, just— come inside." You'd moan, as your hands were clawing at his chiseled shoulders and the back of his head. Fingers tugging at hair that was too short to really pull at.
The scratching of your fingertips against his scalp and the warm, wet pleasure of your walls tightening and pulsing around his swollen cock eventually overwhelmed him, pushing him to a mind-blowing orgasm, that had him moaning and whining high pitched gasps against your damp skin.
His cock pulsed thick hot ropes of cum inside you, leaving your cunt so full, it caused the sticky mess to drip down against his own lap, soaking his thighs.
"Oh— shit, that was—" He breathed out, trying to regain his consciousness, even though he was still seeing stars from the orgasm.
Then it washed over him like cold sweat; Sammy was about to come back! His eyes shot wide, as he looked at you.
"Fuck, baby. You gotta clean up. You’re dripping—"
"Yeah, and whose fault is that, smartass?" You laughed, before quickly pulling both your panties and your shorts back up, not minding the literal cum that was leaking out of you.
"Can’t blame a man for wanting his girl, baby.." There was that cocky attitude seeping back into his tone, as if he hadn’t just whimpered and pleaded for you.
With surprising efficiency, he was dressed again, climbing back behind the wheel, as he made sure to open the doors to his beloved car, wanting to get rid of the smell of sex before his brother suspected anything.
As for the dubious stains on the leather seats; he just threw his jacket over them, hoping he wouldn’t forget to clean the car tomorrow.
You were in the bathroom of the diner, trying to freshen up, as Sammy finally came back with the food. Greasy fries and burgers.
Weirdly enough, Dean was flushed, trying to look unbothered, as his brother got back into the car.
"Dean, you okay? Where’s reader?" Sam asked innocently, frowning in confusion.
"Yeah— sure. Just fine. She’s— she said she had to freshen up. Heat must be getting to her."
Dean was such a liar. His dick was still twitching in his boxers from his earlier high.
ᥫ᭡ writers note: I'm literally so sorry for disappearing for like a month omg ! There was so much shit going on in my life. But anyway, here’s this! If you guys have any other requests or ideas, lmk! xoxo —ℳ ᥫ᭡
A compilation of Reader and Damian being horny nineteen year olds much to the detriment of everyone around them.
🕷️--- Smut. MDNI. Same reader as this series but can be read as a standalone ---🕸️
Everyone noticed the shift.
They expected it much earlier actually but after you and Damian started dating nothing really changed about the way you interacted in public. You just acted like close friends, like you had since you were kids.
Then, all of a sudden, touches between you seemed to linger, conversations were being whispered into each others ears instead of just spoken, even eye contact seemed more intimate.
And the worst part was that Damian's siblings were forced to watch it all. It's not that they weren't happy for him, it was just weird seeing their moody, stick-up-the-ass baby brother be soft and even…loving?
It didn't take a house full of detectives to know why this sudden change could've occurred.
“They're fucking."
Multiple heads turn to Jason and he clarifies, “That's why they're acting so weird all of a sudden."
None of them have to ask who he's talking about.
“They’re just acting like a couple."
Duke comes to your defence. “Even though it really is... weird."
Everyone in the room sounds their agreements.
“It's getting worse than weird. It's getting disturbing. I caught them in the library." Jason grumbles, cringing at the memory.
It was a quiet, peaceful evening. You'd both spent a good two hours in comfortable silence until you got to a lull in your book and began to find staring at your boyfriend more interesting.
You shuffle closer on the comfy couch, gauging just how engrossed Damian is in his book. Without looking up, he slips an arm around your waist to bring you closer and you take that as a hint.
“What are you reading?" Damian flips the book closed to show you the cover.
“Poetry?"
He nods, his thumb rubbing at your side as you shuffle even closer.
“What are these?"
You point to the little sticky notes he has in some of the pages. Instead of answering, he turns to one of the pages and reads it out loud.
"هرگز نمیرد آن که دلش زنده شد به عشق ثبت است بر جریده عالم دوام ما"
"One whose heart has been revived by love can never die. Our everlastingness is engraved upon the cosmic scroll."
- Hafez
As he mutters the last word, you don't even try to hide the way you stare at him and he's just as subtle himself. You carefully lean in, so close you can feel his breath and you close the gap. He slides the book away to pull you onto his lap as the kiss grows deeper. Your hand on his cheek keeps him close as he pushes you down on the couch.
A sly whistle makes you both jump apart, turning to see Jason standing in the middle of the library.
“Well that's everlastingly engraved into my skull, thanks."
You avert your gaze, face hot and palms suddenly sweaty. Damian clicks his tongue and sneers,
“Always where you're not wanted, Todd."
Jason, not fazed at all by the harsh words, just shrugs his ridiculously large shoulders.
“I didn't say it wasn't romantic, little man. I just didn't need to see it."
Damian's so mad he just picks his book up, grabs your hand and storms out of the room.
“The library!" Jason emphasizes again.
Tim scoffs, “Please, we caught them in the theatre room."
“No way." Cass voices in amused disbelief and only gets a solemn nod from Steph.
You weren't trying to start something, you were just so warm and cozy in his arms. So content as the movie played on in front of you. You really didn't mean any harm when you just turned your head to the side and lightly kissed his neck.
But the way he tensed up a little at the touch, the way his breath hitched softly and his arm around you flexed at just the little kiss. You just had to do it again, and again and again. Your hand sliding up his chest to feel his heartbeat, your lips feeling his pulse right under his warm skin.
“Ya Hayati." He warned.
“I’m not doing anything.” Your words are muffled against his skin. "And if I was, no one ever comes in here anyway."
Apparently, that was all the convincing he needed. He brings your thigh over his waist, feeling up the fat there as he moves higher until his hand cups your ass. Whatever scene plays on the projector is forgotten as you suck love bites onto his neck, making him let out addicting sighs you just have to hear again. He pulls your hips closer, one hand on your ass, the other around your waist.
Just when Damian slips a hand up your shirt, the doors swing open and you hear a high-pitched screech.
“Is this what you do in here all the time!?”
Stephanie shouts and Tim makes a disgusted groaning sound from behind her.
Damian sighs, reluctantly letting you shuffle out of his hold and sit next to him, staring straight ahead with a guilty expression like you're being scolded by a parent.
“Get a room! You literally have a room!”
“Do you think they do that a lot in there?"
The others all make various faces of horror at Cass’s genuine question.
“Alfred, you've probably caught them more times than any of us have, right?"
The old man doesn't falter as he transfers more cookies and cakes from his silver tray to the table. He doesn't say anything for a while, he probably wanted to stay out of this particular conversation.
“While I am very happy for Master Damian and his lady…" The butler sets the last cupcake down. "I am also glad that they have chosen to journey out to the lady's dorm today for some…alone time, I presume.“
Your roommate said she'd be out all night at a party and you weren't going to let that once in a blue moon opportunity slip past.
So now you've got your boyfriend, sitting on the end of your bed with your thighs on either side of his and his face buried in your neck, sweetly kissing the bruises he leaves in his wake.
Your fingers lightly, card up from the base of his head into his dark hair. You feel him shiver, feel him let out a shaky breath against your skin, his fingers flexing on your hips.
It was so fascinating seeing how he reacted to you. It was like seeing him for the first time again, a whole new side of him. You've known each other since you were kids but suddenly there's so many new things to explore. What would happen if you touched here? Is he sensitive there? What sounds does he make when you touch there?
You gently push him down so he leans back with his elbows on the bed. Your hand swiftly slips under his shirt to drag your nails up his toned torso. His half lidded eyes watch as his abs flex under the soft touch and he tries not to move his hips too much. You start dragging your nails back down to the waistband of his pants, tracing his v-line.
And then a knock on the door frightens you so much, you would've fallen off the bed if Damian hadn't caught you.
“Hey, I know you said you'd be…busy but the function got cancelled so…"
You both heave a sorrowful sigh and you wordlessly shuffle off your bed.
“I have an idea."
Is all Damian mumbles while slipping his shoes on and plucking his keys from his pocket.
“So…what do we do about it?"
“The same thing we did with Master Bruce and Miss Kyle. We ignore it."
Steph and Tim give pained groans.
“Or we convince them to move out." Jason throws out into the room.
“You think Damian would ever live in a house that isn't a mansion?" Tim turns to Alfred to ask, "Didn't he call this place a hovel when he first came here?"
The older man hums. “He also said my cooking was atrocious."
Multiple gasps ring throughout the room.
You've been driving for about fifteen minutes when he brings the car to a stop. You sit up to get a good look at the incredible view in front of you and then realise where you are.
“A makeout point?"
You smugly ask, as if you aren't kicking your shoes off as you speak.
“There's no one here. The windows are tinted." He says, while pushing his seat back. “Unless you'd like to try the manor again?"
He barely gets to finish before you're clambering out of your seat and onto his lap. Your lips are on his once again and he pulls you closer so your hips meet through way too many layers of clothes and leans forward to press your back against the steering wheel.
The smell of leather is strong and the space is awkwardly tight but neither of you seem to mind that much, lost in the way the other tastes.
After some effort you push him back down on the seat and pull your sweatshirt off. You're not trying to waste anymore time and neither is he.
His hands clutch at your hips as he takes in the sight of you in the darkly lit car with only the city lights behind you. The look in his eyes matched with the dim lighting may be your new favourite thing. You unbutton his jeans and unzip them until there's nothing but his boxers keeping him away from you.
He sits up, trailing light kisses on the swell of your breast just above your bra as his fingers unbutton your jeans and pull them down so you can grind your heat against him with nothing but the thin material of your underwear between you.
You wonder if he can feel your wetness as you circle your hips, catching his every little noise and reaction. You just need to feel him, need to feel your bare skin against his, his hot, hard-
BZZZT BZZZT BZZZT
You both jump as the sound plays from the car's speakers. Looking towards the screen on the dash you both groan when you read,
“Father”
He sinks into the car seat, bringing you with him to lay on his chest.
“Maybe he's just checking in?" You mumble into his shoulder with false hope. Damian sighs and answers the call.
“I'm busy."
“I need you in the cave. Now."
You try not to sigh to loudly or move too much, convinced Bruce would somehow know exactly what you're doing by just the sound alone.
Damian squeezes your hip in a little apology and you nod into his neck as a show of understanding.
“I'll be there."
He hangs up the call and you awkwardly shuffle off his lap and into the passenger seat. Buttoning up your jeans as he does the same.
He starts the car and pulls away a little less skillfully than usual. You try not to think about the clear wet patch you saw on his boxers or the state of your panties as you slip your sweatshirt back on.
You stare at your lap instead, where your hands are clasped above your clenched thighs. He'll have to take a cold shower to get rid of his…problem, maybe you could use one too.
You gasp out loud at the brilliant idea and Damian looks over with confusion and a little worry.
“What?"
“Master Damian? Dinner is ready."
Everyone just got done with an important meeting in the cave and the dinner table is being set already. All participants are accounted for except two.
Alfred knocks on the door again and waits a moment before easing it open. He scans the empty room for the two missing guests and notices the closed bathroom door.
He then hears the shower running and some other noises he'd rather not have heard.
The old man slips out of the room rather quickly, making his way to the dining room.
“I suspect Master Damian and his lady will be late for dinner.”
Water drips down in-between where your naked bodies are pressed together.
Your back arches against the cold tile as he finally gives you everything you've been craving.
“The only thing worse than being away from you is having you constantly ripped right from my hands, Rouhi"
Your moans meld together and echo around you in the small space. You tip your head back, letting out a groan as he gives a particularly deep thrust. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders just to keep you grounded.
You push back against his thrusts, taking him as deep as you possibly can as his pace increases. Wet slapping sounds get drowned out by the shower stream as you pull him into a deep, messy kiss. Your legs hook around his hips to keep him close as you finally release all that pent up tension, your heat clenching down, taking everything he gives you and more. His hips stutter and his grip eases slightly, still keeping you as close as possible as you both come down.
Once he's caught his breath, he leans back just enough to see your face, your head tipped back against the white tiles. His hands rubbing circles on your back and thigh where he holds you against the shower wall.
“I found a place. In the city." He pauses, taking a breath while you process what he's saying.
"Do you want to move in with me?" You blink at him, stunned for a moment by how pretty he looks with his hair soaked, wet eyelashes batting at darker than usual cheeks.
You then realise he's waiting for an answer, as if it wasn't obvious. You give him a breathy, “Yeah, of course." and laugh a little, pushing up a strand of hair from his forehead as a relieved smile plays on his face.
The site makes your hips twitch and he sucks in a breath. You can feel him getting hard again inside you so you bring him into a wet kiss.
Your bodies start to slowly grind against each other, finding a new rhythm. You separate to mumble against his lips,
“Can we check it out tomorrow?”
That's how you got here, walking into the dining room twenty minutes late for dinner, hair still damp, cheeks still hot.
You take your seat and quietly thank Alfred for the food before digging in. There's an awkward silence that follows and you desperately try to ignore it. You feel Damian's foot nudge yours and can't help a little smile show through.
Damian clears his throat.
“We're moving out."
He announces to the table, as blunt as ever. There's a moment of silence before everyone reacts.
Stephanie, Tim, Jason and Duke all give various groans of “Thank God." and "Finally!“ while Alfred and Bruce share knowing looks with each other.
You'd be embarrassed if you weren't so very excited at the idea of living together with Damian, who doesn't react at all to his families dramatics, quietly eating his food in peace.
You smile down at your plate, chancing a glance up only to make eye contact with Cass, who quickly looks away, her cheeks a shade of pink you've never seen on her before.
It's then that you realise that Cass’s room is right next to Damian's which means her room shares a wall with his bathroom.
You give a pained sigh, looking back down at your food, you'll have to apologize to her later? Or maybe never bother her with your presence ever again?
You nudge Damian's foot with yours and he gives the slightest little smile. You vaguely hear Tim yell something like, “It's just weird!" but you're too busy staring at your boyfriend to really pay attention.
🕷️---Not tagging anyone cus it's smut and idk who's okay with that and who's not and it's not part of the main story anyway ---🕸️
summary: you are the bane of lord jeong’s existence and the object of all his desires.
genre: fluff, angst, smut
warnings: enemies to lovers trope (kind of), fuckboy!jaehyun, arranged marriage trope, jaehyun is down bad, pussy eating, fingering, loss of virginity
As the new social season approaches, your rising anxiety increases tenfold.
It has been four years since you were introduced to society, which is deemed far too long to be unwed for a lady like yourself. Your mother is nearly chewing her own arm off in anticipation of you finding a husband. She definitely would have married you off to the first gentleman caller by now, but luckily for you, your father refuses to tie you to another man unless you provide your stamp of approval. He possesses a soft spot for his only child that your mother never understood.
Unfortunately, the pool of suitors is extremely lacking, forcing you to pass by season after season with no husband in sight.
“Perhaps this year will be different,” Yerim coos. “They say Mrs. Kim’s son is particularly eye-catching.”
“He’s also a right bore,” you grumble, locking your arms together as you stroll into Mrs. Kim’s soirée. You’ve heard many tales of her son, Doyoung, and how he’s finally ready to settle down and take a wife. However, you also heard he is unwilling to sit for a conversation for more than an hour, and how his expectations for his wife are skyrocketing through the roof. “Maybe I shall just put him out of his misery and marry Lee Donghyuck.”
She struggles to conceal her laughter. “I would love to see that.”
The night carries on as expected, with you and Yerim spending your time near the wall while the other ladies dance around the floor. You deny multiple requests for your hand, conjuring up excuses of a strained ankle or an upset stomach.
It is not until the end of the night when you are confronted with your lie.
“A poor tummy, hm? Perhaps you should have stayed home in case you heave all over Mrs. Kim’s beautiful floor,” Jeong Jaehyun says as he approaches you.
You roll your eyes. “I imagine you find it quite hard to mind your own business, Lord Jeong. I would rather not be subject to hearing your grating voice if it is not deemed necessary.”
Out of all the gentlemen in the ton, Jeong Jaehyun is the one who has stooped low enough to classify himself as a proper rake. A man who preys on the hearts of women and lacks commitment — a rake is not a man that a lady would ever want to associate herself with. They do not take the concept of marriage seriously, and you shall likely find them in the bed of another woman before they grace your own.
Jaehyun smirks at you in the way he knows will dig underneath your skin. He has been out in society just as long as you have, and every year, he never fails to irritate you to no end.
“No luck for you tonight? Tell me, what could possibly be wrong with the wonderful men gracing this room? How have they wronged you so that you have denied every single one of them?”
You try to look for an escape, but Yerim has already made an early departure and the rest of the ladies refuse to mingle with you in fear of also being dubbed as a lonely spinster.
“I did not know you were paying attention to me so ardently,” you bite back, and this has Jaehyun’s ears blooming bright red. You smile in satisfaction.
“I-I was not doing anything of t-the sort,” he stutters. “It is simply hard not to notice when you are the only lady actively rejecting possible suitors. If you really want to drive them away, you should just open your mouth and talk to them. That shall have them running for the hills.”
You narrow your eyes and wonder how much of a scolding you shall receive from your mother if you threw your drink in his face. He guesses what you must be thinking, cupping his hand over your glass and handing it to a nearby staff member.
He continues, stepping closer into your personal space. “Soon enough, the only ones who will be left in this ballroom will be me and you.”
“I loathe the day,” you hiss. “It would personally be my worst nightmare.”
He winks at you. “Trust me, you shall not find a gentleman better than me.”
You hear someone clearing their throat and you both glance over to see Kim Doyoung standing in front of you. You immediately drop to a curtsy at his presence, and you hear Jaehyun scoff at the fact that you did not grant him the same etiquette.
“I hope I am not interrupting, Miss,” Doyoung says.
“Of course not, Lord Kim,” you reply. “Lord Jeong was just telling me how he plans to retire early for the night.”
Jaehyun raises an eyebrow at you and you return his bewildered expression with a heated glare. You would be very content if he made himself useful somewhere else, likely with his hands underneath another maiden’s dress.
“Yes, it seems I have another obligation to head to for the night,” Jaehyun says through gritted teeth, displeased by your dismissal of him. “I shall thank your mother for being a spectacular host before my leave, Lord Kim.”
Doyoung nods once. “It would be much appreciated. Thank you, Lord Jeong.”
Jaehyun departs with one more scathing look thrown your way. You grin to yourself, happy to be rid of his presence, until Doyoung starts speaking and ruins your night.
“I have heard from your mother that you are in search of a husband. I find myself in a similar boat, and I would much enjoy it if you were to accept my offer for tea tomorrow afternoon.”
You could say no. It would not be hard to make up another excuse, but your mother would be absolutely livid to discover you have turned down an offer from Doyoung, especially after she practically handed him to you on a silver platter.
One afternoon of tea shall not kill you.
“That sounds lovely. I look forward to our discussion.”
When you turn to beeline for the exit, you catch a pair of eyes peering over at you, and you swear you see a flash of Jaehyun’s hair before he disappears into the crowd.
Hm. You must be seeing things.
—
Your mother acts as if afternoon tea with Doyoung equates to an audience with the king.
She dresses you in a gown she brings out for special occasions and has your handmaidens spray perfume on you until you are drowning in the floral scent. When she accompanies you to the tea parlor, she lists out your annoying habits that you should try to avoid.
You were not made aware that you possessed so many.
“And the way you look at him, darling, it is extremely unflattering. He can tell you hate him by the way you desire to burn him alive with your gaze. Stare at him with conviction. Make his loins stir from one simple glance at you.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Mother, I shall say that I find this advice to be highly unhelpful.”
She growls at you. “You are nearly four and twenty without a single acceptance for a suitor’s hand in marriage. You shall adhere to any advice I am willing to offer you.”
Doyoung helps take out your chair like a gentleman, and you thank him while your mother sits one table behind you, eavesdropping on your conversation.
He cuts straight to the chase. “What traits do you envision for your future husband to possess?”
Your grip tightens around your teacup. You wonder what to say to ward him off, to get him to move onto the next lady.
“A man who will let me maintain my own hobbies and interests. I want to have children on my own time, not on the timeline my husband sets for me,” you answer, knowing that it is not the typical response a lady of your breeding is supposed to say. You are supposed to submit to your husband’s preferences instead of prioritizing your own. “I ask that he respects my wishes and swears his loyalty to me. I will not, in any circumstances, marry a rake.”
“This one is all bark and no bite, Doyoung. I would not take her threats to heart.”
You clench your jaw when Jaehyun approaches your table with a wide smirk on his face. He appears to be dressed for tea as well, but you see no partner by his side to accompany him. He must be here simply to intervene in your meeting with Doyoung.
“Lord Jeong,” you greet in clear distaste. “I was not aware you had been frequenting tea parlors as of late.”
“Ah, you must not be enlightened of my many passions then,” he replies with a cheeky smile. You resist the urge to slap it off of his face. “The madam who runs this shop has a fond affection for me. I always like to drop by and grab a free pastry.”
“How kind of you to take from the hard work of the common people at no charge,” you challenge with the tilt of your head.
Doyoung clears his throat when he senses the tension between you and Jaehyun rising with every scathing remark. You glance back to see your mother staring at you in abhorrence, and you quickly straighten your posture and adjust your tone.
“I apologize, Lord Jeong. I have been enjoying my time with Lord Kim. I am certain you have somewhere else you need to be.”
Jaehyun, to your chagrin, pulls up a chair. “Actually, my schedule is wide open for the day. I would love to join you.”
Doyoung stares at you, wordlessly asking if this is normal behavior, but you are too pissed off to respond. If Jaehyun wanted to cause a scene, he could have done so when you are not trying to prove to your mother that you still care about searching for a husband.
Your fingernails dig into the corner of the table and you lean forward to hiss at Jaehyun.
“Are you positive you have nowhere else to be?”
He smiles. “Absolutely. Now, catch me up on what you two were discussing. I would love to throw my hat into the conversation.”
Evidently, you and Doyoung have yet to be on the same wavelength for what you should and should not bring up in front of Jaehyun.
“I was asking her what she looks for in her future spouse.”
Jaehyun turns to you with a smirk. “Oh, is that so? Well, please, do not silence yourself on my behalf. I would love to hear the answer.”
“I already gave it to him,” you say in exasperation. “Maybe we should turn the tables on you. What does a rake like Jeong Jaehyun look for in a wife? Likely one that easily spreads her legs?”
You hear a gasp from behind you, and you know it is your mother’s shock at your candor. But you shall not allow Jaehyun to get the better of you and humiliate you in front of Doyoung. You hardly care if this statement will earn you a reputation for your crass nature.
The corner of Jaehyun’s lips twitches in amusement, only fueling fire to your flame.
“I would like for my wife to challenge me. It is not as fun when they comply with my every demand,” he says, and you fail to realize how the distance between you has closed in your heated spat. “I like a lady who knows how to speak up for herself, to voice her thoughts without concern for anyone else’s feelings.”
You scoff. Where in the world is Jaehyun going to find a lady like that?
“Good luck with your search, Lord Jeong. I have conviction that there is at least one lady out there who is meant to be with you.”
“I really should be going,” Doyoung says, standing and nearly toppling over the table.
You glance up at him in alarm. “Oh, I am sorry, Lord Kim. Let me just gather my things and-”
“No need, Miss. It must have slipped my mind that my mother asked for my presence back at home. I hope you enjoy the rest of your afternoon.”
He scurries out of the tea parlor as if the place had been set to flames. You stare after him with your jaw dropped, offended by his poor excuse to leave you behind.
You growl at Jaehyun. “Oh, you have seriously done it now, Jeong.”
“Come on. Do not tell me you were actually considering that man to be your husband.”
Your mother’s figure looms over you and you shyly look up to meet her judgmental gaze head on.
“I believe it is time for us to return home. We hope you have a wonderful evening, Lord Jeong.”
You’re dragged away by the crook of your arm, glaring at Jaehyun while your mother dishes out the biggest scolding you have ever received in your life.
—
“Your mother has brought me a proposal that I think may be in your favor.”
Your father is hesitant when he enters your study, catching you reading books by the fire. It is often the pastime you favor when your mother is upset with you, which has become more frequent in the past year. Your father is the one who searches out for you to try and talk you down, amending your qualms with your mother for a harmonious household.
“I shall not marry Kim Doyoung, father,” you say with the shake of your head. “He embarrassed me in front of the entire ton today! I will not be able to stave away the mortification for days.”
He sits next to you on the chaise lounge and looks at you solemnly.
“I have not come to converse about Kim Doyoung. I am speaking about Jeong Jaehyun.”
You furrow your eyebrows. “What does Lord Jeong have to do with this? He is the reason why Lord Kim fled from me in the first place.”
Your father wrings his hands around nervously, and you speculate on what has him so antsy. He is usually very candid with you about your behavior, which means you must have crossed a hard line if he’s withholding information from you.
“Lord Jeong’s mother came around this afternoon after your incident at the tea parlor. She thinks her son is acting far too reckless and wants him to settle down. She is considering sending him to his uncle’s house in the country if he does not start listening to her wishes.”
“That does not sound like a bad idea,” you reply with a giggle.
He offers you a strained smile. “Yes, your mother was thinking the same thing. Except she was imagining it for you.”
You leap out of your seat. He must be lying. Your mother cannot possibly be entertaining the idea of shipping you off to her brother’s house. He lives on acres and acres of land without a soul in sight except for the farm animals he cares for.
It would be your absolute nightmare.
“Father, please tell me you objected to this,” you plead, your heart sinking to the bottom of your stomach.
“Of course I did, darling,” he sighs, assuring you. “But then your mother and Lord Jeong’s came to an agreement that I could not oppose. I saved you from being shipped off, but in a few months’ time, you shall find yourself married to Jeong Jaehyun.”
You gasp. “F-Father, you cannot! You promised that I would get the final approval!”
He takes your hands in his and pulls you back towards his side. You are trembling at the picture of you and Jaehyun living as husband and wife. You would fight everyday and drive yourselves into a haze of madness.
“Darling, there shall never ever be a man good enough for you. I knew it from the day you were born, but your mother’s insistence on this matter has forced my hand. I think Jaehyun is a fine young man. You may not grow to love him, but he shall never put you in harm’s way. It is the most important quality a father can ask of his son-in-law.”
You start to tear up. “Please, father. Do not do this. Do not make me marry him.”
He pities you. “We shall start slow, darling. He shall be your escort to Mrs. Park’s upcoming ball and we shall ease into announcing your engagement. If he does anything untoward or compromises your virtue, I swear to you I shall back out of this deal.”
“But why can you not back out now?” You whine, wiping away the tears streaming down your face. “Why can you not save me now?”
He winces as if your pain physically brings him harm. You understand your father has bailed you out of your mother’s many propositions before, but you honestly cannot let this one slip through. Jaehyun is the exact opposite of who you envision yourself marrying.
He has to be just as horrified by this proposal as you are. You have no doubt he’s sitting in a similar situation to you, arguing with his mother over her ultimate decision to alter the course of his life. This must be the first agreement you have landed on in history.
“You shall not realize it now, but I am saving you from a lifetime of heartache, trust me.”
You spend the rest of the night weeping in your bedchamber, burdened by Jaehyun’s constant overbearing presence in your life. You think back on all of the memories you have of him, and if this changes the way you feel about your inevitable coupling.
—
When you first met Jaehyun, it had been your first season out in society. You were optimistic back then, drinking in the fairytales of finding your one true love at your first ball.
You were not the only one jaded by love as many of the other ladies your age had fantasized about their first ball as an eligible lady for years. You would gossip to each other while promenading around the veranda, dreaming of the young bachelor who would swoop you up in his arms and make all your dreams come true.
You had known a few of the men from growing up with them as noble families. They were usually brothers of your closest friends, and your nose would twist in disgust at the thought of being courted by them. You were stubborn about your choice in a husband even back then.
Jaehyun had been the talk of the town that year. He already made an impression on the older ladies, winning them to his side with his dimples and classic charm. You heard of him through Yerim and how many of the other ladies were vying after the massive amount of wealth in his estate. He was one of the richest bachelors of the season, and any lady who was wed to him would automatically be elevated to a higher social status.
You assumed that because of his upbringing, he would act in a more gentleman-like fashion than the rest of his peers. You were proved wrong by his display of behavior at your first ball.
“Is he planning to dance with every lady in this room?” You asked Yerim, watching as Jaehyun once again swept through the floor with a different lady latched onto his arm. “I mean, every dance card in this place has his name written on it.”
She laughed at you. “Can you blame him? He has a lot of prospects. Everyone knows he’s the first pick of the season.”
“It is disrespectful. He is toying with their feelings for his own amusement. I do not like it.”
She poked you with a twinkle of mischief sparkling in her eyes. “No, you do not like that he has not asked you. You want a chance with him, do you not?”
You scoffed at the assumption. “Absolutely not. I have my sights set on a much higher man than Lord Jeong.”
You were so adamant on your superiority over him that when he approached you later that night for a dance, you swiftly rejected him.
“I think you have had enough dances for the night. Would you not agree, Lord Jeong?”
He narrowed his eyes at you, likely wondering what he had done to already get on your bad side.
“One more shall not bring me harm. Unless your dancing skills are not up to par, Miss?”
You grinned at him. “My dancing skills are meant for a man who shall actually appreciate my talents instead of using me to cross another name off his list.”
That was the first time you had drawn Jaehyun’s interest.
—
Your mother had not been so gracious with you by your second year.
You had fumbled through a shoddy proposal from Kim Jungwoo, who was far too nervous to actually place a ring on your finger. You unfortunately injured his ego way too far for him to recover, and he quickly withdrew his proposal with his tail tucked between his legs.
Your mother blamed you for the ordeal and ordered at least five new dresses for you to present yourself in your second season. Luckily, Yerim had not caught any gentleman callers either, and you two began flocking together at every event.
By then, Jaehyun’s infamous status as a rake had spread across the ton.
He had been spotted slipping out of brothels late at night, flirting with married women when their husbands were away, and escorting random ladies to balls just for the fun of it. You never possessed a single ounce of respect for him.
Despite this, Jaehyun would not seem to leave you alone.
Every time you turned a corner, he would be there, waiting to surprise you with an insult or tease you about your almost-marriage with Jungwoo.
“Must we keep meeting like this?” He said after the season was nearly halfway over and you had just turned down another suggestion to dance. He stalked you all the way to the bowl of lemonade while you tried to ignore his grating voice. “No one here is up to your caliber?”
“What do you want, Jeong?” You spat out, tired of his nonsense. “I thought you would be halfway down the street by now, searching for an open brothel.”
He chuckled at your jest. “They have put up warning signs about me to all the women. Apparently I caused a few too many internal fights over my rugged good looks.”
You rolled your eyes. “I find it more likely that they figured out you are sexually impotent.”
“There is only one way to find out for yourself, hm?”
“I would rather gauge my own eyes out.”
“What’s the matter? Am I not as pretty as Jungwoo?”
Johnny Suh had been the one to rescue you, asking you for a dance, which was the first offer you accepted that night. You would glance to the side from time to time to catch Jaehyun’s gaze following you around the floor, but you preoccupied yourself by staying near Johnny, preventing the loathsome creature from approaching you again.
—
Johnny had gotten married to Lady Joohyun by the next year, leaving you without a regular dance partner in your third season. Many believed he would propose to you, but you knew that he had only wanted to make Joohyun jealous after his confession to you one night.
Jaehyun, surprisingly, did not bother you whenever you were with Johnny. He had been noticeably absent from any ball where Johnny was your escort.
You believed your luck had taken a turn until your first appearance after Johnny’s marriage.
“Well well well,” you heard his drawl from a mile away. Yerim looked at you hesitantly after you tensed by her side. “Look who has decided to make an appearance on her own.”
At the time, you were giddy about your chances of a husband that season. Many noblemen had returned from vacation with friends and distant relatives accompanying them, nearly doubling the pool of gentlemen at your disposal.
You were absolutely not going to allow Jaehyun to ruin the year for you. You decided to play civil, to hopefully make amends and let bygones be bygones.
“Lord Jeong,” you greeted with a curtsy, which had Jaehyun stifling a chuckle. “How lovely to see you here.”
“Is it?” He replied with a raise of his eyebrow. “If I recall, you compared me to a horrid bug staining the bottom of your shoe just a few months ago.”
Yerim pursed her lips to prevent a cacophony of laughter from slipping out. You squeezed her arm with a scolding glance.
“That was the old me, Lord Jeong. I am a new woman, so you see. I am about to become a bride after all.”
“A bride? To whom have you been betrothed to? I have heard no news of your engagement,” he said in a flurry, his eyes flashing with a panic for reasons unbeknownst to you.
“You have not heard news of my engagement yet,” you emphasized. “The night is young and I am a very willing maiden. Therefore, if you’ll excuse us-”
“If you are so willing, then shall you entertain me with a dance?” He questioned as he held out one hand, challenging you.
You clenched your jaw in frustration. You were all in favor of extending an olive branch, but dancing with him at the first ball of the season was a tad too far. You did not want to be making a statement for yourself by befriending Jaehyun’s company.
The ladies would assume you held no dignity for yourself and the gentlemen would be appalled by your association with him.
“I have already promised my first dance with Lord Lee,” you lied through your teeth. You knew Donghyuck would not mind dancing with you just to save you from Jaehyun. “I shall see you around, Lord Jeong.”
If you had known better, you would have caught the dejected expression on Jaehyun’s face after you refused him. But all you could remember from that night was his teasing smirk and the playful lilt in his voice as he mocked you.
—
Your memories of Jaehyun do not assure you in the slightest that your parents have made the right decision.
Yerim comes over the next morning after the news of your forced marriage, soothing your cries with warm pastries and fresh tea. She rubs your back while you lay in bed, moaning for your misfortune.
“It is not that horrible,” she says in an attempt to pacify you. “At least he is good looking.”
You blink up at her. “Are you serious? I hardly care about his looks, Yerim! He is deplorable! He does not have a single redeeming quality. My mother wants to ruin my life, I am positive about that fact. How could any other suitor ever want me again once I have been tainted by Jeong Jaehyun?”
She chews on her lower lip. “I know you are not fond of him, but he may not say the same for you.”
Her statement has you peeking over your pillow, curious to hear more. She catches your gaze and exhales sharply.
“Have you ever noticed that he attends events when he knows you plan to be there? Or how he talks about you to everyone who will listen? He may have a reputation for being a rake, but you are the only lady he has asked to dance with since our first season.”
The information slowly dawns on you, but Yerim must be imagining things. Jaehyun has never felt any real romantic feelings towards you. You remain faithful that you share this conviction with him.
You shake your head. “He is deluding you as well. Trust me, Yerim, I know where Jaehyun’s true feelings lie.”
She eventually helps you get out of bed and you fail to exchange a single word with your mother while you break your fast. Yerim nudges for you to say the first word but you refuse.
Your mother only acknowledges your presence later in the night when you are due to be escorted to your first public appearance with Jaehyun.
“You are not dressed.”
You brush your hair in front of the mirror, humming softly to yourself. Yerim left to prepare herself in her own home, but you wish she had stayed to help you fight this battle with your mother.
“That is because I am not going.”
“Whatever game this is that you are playing, I do not find it amusing in the slightest. Lord Jeong will be here within the next hour and I expect you to welcome him downstairs with a proper gown and your best smile.”
As your handmaidens help you into your dress, they exchange knowing glances with each other until you grow tired of their mind games.
“May I inquire what has piqued your interest?” You ask in a bored tone.
Seulgi, your handmaiden of over five years, smiles gently at you. She has been dressing you since your first season, and is very aware how irritated you can get during times like these.
“The staff have just been discussing, Miss, since your mother announced your plans for engagement. We have been in communication with the staff employed at Lord Jeong’s household.”
You perk up slightly. “Is that so? And what have you discovered?”
Seulgi beams at you. “Lord Jeong is positively delighted by your coupling. The staff has never seen him more alert. He has been placing orders for brand new decor for your wing of the house and has requested for his staff to research your favorite delicacies to stock the cupboards. It is quite endearing.”
You frown. Jaehyun has wormed his way into the minds of your handmaidens too. His ability to manipulate others should honestly be lauded.
“How sweet of him,” you say through gritted teeth, holding back your true feelings. Although they spend more time with you, your handmaidens are employed by your mother, which means anything you say in front of them could be parroted back to her.
You devise a plan while they continue to adorn you in jewelry and work at pinning up your hair. If you could get Jaehyun to call off this marriage, you are certain his mother would relent. Your cries may go unanswered because you are simply a woman who was born into the right family, but Jaehyun will run his own household after he is married, which means he has superiority over his mother’s decisions.
You hear his voice filter from up the stairs when you walk out of your room.
“It is honestly my pleasure, madam. Your daughter is a gift that I promise to treasure.”
You huff. Where does he keep pulling these lines from?
As you walk down the steps, you take in the scene unfolding in your foyer. Your parents are speaking to Jaehyun with radiating smiles, laughing at every little thing he says. His mother stands closely behind him, joining in on the laughter with a chuckle here and there.
When your heel hits the last step, they turn to you. For the first time, you identify the twinkle in Jaehyun’s eye that tells you he’s excited to see you.
Could Yerim be right? Does Jeong Jaehyun like you?
“There she is,” your mother says, tugging you over and pretending she wasn’t upset with you an hour ago. “She is beautiful, is she not, Lord Jeong?”
“Stunning,” he whispers, and you desperately want to punch him in the face.
“Let us head out, shall we? We do not want to run late,” you say, itching to remove yourself from the spotlight. Jaehyun nods in agreement, outstretching his arm for you to take it, and you reluctantly wrap your fingers around his bicep. You lead the way to the carriage waiting outside, murmuring loudly under your breath so Jaehyun can hear you. “You are so dead to me, Jeong.”
He helps you into your carriage, and you don’t miss the pained look in his eyes as he forces a smile onto his face.
—
Jaehyun never wanted to fall in love.
He has witnessed enough of his friends losing their sanity over the matter, finding themselves on the receiving end of their mother’s meddling into their lives. Some of them have found happiness while the others have settled for what they were given.
Although Jaehyun is the only child and he knows he must marry to continue his lineage, he never imagined he would marry for love. He would likely find a well-bred lady, one who would simply finish her duty in childbearing and leave him alone otherwise.
Before tying himself to her, he desired a little recklessness in his life. He tugged on the heartstrings of the ladies in the ton and stopped by brothels when he was searching for something quick and fast. It earned him a reputation but he hardly cared about what other noble families thought of him. He knew at the end of the day, they prioritized the wealth of his estate far more than his outside trysts, which means he would have no issue in securing a wife when he wanted to.
He really was not intending on taking an interest in you.
His mother had educated him on the ladies of his season, so he knew a little of your background. You are also the only child in your family, but being born a daughter means you must get married to receive an ounce of your father’s wealth. Still, this fact never seems to spur you on in your quest for a husband. He has noticed other ladies approach him quite confidently yet you stay sidelined at every ball, waiting for the gentlemen to come to you, even though you refuse most of their offers to dance.
And he shall admit that your adamant refusal to dance with him has him intrigued.
Although the other ladies are appalled by his reputation, they remain courteous enough to accept a dance or two, mingling with him when they see fit. Since his first season, Jaehyun has made it his own personal mission to get you to join him on the floor, come hell or high water.
He just never expected forcing you to marry him as being the catalyst for you to adhere to his wishes.
“You shall tell your mother that you want to call this marriage off,” you say as soon as the swell of the music starts and you take to the floor.
He takes a step towards you with a raised eyebrow. “And why would I do that?”
“Because I am positively certain I will make your life a living hell if I become your wife. You may not favor me now, but you shall surely detest me once I am finished with you.”
But as you twirl around the floor, he fails to find his voice to tell you that he does not harbor any hatred for you at all. You may play those parts in public and it may be true for you, but Jaehyun has never thought of you as the chip on his shoulder.
The rest of the ton stares at you with wide eyes, whispering to one another about the sudden closeness between you.
“Is marrying me such a stain on your character? What, am I not on par with the likes of Kim Jungwoo and Johnny Suh?”
It infuriated him to no end when Jungwoo was courting you. The man did not even know a single thing about you! He was lured in by your pretty face, and Jaehyun snickered to himself when Jungwoo soon discovered that you have an independent mind, judging the man whenever he uttered the wrong thing. Jaehyun was over the moon when Jungwoo ended your courtship.
Johnny, however, was a player that Jaehyun was not expecting. The man was tall, handsome, and could definitely handle your sharp edges better than Jungwoo. Jaehyun worried that you two would actually marry so he shipped himself off for a vacation to avoid seeing you walk down the aisle. He was content when he returned home and learned you were still single.
“Marrying you would tarnish my reputation. I cannot imagine the other ladies respecting the woman who ties herself to the world’s most infamous rake.”
He falters at the insult from you. When his mother had approached him with the idea to marry you, she expected him to swiftly turn it down, so it came as a surprise that he accepted the deal fairly quickly. He honestly could not stand the thought of you marrying the boring Kim Doyoung. The man would not understand how to entertain you, how to keep you on your toes and humor you.
He would never say it out loud, but the prospect of you becoming his wife satisfied him. He could already picture you running his estate with an iron fist, organizing the awful ledgers he has to sort through and checking if each member of the staff is well taken care of.
He wants it. He wants to wake up next to you. He wants to dance with you when there is no one else around. He wants to bury himself into you, listen to your sweet little moans as he tangles a hand through your hair-
He shakes his head to ward away the lewd thoughts threatening to crawl forward. The music slowly comes to a lull, and before he can stop you, you are darting out of his grasp and heading towards the balcony.
He sees your mother attempt to follow you but he stops her with the raise of his hand. He shadows you, keeping his eyes trained on the floral pattern of your gown.
He stops when you saunter out, slamming the doors shut behind you as you lean over the railing to catch your breath. He observes you silently, watching as you sigh and run your fingers through your hair, taking it out of its neat updo.
He waits a little before joining you in the open space.
“I did not realize I would become such a burden for you,” he whispers as you stand side by side.
You scowl at him. “How did you think I would react? Did you think I would jump into your arms and you would carry me off into the sunset?”
“You hate all of the gentlemen in the ton. You have to concede to this fact. And I understand I am not better than the rest of them, but you know me. I would never bend your will or coerce you into submission. You will be free to do as you please, I will not prevent you from your happiness.”
“But you are preventing me! Does this not register with you? I do not want to marry you. You must feel the same way, do you not?”
He hesitates, and the brief second seems to confirm your answer. You exhale and your hands tighten their grip on the railing.
“How long?” You ask in a small voice.
He swallows. “I do not know.”
“I cannot marry you, Jaehyun.”
“I shall inform my mother of your decision tonight. I apologize for causing you grief.”
You spin and saunter back into the ballroom, leaving Jaehyun’s heart crumpled into a mess on the floor.
—
Jaehyun plans to escape his troubles by embarking on a year-long vacation.
Perhaps it is enough time to move on from you, to stop worrying about you all the time and wondering who you might be with. His announcement to the staff about ending your engagement before it has even come to life has his mother in tears. They were instructed to halt all preparations for your wing of the estate and to eat whatever stock of food they had purchased for you.
He’s barely holding himself together as he packs up his things, intent on leaving and not coming back until he is ready to face high society again.
“Lord Jeong, you have a visitor at the door.”
“I am fairly occupied,” he says without missing a beat, grabbing any article of clothing he can find and throwing it into his suitcase.
But then they tell him that you are the one waiting by the door, and that has his feet moving swiftly.
You are fidgeting in the foyer, squirming as members of his household staff walk around you, carrying pieces of the decor that was meant for your bedroom.
“Lord Jeong,” you say with a curtsy, and his eyebrows furrow from the contrast of your behavior last night to today.
“How may I help you?” He asks coldly, desperately wanting to distance himself from you. You never make any task easy for him.
“I wanted to continue our conversation.”
“I did not think there was much more to say. You made your feelings very clear.”
“May we speak in private?”
He guides you into his office, leaving the door open an inch in an effort not to compromise you. You clear your throat once you are alone.
“I have thought it over and have decided to accept your proposal.”
He narrows his eyes. “You have decided to accept? Forgive me, but the last time we spoke, you distinctly voiced your opposition to marrying me. What has changed?”
You look away, your mouth twisting in the way it does when you are particularly peeved by him.
“You are right,” you admit begrudgingly. “I do not like any of the gentlemen in the ton, and I fear I never will. At least with you, I shall still have my freedom and get my mother off my back. I cannot stand another season of this — the balls, the dresses, the constant dancing. I am tired and I just want to live.”
The tension in his shoulders starts to fade. It is not exactly what he wants to hear, but he will take your acceptance if it means he does not have to leave for a year just to forget you.
“So we are carrying through with this?”
You purse your lips. “I cannot fall in love with you. Not in the way you want me to.”
He nods. “T-That is perfectly fine. I was not expecting you to.”
“And we will forgo childbearing until it is absolutely necessary.”
“That sounds plausible.”
“And Yerim is allowed to come over whenever it suits her.”
“Of course.”
You chew on your bottom lip and he resists the urge to take it in between his teeth.
“Where is my ring?”
He blinks twice. “Forgive me?”
“My ring. You must have one picked out.”
He pats his pockets but blanches when he realizes he’s not carrying his mother’s ring with him.
“Can you wait here for a second?”
He sprints upstairs to his mother’s room, startling her handmaidens when he pounds on her door. She opens it with wide eyes.
“Jaehyun, what-”
“Where is your ring?” He asks breathlessly. “The one that father gave you?”
“In my jewelry box. Why?”
“May I have it? Now? Please?”
She fumbles around to look for it, and Jaehyun bounces on the balls of his feet while he waits, fearful that if he does not get that ring on your finger, you shall disappear through the front door and he will never see you again. As soon as his mother hands him the band, he runs back down to his office, relieved when he sees you still standing by the window.
He drops to one knee in front of you and you stare back at him, unamused. He decides to skip the speech in case you change your mind, slipping the ring on your finger as you admire the diamond sparkling in the light.
“It is beautiful,” you murmur, and he thanks the heavens for your approval. You lower your hand as you state, “I shall not attend another lousy ball just for show. We shall wed as soon as we can and negotiate the details after.”
Like a puppy chasing after its tail, he submits to your every request, dreaming of you and him under one roof.
—
The next week is chaos in the Jeong household.
Members of the staff rush left and right, preparing themselves for a wedding they thought had been called off. The favorite gossip of the ton have been surrounding your wedding, pertaining to why you were getting married this quickly, how you went from despising one another to falling in love, and if tying the knot would finally promote Jaehyun from being a rake to a proper lord.
Jaehyun is keen to sit back and watch it all unfold. He has barely seen you as you have been wrapped up in dress fittings and moving your belongings into his home.
It is only the night before your wedding that you rush to his office in a panicked state.
He is startled when the door swings open and you stand there in nothing but your nightgown. You hold a candle in your hand as you scurry to his side.
“What-” he starts, wondering what could be troubling you.
“My mother has divulged to me what a husband is meant to do to his wife on the night of their wedding. I shall inform you that I do not approve of such indiscretions, if that was not made clear before.”
His cheeks flush red when it dawns on him what you must be referring to. Yes, he has conjured up many fantasies late at night, but he never assumed you would willingly lie with him on your first night together as husband and wife.
“Y-Yes, that is understood.”
“Furthermore, I shall not become the wife who sits idly by while you run to a brothel to satisfy your needs. You shall only lie with me, when I feel I am prepared and ready to accept you.”
He leans back in his seat, one eyebrow raised. “Do you think so low of me that I would disrespect you in such a public fashion?”
You huff. “Jaehyun, I am astonished that you have not done so already.”
He narrows his eyes. Before he can retort, the door bursts wide open again and your handmaiden comes rushing in.
“I apologize profusely, Lord Jeong!” She cries. “We were not made aware of her destination. You are not meant to see her like this-”
“You do not need to apologize to him, Seulgi,” you interject with a sigh. “And he shall learn to see all sides of me soon enough.”
Your handmaiden stutters for a response but you poke your finger at Jaehyun with a stern gaze.
“Do not dare forget what I said.”
“How can I when you come traipsing through here in the middle of the night, disturbing me before the biggest day of our lives?”
You exit with a dramatic flair, slamming the doors behind you as your handmaiden follows after. He slumps in his chair, exhausted and wondering how far he has to go to earn your trust.
His mother wakes him the next morning bright and early, chirping happily for the marriage she has waited years for. He readies himself on his own, pulling on his stuffy suit and tie. He thinks about how you must be faring with the glitz and glamour.
His mother and yours had invited almost the entire population of the city to the wedding. People that Jaehyun has never met in his life greet him at the chapel, congratulating him for the momentous occasion. He thanks them with a nervous smile, worried if you will actually show up at the end of the aisle.
Thankfully, when the music plays and the doors open, you step out, dressed in a long, satin white gown. He loses his breath when he looks at you, the picture perfect beauty of a bride. You hesitate under the scrutiny of the ton’s gazes, tightening your grip around your father’s arm.
Jaehyun inhales and exhales slowly. His heart is beating so hard that he can hear the thumping echo in his ears. He can hardly believe this day has come, and even more so that you agreed to marry him.
You must be running through the same thought process, for when your father hands you over to Jaehyun, you stare at him wide eyed. He takes your hand in his, soothing you by running his thumb over the back of your wrist. It unwinds you a little when you stand in front of the priest.
The priest drones on and on about eternal love and the sacred vow between husband and wife. Jaehyun keeps his eyes trained on you, watching you from the corner of his eye to ensure you are faring well.
When you turn to him to seal your lips in a kiss, his heart stops beating.
“Breathe,” he whispers just before his mouth touches yours. He can feel you trembling in his hold.
“Why do they have to keep looking at us?” You murmur.
“Because you are too pretty for them to look away.”
“You are full of it, Lord Jeong.”
His tongue traces over your bottom lip before he can stop himself. A couple’s first kiss at their wedding should be a light peck, something God would approve of.
Jaehyun does not give a damn what God thinks.
There is a small gasp in the audience when his tongue slips into your mouth. You arch into him, calm for the first time in hours.
When you break away, you blink up at him, and his curiosity flares up. Did it feel good for you too?
The crowd erupts in applause and you step away from him, smiling shyly at them. Jaehyun kicks into autopilot, walking you back down the aisle as you laugh with the people surrounding you.
When you are escorted into the gardens for your reception, he swallows.
“Well, it is over.”
You purse your lips. “Y-Yes. That kiss was-”
Your mother comes around the corner, crying as she envelops you in a hug. You pat her back awkwardly as she sobs.
“Oh, darling, I am so happy for you! So, so happy!”
Then Jaehyun’s mother mobs him, cooing about how handsome he looks. You find yourselves on opposite ends of the large space, controlling the flock of people who demand to know the next steps of your marriage.
Jaehyun fields questions left and right that are clearly an invasion of his privacy.
“How many children do you two want to have?”
“I think the best time to start making babies is right after the wedding. It’s when your hormones are at their peak. Do you not agree, Lord Jeong?”
“My theory is that you should lock yourselves away for at least two months so the seed will sprout and grow. Does that not sound wonderful?”
By the time he finds his way back to you, you both are worse for wear.
“Lord Jeong, Lady Jeong!”
You grab Jaehyun’s hand and sprint into the hedge maze. He tries not to trip over your skirt as you weave through the walls of the garden, catching your breath once you find yourselves trapped in the middle.
“They are incessant vultures!” You hiss, ripping the veil from your hair and tossing it to the side. “I mean, honestly. Who granted them the authority to decide when and how I should have a child?”
“Lady Baek almost gave me advice on how her husband gets it up! As if I need to hear such disturbing counsel regarding a man about to turn seventy!” He grunts.
You shudder. “We shall camp out here until they have all grown too tired to stick around. What was my mother thinking when she invited that many people?”
You collapse on the ground together, paying no mind to the grass stains covering your dress or the dirt coating the bottom of his pants. You listen to the steady sound of each other’s breathing, grateful to be away from the incessant noise.
He clears his throat. “What were you saying earlier? About the kiss?”
You cough. “Oh, um, nothing. It was merely surprising, that is all.”
“Sorry if I did not live up to your expectations.”
“That was not what I meant,” you mumble, fiddling with the fabric of your dress. “I hardly expected you to kiss me so… passionately. In all of the weddings I have attended, the groom never devours his bride like that.”
“I did not devour you,” he corrects, flustered by your accusation.
A moment passes before you burst into a fit of laughter. He should be mad with you, but when he glances over to see you giggling into your palm, he finds the corners of his lips lifting upwards.
You settle into your harmonious laughter for a few minutes, riding on the blissful cloud of your new marriage. He did not think it had become such a huge burden on his shoulders, but he is relieved he no longer has to deal with mingling in crowded ballrooms, debating on whether he should ask you to dance or leave entirely.
The recollection has him springing to his feet. You stare up at him in confusion when he holds out his hand.
“Join me.”
“You cannot be serious, Jaehyun.”
He clicks his tongue. “I obliged to all of your rules. Come here and dance with me.”
You grumble as he helps pull you up. Once you are in his arms, he wraps a hand around your waist, holding you steady as you rest your hand on his shoulder.
The moonlight dances over your features and he swears he has never seen a sight more beautiful.
“Yerim was telling me something the other day that I found interesting,” you say.
He quirks up an eyebrow. “What did she say?”
“That you only attend balls when I am present. And that you will speak about me to anyone who will listen.”
“Do not let it go to your head,” he teases weakly.
You do not allow him to escape that easily because evidently, you love to embarrass him at any given chance.
“How long, Jaehyun?”
He thinks about the night out on the balcony when you were asking him this question with the intention to break his heart and never return.
“A long time,” he confesses. “Likely when we first met.”
You shake your head. “Why? Why me? Out of all the women in the ton-”
“The rest of the women in the ton could never hold a candle to you,” he swears, looking deep into your eyes, hoping you memorize every word. “I know you think of me as a reckless rake who will insert myself into any woman’s bed, but you must know how devoted I am to you. You are the only person I find myself laughing with, the only person who can keep up with me and drive me insane all at once. I dream of you. I understand this marriage is all a means to an end to you, but you are the only lady I have ever wanted.”
He nearly chokes when you pounce on him, smashing your lips together until he’s stumbling back into the hedges. His hands rest on your hips as you chase after him.
Your tongues fight for dominance and he realizes just how hungry he is. He has been holding himself back to preserve your dignity, but with God as his witness, you are now his wife and he gets to make you writhe in pleasure if it is his sole desire.
He bunches up your skirt, slipping his hand underneath the mountains of fabric. He growls when your corset gets in the way of the prize he really wants.
“Get this off,” he hisses, tugging at the tight strands that hug your bodice.
“Our mothers will come looking for us,” is all you can reply with.
“I do not care,” he says. “I need you.”
But a gasp interrupts your fervent entanglement. You jump apart to see his mother standing in front of you, appalled by the sight of you two.
“Jeong Jaehyun, I raised you to be a gentleman!” She scolds, approaching you and helping you look presentable again. You avoid her glare. “You both need a lesson in understanding what is acceptable for you to do in public. Just because you are married does not give you the right to behave like animals!”
She tugs you away with a huff, and Jaehyun’s head crashes against the hedge, his cock aching to be stuffed inside you.
—
You are avoiding your husband.
You do not know what has gotten into you. At first, you were loathing the creature you were forced to marry, hoping one day he would magically incinerate and you could avoid having to call him your husband. But then he was confessing to you, telling you everything a lady has always wanted to hear.
It is the first time you have ever experienced the spark of attraction to a gentleman. It is the first time you became content in getting married. It is the first time you felt… desire.
But you are not supposed to let Jeong Jaehyun get the best of you. You hide away in the daytime at Yerim’s home, brushing off her probing questions.
“It’s your honeymoon. Should you not be at home?”
You smile tightly at her. “And miss spending time with you? Of course not. Now, tell me all about Na Jaemin.”
You do not return back to the Jeong estate until supper, where you have a tense gathering with your husband across the dining table. True to his word, Jaehyun refuses to touch you until you initiate it first, which is driving you both mad with insatiable lust.
“How was your day with Yerim?” He asks stiffly, spooning soup into his mouth.
“G-Good. Sir Na has taken a liking to her. He lives in the countryside, however, and I selfishly do not want her to move away if they are to be betrothed.”
“Yes, it might be quite terrible if you were left alone in the presence of your husband with nowhere to flee.”
You narrow your eyes. “If you are insinuating something, Jaehyun, then please do not subject me to your mind games. I would rather you speak the truth.”
He smiles devilishly. “You first.”
You keep your mouth sealed shut for the rest of the meal. Even when you prepare yourselves to climb into bed together, your bedroom is filled with such unspeakable tension that you could cut with a knife.
You occupy yourself by opening a book, observing from the corner of your eye as Jaehyun turns on his side and blows his candle out. You tap your nails against the hardcover, blurting out your next statement before you can stop yourself.
“You never told me about your day.”
He muses over how to reply before he states, “I was lonely, craving a wife who wants nothing to do with me.”
You pout like a child. “I told you I am not going to fall in love with you.”
“I remember.”
It’s summer when Yerim and Jaemin get engaged. Yerim’s mother is so thrilled that she hosts a celebration party, where you and Jaehyun attend arm-in-arm, pretending to be civil with one another. You are bombarded with an onslaught of questions pertaining to how your marriage is faring, and if the ton can expect a new baby boy or girl to arrive any day now.
You stick with the excuse of, “We are trying,” to get them to go away.
Yerim pulls you aside to her bedchamber later that night, smiling widely. The joy in her expression has not left her face all night, and it comforts you to know she will be taken care of in the countryside, despite being so far from you.
“What a night!” She exclaims, falling on her mattress in glee. “I have never been this happy before, I swear it to you.”
“I can tell,” you laugh, patting her knee. “It satisfies me to know Jaemin has you this giddy.”
She chews her lip when she sits up, and she has the expression on her face that screams she has a secret.
“Can I tell you something? In the confidence of our friendship?”
“Of course,” you say, sitting next to her on the bed.
She twiddles her thumbs, clearly thrumming with nervousness. “The other day, Jaemin and I were alone.”
You gasp. “Yerim! You are not supposed to be with him unchaperoned until after you are wed!”
Her cheeks bloom a bright shade of red. “We did a lot of things we are supposed to do after we are wed.”
Your curiosity gets the better of you, and the prompt scolding you are about to give her dies down in your throat.
“W-What did he do?”
“Amazing things,” she exhales dreamily. “Do you know how good it feels when they put their mouth… down there?”
“Yerim!” You say, scandalized.
She giggles. “So you and Jaehyun still have not-”
“No,” you confirm with the shake of your head. “No, we have not. And we will not until we absolutely need to.”
She nudges your shoulder. “He is your husband now, you know. Not a rake who is looking to bed you just because he can.”
You clear your throat and rise from your spot on the bed. “We should head back downstairs. People might be searching for you.”
She’s slightly downcast by your quick dismissal but follows you without protest. You are warm from the brief discussion, imagining what Jaehyun would look like nestled in between your thighs, staring up at you with unadulterated hunger.
The vision abruptly leaves your mind once you land on the last step, spotting your husband being flanked by Sooyoung, a girl he used to be very friendly with. She is giggling at him, her hand caressing his bicep as she hangs off his every word.
You freeze, your throat growing dry at your husband openly flirting with another lady in front of you. In Jaehyun’s defense, he does not seem to be paying any attention to her, his eyes fluttering around the room.
When he finds you, you dart towards the exit, ignoring both Yerim and Jaehyun’s cries of your name. As you request for your carriage to be brought forward, a hand wraps around your wrist.
“You have made assumptions.”
You tear your hand away from Jaehyun with a glare. “I hardly care who you speak to. I am going home, the party’s over.”
He growls your name and the staff lingering nearby pretend to look disinterested.
“Do not behave like this.”
Once your carriage rolls up, you climb in, refusing Jaehyun’s help. You try to close the door behind you but your husband pushes his way inside, preventing you from making your dramatic escape.
“I do not possess any feelings for Sooyoung,” he sighs. “I never have.”
“I do not care! I am merely humiliated by the fact that you would display your affection for her in front of everyone! I know those people, Jaehyun, and I strictly told you before we were married that I would not become the wife who would stand idly by while her husband is wrapped up in an affair!”
“I am not in an affair!” You are both screaming too loud to hide your troubles from the outside. “I have never had an affair. I am devoted to you! I dream of you! How many times must I say this to you? Sooyoung approached me, asking me how I have been. I told her I was not interested in her folly and I was waiting for your return. What took you so long with Yerim anyways?”
You are riled up with anger and frustration. “She was educating me about how a proper husband takes care of his wife. Tell me, did you ever get on your knees for Sooyoung? Did you press your mouth in between her thighs?”
His eyebrows raise to his hairline, clearly not expecting you to quip back with that. You fold your arms across your chest, pouting and refusing to look at him.
You gasp when his hands suddenly pull up your dress and he sinks to his knees. You back yourself up against the wall of the carriage.
“Jaehyun, what are you doing?” You hiss.
“If you wanted to know what it feels like, you could have just asked.”
You glance around worriedly but the carriage still moves on, and the drapery covering the windows protects anyone from the outside to witness your husband wiggling his way underneath your dress.
You do not stop him, interested in how determined he is to prove himself to you. Your fingertips dart out to hold the sides of the carriage when his lips graze over your core.
You cup a hand over your mouth to keep your moans at bay. You have never dared to touch yourself in your most sensitive area. It’s unseemly for a lady of your status, and you feel as if you shall be damned to hell if you ever crossed that line.
But Jaehyun is your husband, so this must be allowed in heaven, right?
You lurch forward when his tongue runs over your folds. You whimper, squeezing your eyes shut as he starts to lick at your dripping cunt. He laps at you as if you are his next meal and your eyes roll to the back of your head. You are entirely too sensitive that you could cry, your body shuddering as Jaehyun buries himself deeper into your pussy.
The carriage comes to a halt as you sob, your hands tangling into his hair as your peak washes over you. When he pops his head back up, he’s grinning with your slick covering his chin.
“How was it, my dear wife?”
“Get inside the house.”
The staff are flustered when you scramble past them. Jaehyun’s hands dig into the flesh of your waist as he leads you inside, dismissing the staff by hoisting you up on the singular table in the foyer, knocking down his mother’s favorite vase.
You bring his mouth to yours as the spark inside you bursts into flames. Months of tension finally unravel as he pushes your thighs apart, slotting himself in until he’s rolling down into your core.
“Jaehyun,” you whine. “Please.”
“Did Yerim tell you what men can do with their fingers?” He asks, his bottom lip dragging over your jawline.
“N-No.”
You squeak when he unlaces your corset, practically ripping it in half in his efforts to peel it off of you. His mouth is drawn to the swell of your breasts, taking your exposed nipple into his mouth and swirling his tongue around the bud.
A maid comes from around the corner at the sound of the broken glass from the vase, but she chokes when she sees her employers dangling off a tiny table, enraptured in one another.
When he slips a finger inside you, you’re driven wild with lust. None of the noble lords and ladies would recognize you if they saw you now, encouraging your husband to use his teeth while sucking at your breasts and begging him to stuff more fingers inside your cunt.
“Dear God,” you sob when his thumb circles at your clit.
You have never felt pleasure like this in your entire life. Is this why women get married? Is this why they subject themselves to uncomfortable corsets and boring dances?
“You like it, do you not?” He questions in a mocking tone, hovering over you with a darkened gaze. “Imagine how we could have had this months ago if you had only swallowed your pride. Falling in love with me does not sound so horrifying anymore, does it?”
His teeth sink into the juncture of your neck as you chant his name. You cum when he inserts another digit inside your wet hole, curling his fingers forward, causing you to feel boneless in his grasp.
“I will not have our first time be like this,” he says, licking his fingers clean and carrying you in his arms.
“The bedroom is too far,” you reply, wanting to jump his bones immediately.
He chuckles. “You made me wait months. I think you can handle a few minutes.”
The room is spotless when you walk in, making you feel slightly guilty for ruining the staff’s hard work. But then Jaehyun drops you on the mattress and unlaces his breeches, and your focus hones in on his lower half. Your vision grows heavy when he reveals himself.
You never quite understood what gentlemen were packing down there, but you surely never would have guessed this. His member is long, thick, and veiny, startling you when he wraps a hand around his base.
“W-What are you planning to do with that?”
He laughs. “My wife, this is meant to go inside you.”
Your brain stops working for a second. He senses your hesitance, smiling playfully as he leans over you, kissing you gently.
“I shall take it slow. It shall feel good once you get used to the stretch.”
“Do you promise?” You say timidly.
He nods. “It helps that you are already so wet.” You scoff when he swipes his fingers over the wetness coating your thighs. He kisses every inch of exposed skin he can find, helping you loosen up to take his massive cock. “It is going to hurt the first time, but I swear it will get easier.”
“Who said we would be doing this again?” You inquire.
His chuckle vibrates against the shell of your ear. “Trust me. We shall definitely do this again.”
He lines himself up to your entrance, distracting you with a kiss. You never believed kissing could be worthwhile, but you find that you do not mind the act at all when it comes to your husband.
But Christ, is he trying to split you in half?
“Hurts,” you whimper as he gradually pushes in.
He stops immediately. “Do you want me to pull out?”
You shake your head. “No, no. Just… make it feel better.”
“You like it when I touch you here,” he says, returning his thumb to your clit, rubbing the nub in slow circles.
You close your eyes, powering through the overwhelming pain with the small windows of pleasure. Jaehyun does not appear to be experiencing the same issues, gritting his teeth when he bottoms out.
“You are squeezing me too tightly,” he groans. “Ease up a little, wife. I am going to finish before we have truly started.”
“I cannot! You are intent in destroying me!” You retort.
“Fuck,” he curses, dropping his head to rest between your neck and shoulder. “Tell me when I should start moving.”
“Moving?” You pale. “Is this not the entire thing?”
“I thought your mother explained this to you the night before our wedding?”
“She never discussed the specifics!”
His hands cup your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. You blink back the tears threatening to spill and he smiles at you, assuring you that everything is going to be okay.
“Do you trust me? You must trust me a little at this point.”
“A little,” you grumble. “Don’t push your luck.”
He moves to sit on his knees, throwing your legs over his shoulders and holding them in place while he thrusts into you. Initially, he’s apologizing for the pain, but you slowly adjust to his size and your wetness begins to emit a thwacking sound against the flesh of his thighs.
Moans spill out of your mouth before you can stop them.
“That is it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”
You would not think that Jaehyun’s praise would have such an effect upon you. You are whining for him as his cock batters into your pussy, staining the sheets with the mix of your wetness.
“I shall not last,” he says through bated breaths. “You are squeezing me too tightly.”
Moments later, he spills into you, filling you with the warmth of his cum. He withdraws himself to replace his length with his fingers, swirling them inside your cunt until you are falling over the edge of your third climax.
He collapses next to you, his chest rising up and down. You gaze at him shyly.
“So when shall the baby come?”
He smiles at you. “It normally does not take the first time. We have to keep trying until you feel the babe start to grow.”
You narrow your eyes. “You are surely making that up.”
He winks. “Trust me. We shall practice until you acquire a taste for it.”
—
You and Jaehyun apologize profusely to the staff the next day for your behavior, but they simply smile and tell you to work hard in your baby making efforts.
You are both startled when you approach the breakfast table to see his mother sitting there, sipping on her morning cup of tea.
“M-Mother?” Jaehyun stutters. “What are you doing here? I thought you were away handling matters of the estate.”
She smiles knowingly at you, and you slink behind your husband’s back, feeling like a child who has been scolded for eating too many treats.
“I wanted to check in on you. I arrived last night.”
“Last night?” You and Jaehyun both question in shock.
You recall his messy display of fingering you in the foyer for everyone to witness. Did his mother see her son ravaging you? Did she watch you fall apart under his touch?
Her grin seems to convey your answer. She gestures to the chairs beside her.
“Come and sit. I want to hear all about my future grandchild.”
You return to your bedchamber after breakfast feeling mortified. Jaehyun tries to soothe your worries with a gentle hand at your back.
“It is very normal for a husband and wife to be intimate.”
“Not for a lady to expose herself in front of her mother-in-law and the staff!”
He winces. “I am certain that they found the scene to be arousing, if anything.”
You dig your head into the pillows, pouting. “You fail at lifting up my spirits.”
You feel him peppering kisses over your shoulder, his hands wandering where they should not be. You try to swat them away but he whines in your ear.
“She already knows about us anyway. Let me have a little fun.”
You turn on your side to face him, grazing your fingers over his cheek. You hate that Yerim was right — your husband is very handsome.
“When I said I would never fall in love-”
“It is fine. I understand.”
“No, no,” you correct, tracing his jawline. “I was going to say that I think I could. If you give me enough time and if you do not act like an insufferable rake, I could see myself loving you.”
He smirks. “I am quite flattered.”
You roll your eyes. “Can you do that thing with your mouth again?”
“Happy to oblige, wife.”
this fic was posted for early access to the $5 tier on my patreon, which you can access here!
Aerion who starts crying angry gasps tears before or in the middle of sex because he wants it so bad and hes so frustrated that LS is getting under his skin so bad. No one else can peel back the (metaphorical) layers of his skin like she does, and the fact that she looks at the ugly, worst, viciously pathetic parts of him and keeps pressing her fingers into that wound and trying to peel back more…. Imagineeeee. LS kissing the tears of his jaw and his neck 💫😮💨
i'm fuCKING VIBRATING GANG-
[18+ mdni.]
Aerion who starts crying and it's not pretty tears, but furious, gasping, frustrated tears because he wants it so badly and he's so fucking frustrated that you're getting under his skin this deeply. No one else can peel back the layers like you do. No one else gets to see the ugly, worst, viciously parts of him and the fact that you look at all of that—all the violence and need and desperation—and you don't run, you just keep pressing your fingers into that wound and peeling back more, trying to see deeper...
Fundamentally makes him both crave you and hate you more than anything and anyone.
The perfect, loving cruelty of edging him mercilessly, forcing his cruelty away even as he's sneering and snarling for more. "Let me touch, let me taste already, let me, let me, let me—" Voice breaking on it, hands fisted in the sheets or gripping your hips with bruising force because he's trying so hard not to just take what he wants, trying to be good.
And you just drag it out. Kiss him softly when he wants to devour. Stroke his face, his lips with such gentleness when he wants violence and claiming and sweat. Proof, always proof its him and you. Even as he nips with his teeth, trying to provoke you into giving him what he needs, even as he's hissing "let me suck, let me bite, let me claim" with such desperate fury in his voice.
But you punish him with your tenderness. Because that's what undoes him completely. Cruelty, which he understands, which he can meet with his own is one thing. But softness. Patience. The refusal to let him hide behind violence and possession. You make him feel it, make him sit in the vulnerability and need without the armour of aggression. The tears come because it's too much. Because he's so hard it physically hurts and you're right there but not giving him what he needs, and he can't take it because you told him not to, and he's never been good at delayed gratification, never been good at waiting, but for you he's trying even though he wants to tear you apart.
You kiss the tears off his jaw, his neck, use your tongue, taste salt and frustration and he makes this sound—broken and rough and so desperately needy it doesn't even sound like him.
Until he snaps.
Because there's only so much Aerion can take before that control just shatters completely. His hands suddenly everywhere, gripping, pulling, finally taking because he can't hold himself back anymore, knowing you'll punish his impatience later but unable to care because if he doesn't have you right fucking now he's going to die.
Or you finally let him claim what he wants fully.
And the sheer relief of it is nearly blinding. He can't get enough, can't get close enough. It's not even sex at that point—it's something more fundamental, more necessary, like oxygen. It's rearranging something inside him on a molecular level. He wants to live inside you, never wants to be parted from you. He wants to crawl under your skin the way you've crawled under his, the way you've lived there for too long.
Every thrust feels like he's trying to prove something. Every kiss tastes like poison and blood and love, in his mind, at least. His hands shake when they touch you because this matters too much, you matter too much, and he's never been good at handling things that matter without breaking them.
"Mine," he's gasping against your throat, your shoulder, your lips, anywhere he can reach. "Mine, mine, mine—" Like a prayer, like a curse, like the only word he knows anymore.
And when you pull back just enough to look at him—really look at him with those eyes that see everything—fresh tears burn because you're looking at the worst of him and you're still here, still letting him have this, still touching him like he's something precious instead of something ruined and rotten on the inside.
"I hate you," he gasps, but it comes out wrong, comes out sounding like I love you in the only language he knows how to speak.
And you know. Because you peel back his layers better than anyone, and underneath all the cruelty and possessiveness and violence is just this—desperate, aching need to be seen and wanted anyway. So you kiss the tears away again, whisper things against his skin that he'll never admit he heard. Let him have what he needs while making sure he knows that you're choosing to give it to him, not being taken from, not being claimed against your will.
🔮 preview. When you’ve thought about your first time with Seungcheol, you always assumed he’d be the one taking care of you, but now you realize, although you’re the anxious one, your anxiety makes him extra nervous about doing something wrong. In this situation, you need to make the first move; you need to show him you want this, and as you adjust to sit up onto your knees, he grabs the bedsheets, a betrayal of how wound up he is over the fact that you’re finally ready for the next step.
tw/cw. Protected sex, foreplay, body worship, breast worship, big dick seungcheol, pussy eating, fingering, multiple reader orgasms, dirty talk, praise, hair pulling, sex while there’s a storm outside, mentions of past celibacy and wintertime sadness, mentions of a big fire and workplace exhaustion, lowkey soft first-time missionary sex, multiple sex positions, etc… I pet names: (hers) princess.
👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 7.9k
🍭 aus. Non idol au, fireman! Cheol, librarian! reader, a fireman saves a kitten from a tree and now you have a cute cat and an equally cute fireman, sad girl! reader, etc…
☀️ mlist + an. I used “Cinnamon Girl” by Lana Del Rey as inspiration and adapted some of the lyrics to form a plot for this fic.“Cinnamon in my teeth from your kiss, you're touching me. All the pills that you take: violet, blue, green, red, to keep me at arm's length, don't work. You try to push me out, but I just find my way back in. Violet, blue, green, red, to keep me out. I win. There's things I wanna say to you, but I'll just let you live. Like if you hold me without hurting me, you'll be the first who ever did.” I’m on new antidepressants because my doctor says I have severe depression, and I’ve been in my feels. Writing is an outlet, so I wanted to do something that felt applicable to some of the things I’m dealing with, while still being artistic and interesting.
One:
You’re walking a little faster than usual as you head home after finishing your shift at the library. Heart pounding, eyes scanning the trees as you get closer to the firehall- it’s your ears that pick up the small mewing sounds before you even see the kitten, who is still in the tree she was in when you were coming back from your lunch break four hours ago.
You stop by the trunk of the Callery Pear, whose autumnal purple leaves half obscure the black kitten as she struggles on a high branch.
Then, you look around, and your eyes land on the fire station. With a deep sigh, you cross the street toward the old brick building, wrapping your arms around yourself as anxiety floods through you.
You’re not the type to make a fuss about anything, not the type to bug others or ask for help, so when your eyes land on the broad shoulders of a man who appears to be doing pre-shift tasks with his back to you, it feels like the cat has your tongue.
Another deep breath and a shake of your own head to remind yourself that you can do this.
“Excuse me!” you call, not wanting to step into the station but instead stopping on the threshold of the large bay doors.
The man turns to look at you, and you swallow thickly at the sight of strong, regal features, of dark curly hair.
“Can I help you?” he asks, setting down whatever he was working on so he can turn his full attention toward you.
“Yes, um, I think so. There’s a cat,” you explain, pointing back toward the tree, “it’s been stuck in that Callery Pear for at least four hours. I saw it on my walk back to work after my lunch break, and now it’s still there. It’s just a small kitten-”
“Say no more,” the man assures you, slightly jogging toward the wall, where there’s a folded A-frame ladder. “Which tree?”
You hurry to show him where the kitten is, and as he sets up the ladder, he explains, “I just started my shift, I had no clue there was a cat up here, and our air vac system is pretty old and can be pretty loud, so I didn’t hear any meowing.”
“It’s alright,” you assure him, watching as the man begins to climb the ladder.
His red fireman shirt is tight on his shoulders, and you watch the way his muscles ripple under the fabric as he climbs.
You swallow the lump in your throat, heart racing as he sweet-talks the kitten, who allows him to pick her up and cradle her against his broad chest.
He slowly comes down to the pavement, checking the kitten as she purrs and cuddles closer to him.
“No collar, no ear tag, no nothing,” the fireman tells you. “Probably a street cat, we’ve got a lot of those kicking around. The fire department leaves dog and cat food out for strays, but I’ve never seen this cat before.”
“Have you heard of the cat distribution system?” you ask.
He laughs, looking up at you, handsome face alight with amusement. “Yeah, I’ve heard of the cat distribution system.”
“Well, maybe this is finally my chance.” You release a shaky breath. “I can take her to the vet, sort this whole thing out.”
“Works for me,” the firefighter nods, gently handing the kitten over to you.
“Thanks for helping me,”
The beautiful man smiles, turning to close up the A-frame ladder so he can get back to work. “Don’t mention it.”
Two:
You’re on the same route you always take home when the firefighter you saw a week ago waves you down from the station.
“Hey!” he calls, jogging to catch you despite his long, baggy, yellow bunker gear pants.
“Hello,” you nod, stopping to address him.
“I uh, I realized last week I never got your name,” the handsome man explains, coming to a stop in front of you.
“Y/N.”
“I’m Seungcheol. It’s nice to meet you,” he smiles, holding out a hand.
You swallow thickly, adjusting your book bag so you can gently press your palm to his. He’s soft with the handshake, and you’re quick to retract, downcasting your eyes instead of looking at this handsome, broad firefighter.
“So how’s the kitten doing?” he asks.
“Oh, she’s good. You were right about there being no microchip, so I officially adopted her. She’s named Brontë.”
“Brontë… that’s ringing a bell.”
“It’s a literary name, in reference to the Brontë sisters,” you explain.
“Oh.”
“I work at the library,” you tell him, skin heating with embarrassment. “I’m a bit of an English nerd.”
“That’s cool though,” Seungcheol assures you. “Listen, my shift starts in a moment, so I have to run, but I’m on schedule for nights for a couple more days, and then, I’d love to drop off some cat food or something if you’re okay with it. I feel bad that no other firefighters realized there was a cat in the tree, even though saving cats from trees is the most stereotypical non-fire-related job that firemen do.”
You find yourself giggling, and you can’t help but peek at the way Seungcheol’s face lights up as he smiles at you.
Then you correct yourself, looking down again.
You’re not in the market for a relationship. It’s the Fall, and soon it will be Winter, and this is your sad girl era. Now is not the time for cuffing season; now is the time for reading books and watching movies with your new cat in the warmth of your tiny apartment while the world rages and dies outside your window.
But… if it’s just some cat food he wants to drop off, that could be acceptable.
“I’ll give you my number,” you tell him, “I’m sure Brontë would love to see you.”
Three:
Seungcheol pauses at your door, adjusting his grip on the bag of cat food as he raises his knuckles to tap on the wood.
“One moment!” you call out, and he steps back to give you space as you appear on the threshold.
You’re wrapped in a cream coloured cardigan, and you look completely relaxed, as if you’d just put down a book. Seungcheol has always liked smart girls; cute nerds are definitely his type, and he finds himself kind of tongue-tied as he looks at you.
“I uh, I brought the cat food,” he chokes out, lifting the bag.
“Would you like to come in for a moment? I was just drinking some Chai tea and reading with Brontë.” You step to the side, and Seungcheol realizes that in your own home, you’re much more relaxed than the previous two times he’s seen you.
He steps into your apartment, and the sweet spicy scent of cinnamon perfumes the air around him. It must be from your tea, but he wouldn’t be surprised if the candles that litter the space are also to blame for the pleasing aroma.
There’s a small thump as the tiny black kitten jumps from the couch and stretches, yawning deeply before padding over to Seungcheol.
He can’t help himself; he puts down the cat food and picks up the kitten. She starts purring like a train engine, immediately cuddling up to his neck and trying to get into his hoodie, which she succeeds at despite his laughter and protest.
“Brontë likes you a lot,” you muse, drawing his attention as you shift to the kitchen. “Would you like to have some tea? It’s getting stormy outside.”
“That would be great,” Seungcheol tells you, highly aware that his plan was not to invade your space and annoy you, but you’re the one making the offers, so who would he be to turn them down?
Soon, the two of you are sitting in your small living room area, and your gaze shifts to the window as you sip on your tea.
“I like Autumn,” you muse.
“The rain and bad weather?” Seungcheol asks with a laugh.
“Yes, an excuse to stay inside and not talk to anyone.”
“I guess that’s one way to look at it,” Seungcheol nods. He plays with his teacup, bringing it to his lips. The taste of honey and cinnamon washes over his tongue, and he closes his eyes for a second to enjoy it before setting his tea down again. “If I’m being honest, I don’t really like the Fall, or the Winter for that matter. Seasonal depression is a bit of a hereditary thing in my family.”
“Seasonal Affective Disorder,” you nod, and it’s immediately clear that you’re also aware of the simply acronymed ‘Sad’ that so many people face. “I deal with that too.”
There’s a stagnant pause, but the room is not silent; instead, the pattering of rain on the cement outside becomes even louder, and your gaze shifts once more to the window.
“What got you into firefighting?” you ask.
“I always wanted to help people,” Seungcheol responds immediately, releasing a breath as the tensions shift in the room. He cuddles Brontë closer under his hoodie, and she purrs like a little engine. “Police men get a bad reputation at times, but firefighters are always the good guys. There’s no question that they’re there to save you, no question that we have the best intentions.”
“I can understand that.”
“And you?” he asks. “What made you want to be a librarian?”
“I just love books. I like peace. I don’t love people.” You let out a laugh, turning to look at him. “As an antisocial bookworm, the library felt like the place to be.”
“Makes sense,” Seungcheol smiles, admiring you.
You’re one of those dark, mysterious, moody, smart girls.
Just his type.
But you’re working on things, so it's clear that now is not the season to try to engage with you.
In many ways, the two of you are opposites.
Seungcheol is loud and social compared to your quiet aversion to talking. He’s an athlete; you’re clearly a girl who had her nose buried in a book during high school.
But regardless of these base-level differences, it’s also clear you’re kindred as people who know and have felt sadness.
You’re extremely alluring to him, but Seungcheol has never wanted to be the guy who disregards the social cues that a woman is not interested… only, you’re giving mixed signals, so he’s not quite sure what to make of you.
Instead of trying to figure all of this out, he simply sits with you, turning his attention to the storm brewing outside as he pets the tiny cat now cuddled in his hoodie.
This is a slice of life he could get used to, but if it is a fleeting moment, he’ll be sure to enjoy it as it comes.
Four:
“I’m really sorry about this,” you apologize when you invite Seungcheol into your home for the second time in one week. “The sink was leaking, and I just didn’t know who else to call.”
“You called the right person,” he assures you, slipping past you with his toolbag in hand.
You guide Seungcheol to the kitchen, showing him the leak under the sink, and he’s quick to get down onto his knees to start working.
Sipping your tea, you try not to be too obvious about the way you’re watching him, but his biceps are just so beautiful as he begins to use a wrench to tighten bolts.
Brontë is quick to jump onto his chest, and he jolts in surprise, only to laugh, reaching down to pet the black kitten. “Hi, Honey,” he greets the cat, and your heart flips in your chest at how soft this big, burly man is.
God, he really is so handsome…
Truly a Prince Charming, like the softer heroes you read about in your books.
Sure, he’s not a Mr. Rochester or a Heathcliff, but you’re entirely fine with that. Gothic love interests are always a touch too dangerous for you anyway.
“So a few bolts weren’t tight enough,” Seungcheol explains. “Try the water again.”
“With you under it?” you ask in shock.
“I’m pretty confident I’ve fixed the problem, might as well put my money where my mouth is,” he laughs.
With a shake of your head, you hesitantly turn on the water.
“Good as new,” Seungcheol concludes after a moment, adjusting himself out from under your sink. He sits up, cuddling Brontë close to his chest. “Any other broken or wonky things I can fix for you?”
You can’t help but laugh. “Not off the top of my head.”
“Oh.” He looks around. “Any art I can help you put up?”
“Not really,” you grin.
“Okay, well… I’ll get out of your hair then.”
Part of you wants him to stay, but you’re too shy to say it out loud, so you watch him stand up, collect his tools, and hand Brontë back to you. As you walk him to the door, he stops.
“I don’t want to overstep or anything,” he tells you, and you notice a pink tint in his cheeks, betraying he might be just as flustered as you are. “But uh… I was thinking maybe I could take you out for a coffee date or something sometime? I mean, we could do dinner, but you seem like a coffee date kind of girl to me.”
Your heart leaps into your throat, and you do your best to swallow it. There’s a war inside of you, with part of you wanting to stay in your little single bubble, and another part of you wanting to take a leap of faith with this beautiful man.
“No pressure or anything,” Seungcheol says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.
“Sorry, no, I, uh… I just, I haven’t been on a date in a while,” you try to explain.
“Me neither,” he admits. “Maybe, if it’s less pressure, we can just say let's go out for coffee and leave the ‘date’ word out of it.”
“I think that would be nice,” you smile.
He returns your grin. “Perfect, it’s a coffee then,” he muses, adding a twist to the age-old saying ‘it’s a date.’
He can be kind of dorky, too, which isn’t something you expected from this beefy fireman, and your heart melts as you watch him go.
Five:
The coffee date that’s not a date, except that it is, is going better than you had imagined. Seungcheol is charismatic, honest, and intelligent, all things that you enjoy in a man. He makes you laugh, and you find yourself becoming more and more comfortable with him.
There’s still something in the back of your mind that tells you that maybe you should hold yourself back, that you’ve been burned before, that you’re still working on yourself, and don’t want to enter a relationship while you’re not fully healed.
But there’s the other side of you that acknowledges you’re not perfect, and despite that imperfection, you deserve happiness. You deserve to be laughing with a handsome man over coffee as it rains outside. You deserve to find some joy even as the seasons shift from bad to worse.
It’s clear neither of you wants the date to end, and you spend three hours in this coffee shop until the rain slows a bit, and then, with a sigh, Seungcheol offers to walk you home.
You both have umbrellas, and there’s a space between you as you meander down a couple of city blocks until you arrive at your apartment.
“That was a good coffee,” Seungcheol muses, once again using the word ‘coffee’ as a substitute for the word ‘date,’ and you can’t help but smile.
“It was.”
“You don’t have to answer right now, but I’d love to do this again sometime.”
“I think I would too,” you say, honesty getting the better of you.
Seungcheol’s smile widens, and the two of you stare at each other for a moment, then he leans forward and kisses your cheek. “Say hi to Brontë for me.”
Your skin practically burns from where his lips had brushed you, and your heart thunders in your chest. You trip over your words, whole body tingling. “Yes, I uh, I will.”
“See you soon,” Seungcheol promises, reaching down to gently squeeze your hand. With one final smile, he turns and leaves, and you stand in shock for a moment in front of your building, heart racing, whole body alight with a fire that contrasts with the cool fall air.
You feel giddy and excited, which are not feelings you’ve experienced for quite some time, and your hands are shaky as you push your key into the door to enter the building. You feel like you’re buzzing as you get back to your home, and you let out a deep breath as you reach your apartment.
Brontë lets out a soft mewl, stretching by the window before she jumps down to approach you.
You pick up your little blessing, kissing her soft head as he purrs with pleasure to have you home again. She’s already saved you in more ways than you can count.
Six:
Your second date is spur of the moment, as you’re sitting down to watch a movie, you decide to text Seungcheol, and upon a short back and forth, you invite him over to watch with you.
He’s as respectful as ever, waiting an entire movie before he asks if you want to cuddle, and he allows you to dictate how close you get as you adjust next to him, gently grabbing his arm and leaning against his shoulder.
You relax during this date, and when it comes to a close, standing on the threshold of your apartment, he asks if he can kiss you for the first time.
Your heart leaps at the question, and you nod, hardly able to contain a smile as he gently pulls you closer by your hips. One hand cups your cheek, and he moves in slowly, giving you ample time to change your mind before he presses his lips to yours.
It’s as if a ton of pressure is released from your body, your muscles relaxing as you melt into the kiss, pressing your palms gently to his broad chest as you lean closer.
Seungcheol adjusts, wrapping you in his arms, and you have to fight back a moan, your skin tingling with need.
Then, he pulls away, and you notice he’s breathing heavily, as if holding himself back from you is taking a lot of effort.
“We should do this again sometime,” Seungcheol muses with a half-chuckle.
You compose yourself too, managing a smile. “I would like that.”
Seven:
It’s been a month of movie dates and cuddling without taking the next step, and Seungcheol hasn’t brought it up at all. He seems perfectly content to spend time with you, to cuddle, and kiss… There have been heated moments for sure, but the two of you have always cooled down. If Seungcheol is good at anything, it seems he’s good at putting out fires, even metaphorical ones.
He has an inherent understanding that you need to take things slow, and his respectful nature draws you closer to him every day. You’re becoming used to being in his arms, used to the feeling of safety he has gradually brought you.
It’s a new experience, as all the guys you’ve dated in the past have ended up hurting you… badly.
But… you’re starting to realize, maybe not Seungcheol.
The most difficult thing about this budding relationship - which isn’t even Seungcheol’s fault - is that as a firefighter, he’s in a high-stress environment and can’t always be on his phone to message you back.
Sometimes you go a few hours without hearing from him, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to endure that. It’s not that you’re worried he’s off with some other girl; he’s clearly not the type to be like that, but you worry about his safety.
Even with all of the safety rules in action for firefighters, accidents still happen, and you’d be devastated if anything happened to Seungcheol.
Tonight, you haven’t heard from him for about four hours, and you’re starting to worry. Even your books can’t distract you, and you keep checking your phone, but to no avail.
When there’s a knock at your door, your heart leaps into your throat, and your body freezes for a moment before you will yourself to stand up and see who is in the hallway.
A breath escapes you when you find Seungcheol standing there, but he looks worn out, and you immediately reach for him.
“Cheol?” you ask.
He doesn’t say anything, just wraps you in his arms, squeezing you desperately.
You melt into the hug, rubbing his back, and although there’s something clearly wrong, you’re just happy he’s here, happy he appears to be okay.
After a minute, Seungcheol pulls away, and you invite him into your apartment, where the two of you sit on the couch. You sneak closer to him, resting your hand on his thigh, giving him space to tell you what’s gotten him worked up.
“I uh…” Seungcheol swallows thickly. “There was this big fire, some low-level drug dealers made a kitchen in their apartment, and something went wrong. The whole building lit up. I just spent the last half of my shift there, and it was a lot.”
You nod, squeezing his thigh to show him you care while not wanting to interrupt his train of thought.
You can smell the smoke on him, although it’s clear he’s had a shower, his hair wet, yet still carrying the scent of fire.
“I don’t want to stress you out with the details, but I just…” Seungcheol lets out a deep sigh. “I think we both clearly have roadblocks. I can’t speak for you, but I know on my side, I have a dangerous job. Being a firefighter is rewarding for me, but I think I’ve held back a bit with you because I don’t want to put you in a situation to be hurt if something happens to me. And I think you have a past where you’ve been hurt before. I just… today made me realize, although we both are holding back for our own reasons, if something bad had happened to me today, I didn’t want you to be left wondering how I feel about you.”
Your breath catches as Seungcheol turns to look at you, and he places his hand over your own.
“I’m crazy about you,” he admits. “I knew there was something different about you from the moment we met, and getting closer to you this month has been the most rewarding thing outside of being a firefighter that I’ve ever experienced. I want to give you time, and I don’t want to pressure you, but if you’d consider being my girlfriend… I just… I’d love to take that next step with you.”
You feel tongue-tied as you look at him, and he’s as respectful now of giving you the floor to speak as you had been when he’d first sat down, so you collect your thoughts.
“I mean… It’s no secret that I struggle with depression. I’ve been hurt before, and it makes me scared of relationships. But… being with you this past month has been so different from anything I’ve experienced before.” Your voice cracks, and you swallow to control yourself, looking down at where your hands are connected. “I would love to be your girlfriend, it’s just scary sometimes to put yourself in a position to get hurt.”
“I know all about that,” Seungcheol admits, cracking a smile. “But the most rewarding things can come from putting yourself out there.”
“I guess we’re just built different,” you laugh. “You, the firefighter, me, the librarian.”
“I like that you’re a librarian,” he assures you, cupping your cheek while you lean against his palm. “You’re smart, and funny, and I always come away from my time with you having learned something new.”
“Yeah?”
“For example, the first time we talked, you pointed to a tree and called it a Callery Pear. That tree is one of the most common trees in the city, but I never bothered to learn its name. You taught me that. Now every time I’m on the streets, and I see one, it reminds me of you.” Seungcheol smiles. “You’re smart, and it’s one of the many things I love about you.”
Some past boyfriends have been intimidated by your brains. They’ve made your intelligence and memory something to be put down, but not Seungcheol, and your heart warms at his words.
“You’ve had a long night,” you tell him. “You must be tired.”
“I am pretty exhausted,” he concedes.
“Why don’t you stay here?” you suggest, feeling confident.
“Really?”
Even in a month of slow dating, Seungcheol hasn’t stayed at your home for a night, but if there were ever a time to rip the band-aid off, it would be now. You get the sense he needs the comfort, and you want to comfort him more than you’ve wanted to do anything in a long time.
“Come,” you prompt him, standing up. “I’ll get you a guest toothbrush, and we can get you settled.”
Twenty minutes later, you’re both set for bed. Seungcheol is lying flat while you curl next to him, and Brontë is on his chest, enjoying the attention from both of you.
This feels so natural, and you know it’s helping Seungcheol calm down after his stressful day at work.
Soon, you hear him softly snoring, and your entire body relaxes, knowing that you’ve helped this man find some peace.
Falling asleep next to a new man has always been something of a difficulty for you, but before you know what’s happening, you’re drifting into an unbothered dreamland.
Eight:
You wake up slowly, pressing against something warm. It takes you a moment to realize it’s Seungcheol, and he pulls you closer with a groan, still asleep.
A smile appears on your lips, and you release a deep breath, feeling your entire body relax.
That had been one of the best sleeps you’ve had in a very long time.
You open your eyes and notice some light coming through the blinds. It’s a grey day outside, and you can hear rain now, softly pattering against the window pane.
Brontë notices you’re awake and lets out a small chirp. She sits up and stretches, mewing at you.
After a moment of enjoying the situation, you carefully get out of bed, the little kitten running around your ankles as you go to the kitchen to get her some breakfast.
While she’s preoccupied, you go back to the bedroom, gently closing the door behind you.
Seungcheol is a vision even while he’s asleep, and you simply look at him for a few seconds, admiring him.
You pop into the bathroom, brushing your teeth and freshening up before going back to bed.
Returning under the warm covers, you cuddle up close to his chest, and Seungcheol stirs, letting out a soft groan as he takes you in his arms.
Everything about this feels so natural, and Seungcheol slowly wakes up, smiling as he cuddles closer, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.
“Good morning,” he groans, and the deepness of his voice makes your skin tingle.
“Hi.”
“Been awake long?” he asks.
“Not really. How did you sleep?”
“Really good,” Seungcheol chuckles. “You?”
“Best sleep I’ve had in ages.”
“That’s nice,” he muses, pressing another kiss to your forehead.
The two of you cuddle, enjoying a soft, lazy Sunday morning, and then Seungcheol asks if he can have a quick shower. The smell of smoke is still clinging to his skin, and while it’s not necessarily a bad smell, you know a rinse off will make him feel better.
You wait patiently while he’s in the bathroom, and a short time later, he returns.
You put your book down, admiring the fact that he’s shirtless now, using a damp towel to scrunch through his dark curls while his sweatpants hang low on his hips.
You’ve never seen him like this, and while you’ve always known Seungcheol is beefy under his hoodies, finally seeing his uncovered form with your own eyes takes your breath away.
He’s an absolute vision, a true physical masterpiece, but you suppose you shouldn’t be shocked, as he’s a firefighter and being physically fit is part of his job.
“Do you have plans for the day?” you ask, putting your book on the nightstand.
“Was thinking maybe I could stay here with you for a bit, if that’s okay. I could also take you out for breakfast since we both have the day off. Whatever works.”
“That all sounds nice,” you muse, stretching and forcing your eyes away from his chisled body.
Seungcheol comes and joins you on the bed, gently grabbing the blankets to adjust them to cover your legs. “Are you cold?” he asks.
“A little,” you admit.
“Here.” Seungcheol gets under the covers with you, and you curl against his side, enjoying the warmth he provides. His hand gently strokes your arm, and you release a deep sigh.
“Where’s Brontë?” Seungchol asks.
“Eating breakfast.”
“The bedroom door is closed,” he muses.
“Yeah.” Your skin heats. “I thought maybe we could have some alone time.”
“Really?” Seungcheol laughs, tugging you closer to his body.
“Last night I realized how safe I feel with you,” you admit quietly. “I think… I’m ready for another next step, if you are.”
“Another next step,” Seungcheol echoes, and it takes a moment for it to click for him. “Oh.”
You laugh shyly, tucking your face down against his chest to hide your embarrassment. “Or not.”
“No, sorry, I just, I didn’t expect-” Seungcheol’s chest is blooming pink now. “I don’t want you to feel pressured that just because I asked you to be my girlfriend and you let me stay over last night, now you have to… put out, or whatever.”
“I don’t feel pressure,” you assure him, trailing your finger along his bare skin.
Seungcheol looks down at where you’re tracing his bicep, and he lets out a deep breath, shifting slightly. You avert your gaze, and that’s when you notice that he’s started to stiffen in his sweatpants.
Tingles erupt through you, and you move your hand down his body slowly until you reach his waistband. Then you look up at him again. “I want this,” you confirm. “Do you want me?”
He swallows thickly and nods, and you realize he’s holding his breath, waiting to see what you do next.
When you’ve thought about your first time with Seungcheol, you always assumed he’d be the one taking care of you, but now you realize, although you’re the anxious one, your anxiety makes him extra nervous about doing something wrong. In this situation, you need to make the first move; you need to show him you want this, and as you adjust to sit up onto your knees, he grabs the bedsheets, a betrayal of how wound up he is over the fact that you’re finally ready for the next step.
Part of you wants to just go for it, to pull his pants down, but it would be a shame for your first time to lack more foreplay, so instead, you mount him.
Seungcheol’s hands find your hips to steady you, and you press your palms against his broad chest, leaning down so your lips can meet.
He kisses you back desperately, and you love how he’s already coming undone.
Seungcheol cups the back of your head, and the kiss deepens as you begin to grind down slightly against him, earning a groan that sets your whole body on fire.
You can feel his cock pressing up against his sweatpants as you tease him, gently rocking your hips for stimulation while you remain in a heated battle of lips and tongues.
Part of you wants to continue, to move down toward where he needs you most, but kissing him just feels so good. Your entire body is buzzing with pleasure, and the anticipation of the ecstasy to come.
He’s stiff as a rock now, and even with clothing acting as a barrier, the feeling of a hard cock rubbing against your clit has you whimpering already.
Seungcheol finally breaks the kiss, panting hard, and you lock eyes as you both try to collect yourselves.
You reach a hand between your bodies, rubbing him through his sweatpants, which makes him groan again, his eyes closing. His hips rock slightly, pushing up toward your palm.
Then, quite suddenly, Seungcheol flips you onto your back, his lips finding your throat as you let out a giggle of surprise.
So maybe you won’t have to be the one taking control of this situation; maybe Seungcheol just needed a bit of a push.
He grinds down against your core at the same time his mouth finds your sweet spot, and you let out a moan, tangling your fingers through his hair.
One of his hands reaches up to cup your breast, his thumb teasing your nipple through your shirt. Your buds are hard and ready to be attended to, and when Seungcheol realizes this, his mouth descends from your neck.
You take the opportunity to try to get a breath while you lift your shirt, and he gives you enough space to take it off completely, now leaving your torso bare for him.
“You’re so pretty,” he groans, his hair tickling your skin as he leans down to lick one of your nipples, his hand massaging the other breast.
You can only mewl in response, your entire body lighting up with pleasure as he begins to suck on your sensitive bud.
As he works you up, you continue to tangle your fingers in his soft hair, using him as an anchor of sorts as you give yourself to him.
Your core is practically throbbing now, and you can feel your panties getting wetter by the second, your body anticipating something you haven’t had in months.
While you’ve chosen to be celibate and distance yourself from men, you still have needs, needs that have never been quite fulfilled while flying solo. You’re shocked at how sensitive your body is, how you react when he flicks his tongue against your nipple and makes you gasp, writhing against the bed as insatiable need overtakes you.
You’re getting more desperate by the second, but you do your best to take what he’s giving you, to let him choose the pace now.
By the time he sinks lower, kissing down your abdomen and hooking his fingers in your shorts, you’re sure your panties are soaked through.
“Can I take these off?” he asks.
“Please,” you moan, lifting your hips to make the task easier.
There’s a distant rumble of thunder outside, and the air in your room is cool as Seungcheol gets you completely naked, but there’s something comforting about sex during a storm.
Seungcheol gets down onto his knees next to the bed, and your heart skips a beat when he drags you closer, his breath warm on your wet core.
“Please, I need-” you whimper, writhing against the sheets already.
“I’ve got you,” Seungcheol promises, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh.
The slow way he works his mouth toward your core has your skin feeling electrified, and you’re throbbing by the time he makes contact with your pussy.
He starts with a long, drawn-out lick that ends with your clit, which he circles deliciously with the tip of his tongue.
“Oh my God,” you pant, throwing your head back as your entire body jolts from such a soft, yet intense motion.
You feel Seungcheol smirk a little as he continues to kitten-lick you, switching between soft kisses and languid movements with his tongue.
His warm hands find your thighs, and he pushes them into a spread eagle position, giving him plenty of room to work on you.
“Cheol!” you whimper when he takes your clit into his mouth, sucking on it with a little more pressure. “I’m close already!”
You’re not sure if your sensitivity is due to going so long without having the proper attention of a man, or if it’s because Seungcheol is just so good at this, and you have such a great connection. Regardless, your muscles are already tensing, and your eyes are clenched shut, your breath coming out in hot pants of pleasure.
Seungcheol lets out a small groan, and the vibration makes your legs shake, your body teetering on the edge. You understand his sound as an affirmation that you can cum, that he wants you to experience an orgasm without holding back.
So you don’t hold back.
You reach down and tangle your fingers in his hair again, prompting him to suck on your clit harder, and seconds later, your first orgasm crashes into you like the thunder that erupts in the skies outside.
You’re a moaning mess as he works you through your high, your core throbbing desperately around nothing as waves of pleasure overtake you.
Fuck, cumming has never felt this good, and it leaves you breathless as your muscles begin to relax.
You let go of his hair, and Seungcheol chuckles, pulling away from your core to look up at you.
“Was that okay?” he asks.
“That was amazing,” you tell him, heart still racing in your ribcage.
“Yeah?” He plays with your slit, rubbing you with a finger, toying the tip inside of you, and making you groan.
“More,” you demand. “Please.”
“You got it, princess,” he muses, pushing his digit into you, testing your walls, which immediately try to clench around him.
It feels like you haven’t been touched here in years, and your body is eager for this. As he finger fucks you gently, adding a second finger, you can hear your pussy squelching, its wet sounds mixing with the noise of rain splattering against concrete, brick, and glass outside.
“You sound so pretty when you cum,” Seungcheol muses, leaning in to press a kiss to your clit that makes you shiver. “I want to hear it again.”
Two orgasms before he even puts his cock in you?
You’ll take that action.
You wiggle your hips slightly, looking for more pressure, and Seungcheol responds by crooking his fingers up to find your G-spot. You groan deeply from the feeling, closing your eyes and focusing on the pleasure that’s still surging through you.
“Right there?” he asks.
“Right there,” you confirm. “Feels so good.”
Satisfied he’s found a good spot, Seungcheol presses his mouth to your clit again, sucking on the sensitive bud and making your legs shake.
“Oh my God,” you whimper, pleasure radiating out from your core and engulfing your entire body.
The combination of pressure on your G-spot and his mouth on your clit has you writhing within minutes, grasping at the bed sheets, heart thundering in your chest.
“Just like that,” you tell him, “I’m close again.”
Like the first orgasm, when you tell Seungcheol you’re close, he increases the pressure of his motions, sucking your clit harder and thrusting his fingers up into your sweet spot with a faster speed that has you seeing stars.
All you can do is whimper and moan in ecstasy as you get closer and closer to the edge again.
You let out a loud gasp and a moan when you cum, your core clamping down on his fingers, squeezing him as he works you through your second high.
Your entire body is pulsating. There are no thoughts in your mind as you give yourself completely to the pleasure.
He works you through your high until you’re twitching, almost overstimulated by all the sensations overwhelming your body. Then, Seungcheol pulls away.
You open your eyes to watch him lick his fingers clean, releasing a small groan, then he heads over to where his hoodie is lying on the floor. He pulls out his wallet. “I brought a condom just in case,” he tells you shyly, rubbing the back of his neck as his skin blossoms with pink.
“Good idea,” you tell him, still trying to catch your breath.
You adjust on the bed, scooting back up so you can rest against the pillows.
Seungcheol slips off his sweatpants, and you have to swallow the drool that immediately fills your mouth at the sight of him.
He’s big.
Maybe the biggest you’ve ever seen up close like this, and suddenly, you’re thankful he’d worked you open with his fingers because how else would you fit a cock of his size inside of you after being celibate for months?
He rolls the condom onto his cock, and then he joins you in bed.
You’re struck by how shy he is as you pull him close, pressing your lips to his pink cheek. “I want this,” you assure him again.
“I do too,” he tells you, nuzzling his nose against your throat. “Let me know if it’s too big or I need to slow down or-”
“You’ll be fine,” you tell him, nibbling on his earlobe. “We’ll make it fit.”
He laughs a little at your comment, and to try to show him you truly mean it, you reach between your bodies to grab his cock. Your thumb and pointer finger can’t even touch with the girth of him, and you groan as you adjust his tip to your entrance.
Seungcheol lets out a shaky breath, looking down at where you’re gripping him, then back at you.
As he pushes his tip into your wet core, he presses his lips to yours, and you kiss him back desperately as he stretches you open, slowly working himself deeper and deeper and deeper.
You can’t help the whimpers that escape you, your fingernails digging into his shoulders as your body adjusts to accommodate him.
When he’s fully snug inside of you, you both break the kiss to take strangled breaths, and Seungcheol swallows thickly. “Ready?” he asks.
“Yeah.” You nod, trying to slow the racing of your heart, but it’s a pointless attempt because when he slowly starts to fuck you, your pulse surges even faster.
“Oh my God,” you whimper, throwing your head back, which gives Seungcheol more room to press his lips to your throat.
He fucks you languidly, still giving your body time to adjust to his motions while he does his best to relax you with kisses elsewhere.
Your toes are curling already, and you adjust slightly, lifting your thigh higher onto his hip for a better angle.
The tip of his cock hits a spot deep inside of you that makes you groan, and you thread your fingers in his hair, drawing his mouth back to your own.
His pace is slowly increasing, matching the desperate way your lips are locked. The room is filled with the sound of skin on skin, the noise of the rain and thunder outside, and the music of moans intermingling as you find pleasure in one another.
“Wait,” you tell him, as you feel another orgasm threatening to bubble in the pit of your stomach. “I want to be on top.”
There’s a moment where he looks shocked, but then he nods, allowing you to flip him over onto his back.
You press your hands against his broad chest to get an anchor, enjoying the view of him below you. Then you slowly ride him. It’s a shift in pace, but it feels so good to be on top, and when he presses his thumb to your clit, your entire core tightens around him.
You let out a deep moan, throwing your head back and bouncing faster.
“You’re so pretty like this,” Seungcheol groans, his other hand cupping your breast and teasing your nipple, making you whimper even louder.
Then, he begins to rut his hips, fucking up into you and making you gasp.
“Cheol,” you groan, knowing that an orgasm is now extremely close.
Seungcheol sits up abruptly, cupping the back of your head so he can press his lips to yours.
You grab onto his shoulders, anchoring yourself better as you bounce desperately on top of his cock, chasing the high that’s so close you can almost taste it.
A few seconds later, you cum with a loud gasp, throwing your head back as your walls threaten to suffocate his length, which is still buried completely inside of you as you sink to a fully seated position.
Seungcheol growls, pressing his lips to your throat, and as your walls clench around his cock, he jolts, signifying that he’s cumming too.
Part of you wishes he didn’t have to wear a condom, but he’s a firefighter, so you suppose safety is in his nature. And the flimsy piece of rubber clearly doesn’t take much away from his own orgasm if his sounds are anything to rely on.
God, his groans are music to your ears, making you whimper even louder, clutching his shoulders as the pleasure engulfs you both as if you’re one complete entity.
Your legs are shivering, and as your orgasm subsides, Seungcheol slumps back down against the bed, looking up at you.
You’re both trying to catch your breath, but you lean down, kissing him one more time before you collapse against his shoulder, nuzzling your nose along his neck.
A large, warm hand strokes your back, comforting you as you twitch with aftershocks of one of the most insanely passionate orgasms of your life.
You spend a few minutes just breathing together, holding onto each other, and basking in the warmth and afterglow of your highs.
“I know you’re not supposed to have dessert before breakfast, but I could get used to this,” Seungcheol says, cracking a smile to finally break the soft, comfortable silence.
“I could too,” you admit with a chuckle.
“I still want to take you somewhere nice for food, though,” he assures you. “I’m not one of those guys who gets laid then stops trying.”
“Trust me, I know that.” You shake your head at him, charmed by how soft and shy and awkward he can be sometimes.
Seungcheol presses a kiss to your lips. “Maybe we could shower together first?” he suggests. “You know, proper aftercare and everything.”
Your heart melts for him, and you nod. “I’d love that.”
“Is it weird for me to say I’m excited about all of this?” he asks, his chest flushing that rosy pink colour that’s starting to become a signature of his. “I mean… you’re kind of my dream girl.”
“Cheol…”
“I mean it,” he says. “I just… I think this could really work.”
“I think so too.”
“And after breakfast, I want to go to a store and get more treats and toys for Brontë, since she’s the matchmaker behind all of this.”
You laugh, shaking your head at him. “Has anyone ever told you that for a big, burly firefighter, you’re kind of adorable?”
“Don’t tell my coworkers,” he teases.
You melt at his words, a happiness unlike any other overtaking you. As the storm continues outside, you and Seungcheol shower together, basking in the warmth and promise of this new relationship, and for the first time in a long time, you’re excited about what the future may bring.
☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! I appreciate those of you who responded to my post about the tough month I've been dealing with. I'm working on posting fics earlier but life has just put me through the wringer lately.
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🔮 preview. He’s so sexy, and you look up at him, loving the way the water drips down his chiseled chest, his curls all wet. You like the way his skin flushes, not from the temperature of the shower, but from you working him up with your mouth. The sounds he makes are the true goal, however, and the deep groans seem to echo in the small shower, filling you with confidence as you suck harder on his cock.
cw/ tw. Unprotected sex, shower sex, oral, pussy eating, blow job, multiple reader orgasms, reader overstimulation, praise, dirty talk, use of sex toy, vibrator, multiple sex positions, fingering, munch/pleasure kink!cheol, big dick! Seungcheol, etc… I petnames. (hers) princess.
👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.3k I teaser wc. 100
🌙 starring. Seungcheol x afab!Reader
bonus
Springtime has so many new wonders now that you’re in a relationship.
You’ve always kind of morbidly enjoyed the death, decay and antisocial vibes of Autumn, but with Seungcheol, Spring is starting to signify new hope and joy.
He’s the king of cheesy dates, taking you to flower farms, on picnics, to the minigolf spot, and out for farmers market walks. Seungcheol has also taken to getting you lavender and other beautifully scented plants, and your apartment has truly never smelled so nice.
After months of discussion and relationship growth, the two of you are taking a new step.
Seungcheol is moving in with you.
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Synopsys: Y/N has a talent for frightening away every eligible lord in Westeros, Valarr has a talent for reminding her about it. They absolutely hate each other. Unfortunately, they've also been in love since they were twelve.
Tags/warnings: targcest (cousins, reader is Aerys's daughter, mother unnamed so the reader can self insert), Idiots in Love, Mutual Pining, Flirting via Insults
wordcount: 7.5 k
The first time you'd been called the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms, you had been twelve years old, and some Dornish lordling had said it to your father at a feast while you pretended not to listen.
By sixteen, you had grown into the title well enough. You'd learned exactly how to tilt your head so the candles caught the light in your hair, exactly how to smile so that men forgot their own names in the middle of introductions. It had happened a few times now, completely blank stares followed by furious blushing and stammered apologies. You'd perfected the art of pretending not to notice that either.
The problem, as Valarr Targaryen never tired of pointing out, was what happened when you opened your mouth.
"The Lion of the Rock ran away before the third course," he announced cheerfully, sliding onto the bench across from you in the gardens of King's Landing. His tunic was still clinging to his chest, dark with sweat from the training yard, and the silver-gold streak in his brown hair caught the morning sunlight like a slash of moonlight. One blue eye and one brown eye crinkled with unmistakable amusement. "I heard he packed his things and rode for Casterly Rock before dawn. Didn't even say goodbye. Didn't even leave a note. Just gone. Poof. Like smoke."
You turned the page of your book with deliberate calm, not looking up. "Perhaps he missed his mother."
"His mother isn't at Casterly Rock." Valarr reached across the table and stole a grape from the bowl beside your elbow, popping it into his mouth with infuriating nonchalance. "She's at Crakehall for her sister's wedding. Some business about a disputed inheritance and a very ugly horse, or so my mother tells it."
"Valarr." You finally looked up, fixing him with your best withering stare. You'd practiced it in the mirror for hours when you were fourteen, the slight raise of one eyebrow, the cool disdain in the eyes, the way your mouth could flatten into something that promised ice. It had made lesser men stammer. It had made small children cry. One time it had made a particularly skittish handmaiden drop a whole pitcher of wine all over the floor.
Valarr just grinned wider, showing teeth.
"Y/N." He mimicked your tone perfectly, right down to the precise degree of frost. "That's the fifth one this year."
"Fourth," you corrected automatically, and then cursed yourself six ways from Sunday for taking the bait. You could feel the trap closing around you even as you spoke.
"Fourth," he allowed generously, stealing another grape. "But it's only the third moon. At this rate you'll run through every eligible lord in the realm by summer. The smallfolk will start writing songs about you. 'The Maiden Who Made Lions Run.' Catchy title. Needs work on the meter."
"And you'll have beaten every knight too old or too young to give you a proper fight by then." You marked your place in the book—a history of the Rhynar, full of fascinating water magic and cities made of river-smoothed stone, not that he'd notice or care—and gave him your full attention. It was the only way to survive these encounters. Treat him like a particularly persistent headache. "How was the old man yesterday? Did he put up a good struggle before you unhorsed him?"
"Lord Caron is forty-two. That's not old."
"He's older than your father."
Valarr paused mid-reach for another grape. "My father is forty-two."
You blinked. "Is he?"
"His nameday was last moon. You were there." He abandoned the grape campaign entirely, leaning back with his arms crossed over his chest. The movement pulled his tunic tight across his shoulders, and you absolutely did not notice that. You were too busy being annoyed. "He danced with you because you were sulking in the corner while Lord Somebody fled the capital. The fourth one. The one with the unfortunate mustache."
"I wasn't sulking. I was contemplative."
"You were drinking wine from the wrong side of the cup so no one would see you making faces."
"I was—" You stopped. The words died in your throat as something occurred to you. Something unsettling. "How do you know what side of the cup I was drinking from? You were across the hall the entire night. I saw you. You were surrounded by Stormlands knights and that awful girl from House Swann who laughs like a horse."
"Her name is Brilaine. And she doesn't laugh like a horse. She laughs like—" He stopped, apparently unable to find a comparison. "Like someone who laughs a lot."
"Like a horse," you repeated firmly.
Valarr's expression flickered—there and gone so fast you might have imagined it—before settling back into its usual infuriating smugness. "I pay attention to my surroundings. It's why I'm still alive in the melee. You can't afford to miss details when someone's trying to separate your head from your shoulders."
"You fight green boys and old men in the melee. The only thing trying to separate your head from your shoulders is your own overconfidence."
"I fought Ser Ryam Redwyne last moon. He's won four tourneys."
"He's nineteen and you trounced him in three passes." You set down your book entirely now, because this was becoming almost entertaining. "My grandmother could have trounced him in three passes."
"Your grandmother is dead."
"Which proves my point. If a dead woman can beat him, your victory is nothing to boast about."
Valarr laughed, and it was the worst sound in the world because it was genuine, warm, and did something complicated to your stomach that you refused to acknowledge. It wasn't the polite court laugh, all teeth and no feeling. It wasn the sharp bark of derision you got from your rivals. It was a real laugh, full and rich and terrible, and it made his mismatched eyes crinkle at the corners in a way that was frankly unfair.
You hated that about him. You hated all of it.
"You're impossible," he said, shaking his head. The silver-gold streak caught the light again. Stupid hair. Stupid beautiful hair.
"I'm the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms."
"Who can't keep a suitor for more than a week."
"Who won't settle for a suitor for more than a week," you corrected, lifting your chin. "There's a difference. I have standards. Just because some lordling with a fancy sigil decides he wants to warm my bed and my coffers doesn't mean I have to open my arms and say 'welcome.'"
"Your standards apparently include 'must not run away at the first sign of a sharp tongue.'"
"My tongue isn't sharp."
"It could cut glass. It could cut through Valyrian steel. I'm surprised the Lannister boy made it through dinner without bleeding from the ears."
"Flattery won't work on me, cousin."
He leaned forward suddenly, forearms on the table between you. The movement brought him closer, too close, close enough that you could smell the sweat and steel of the training yard on him, close enough that the mismatched, stupid, beautiful, infuriating eyes were impossible to ignore. One blue as a summer sky, one brown as autumn earth. Looking at both at once made you feel slightly dizzy.
"When have I ever flattered you?" he asked, and his voice had dropped somehow, gone lower, gone quieter. It was just the two of you in this corner of the garden. Just you and him and the stupid complicated thing in your chest.
"Never. You're incapable of it."
"I'm capable." His mouth curved. "You're just not worth the effort."
You should have been offended. Any proper lady would have been offended. Any proper lady would have risen from her seat with icy dignity, summoned her handmaidens, and swept away to complain to someone important about the disrespect shown by the prince's insolent son.
Instead you felt your lips twitching toward a smile and had to physically force them flat. It took actual effort. You could feel the muscles in your face rebelling.
"And yet here you are," you said. "Talking to me. In the gardens. On a perfectly nice morning when you could be off beating up children somewhere."
"Green boys," he corrected. "And old men."
"Same thing, really. They both cry when they lose."
"You wound me." He pressed a hand to his chest, right over the enameled three-headed dragon pinned to his tunic. It rose and fell with his breath. "I'll have you know I'm an excellent knight. Someday I'll be as good as my father. Better, even. They'll write songs about me too. 'Valarr the Valiant.' 'The Prince Who Rose Like the Sun.' 'The Dragonknight Reborn.'"
"They'll write songs about how you talk too much and steal grapes from ladies without asking."
"Those grapes were going to go to waste. You weren't eating them. You were too busy contemplating your book about dead people."
"They're not dead, they're—" You stopped. Took a breath. "You know what? Never mind. You're not worth the explanation."
"Says the woman talking to me."
"Says the woman who can't get rid of you no matter how sharply her tongue cuts."
He grinned again, and you hated him, you really did. You hated him so much it made your chest tight.
"Someday you might even earn a victory without your father's help," you heard yourself say.
The words came out sharper than you'd intended. Much sharper. They hung in the air between you like physical things, like stones dropped into still water.
You saw the flicker in his mismatched eyes again, hurt, there and gone so fast you might have imagined it if you hadn't been watching for it, if you hadn't somehow known it would be there. His face didn't change. His smile didn't slip. But something behind his eyes shuttered, just for a moment.
And immediately you wanted to take it back. You wanted to grab the words out of the air and shove them back into your mouth and pretend you'd never said them.
But that would require admitting you'd been cruel. And admitting you'd been cruel would require admitting you cared whether you hurt him. And you absolutely, categorically did not.
So instead you looked back at your book and pretended the words on the page made sense. They didn't. They never did when he was around.
"Y/N."
You didn't look up.
"Y/N, look at me."
You looked up.
His face had gone serious. The usual mockery was gone, smoothed away into something almost gentle. Almost soft. It was deeply unsettling. You weren't used to Valarr without his armor of jokes and needling. It was like seeing a knight without his sword—wrong, somehow. Exposed.
"My father doesn't arrange my opponents." His voice was quiet. Careful. Each word measured out like it cost him something. "He introduces me to knights he thinks I can learn from. Some are young. Some are old. All of them have beaten men twice my size. I don't win because he makes it easy. I win because I'm good enough to keep up with them. Because I've worked for it. Because I've bled for it." He paused. "Because I'm not just his son. I'm my own man. Or I'm trying to be."
You wanted to argue. You wanted to point out that Ser Ryam Redwyne had been found crying in his tent after their match, that everyone said he'd taken the loss hard, that everyone whispered Baelor Breakspear had chosen him specifically because he was young and overconfident and would make Valarr look good.
You wanted to say that everyone knew Baelor was grooming his son for greatness. Clearing the path. Making sure the golden boy stayed golden.
But you looked at Valarr's face—at the earnest set of his jaw, the slight tension in his shoulders, the way one hand had curled into a fist on the table between you—and found you couldn't.
"Fine," you said instead. "You're adequate."
"High praise from the woman who can't keep a suitor."
"I can keep them. I just don't want them."
"You don't want any of them?"
The question hung in the air between you. There was something in his voice—something careful, something almost hopeful—that made your heart stutter in your chest like a horse refusing a jump.
You ignored it. You had to ignore it. There was no other option.
"I want to finish my book." You gestured with it, the leather binding warm in your hands. "Some of us have pursuits beyond hitting things with sticks and pretending it's chivalry."
"Hitting things with sticks is a noble pursuit. It's practically an art form. There's strategy involved. And skill. And—" He paused, searching for the right word. "And poetry. There's poetry in a well-executed strike."
"The only poetry in the training yard is the poetry of grown men grunting."
"You've clearly never seen me fight."
"I've seen you fight." The words came out before you could stop them. "You're not wrong about the poetry. It's just not the kind of poetry I'd want to read."
He blinked. Once. Twice. Something flickered in his mismatched eyes—surprise, maybe, or something warmer. "You've watched me fight?"
"I've been to tourneys. Everyone watches everyone. It's not—" You could feel heat creeping up your neck and willed it away with every ounce of self-control you possessed. "It's not like I sought you out specifically."
"Of course not."
"I have better things to do than watch you beat up old men."
"Of course you do."
"I'm just saying that when I happen to be present, I happen to notice things. Like anyone would."
"Of course." His voice was suspiciously bland. Suspiciously amused. "Like anyone would."
You threw your book at him.
He caught it, of course, because he was quick and irritating and had probably been expecting it. His hands closed around it a finger's breadth from his face, and he lowered it slowly, grinning that insufferable grin.
"A Rhoynar history?" He flipped through a few pages, eyebrows rising. "Really? You couldn't have picked something interesting? Something with dragons, or battles, or at least a few scandalous love affairs?"
"It is interesting."
"It's about a dead civilization."
"They're not dead, they're—" You stopped. Took a breath. Counted to five in your head. "You know what? Never mind. Give it back."
"Come and get it."
"Valarr."
"Y/N."
"I will—"
"You'll what? Call the guards? Tell them your favorite cousin stole your book?"
"You're not my favorite cousin."
"I'm your only cousin. Well. Your only cousin who's not married, not hideous, not younger then you, doesn't think himself a dragon trapped in a human body and not a constant drunk."
"You're changing the subject."
"I'm expanding the subject. There's a difference."
"The difference being that you're still holding my book."
He laughed again—that warm, terrible laugh—and tossed it back. You caught it one-handed, which was impressive and you knew it, and he raised an eyebrow in acknowledgment.
"Not bad."
"I have hidden talents."
"Like scaring off Lannisters?"
"That was one Lannister."
"Four suitors. Third moon."
"It was one Lannister and three others who happened to be from the Westerlands. That's not the same thing. The Crakehall boy left because his father got sick. The Marbrand boy left because his sister had a baby. The—the other one left because his mother demanded it."
"They all ran. You're building a reputation."
"I'm building a reputation as a woman who knows her own mind and won't be married off to the first lordling with a gold sigil and a vacuous smile."
"That's a very long reputation. Songs will have trouble fitting it in."
"They can call me Y/N the Unmarried. I'll wear it as a badge of honor."
Valarr was quiet for a moment, tracing patterns on the table with his finger. The grape bowl sat between you, half-empty now, and you noticed absently that he'd eaten most of them. Little thief.
When he spoke again, his voice had gone carefully neutral. Carefully empty. "I heard the Tyrell boy is coming to court."
Your stomach dropped. You could feel it, an actual physical sensation, like falling from a height. "Did you."
"Next moon. Your mother mentioned it to mine at breakfast. They were very conspiratorial about it. Lots of whispering and meaningful looks." He traced another pattern. "He's seventeen. Unmarried. Supposedly very handsome. Very poetic. Writes sonnets, apparently. To ladies he's never met. Just on principle."
"Supposedly."
"Your mother seems excited."
"My mother is excited by anyone with a pulse and a title. She'd be excited by a goat if it could prove its lineage went back to Garth Greenhand."
"That's harsh."
"It's accurate. You've met my mother. You've seen how she looks at unmarried lords. Like a cat looks at a very slow mouse."
Valarr's mouth twitched. "I suppose that's one way to put it."
"The accurate way."
He was quiet again, still tracing patterns. You watched his finger move—circles, squares, something that might have been a dragon if you squinted—and tried to ignore the tension building in your chest.
"What's wrong with the Tyrell boy?" he asked finally.
"I don't know. I haven't met him."
"Then maybe this one will stick."
"Maybe."
"You could try being nice to him."
"I am nice."
"You threw a book at me."
"You deserved it."
"I did," he agreed, and there was something soft in his mismatched eyes again. Something that made your breath catch in your throat. "But he won't. He won't deserve it. He'll just be some boy from Highgarden who's heard stories about the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms. He'll come to court with his sonnets and his soft hands and his dreams of love, and he'll see you across a crowded room, and he'll think he's found something out of a song."
"And?"
"And you'll open your mouth." His voice was gentle now. Infuriatingly gentle. "And you'll be clever, and sharp, and impossible. And he won't understand. He won't realize that the sharpness is just—" He stopped. Started again. "He won't understand that it's armor. He'll just feel the cuts. And within a week, he'll be on his way back to Highgarden, and everyone will sigh and say 'poor Y/N, so lovely, so impossible.'"
"Is that what they say?"
"That's what I say."
"You think I'm lovely?"
"I think you're—" He stopped. His mismatched eyes met yours, and for a moment the garden disappeared. The fountain faded. The birds went silent. There was just him, and you, and the space between you that felt suddenly, terrifyingly small.
"I think you're—"
"Prince Valarr!" A servant appeared to announce that Prince Baelor required his son's presence in the training yard.
Valarr's eyes didn't leave yours for a long moment. Something passed between you, you couldn't name it, couldn't define it, but you felt it like a physical thing.
Then he blinked, and it was gone, and he was standing, brushing off his armor, settling his face back into its usual easy smile.
"Duty calls," he said. "I'm about to show them what a real knight looks like."
"You're going to get yourself killed."
"I'm going to get myself celebrated. There's a difference." He paused, looking down at you. The sunlight caught his hair, his eyes, the slight smile on his lips. "Try not to scare away any more suitors before supper. I'd hate to run out of material."
"Material for what?"
"Material for our conversations. What else would I talk to you about if not your long trail of failed courtships?"
"My book. My fascinating, interesting book about a civilization that's not dead."
"That's not a conversation. That's a lecture." He took a step back, then another. "Goodbye, Y/N. Try not to miss me too much."
"I won't miss you at all."
"Liar."
And then he was gone, following the servant down the garden path, his stride easy and confident, his shoulders straight, his stupid beautiful hair catching the light with every step.
You sat there for a long moment, alone with your Rhoynar history and the grape bowl and the complicated thing in your chest that you absolutely, categorically refused to name.
Then you opened your book to the page you'd marked and stared at it without seeing a single word.
Somewhere nearby, the fountain burbled on. Birds sang. It was disgustingly peaceful.
You hated it. You hated all of it.
But mostly, you hated that he'd been right. You were going to miss him. You always did.
The Tyrell boy lasted six days.
You knew it was six because you'd been counting, the same way you counted everything now—days between suitors, minutes between Valarr's visits, heartbeats between one stupid comment and the next. Six days of golden hair and green eyes and sonnets about your smile. Six days of nodding politely while he explained the importance of roses in Reach heraldry. Six days of waiting for the other shoe to drop.
You sat in the library the next morning, supposedly reading but actually staring at the same page for twenty minutes. A history of the Rhoynar. The same one Valarr always mocked you for. The pages blurred together into meaningless shapes.
"Six days."
You didn't look up. You didn't have to. You'd know that voice anywhere—the lazy drawl, the undercurrent of amusement, the way he stretched the words out like honey.
"Shut up."
"A new record." Footsteps. The creak of the chair across from you. "You should be proud."
"I told you to shut up."
"He didn't even make it to a full week." The sound of him settling in, getting comfortable. He'd be leaning back now, ankles crossed, that insufferable grin on his face. You could picture it perfectly. "That's impressive even by your standards. I thought for sure the Tyrell would last at least a fortnight. He seemed determined. All that poetry, you know. Very persistent."
You slammed your book shut. "What do you want, Valarr?"
He held up his hands in mock surrender you looked up just in time to see it, the familiar gesture, the easy smile. "I came to offer my condolences. Clearly you're devastated."
"I'm fine."
"You're hiding in the library."
"I like the library."
"You hate the library." He leaned forward, mismatched eyes gleaming. "You only come here when you want to be alone. When you're upset about something. When you've scared off another suitor and need to—what did you call it last time? Contemplate?"
You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it again. He knew you too well. That was the problem with cousins who'd grown up in the same castle, who'd been thrown together at every feast and tourney and family gathering since you could walk. He knew your tells. He knew your moods. He knew that when you were upset, you read about dead civilizations and pretended the world didn't exist.
It was infuriating.
"I'm not hiding," you said finally. "I'm contemplating."
"Contemplating what? Whether to scare off the next one in four days instead of six?"
"Whether to push you out a window."
"There aren't any windows in here." He gestured around at the stone walls, the heavy curtains, the flickering candles. "Bad design, really. Who builds a library without windows? The maesters, apparently. They don't believe in fresh air."
"There's a balcony."
"You'd have to get past me first."
"I'd manage."
He grinned, and you hated him, you really did. Hated the way his mismatched eyes crinkled at the corners. Hated the silver-gold streak in his brown hair that caught the candlelight like a promise. Hated that he was the only person in the world who could make you feel like this.
"The Tyrell boy was boring anyway," he said, reaching for a book on the table between you. Some treatise on dragon breeding. Of course. "All he talked about was his horse."
"He had a very nice horse."
"His horse was average at best." He flipped a page, not really reading. "I saw it in the stables. Dappled gray. One white sock. Slightly bow-legged."
"You're just jealous because you lost to him in the melee last year."
"I didn't lose." He looked up sharply. "I was distracted."
"Distracted by what?"
He looked at you. Just looked, with those ridiculous mismatched eyes, and said nothing.
And suddenly the air in the library felt very thin.
"Valarr." Your voice came out strange. "What are you—"
"You know what I think?" He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Close. Too close. "I think you scare them off on purpose."
"I do not."
"I think you pick fights and say cruel things and make sure they leave before they get too close."
"Why would I do that?"
"So you don't have to let anyone in."
You laughed, but it sounded hollow even to your own ears. "That's ridiculous. You're ridiculous. You don't know anything."
"I know you." He said it simply, like it was obvious. "I've known you my whole life. I know when you're pretending."
"I'm not pretending."
"You are. Right now. You're pretending you don't care that he left. You're pretending you don't care that they all leave." He paused. "You're pretending you don't care about a lot of things."
"Like what?"
He didn't answer. Just kept looking at you with those eyes and you wanted to look away, you wanted to run, you wanted to throw something else at his stupid handsome face.
Instead you said, "You don't know everything."
"I know you're scared."
"I'm not scared of anything."
"You're scared of this." He gestured between you, vague and specific all at once. "Of whatever this is."
"There's nothing between us."
"No?"
"No."
"Then why do you seek me out at every feast?"
The words hit you like a splash of cold water. You straightened against the bookshelf behind you, the leather-bound spines digging into your shoulders through your gown. The library was empty—or it had been, until five minutes ago, when Valarr had appeared between the stacks like he'd materialized from thin air.
"I don't seek you out." Your voice came out steadier than you felt. Good. "I attend feasts. You attend feasts. Occasionally we occupy the same space. It's called coincidence."
"Coincidence." He said the word like it tasted wrong. "Every feast for the past three years. Every time I turn around, there you are. Across the hall. At the next table. Standing by the window with that look on your face."
"What look?"
"The look that says you're pretending not to watch me."
Your heart stuttered. "I don't watch you."
"You watched me at the tourney last moon. You told me you did. You said you'd seen me fight."
"That's different. Everyone watches the tourney."
"You watched me." He took a step closer. Then another. The library was suddenly very small, the shelves pressing in on all sides. "You watch me at feasts too. When you think I'm not looking. When you think no one's looking."
"I don't—"
"Why do you always read in the gardens in the morning along the path closest to the training yard?"
The question landed like a physical blow. You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"I don't—"
"You do." Another step. He was close enough now that you could see the individual lashes around his mismatched eyes, the slight shadow of stubble on his jaw, the way his chest rose and fell a little too quickly. "Every morning. Rain or shine. You sit on that bench with your books about dead civilizations and you pretend you can't hear the swords clashing fifty yards away."
"Rhoynar," you whispered. "They're not—"
"Why do you get that look in your eyes when I walk into a room?"
"What look?"
"The one you have right now."
You didn't know what look you had. You didn't know anything. You only knew that he was very close, closer than he'd been before, and that your heart was doing something alarming in your chest, and that you should push him away, you should laugh it off, you should do anything except sit here frozen like a deer in front of a hunter.
He was so close. Too close. Close enough that you could smell him—clean sweat and leather and something underneath that was just him, that you'd somehow memorized without meaning to. His eyes moved over your face like he was trying to memorize it too, like he was afraid you might disappear.
"Y/N." His voice was soft. Barely a whisper. "Tell me to go."
You should. You should tell him to go, to leave, to stop looking at you like that. It would be the sensible thing. The safe thing. The thing that would protect you from whatever this was, whatever it had always been, whatever lived in the space between bickering and wanting.
"Go," you whispered.
He didn't move.
"Valarr. Go."
He leaned closer.
His breath was warm on your lips. Your hands were shaking. You could feel the heat of his body through the inches of air between you, could feel something building in your chest like a wave about to break.
"This is—" You swallowed. Your throat was dry. "This is a terrible idea."
"I know."
"We hate each other."
"I know." His voice was rough. "Gods, I know."
"And you're—and I'm—and everyone would—" You couldn't breathe. You couldn't think. "They'd say—my mother would—your father would—"
"I know." His forehead touched yours, just barely, just the lightest pressure. "I know all of it. I've known all of it for years. Do you want me to stop?"
Yes. No. You didn't know. You'd never known anything less in your entire life.
His eyes were so close. One blue, one brown. Beautiful. Stupid. Yours, somehow, even though he'd never been yours, even though you'd spent years pretending you didn't want him to be.
"No," you heard yourself say. The word came from somewhere deep, somewhere you'd been hiding even from yourself. "I don't want you to stop."
The sound he made was still echoing in the space between you when his mouth crashed into yours.
It wasn't gentle.
It was years of wanting and years of denial and years of pretending you hated someone when what you really hated was how much you couldn't stop thinking about them. His lips were hungry, demanding, like he was trying to make up for lost time. One hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back, and the other gripped your waist and pulled you against him so hard you felt it everywhere.
You made a sound against his mouth—something between a gasp and a moan—and he swallowed it like he was starving.
His tongue traced your lower lip and you opened for him without thinking, without hesitation, and then he was inside your mouth and you were inside his and it was everything. Your hands fisted in his tunic, pulling him closer, closer, like you could merge into one person if you just held on tight enough.
"I still hate you," you gasped against his mouth.
"I hate you too," he breathed back, and kissed you again, deeper, harder, like he was trying to prove it.
You stumbled back against the bookshelves, knocking something over—a book, a candle, a whole stack of something that hit the floor with a crash you barely heard. His body pressed you into the shelves, and you could feel everything—the hard planes of his chest, the rapid beat of his heart, the evidence of exactly how much he wanted this. Wanted you.
He made a sound against your lips that you felt all the way down to your toes. It was raw. It was real. It was nothing like the easy smile he wore for the rest of the world.
"You're impossible," he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, darkening the mismatched eyes to something almost uniform. His breath came in harsh pants. His lips were red and swollen.
"You're insufferable."
"You're beautiful." He said it like a confession. Like it hurt.
"You're tolerable." Your voice shook.
He laughed—that warm, terrible laugh—and you felt it everywhere. His forehead dropped to yours again, and you could feel him shaking, just slightly, just enough.
"I can't believe I'm doing this," you said.
"I can't believe you're letting me."
"I'm not letting you. I'm tolerating you. There's a difference."
"Of course there is." His thumb traced circles on your hip through the silk of your gown. It was maddening. It was wonderful.
"And when this is over, I'm going back to hating you."
"Naturally."
"And you'll go back to making fun of me for scaring off suitors."
"I would never."
"You absolutely would." You wanted to kiss him again. You wanted to climb inside his skin.
"I absolutely would," he agreed, and kissed you again.
This time it was slower. Deeper. He took his time, exploring your mouth like he had all the days in the world, like there was nowhere else he'd rather be. His hand slid from your hip to your waist to the curve of your spine, pulling you impossibly closer. Your arms wound around his neck, fingers threading through that stupid silver-gold streak, and he groaned into your mouth when you tugged.
"Y/N." Your name was a prayer on his lips. "Y/N, Y/N, Y/N."
"Valarr." You said it back, over and over, like you were making up for all the times you'd thought it without saying it.
Somehow you ended up on the floor. You didn't remember how. One moment you were against the shelves, the next you were surrounded by fallen books and the dust of old parchment, and he was above you, braced on his forearms, looking down at you like you were the answer to every question he'd ever asked.
Your hair was a disaster. You could feel it spreading around you like a halo, pins scattered somewhere you'd never find them. His tunic was wrinkled beyond repair, half-untucked, and there was a flush high on his cheekbones that made him look younger. Softer.
You'd never seen him like this. No one had ever seen him like this.
"I still hate you," you said, for what felt like the hundredth time.
"I know." He was smiling down at you, mismatched eyes soft and warm and full of something that made your chest ache. "I hate you too."
"Good. As long as we're clear."
"Completely clear."
"So this doesn't mean anything."
"Nothing at all."
"Just two people who hate each other."
"Exactly."
"Kissing."
"Against their better judgment."
"In a library."
"The most scandalous location possible."
You snorted—actually snorted, like a pig, in front of him—and for a moment you wanted to die. You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. You were the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms and you'd just snorted like a farm animal in front of the man you'd been pretending not to love for half your life.
But he just grinned wider, like you'd done something wonderful, and pressed his forehead to yours.
"That," he said, "was the most adorable sound I've ever heard."
"It was not adorable. It was horrifying."
"It was perfect." He kissed the tip of your nose. "Everything about you is perfect."
"Now I know you're lying."
"I never lie." He kissed your forehead. "I exaggerate. I embellish. I occasionally bend the truth for comedic effect. But I don't lie." He kissed your cheek. "Especially not about this."
"About what?"
He pulled back just enough to look at you. Really look at you. The playfulness faded from his face, replaced by something raw and open and terrifying.
"Y/N."
"What?"
"You're impossible and insufferable and the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
"I know."
"And I think—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I think I've been in love with you since we were twelve."
You went very still.
He went very still.
The words hung in the air between you, fragile and terrifying and real in a way nothing had ever been real before.
You could hear your own heartbeat. You could hear his breathing, quick and uneven. You could hear the distant sounds of the castle going about its day, completely unaware that your entire world had just shifted on its axis.
"I didn't mean to say that," he said quietly. His voice was rough. Shaking.
"Yes you did."
A long pause. His eyes searched yours, looking for something—rejection, maybe, or mockery.
"...Yes I did."
You looked at him, at his mismatched eyes, his silver-gold streak, his stupid handsome face. You looked at the slight tremble in his jaw, the way his hands had fisted in your gown like he was afraid you'd push him away. You looked at all of him, everything he'd just given you, everything he'd just risked.
And you felt something crack open in your chest. Something you'd been holding closed for years, something you'd told yourself was nothing, something you'd buried under sharp words and thrown books and the careful pretense of indifference.
"I think," you said carefully, your voice barely above a whisper, "I might have been in love with you since we were twelve too."
His eyes went wide. "What?"
"You heard me."
"Say it again."
"No."
"Y/N."
"That's all you get. I'm not a performing monkey."
"You just said—" He sat up slightly, looking down at you with an expression of dazed wonder. "You just said you love me."
"I said I might have been in love with you. Past tense. There's a difference."
"There is no difference and you know it."
"There's every difference and—"
He kissed you again, and it was different this time. Softer. Sweeter. Like he was trying to pour everything he felt into the shape of your mouth.
When he pulled back, you were both breathing hard.
"You have a funny way of showing it," he said.
"So do you."
"I made fun of you constantly."
"I threw books at you."
"We're very mature."
"Exceptionally mature." You reached up and touched his face, tracing the line of his jaw. He closed his eyes and leaned into your touch like a cat seeking warmth. "What do we do now?"
"I don't know."
"That's not reassuring."
"I've never done this before." His eyes opened. "I've never—there's never been anyone else. Not like this."
You stared at him. "You're telling me the golden prince, the heir's heir, the most eligible bachelor in the Seven Kingdoms—"
"Stop."
"—has never—"
"Y/N, I'm warning you—"
"—been in love before?"
"I've been in love once." He caught your hand and pressed a kiss to your palm. "For four years. With a woman who throws books at me and calls me insufferable and reads about dead civilizations in the garden every morning."
"Rhoynar," you whispered. "They're not dead."
He laughed softly against your skin. "I don't care what they are. I care about you."
"What if this goes wrong?"
"Then it goes wrong."
"What if we ruin everything?"
"Then we ruin everything." He looked at you, steady and sure. "But what if it goes right? What if we're happy? What if this is the best thing that ever happens to us?"
"You're an optimist."
"I'm a realist. I've spent four years watching you from across rooms. Four years making excuses to talk to you. Four years pretending I didn't want to do exactly this." He gestured vaguely at your entangled position on the library floor. "I'm tired of pretending."
"So am I."
"Then let's stop."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that." He kissed you again, brief and warm. "We'll figure it out. Together."
"You make it sound so simple."
"It is simple. Complicated, but simple." He smiled that smile, the real one, the one that made your heart do flips. "We love each other. We've always loved each other. Everything else is just details."
"Details like your father."
"We'll tell him."
"My mother."
"She'll be thrilled. Every mother in the realm wants you for a daughter in law."
"Your mother thinks I'm too sharp."
"My mother thinks everyone's too sharp. She once called a kitten 'aggressive.'"
You laughed and he looked at you like you'd hung the moon.
"We're still going to fight," he said against your lips.
"Constantly."
"Good." He pulled back just enough to look at you. "I wouldn't want anything to change."
He kissed you again, and you kissed him back, and somewhere in the back of your mind you knew there would be challenges ahead. Your mother. His father. The court. The endless gossips who would have opinions about the prince and the sharp-tongued beauty who'd scared off half the eligible lords in the realm.
But right now, in this moment, with his body warm against yours and his lips soft on your mouth and his heart beating against your chest—
Right now, everything was exactly as it should be.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were soft, his smile was real, and there was a smudge of dust on his cheek from the library floor.
"You have something on your face," you said.
"Where?"
"Here." You reached up and wiped it away, letting your fingers linger on his skin. "Gone now."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"I love you."
"I know."
"Say it back."
"No."
"Y/N."
"Ask me nicely."
He grinned, that insufferable beautiful grin. "Please, Y/N, the most beautiful, the smartest woman in the Seven Kingdoms, will you do me the honor of telling me you love me?"
You pretended to consider it. "I suppose I could be persuaded."
"And?"
"And I love you." The words felt strange on your tongue. Strange and wonderful and terrifyingly right. "I love you, you impossible, insufferable, wonderful man."
"I love you too." He kissed the tip of your nose. "My sharp-tongued beauty."
"My golden prince." He settled against you, his head on your shoulder, his arm across your waist. "Can we stay here forever?"
"Someone will find us."
"Let them."
"We'll be ruined."
"I've been ruined since I was twelve." He pressed a kiss to your collarbone. "I just didn't know it yet."
You lay there for a while longer, surrounded by fallen books and the dust of the library, his weight warm and solid against you. And you thought that maybe, just maybe, being the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms wasn't so bad after all.
WHEN DAMIAN WAYNE has his 'oh. oh.' moment after your strange, melancholic behaviour has him desperate to bring back your smile.. and realises he may not detest you as much as he thought.
context: they're both vigilantes and forced to work together. grumpy x sunshine but sunshine! reader is acting unusual — damian notices and tries miserably to cheer you up, fluff, dick plays wingman, naturally.
You've been frustrating him all day. Damian suspects it must be to annoy him, to deter him from completing the mission that he didn't need company for. You barely listened to his instructions over the comms, which nearly resulted with you both returning with injuries tonight. When he reprimanded you, instead of coming up with your usual excuses, you simply nodded like a sad, kicked puppy before trudging off.
It's a long way back to the cave, and in a case of desperation (one he learns to never make again), he pinged for help. Grayson was his first choice, being the only contact he can think of that has the most successful experiences with women, and therefore, he concludes should understand them better than he does.
"Did you say something to upset her?" Dick suggests.
He frowns. "Why did you assume I was the perpetrator?"
"Because you're always targeting her."
His brow furrows. Sure, he has made comments about your slacking off during previous patrols, your strange fighting style that combines impulse and unneeded energy bursts, your infuriating smile when you make untimely jokes. Still, he doesn't get why he's the automatic assumption when there's plenty other reasons you could be upset. He hasn't said a single word to you since the catastrophe earlier, and now that he thinks about it, neither have you. That is an oddity, for you to be silent.
"I may have called her out on her mistakes, but it was for her own good." He answers, though now his mind is frustratingly preoccupied over the what's and why's over your sudden mood change. He has more important things to be concerned about, like the suspected drug smugglers near Crime Alley, the new upgrades for the utility belt he's been meaning to configure, anything but your sudden lack of prodding.
"Maybe you should apologise, if it bothers you." Dick offers.
He scoffs. "Apologise? For saving her life?"
He hears a barely repressed sigh from the other line. "Was she upset before or after your nagging?"
"Before." He answers quickly, too fast for his liking. It is only because your behaviour is affecting his, he reminds himself. Also, he does not nag.
"Then, maybe.." Dick pauses. "You can try to cheer her up."
Damian goes silent at the suggestion. He can already sense the incoming headache at the mere possibility of trying, for he has mastered many skills, but improving another human's mood? He racks his brain, but nothing comes to mind.
"How do I do that?" He winces after his question, hating to sound incapable of anything.
"That.. is something for you to figure out."
He's ready to snap at the utterly unhelpful advice when he hears the notable click, signaling the end of their transmission. Grumbling to himself, he can imagine Grayson being awfully pleased to have left him even more clueless than before.
You're also lingering behind the alley, opting to walk at a glacial pace, an observation that ticks at the back of his mind like an annoying pest. What is more annoying, is noticing that his own pace has slowed, his distance to you decreasing with every passing second. He shouldn't. It isn't his responsibility to handle whatever is plaguing your mind. Yet, his body seems to disobey his calculations by turning back to you.
You don't react or even notice his movement towards you, which is stupid and reckless and completely unlike you, because even though you're infuriatingly smug and chirpy all the time, he doesn't deny that you have the skills of a decent fighter. He grabs your arm, snapping you out of your stupor, giving him brief satisfaction which he crushes once your eyes finally meet his.
"Damian?" Your brows raise at his sudden contact, eyes falling onto your connected limbs.
He ignores you and your questioning gaze, instead dragging you away from the route back to the cave, and down another alleyway.
"Hey! I know I screwed up earlier and you're mad at me, but killing me to satisfy your blood cravings isn't the right way to get your revenge."
Your voice rings loud in his ears, and he's both relieved and annoyed to hear you sound more like yourself. His mood shifts more towards annoyance when it registers that you're still not giving up on your blood-thirsty demon accusations. As if your blood would be appetizing. It'll probably taste like those overly sweet Thai teas you always consume.
"I'm not mad at you." He answers shortly, not deigning you with anymore clues to what he was doing.
The destination in his mind isn't too far, a fact he's grateful for, as the longer you both trudged on awkwardly through the alleyways and up a fire escape, the more he starts to regret the whole detour. Finally, you both make it onto a rooftop, seemingly identical to the other nearby buildings. He can sense your patience waning as he stands there, thinking of ways to explain himself without sounding too concerned.
"Okay, you have got to tell me what's going on.”
He doesn't feel like explaining himself because he can barely understand what possessed him to do this either, so he only sits on the edge of the rooftop and tugs at your sleeve, forcing you to sit beside him.
You land awkwardly, and he instinctively stabilizes you with his hands wrapping around your waist. Shocked gazes meet one another, and he quickly retracts his arms, feeling something hot burn behind his ears. "Just sit down."
You oblige, even if confusion is apparent on your face. Up close, he takes note of your frazzled hair, the large eyebags under your reddened eyes, and the slouched posture of your back. You look exhausted, and the pounding questions in his head blurt out before he can stop them. "Spit it out."
Your head turns to him, your face contorting into a visible question mark. "Huh?"
Huh, indeed. He hides his own regret over his impulsive choice of words, and tries again. "You were sloppy today, well, sloppier than usual. You have this depressing look on your face, and it's-" Distracting. "Unacceptable."
Where was he going with this? His mind chases frantically for advice given to him from people less cutthroat than he was. "I heard that when a person feels sad, talking it out can make them feel better." At least, that's what Alfred tried to tell him. "So, talk."
You can't help but snort back a laugh. You may be feeling like shit, but his expression that grows more pained with each word he spouts, clearly putting himself in a position he's never been in before, distracts you momentarily from the heaviness in your heart.
"So, that's what all that dragging me around was about? Finding a suitable spot for your therapy session?"
"I am not so utterly incapable of noticing other people's emotions to not know when someone is upset." He mutters, his signature frown deepening as he speaks.
"So.. you are aware of when someone is upset, but you still chose to insult my performance and appearance?" Amusement is vividly painted on your tired expression, but you're avoiding the topic — trying to spin the focus onto him instead.
“Is that the reason?” He cuts in. He was here for answers, at the very least, it will hopefully make the exchange worth his time. “Did I say something to offend you?”
“Not today.” Your response triggers further questions on what he could have possibly said in the past to have hurt you, even if he doesn’t fully understand why it matters — but he clamps his mouth shut at the sight of your dampened expression. “It’s just stuff going on at home.”
His mouth parts, and he understands. He’s heard of this from Barbara, who warns him that despite your everlasting smile in the face of danger, you weren’t as invisible as you seemed. Another tick he can’t be rid of is the concerning clarity of any information that involves you. It’s like his brain has stored a file of unnecessary notes pertaining all your negligence, faults, character — and just you.
“See?” You shrug, putting on a false smile as if pleading for him to wave it off. “Nothing special. Just off my game today because I can’t separate my personal and professional life. You know, it’s actually hilarious to call it a profession when we’re technically illegal vigilantes.”
You’re spouting nonsense, a tactic you use to try and distract others in a conversation from topics you didn’t want to indulge in. He shakes his head, causing you to pause.
“Tell me.” He presses further. Watching your expression shift, a multifaceted glimpse into your shock, confusion, discomfort — he realises his approach may be too direct. “If you want.” He adds on, and even he knows how unnatural it sounds.
He hears your deep inhale, spots the press of your palm against the concrete, and waits. He doesn’t do this for many people, but he thinks you need this. An open channel to vent.
“Well, my parents don’t know that I’m a vigilante.” You start off, your expression blanking like you’re distancing yourself from your story. “So, whenever I disappear, they think I’m fooling around, wasting away my future instead of trying to fit into the expectations of my family.”
There’s a silence after, and he knows it’s the part that’s been hurting you most. “I had a really bad fight with them today.” You confess. “I was sneaking out the window, and my mom caught me. She thought I was running away, and she said that if I stepped out that window, I will never be welcomed back.”
You turn to look at him, and he doesn’t like the look you give him. No, he hates it, seeing you look so hopeless and defeated. “As you can see, I’m clearly here with you, out my window.” You laugh humourlessly. “So, technically, I’m temporarily homeless.”
You look away, maybe expecting him to be frustrated. To expect a better reason for your subpar performance today. Yet, no hits land. In fact, nothing comes other than the lingering silence as you stare at the cityscape, trying to swallow past your wallow and that lonely ache in your chest.
A moment passes before Damian clears his throat. “There is an extra guest room in the Manor.”
Your gaze snaps to him, barely comprehending the words he’s saying. You would never expect pity from Damian, much less an extended helping hand to you of all people. He made it clear that he found you a nuisance, a burden.
His own gaze is focused on the streets below him, the reflection of the city lights casting faint shadows in his side profile, highlighting the bridge of his nose, the freckles dotting his skin.
“Why?” You can’t help but ask. Generosity, taking on your weight even if it’s a liability.. it’s completely uncharacteristic of him.
“You are my mission partner.” He huffs. “I will not have you distracted on the field because you lack accommodation. So, I’m offering a solution.”
You can’t help but smile, something fuzzy and warm soothing the numbness in your chest. Even through his generosity, he still acts like a soldier. It’s tempting, especially knowing him, he’s probably bound to retract his offer within 20 seconds.. but something churns in you at the thought of truly running away. Even if you hid in the Manor, pummeling yourself with missions to hide from the stones life throws at you.. it’ll only linger unresolved until you faced it head on.
“I appreciate the offer but..”
He turns to you then, almost offended that you’re rejecting his offer, but he stops at your expression, the acceptance in your gaze and knows that you’ve made a decision.
“I have to face this.” Staring at him, you hope you could stand a little taller like him, carry yourself the way he does. You always did admire him, even if he didn't return it. “I can’t keep running forever.”
“So what do you plan to do?” There is no argument in his tone, only mere curiosity.
“I’ll tell them the truth.” Even in your decision, you feel the stutter in your heart as you say it aloud. It may not change a thing, you may face more rejection and repercussions for your actions.. but you’ll wear it on your skin because that is who you are. Who you have become.
“And if they reject you?” His question is a direct, swift cut open to your hidden fears.
“It won’t stop me.” You answer, your resolve hardening. “The city needs my help.. and if they can’t understand my decision, it’s still my life to decide what my purpose is.”
He’s silent, but you watch his challenging gaze flicker to something softer, a hint of respect that he’s never shown before.
Something glimmers in the distance, and you turn then to the light reflecting off the window panes of the surrounding skyscrapers, all coated in a gradient of orange hues rising to outshine the indigo. In the gaps of the concrete jungle, sparks of sunlight has risen to reveal.. morning light.
”Wow, that’s.. pretty.” You breathe out, eyes glimmering in genuine awe. “Actually, more than pretty — I didn’t even know Gotham could have sunrises like that.”
There’s pride that swells in his chest, seeing your reaction, to know he’s made that shine glow in your eyes again. “I found this place a few months ago.” He states, still staring at you. The sunrise, he has seen. It’s this view of you — encased in golden light, that he feels is rarer.
“Did you take me here on purpose?” Your question is teasing, but there’s a curiosity in your gaze when you finally cast your eyes back on him, only to find that he has been looking at you the entire time. How could he not, when he’s just realised that he preferred you like this — or that he’s taken it for granted to see you smile that way?
“Yes.” It’s a simple admission that slips out so easily, and he can only blame it on the way your mouth lifts into the brightest grin, looking much like the one he’s used to seeing.
He feels as if he's been blinded this entire time, tainting his perception of you in muddled grey to stop himself from seeing you in your true colours. The irritation he initially felt towards you, his frustration over your rose-coloured view of the world — seems rather nonsensical now that he's truly tried to understand you.
You may be stubborn and hard-headed, but you needed to be. He was almost grateful for your character, your ability to see through anything with your smile still intact and unbroken. Much like the sun that promises to rise in spite of everything.
“Damian, who knew you had a heart?” Your teasing reminds him that just because his image of you has changed, doesn't mean you've become less bothersome. He clears his throat, forcing himself to look away.
“That was your own fault for assuming I didn’t.” He huffs. There’s something uncomfortable in his chest, banging around when it should stay still. He decides he should keep such intimate interactions to a minimum. He doesn’t know how Grayson does it, parading around with his words of encouragement to his peers, or even to him — it’s more excruciating than a healing wound.
“You just had a heart to heart with me and took me to see a sunrise.” You gasp, as if the realisation had just fully set in, and he wishes it hadn’t. “Damian Wayne just did that.”
“Don’t go announcing it to the world.” He winces, but his words don’t have its usual biting effect, not in the face of your ever-growing glee. “This isn’t going to be a common occurrence, understood? I expect you to be careful on our next mission.”
Your smile is impossible to erase — so unfathomably bright, it puts the sunbeams pouring in through the streets to shame. “Since you asked so nicely.”
He truly does wonder, how is it possible that you make him want to strangle you and at the same, ensure you’ll never look at him with that dampened frown ever again. Still, he can't find it in himself to let go of this moment, of your awe and smile, so he ignores the ache in his bones from a long mission, and sits beside you.. watching the sun rise over a new day.
Extra:
Unbeknownst to them, Dick was listening in on the entire charade, spying through the communication channel, being the nosy older brother he was. “He’s all grown up.” Dick mumbles, weeping a tear as his chest overfills with pride at the interaction.
summary: when you’re forced to partner up with damian wayne—the infuriating, perfect billionaire’s son who stole the number one class spot from you, you’re determined to make things work, even if he makes it nearly impossible. luckily, a certain robin is willing to help you out.
content/tw: enemies to lovers, academic rivals, bickering, tension, kissing, damian wayne is obsessed and he hates it, fluff, short angst, mentions of drunkard encounter ⚠. this one has intense yearning, buckle up. 😛
"What is your name again?"
Damian Wayne, your assigned chemistry partner, stares at you as if you were a bug he found stuck under the soles of his feet.
It wasn't the narrowed glare he casts on you that pissed you off. No, it was the ignorance, the frank indifference in his eyes that casted aside all your achievements, stoking a fire only he could ignite.
For the last two years since he entered Gotham University, he swiftly stole the number one spot right under your nose, shooting straight up in the ranks and leaving you trailing behind. It was humiliating, watching the teachers naturally gravitate towards praising his genius, or the way your classmates secretly sneered their back-handed remarks at your 'downfall'.
So, you study harder, staying up later on endless practices and revisions. Only for that bitter, nauseating taste at the back of your throat to rise when you see your name chained permanently to that dreaded '2'. Your efforts had no show for it, and worse of all, the culprit for your envy wasn’t even trying.
Damian misses classes. Half-hearted reasons of his father's company trips, excuses only the top 1% in Gotham could afford to give and the teachers merely batted their eyes and looked away. He never studies, much less pays attention in class when he actually shows up, but he answers all the questions perfectly when put on the spot. It made you feel sick. He didn't deserve it, and yet he had it all anyway.
Now, nothing made you more light-headed than the pure anger that despite how unfair the situation was, that you didn't even want him as your partner in the first place, he doesn't even know who you are.
He doesn't bother giving you time to respond to his rhetorical question. "Shall I get on with it myself, or do you plan to stand there and dawdle?" He mutters in distaste, already annoyed you made him wait.
Perfect, your chemistry tutorial was only going to be two hours of horrific torture, nothing to stress over. You slip on your own lab coat and put on your goggles, looking much less composed than he did. He had an annoying characteristic of making anything look good, even if it's wearing the cheap goggles and plastic coat the school provided. You shake the thought away, not allowing him of all people to make you feel unprepared or less than. No matter what partner stood by your side, you wouldn't let it disrupt your love for chemistry, or good grades.
As you reach for the beakers to bring them to the sink and wash them, he stops you. You raise a brow at his raised arm. He takes the beakers for himself, staring down at you. "We can't have you breaking them." He speaks coldly. "You'll be doing the records for today's report, I assume you'll at least be able to handle that?"
Your jaw hangs open at his audacity to treat you like some idiot who couldn't handle washing beakers. Your barely concealed restraint snaps as you grab for the beaker in his hand, fingers wrapping around his gloved ones as your pettiness took ahold of you. "I know your perception of other people is close to zero, but my name has been ranked a consistent top two in our entire year, and this is my highest scored subject, so don't assume I can't handle beakers like a child."
You try to take it from his hand but his grip only tightens around the glass. "Second?" He comments dryly. "I haven't noticed."
You feel a vein pop from the anger that seized you. "Clearly none of your concern." You mutter back bitterly.
He raises a brow before snatching the beaker back with ease. "You can read between the lines, splendid." He drawls. "Get your pencil and paper out, we've wasted enough time already."
The next two hours would be utterly simplified if you called it hell. It was worse than anything you could’ve imagined. He snapped at you when you tried to stir the solution in the beaker, snatched your paper to ensure your handwriting was readable, scoffed when you pointed out that he was using a completely different method for step 12, and was essentially, a hoarder of the apparatus which was the worst trait you could ever ask for in a lab partner.
By the time the lesson ended, you stormed out with a vicious storm brewing in your head, ready to decimate anyone who tried to come in your path. "I trust you can wash the apparatus yourself since according to your great expertise, I clearly can't handle them." You had sneered before you left the lab, leaving behind a trail of dust and various curious eyes staring at your retreating back with low murmurs of what happened.
Standing outside your chemistry teacher’s office, you pace anxiously. Ms. Angela is an absolute sweetheart, a shining beacon for your future among the lazed and cruel teachers of Gotham University. She had always supported you on your journey, and it only made your perfectionist side scream to get her approval with every assessment, making the situation even more daunting.
You don't notice her opening the door till you hear a call of your name, looking up and meeting her surprised expression. You hesitate, thinking over how to convince her to let you change partners, long enough for her to notice your distress, gaze filled with concern. "Are you alright?"
You contemplate lying, but you came here with a genuine desperation, and you couldn't comprehend surviving the entire semester working with him. "Ms. Angela. You've always let me pair up with Leonne." A decent girl who spent more time posting frat parties than she spent writing reports, but at least she was good in presentations. "Why did you pair me up with someone different this time?"
She smiles at you, an understanding expression crossing her face. "I noticed the workload between you and Leonne tends to be...quite one-sided." She explains. “I'm trying to put students in pairs depending on what they need. You see here, Damian and you are quite similar in terms of having the habit of doing individual work, even in teams. As for putting the both of you together, well, since you're both so willing to do practical work, I was wondering if I could get you both to do equal amounts of work instead of all of it."
Your mouth drops, and you can’t believe the words she just uttered. Was she insinuating that you needed Damian Wayne to balance out your control-freak tendencies, because he was also a control freak? You want to protest, but seeing her expectant expression weighed down on you heavily.
Trying to reframe your words, you come up with nothing. You need her recommendation letter when the year ends to get into the most esteemed research lab in the city, and Damian hasn't proved that he didn't contribute yet. You had no evidence that this couldn't work, even with his horrible attitude, and you knew trying to expose the underlying dirt under that pristine reputation of his among the lecturers would only ruin you.
"I'll try my best." You answer weakly.
"I look forward to seeing your outcome." She calls on cheerfully as you made your way out of the office.
This was impossible. He was impossible. Still, your final grade depends on this assignment, and nothing was getting in the way of you graduating out of this hellhole with grades that matched your blood, sweat, and tears. You were going to make this work.
Damian lied. He does know who you are. Like a scorching mark burnt into the back of his mind, you were a nuisance that lingered under his skin, writhing something unspeakable in his chest whenever you got too close. How could he not notice you? From the first day he entered this damned establishment, you despised him.
If it weren't for his father having suggested he needed a reprieve from being a vigilante, to have a social life, he wouldn't have to deal with thin-masked snakes who tried getting close to him purely because of his family, and enduring a boring curriculum he completed before he even turned ten.
He'd much rather if the entire school routine drifted by in monotonous grey, silhouettes fading in and out as he waits impatiently for the night — where he can finally slip on the mask and carry out his true purpose, the reason he decided to stay in Gotham in the first place. It'd be easier to focus, if it weren't for a well-placed distraction.
You shouldn't have had such an effect on him, bewitching his mind to replay when you held your glare with such a burning intensity, meeting him head-on when most would rather bury their heads into their necks than face his scowl. No matter what he does, whether it be silence or dragging his way through the curriculum of the year, you detest him either way.
That's why he's still picturing your furious expression during his patrol, of your loose hair cascading over your shoulders out of that tight bun you wore for the experiment, how you turned your back on him after the lab session ended. He can't figure out why he loses control when he's around you, rendering him as anything but a gentleman, snarks easily falling out of his mouth, worry acidic in his chest when he saw you lean a little too close to the fire. You're an anomaly, and he doesn't like cases he can’t solve.
He can't afford having you as a distraction, despite the unfortunate situation of being your assignment partner. He has to solve this case by this week, or else he seriously believes the water supply in Crime Alley will have leaks of poison again. He needs to focus, on anything other than how he's never been this close in proximity to you till today, and that he can't quite forget the way your glare pierces through his built defenses.
You stole Damian's contact from the registry office, with a few sweet words to the lady at the counter who always dotted on you, but it proves to be as useful as not having his number.
Past your pathetic efforts of having to convince him that it's actually you with a self-recorded video after he threatened to block your unknown number, he has responded with no more than three words for every question you sent him about the assignment.
In desperation, you try setting up plans for him to meet at the nearby cafe on the way to school, hoping he'd at least bother showing up so you could communicate better. But no, he cancels twice on you, leaving you waiting at the cafe with no plans in store for the assignment, and time running out of your hands like liquid gold. You may have been irritated by him before in small doses of his self-centered attitude and air of stoic elitism — but now, you could safely say that you despised him.
He's late. By two hours. After two weeks of cancelled meetings and half-assed 'busy' responses, you had finally booked a slot in his extremely busy, luxurious schedule. You had to run errands till six, and he had replied saying he'd only be free after ten. So, you sent a location pin to his number for a cafe near your apartment, and he reacted with a thumbs up. An agreement, to which you thought he'd at least honour.
Now, as the owner pleads with you to leave so they could close shop, you're left in the streets of Gotham as the clock strikes one on your phone. Cursing to yourself, you wrap your coat tighter around yourself as you walk through the dark alleys back to your apartment.
Stupid, your demeaning thoughts taunt you, chiding your reckless decision to wait instead of bolting within the first hour of him not showing up. It's not a far walk, but your neighbourhood isn't the safest when the sun goes down, much less at this hour.
You're a little paranoid, running on coffee and five hours of sleep, but you swear you hear footsteps behind you getting louder. You tell yourself it's just your fears amplifying your senses, but something genuinely feels wrong in your gut, screaming for you to run, and you feel around for your pepper spray in your inner pocket.
"Hey, lady!" A voice calls behind you. "Need some company?"
You don't respond, walking faster but the footsteps match your pace. A hand roughly grabs your shoulders, and you don’t even think, moving straight on instinct as you twist, pepper spray already in hand as you press down on the clutch. It barely spritz out before it's knocked out of your hand, leaving you defenseless.
It's a drunk, a familiar face you recognise sometimes on your walk back through the yellowed windows of that stinking bar down the street. His breath is horrid, smelling strongly of alcohol, but his deranged expression is what frightens you most.
"That's fuckin' rude." He hisses. "I was offering some protection for girls like you that stay out late at night, looking for some attention, and this is how you repay me?"
"Stay back." You plead helplessly, grabbing your bag and positioning it in front of you, hoping it'll protect you if he tries anything.
Maybe you could throw it at his face, make a run for it. Your eyes shift, trying to map your escape route — but you barely have time to make a choice before something swoops down from above.
A blur of black and red smashes into the drunk, sending him flying across the street into the trash pile in the corner. A loud crash echoes, and you spot limp legs sprawled behind the piles of plastic bags. You should be feeling relieved that the drunk was knocked unconscious, but you're only focused on the silhouette's back facing you.
He's tall, black cape draped over his broad shoulders — a vigilante. When he turns to look at you, you instantly recognise who he is.
Robin.
You’ve seen blurred flashes of him on the news, always stationed behind his supposed guardian, Batman. They always come in a pair, which is why it puzzles you when you look around, that there was no bat crusader lingering in the shadows.
When you look back at Robin, somehow, even covered by his mask that shields any features that could reveal his identity, you can tell that he's pissed.
“You’re going home, now.” He demands.
“I was about to.” You splutter, not understand where his sudden temper was coming from.
“Walk.” He instructs.
Your brows furrow, but you could only assume he meant he was walking you home and wanted you to lead the way. You never expected vigilantes to have good communication skills, considering they dealt with most situations using their fists, but your impression of Robin was dampening by the minute.
It’s a tense walk back, and as you stop at the front of your apartment, unlocking the door, he lingers. When you turn around, expecting him to disappear into the night, he remains and pushes past you rudely, up the stairs to your shabby studio apartment.
You can feel his presence suffocating the air as you unpack your bag, taking out your laptop and placing it on your desk, trying to put your hands on anything to ignore the fact that he hasn’t left yet. Something unanswered sizzles in the air, and you can feel his rising impatience.
“Why were you still out at this hour?” He interrogates, snapping the taut silence. “Do you have a death wish? Out, alone, and you didn't even bother carrying some form of protection?"
Your pepper spray must still be laying around in the streets, but you don't find it in yourself to explain. Not when you're already so done with this entire day.
“I was waiting for my stupid assignment partner, alright?” You break. “He's already cancelled on me for the past two weeks, and I was stupid and desperate! This project is due in less than a month, and he’s not even considerate enough to send me a message this time to tell me he's not showing up. That’s why I’m out here this late!”
He stares, and you can’t judge his expression under those unblinking white shades that block out his eyes — but it's too much. You know you shouldn't be dumping this all on a stranger who just saved your life, but it bursts out like a broken dam.
“I’m sorry, okay?” Your voice cracks. “My entire grade is relying on this final assignment, and I know I shouldn’t be compromising my safety or whatever for school, but I didn’t expect him to not show up at all!”
Maybe it was your growing hysterics, but he doesn't refute your point like he did earlier, merely watching as you use your sleeve to wipe away the tears forming in your eyes. Your heavy breathing fills the silence, and you wished immediately that he'd just leave so you could at least calm down without his smothering presence.
“Don’t apologise if it isn’t your fault.” He finally speaks up when your sniffles quiet down, an awkward attempt to soothe you. “Your partner sounds..” His frown twists deeper as he stretches on the silence, trying to find a better word to phrase it.
“Like a dick?” You suggest.
“Inconsiderate.” He settles on.
That barely covers it. Your dissatisfaction must have shown on your face as he makes his way to your desk, looking down at your mess of a report on your open laptop screen.
“If it helps.” He suggests. “I happen to know this topic very well. I can assist you on where your partner has left off.”
You can't help snorting at the irony, finding it funny even through your mental break-down. “Robin, the vigilante who runs around the city beating people up, is a chemistry nerd?”
He doesn’t bother gracing you with a response as he shifts, sitting down to analyse your half-written hypothesis.
“Your hypothesis needs rework on the target." He criticises. "It's unrealistic to set such a large sample goal if you only have less than a month to achieve it. This isn't even considering potential reworks and documentation."
Your stubbornness perks up, wanting to argue that it would've been achievable if it had not been for the delays, but as he scrolls through the draft of your points, you realise he's genuinely trying to help you, even if it wasn't his responsibility.
"Right." You mutter. "A smaller sample size makes sense."
He nods. "It'll be more manageable. I recommend setting a sample size of thirty. It's enough to generate useful insights without wasting time."
For a moment, he sounded just like Damian. Yet, they couldn’t be more different. At least Robin was still willing to help, unlike the rich, spoilt son of Gotham's richest billionaire, who you’re beginning to suspect has some Arabic tutor to do all his assignments, because there is no way he’s gotten this far with such little responsibility engrained into his head.
"Thanks." He looks up at you then, and you avert your eyes awkwardly, even if you can't see his gaze directly through his mask. "I'll update the report to your suggestion. You can.."
Somehow, it feels weird to kick him out even though you're sure he has much more important places to be.
The awkward tension builds thick enough to cut before he sighs, a deep sound filled with anticipated regret. "What else do you need help with?"
Your brows furrow. "No, I really have it handled from here-"
"You still haven't sorted out your independent variables you intend to research, and that requires secondary sources." He points out. "Do you have ideas for that?"
You tense, knowing that he's caught onto the question marks you noted down next to that section. "No." You admit weakly.
He evaluates you with an unmoving stare, probably calculating if you were worth the trouble. Finally, he sighs, gesturing for you to take a seat on your unoccupied ottoman. "Let's not waste time then."
Despite his brash, direct nature, Robin surprisingly turns out to be a pleasant temporary teammate and.. good company. Sure, he doesn’t resist tutting at any unrealistic perspectives you give, or begrudgingly nodding when you do suggest something he can’t refute, but he's.. magnetic.
He's like a statue when he pours over research sources, entire body frozen as he flips through the options, and you can imagine him in a similar position, unmoving as he conducts his detective cases. Then, he feels your gaze and turns to look at you, making you flush as you force yourself to focus back on your tablet, pretending his presence wasn't extremely distracting.
"You have questions." His voice drawls, gaze not breaking from the screen.
You swallow, unable to resist your curiousity. "It's not everyday you have a Robin in your bedroom."
"You seemed eager to kick me out earlier."
"That's not-" God, he makes you nervous, and it's almost unnerving how easily he gets under your skin. "I didn't want to burden you."
"If something as simple as a chemistry assignment is considered a burden on my shoulders-" He huffs. "-Gotham will be burning in hellfire."
You snort. "Are the rest of you as charismatic as you are?"
"Depends on who you're asking." He mutters. "Prefer a change in options?"
"No, Robin was always my favourite." You tease. "Especially the scowling one, he's a real charmer."
He's quiet, and you would've thought he didn't hear you, if it weren't for that twitch in his lips, which he covers with an immediate frown. "Focus on your task." He tuts.
You smile, pleased you managed to get under his skin, heart more at ease as you let the sounds of keyboard keys fill the room, his figure in your peripheral vision making you feel the least alone you've ever been since the semester started. As the hours pass, Robin stays with you in the confinements of your room till dawn breaks through.
“Oh shit.” You curse when you hear the birds tweeting, looking out your window to see the purplish gradient signaling a new morning. “I’ve got an 8 am class.”
He’s midway looking through another secondary research paper when he peers up, seemingly shocked he’s stayed that long either.
He grumbles something to himself, and you barely catch most of it other than- “He’s going to murder me.”
Your brows furrow before understanding dawns on you. “Your babysitter?”
“Batman is not my babysitter.” The gravel in his tone is deepened by exhaustion, and guilt pangs in your heart. “He’s my mentor.”
“Same difference.” You jest, before glancing at your window. “But you should probably go. I’ve kept you long enough and I doubt it’s in your paycheck to help lonesome students with their chemistry project after their teammate ghosted them.”
He hesitates, glancing at you through his domino mask, which must’ve been uncomfortable to wear for such prolonged hours. There’s a panging disappointment at the thought of possibly never seeing him again, but you cover it up with a reassuring smile. “Thank you for your help, Robin.” You murmur. “I appreciate it more than you know.”
He doesn't answer, and you wish for just a moment, you could see what he looked like under the mask. You wonder what the colour of his eyes are, especially when you caught him staring throughout the entire night, following you with his hidden gaze whenever you spoke, a set line across his lips, making it hard to tell what he's thinking. Damian's eyes flashed in your mind, and you pushed them out of your mind. As long as it wasn't green.
Maybe it’s for the best if he left, you couldn't afford getting attached to a vigilante, who you don't even know what his true identity is, not when your final assessments are coming so close.
"You’ll excel.” He finally mutters, and you glance at him in surprise. You don’t need to know who’s under the mask to predict that he’s not the type to give compliments easily. “You’re overly optimistic, but your ideas have originality, and you have the skills to make it work. So.. don’t worry too much, you’ve got it handled.”
You can’t help but smile, a warm beating flutter in your chest. His praise shouldn’t matter as much as it did, but to have someone see your efforts and acknowledge them, after years of pushing yourself over the brink? It felt nice. “You’re not bad yourself, Robin.”
He hums, and for a moment, you could’ve sworn you made Robin smile.
Damian Wayne sits at the corner of the lab room, as he always does, with that familiar grimace on his face as if he detested even breathing the school air. Arms crossed, all alone at his table — you suspect he immediately came here for peace and quiet, most likely skipping lunch just to avoid talking to people. Whatever peace you felt after your late night up with Robin churns into that familiar rage built up over time with every reminder of Damian's incompetence, of the unfair treatment he’s given you despite all your attempts to make things work.
Your steps quicken, almost storming as you make your way to his table. When he turns, what you didn’t expect is the heavy dark circles under his eyes. All spiteful words dissipate from your lips at the sight of him.
Damian has never looked anything short of flawless, much less this level of exhausted.
Covering up your momentary lapse in shock, you question. “Where have you been?”
“Away.” He answers shortly as he rubs at his eyes, voice grated with a suspiciously familiar fatigue.
Your restraint snaps as you lean in across the table, forcing him to look at you. Even seated, he was still at the same eye level as you, making it difficult to intimidate him.
“I deserve a better explanation than ‘away’.” You hiss. “You bailed on me, Damian. If you were on strike, this cuts way more than three.”
"I'm here now." He answers as if his very presence automatically solves everything. "We'll meet later after classes end at the café to talk about the assignment."
He doesn't even bother asking if you're free. No, he just sets up a meeting as he wishes and expects you to be there, despite having missed all your own suggested dates these past two weeks. His audacity to stare at you unblinkingly, as if he had done no wrong, with no apology leaving his lips, pushes you to be petty.
"Actually." You smile coldly. "I don't need your help anymore."
He raises a brow, put off by your statement. "Why is that?"
Feeling smug, you taunt. "I received help from someone else, who's been more insightful than you've ever been for the past two weeks."
For some reason, he doesn't seem as displeased as you expected. If anything, he seems to be.. smirking?
"Really?" He murmurs. "Who is this mystery person you hold in such high regard?"
You stiffen, realising it's best not to say. After all, he probably won't believe you. You wouldn't believe yourself if you said Robin had spent the entire night working on your assignment with you. "None of your concern." You answer stiffly. "Last I remember, you don't even know my name, do you?"
He's silent, and you think you've finally done it, shutting his rotten mouth when his lips part.. and he says your name. Not casually, like an afterthought. No, he says it slowly, testing it out with a familiarity like he's practiced it before. Now that you think about it, you never even told him your name after his snide remark before.
"Great, so you finally know my name." You scoff. "Is that suppose to prove your sudden change in heart?”
"I don't make promises I don't keep." He cuts you off, his eyes narrowed on you with such an intense focus, like he's about to seal every word he's saying into a vow. "I promise I will be present from this moment forward. I will contribute my part, and be your partner. Take my word for it. I'll prove it to you that I can be relied on."
That is not what you expected from him at all. Absurd excuses, refusing to take ownership for his mistakes, that's classic Damian. ..You shouldn’t believe him. He’s given you all the reasons not to, betraying your misplaced trust again and again, with no apologies to make up for it. Still, somewhere in your heart, you wanted to believe he was more than what he made himself out to be.
“Last strike, Damian.” You warn. “One more slip-up and I’m going straight to Ms. Angela.”
“You won’t be disappointed.” He answers, meeting your skepticism with a resolute expression.
He’s strange today, with his lack of vicious wit, even making profound promises and remembering your name when you swore he didn't bother checking it before. Maybe Robin’s appearance in your life has finally struck you some luck.
Damian turns out to be on par with Robin, if not more versed in his efforts. He’s like a walking encyclopedia, and you have to remind yourself that you can’t cite your teammate when he recounts definitions with a terrifying ease. As you search up the word in the actual online encyclopedia, you let out a huff when he’s right, again.
“You’re such a nerd.” You can’t help it, there’s something weirdly amusing about Damian Wayne knowing the definition to the most random scientific terms, and playing this strange game of checking his accuracy. “I swear this game is rigged.”
“Equating knowledge to a demeaning term is the reason Gothamites lack reading comprehension.”
“Oh, own up to it.” You tease. “You’re a Class A nerd, textbook definition of it, practically.”
He frowns. “Don’t push your insufficient memory onto me. It’s an easy concept, I had this memorised since I was ten.”
You don’t question why a ten year old was memorising scientific definitions by heart. It just seemed like a Damian thing to have a completely separate childhood from yours.
“Sorry that I was having a life in my childhood.” You retort as you included an actual citation.
“What activities did you do in your childhood then?” He challenges.
“Oh, it would terrify someone of your high esteem.” You mock. “Mud pies, splashing puddles, dangling sheets over the windows to scare the downstairs neighbours. You know, actual fun?”
His brows knit together in recoiled judgement. “That sounds childish.”
“Being childish was the fun of it, Damian.” You reply slyly. “Try it sometime, maybe it’ll bring some colour back into your life.”
He scoffs. “Maybe it’ll kill me first.”
“Dramatic much?” You huff in amusement, before glancing at the clock — and a loud gasp escapes your lips. It’s been nearly five hours?
The realisation is terrifying, a betrayal to your past self and all her preconceived beliefs. You have been laughing and enjoying Damian Wayne’s company for five hours. Maybe it was the lack of sleep that’s pushing you on adrenaline mode, but this entire thing feels like a fever dream.
“Oh no.” You groan. “I have to run my errands before it gets too late.” After last night, you're not making the mistake of walking back at such a late hour, or you think if Robin catches you again, he might seriously be mortified by your lack of survival skills.
For the briefest moment, you could’ve sworn Damian looked disappointed. Before you could analyse the deeper traces in his expression, it's gone in a flash, and he gives a short nod. “I have business to attend to as well. We’ll meet again tomorrow at the lab to conduct our sampling research.”
It’s refreshing to see his attitude change, for him to put in the effort you expected him to have. You nod, resisting the smile that comes from that warm satisfaction of finally having an equal partner. “See you then, nerd.”
He rolls his eyes, but there’s nothing in his gaze that you can detect any displeasure from. In fact, as he eyes you with his arms crossed over while you packed your bag, shoulders loose and a light tilt of his lips, you think this may be the most relaxed you’ve ever seen him.
Damian just can’t seem to stay away from you. After that night in your apartment, seeing you in such distress over his actions, he had to take responsibility. He didn’t expect it to affect him the way it did, but seeing your eyes filled with tears, stress pulling at your features — he never wanted to see that expression on your face ever again.
For a moment, he had forgotten the lines he had drawn between the two of you. He never understood how you may have seen him from your end, but after hearing your side, he realised he’s been unfair to you.
He knows how it feels to be paired with incompetents, and you deserved better than that. He could make this work, balancing both sides of his life. It's what his father and brothers did, and he would be damned if he couldn't do what they accomplished.
He’ll solve the case of Crime Alley first, so he can put his full focus on the assignment. It has nothing to do with how his heart constricted over seeing you laugh earlier, making him a fool as he listed more scientific terms just to incite that reaction out of you again.
He was just owning up to his part, taking responsibility. That’s all it was.
He lands near the harbour, hidden behind a shipping container as he presses the comms button near his ear. “In position.”
His father’s voice flickers through, gruff and heavy. “Preoccupied.” Sounds of a scuffle makes way through the line. “Head to the factory, disengage the mechanism.”
“On it.” He fades into the night, slipping into the shadows out of habit, evading the eyes of untrained guards and slipping into the abandoned factory.
It’s quiet, other than the droning sound of a machine that must be the source of what will pump gallons of poison into the water supply of Gotham. Damian knows the difference between actual silence, and a well placed disguise of one. There was someone here, watching him.
“Of course, a coward who decides his best strategy is leaking poison into the water supply, likes to hide like one.” He goads, hands reaching for his blade, keeping the other placed on his utility belt, eyeing around for any shift in movement.
A distorted chuckle echoes through the rusted, metal walls — and Damian recognises that heavy, muffled rattle.
“Scarecrow.” He hisses. “How original.”
“Robin.” Scarecrow’s voice slithers from all directions, making it difficult to pinpoint his location. He must’ve used multiple speakers to hide his true hiding spot, Damian deduces. He tries to tap his comms, but there’s no signal.
"Did the little bird get lost?" Scarecrow’s mocking voice is growing louder, amplified to throw off his senses. “I’m afraid Batman won’t be coming to your rescue.”
“I don’t need rescuing.” Damian mutters through gritted teeth, taking three Batarangs out of his utility belt and throwing it in separate directions. He hears an electric short-circuit, and Scarecrow’s voice distorts, a screeching sound echoing heavy towards his right.
He makes a move for it, spotting Scarecrow’s shadow shifting for a run, hidden behind drapes of fabric hanging from the ceiling. He throws another Batarang, and it hits his target.
Scarecrow hits the ground with a heavy thump, and Damian uses that momentary weakness as leverage, dropping all his weight onto the maniac’s back, rendering him immobile.
“Where is the mechanism?” Damian hisses, using his blade in his free hand to press against his neck.
Scarecrow only chuckles, a grating sound to Damian’s ears. “You’ll be too late by then.”
Damian grits his teeth, realising Scarecrow was only buying time for what must be a timer, letting himself get caught early as a distraction. Using the back end of his blade, he knocks it into Scarecrow's skull, knocking him unconscious long enough to scout the perimeter.
As he ties Scarecrow’s hands together by tearing fabric draped from the ceilings, he can hear the faint sound of beeping now that the speakers were disabled. Finishing off his final knot, he runs towards the source. Behind another drape of moth-filled curtains, he cuts it in one fell swoop to reveal a large machine, pumping green liquid towards a large container.
Damian spots the timer, a mere two minutes before chaos strikes Gotham. Rushing to the control panel where a multitude of identical buttons stares at him mockingly, he scans through his options but there were no symbols, nothing to indicate a ‘stop’ button.
He’ll have to wing it, as much as he hates this unorthodox method. He presses a button, and gas releases from the container. He immediately covers the lower end of his face with his glove, nose wrinkling at the acidic scent that burns as it makes its way to the back of his throat.
He presses another and the gas stops leaking from the top, but the timer still runs, now counting down to less than a minute. His mind ticks, wondering what his father would do.
He eyes the control panel, knowing there must be a trick that he’s not seeing, a pattern hidden between the lines. He thinks and thinks, and something clicks.
It’d be too easy if it were here, out in the open to distract someone long enough with its many choices. Perhaps the choice wasn’t here at all.
He looks up to the catwalk, and there, he sees it. A button attached to one of the pillars near the exit door, hidden in plain sight in case Scarecrow needed to make an escape. The timer is ticking, with only ten seconds left, and he hooks his arm around his grappling hook, and aims.
Shooting forward, he briefly spots the timer reaching close to zero when he slams his palm onto the button. Holding his breath in anticipation, Damian glances back to see the number on the timer frozen, with only a second remaining.
..He did it. With no assistance from his father, he managed to stop Scarecrow’s plan. He huffs out a breath, hands trembling with adrenaline when he hears his father's footsteps.
“Robin!” He can hear the worry in his father's call, and with the disruption of the signal, the cut-off in the comms — he could have only assumed the worst. It was a family trait, after all.
Damian turns, jumping off the ledge and landing smoothly onto the ground floor where his father waits. Batman stops in his tracks, a tense silence in the air as his father eyes the perimeter, understanding dawning on him that his son has handled the situation alone.
“I’m fine.” Damian answers. “Scarecrow's been apprehended. The timer’s stopped.”
Batman parts his lips, staring at Damian. “..Good job.” His father is a man of few praises, so to hear those two words.. meant everything to him. Damian feels a rare spark in his chest, his guard slipping as he stares at his father, soaking his quiet pride in. Finally, he thinks he’s got it right. With you, his father, both aspects of his life that he wants to impress.
Maybe that’s what his father meant, about fulfilment outside of his life as Robin. He doesn’t think he’s ever understood it as clearly as he did now, with the post-mission euphoria kicking in despite the exhaustion plaguing his bones.
He can’t help a childish smile that slips out when he lets himself have it, this moment, despite his head thrumming with a growing ache. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, after having stayed at your apartment the entire night with back-to-back classes and this case. He’ll just need to sleep it off.
Sleep. Yeah, that sounds reasonable. His eyes droop behind his domino mask, and he's finding it harder to blink, his movements feeling sluggish.
His father notices, an immediate frown upon his lips. “Robin?”
No, this isn’t right. A rare paralysing fear seeps into his heart, that he’s overlooked a crucial part. He must’ve inhaled some of the gas earlier when it leaked in the air.
“Gas.” He chokes out, finding it harder to inhale as he grips onto his father’s shoulder.
His father grips onto his side, steadying him but he’s finding it harder to focus on what was in front of him, vision swaying around and forcing him to close his eyes.
He thinks he hears his father calling out to him, not by his code name, but his real one. He can’t quite tell, not when the ground seems like a perfect place to lay.
He thinks of you, of how disappointed you’d be if he didn’t make it through this. He has to show up tomorrow. Or else you’ll be waiting there alone, and who knows how long you’ll stay if he didn’t show. He wouldn’t be able to protect you if he laid here in the abandoned harbour, like a useless weight.
As the world closes in, black taking over his consciousness, his last thought was of your fallen expression, calling out his name from somewhere far away.
Five missed calls. Waiting at the lab, with all the apparatus laid out in front of you, you can’t stop the heavy disappointment bleeding in from his absence as you stare at your phone.
You really thought Damian had changed, but now, you can’t help feeling naive for thinking these past three weeks of repeated behaviour could be erased with one good day.
Taking the apparatus and placing it back in the cabinets, you close the door firmly with a resolution. You won’t be giving Damian Wayne any more second chances. He's cut the last strike, and you were done putting faith in him.
Damian doesn't show up for three days. On the fourth day, you refuse to so much as look at the desk he usually occupies, because furious wasn't cutting it. You didn't bother texting him. What was the use when he clearly stated in his promise that he'd be there, to finally show up and take responsibility?
It's your last tutorial before the assignment due date, and there was only the sampling interpretation left, the part Damian promised to take up. Plastering on your thickest smile, you head to your assigned table as wandering eyes flicker to look at you, murmurs spreading of how Damian has abandoned you to handle the tutorial lab alone again.
You try your best to ignore the whispers, and when it finally quiets, you think you finally got some peace, only to hear the screech of a chair pulled out beside you. Looking up, Damian, lo and behold, finally decides to show up.
"Can I talk to you?" He whispers, a heavy expression set in his gaze.
"About what?" You ask briskly.
His eyes narrow, but he doesn't take the bait, only pushing past your icy response. "I don't want to talk in circles."
You scoff, a cold laugh leaving your lips. “Yeah? Me neither." Glaring at him, you lean in close enough so no one could hear as you hiss. "I really thought you changed.”
His expression falters, and he swallows, a crack forming in his composure. “Listen, I can explain.”
“No, I’m done with your excuses. Just be thankful I didn't report you to Ms. Angela." You seethe.
"I understand it was my mistake." He responds, expression hardening. "I messed up. If you would just listen-"
"No, Damian." You cut him off. "Not everything has to go your way. Just because your dad is the richest man in Gotham, and everyone is wrapped around your finger, doesn't mean you can do that to me."
Rage flickers in his eyes. "I don't care about the others." He spits out his words as if venom was poured into his mouth. “Out of everyone in this useless establishment, you’re the only person I-“
"Damian." Ms. Angela's voice cuts through the class, signaling her arrival. All eyes are cast on the two of you, whispers echoing through the room over the commotion from his raised voice. "Please reserve personal conversations to outside classroom hours."
He grits his teeth, eyes averting yours and facing the board, jaw clenched as he answers. "Understood."
It should be satisfying to see him finally strike off a point with one of the teachers, especially since it was your favourite, but as he looks back at you, a heavy storm brewing in his gaze, you realise nothing can quite fill the disappointing ache in your chest that he created.
The class passes by in a blur. You and Damian had restricted yourselves to opposite sides of the table, with you handling the reports, focused entirely on his hands and refusing to look at him, and submitting what may be your most half-assed lab report in your life. You don't bother casting him a glance when he calls your name when class ends, leaving in a hurry to avoid him.
Looking back on it, you were probably a tad too harsh. Still, running over the entire situation, of the past month of interactions with him was like scrubbing an open wound, and the more you pictured his face or his voice, the worse it hurt.
You just wish he didn't keep disappointing you. You don't know why you keep setting these expectations, knowing you'd only get hurt in the end. You knew he was unreliable, a lone wolf, anything but a team worker. You weren't someone special to change that, and nothing about what you thought you shared with him in brief moments made you worth his time.
Rotting in your bed, you know you should be finishing up the final part of the assignment, and it should be easy — your coping mechanism has always been burying yourself into work. Maybe it was looking at the assignment that reminded you of your disappointment in him, but you can't find it in yourself to move out of your buried position in your blankets.
You try closing your eyes, hoping to at least take a nap in your unproductive rotting, when you hear a knock on the glass. Groaning, you try turning around, away from the sound, when it comes again — only more steady and irritating. "Alright!" You huff, eyes peering open before realising only one person would think to come through a window instead of a door.
At lightning speed, you twist your neck and spot Robin at your window. You never thought you’d see him again, but there he was, crouched and waiting for your permission to come in.
“What are you doing here?” You murmur as you pull open your latch, hoping your excitement wasn’t completely given away in your voice. Flopping back down onto your bed, you expect him to sit beside you as he climbs in, but instead, he stands, pacing back and forth on the small floor space in your bedroom.
His arms are crossed, refusing to make eye contact with you and you can feel the nervous energy vibrating off him. Your brows furrow, eyeing him with concern. “Hey, you okay?”
“I have to tell you something.” He blurts out, voice serious.
“Okay?” You mutter, heart thumping in your chest. “What is it?”
“You can’t tell anyone.” He finally stops in his pacing, facing you. “This is between you and me. If it didn’t matter so much, I wouldn’t do it.”
Your puzzlement is impossible to mask, worry heightening at his words. “I promise I won’t tell anyone. Swear.”
Eyeing his hesitation, you can only assume the worst. “Are you in trouble?”
“No, I’m just finally doing what is right for once.” He breathes out.
His hands lift to his domino mask, and your heart stops. What is he doing?
He can’t possibly be revealing his identity to you all of a sudden. His hands shield the lenses of his mask, his fingers shifting around the edges, and it slides off. When his hands fall back to his sides, Damian Wayne stands in front of you.
You're hallucinating. You must be.
“Damian?” You gasp, unable to believe your eyes.
“Will you be willing to listen to me now?” He murmurs, voice softest you've ever heard from him.
“You’re Robin?” Your voice staggers in your shock, because nothing is making sense anymore. The son of the richest billionaire in Gotham, spends his nights fighting crime alongside Batman?
“You know what this means, don’t you?” He asks. “..That I trust you.”
He’s giving this to you, the biggest secret of his life—completely depending on his trust that you won’t betray him. Everything slowly starts to click into place, his random disappearances, the eyebags under his eyes, his ease in handling an assignment that comes only from someone who’s seen it before.
Damian Wayne has been the one helping you all along, and you’ve been a fool.
“Why?” You whisper. “You could’ve kept it a secret, to keep yourself safe. All you would’ve gotten was a pissed-off teammate.”
He shakes his head, frustrated. “It’s more than that.” His gaze pierces through you, all-consuming in its intensity. It's nothing you've ever seen, a fervent expression heightened from regret and longing. “I lost your trust, which I never deserved in the first place. You have done nothing but try your best to accommodate for me when I left you hanging, waiting for me to own up to my mistakes. I've been dishonest, and I broke my promise to you."
“Is my trust worth such a secret?” You ask, voice cracking in his admission.
“Yes.” He answers immediately. “Your trust is something I handled carelessly, and I would never want to lose it again. So I’m giving you mine.”
He leans closer, enough for you to see the paleness of his lips, the exhaustion in his gaze. “I trust you.” He emphasises each word with his pinned gaze, revealing a mirror of that same fragility you felt long before he knocked on your window. “And.. the thought of losing you, I can't bear it.”
You look at him, seeing everything in full view, his turmoil, his relief over finally admitting the truth — everything. His eyes run over your features, flickering down to your lips, and his breath hitches for just a second.
You understand then, what he means. The same way you can’t stop thinking about him, and his infuriating actions that you could never pinpoint till now. Damian Wayne has gotten under your skin, and you don't want him to leave.
Before he could cover it up, pretending his gaze was a mistake, you lean in. Pressing your lips softly to his, your eyes flicker close in a nervous squint.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe. You pull back just a few centimetres, thinking you may have mistaken his gaze, but his hands come behind your head, and he pulls you in, sealing your lips with his.
You breathe out a sigh of relief, muffled by his kiss that takes and takes, because he’s done holding back from what you both only knew was inevitable.
This long wait had been punishing on Damian, and realising that he had already been yours from the moment you walked into the room, determined to make his life a living hell by hating him, spinning his self-restraint out of control — finally being able to taste you, hold you, felt like heaven.
“You.” He mutters, breath ragged and uneven. “Drive me insane.”
You scoff, but as his lips pepper the side of your jaw, your voice shakes in your retort. “Rich coming from you.”
He chuckles, and it’s the most ridiculous, hottest sound you’ve ever heard. “I should’ve known the woman I would fall for would have a mouth like yours.”
You can’t breathe, heart spasming at his admission. “Damian.”
He pulls away just enough to look into your eyes, but close enough that his hands are still tangled in the mess of your hair, noses nearly touching. “Yes?”
That look he’s giving you, you think if you’d ask for anything right now, he’d do anything to give it.
“You’re sure about this?” You ask, slightly nervous.
His eyes soften, and his other hand comes down to brush your cheek, placing his warm palm on the underside. “I told you. I don’t make promises I don’t keep. I promised you I’ll be a partner you can rely on.”
“How do you know you want to make that kind of promise to me?” Your insecurity of not feeling enough, of always having to try your hardest only to not be seen, you don’t know if he’ll see it too, and bail. “A month ago, you didn’t even know my name.”
His expression falters in realisation, and his lips purse into a hard set line. “I lied.”
You look at him, puzzled. “What?”
“I noticed you the moment I entered Gotham University. How could I not?” He murmurs, almost amused. “You detested me from the first moment you saw me. It was infuriating.”
He peers at you, almost questioning. “What did I even do to deserve your dislike?”
“You were a show off. And rude. And a smartass.” You taunt, and he squeezes the back of your neck in playful warning.
“All proper reasons to look only at me whenever I enter a room?” He mocks.
Your lips clamp shut, and you avert your gaze, feeling flushed over his admission that he noticed.
Taking advantage of your momentary silence, he bends down on one knee, his hand wrapping around yours and pressing a kiss to the side of your fingers. It’s deadly, the way the green in his eyes darken at the sight of you. He calls on your name, measured and intense — something you can't quite get used to. “You had me from the moment you stepped into my life. You said I had everyone wrapped around my finger, but that couldn't be further from the truth. Two years, and I have never paid attention to anyone else. There was only ever you in my sights."
He breathes in, a slight tremor in his fingers as he asks. "Will you do me the honour of letting me be your partner?”
“For the assignment?” You tease, just to see his reaction. His eyes flicker with that wicked glint, an amused smirk arising from his lips.
“That.” He murmurs. “And everything else.”
“You want to be my boyfriend, Damian?” You ask.
“I suppose that’s a good starting point.”
He’s ridiculously direct, but seeing him on his knees for you, eyes softer in the warm lighting of your room, asking to be yours — it takes all your self restraint not to bend down and kiss him again.
“Yes. That’s my answer.” You reply, unable to hide your smile.
Looking up at you, his lips quirk up to reveal his own, not a mocking smirk or that slight twitch he does when he's trying to hide it. No, it’s a real, vulnerable smile, and it looks beautiful on him.
“You look happy, Damian.” You murmur, fingers still interlocked with his as his thumb brushes against yours.
“I am.” He affirms. “Guess I finally took your advice.”
“Which one?”
He hums. “I decided to bring some colour back into my life.”
He still remembered that? "Do you memorise everything I say?" You tease. "You know you still owe me big for cutting strike three."
He seems undisturbed, as if expecting your reminder. "I've already handled it. Our sample findings have already been concluded in our report."
Your brows knit together. "When did you—"
"When I was recovering from gas poisoning, I had Alfred pass me my laptop past my father's instructions to keep me bedridden. I completed the section in less than an hour." He shrugs.
You blink rapidly, trying to process the information. "Wait. What do you mean, gas poisoning?"
"Scarecrow was going to poison the water supply. A careless inconsideration of inhaling some of the chemical's gas rendered me unconscious." He explains simply, as if it were a normal Thursday activity to be poisoned till the point of being bedridden.
"You could've told me that from the start." You groan. "Do you know how cruel it'd be of me to expect you to show up after you were poisoned?"
"I didn't want it to be an excuse." He frowns.
"Being poisoned is not like catching a common flu, Damian." You grumble. "Oh my god, I can't believe my boyfriend is Robin. You're going to end me with second-hand stress before academia gets to me."
He smirks, and it's like he didn't hear anything past you calling him your boyfriend. Rising back up, he leans in, fallen streaks of his hair brushing against your forehead. "I apologise for putting you in distress." He murmurs.
"Distress is a little dramatic-"
He pulls you into another kiss, shutting you up effectively with a groan — and that's when you truly believe Damian Wayne, your rival and now, boyfriend, was going to be the death of you.
requested | by anon & doubling up as day 10 of @/pinksplace & @/wildflowersandvibranium galentine's collab <3
summary | a heated conversation leads to a revelation of John's true feelings
a/n | gn! reader
John knew he was a hard man to love, an even harder man to like, which is why your friendship with him astounds him so much. He keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to push too far, and you to, rightfully, walk away for the last time.
Standing across from you now, fists clenched as you scream at each other, John thinks this is it. All he wants is for you to stay safe. Why can't you understand that? Why do you insist on throwing yourself headfirst into danger when there are hundreds of other costumed morons just for that?
"Why can't you just stay out of it for once? It's not like they need you!" He exclaims, only feeling a twinge of guilt when your face drops in hurt confusion.
"What's that supposed to mean? That I'm not good enough? What the fuck, John? I've been doing this for a long time, I know what I'm doing."
"That's not—" He sighs, running a hand down his face.
"Then what? What is it that has you so worked up all of a sudden?"
"Because I love you! Because I can't stand to see you risk your life, get hurt when you don't have to! Because the thought of you not coming back one day—" He cuts himself off, unable to utter the words as teeth dig into his lower lip.
"John?" Your voice is hesitant, breathy as you stare at him with wide, disbelieving eyes.
"What? Why are you looking at me like—"
"You love me?" John forgets how to breathe, mortification flooding his veins as his mind catches up to what his traitorous mouth has admitted.
Deny. Deny. Deny. His mind chants. A slip of the tongue, I love you like a friend, something other than the embarrassing truth, but he's frozen under the weight of your stare.
The excuses refuse to form as he stands stammering like a fucking numpty as you step closer, taking his hands in yours as you smile that stupidly radiant smile of yours.
"It's ok. I love you too, you silly man." Leaning in, you press a chaste kiss to the tip of his nose.
John blinks, cheeks flushing as his complexion betrays him before his body finally kicks back into gear. "Think you missed, love."
"Did I? Think you better show me then." You laugh, before gasping when he grabs you by the waist, pulling you in for a long kiss.
Summary: The night you confess your feelings to Hal only leads to heartbreak, tears and promises to never see each other again.
Now, two months later, Hal is back—hurt, haunted and craving you with a vengeance. He doesn't talk about where he went during his time away or what happened, but you know one thing for sure: something's wrong with Hal Jordan.
Word Count: 7.4k
Content/CW -> angst, canon typical violence, blood/injury, situationship, gn! reader who is part of the JLA, (some) comfort, unrequited love, alcohol, slightly suggestive, pining, cursing
froggi yaps -> its finally here!! if anyone was wondering what that no context poll was about, this was why :p it was either Wally or Hal for this one (but when i first had this idea in october, it was written for Hal) anyway i kinda put my blood sweat and tears into this one <3 hopefully it's alright
title stolen from this tiktok (thanks kat)
Hal Jordan doesn’t believe in fate. He doesn’t believe in coincidences, or some mysterious force bringing things together. He’s more practical than that, or, he likes to think he is. Hal believes in will. In decision, in choices, in taking a knife and carving his own destiny into the fabric of the universe.
He’s never been one to do what he’s told, and above all that, he’s never been one to stay in one place for long. You knew that going in.
So why, why when you’re laying in your bed, watching him button his jeans to leave, do you have the urge to ask him to stay? It’s humiliating, really, the way the feeling gnaws at your chest. The way your fingers reach out to him on instinct, the way the words catch on your tongue.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” Hal winks, flexing for you.
You snap back to reality, blinking at him slowly. The fading evening sun is out to get you with the way it has his skin glowing, illuminating him in godly light. It threads through his hair, catches on the lighter streaks and turns them gold.
His shirt hangs haphazardly from his hand. “Hello? You still with me, or was I that good?”
His cocky words break you free from your trance. “As if.”
He tugs the white fabric over his head, hiding his abs and the marks you left on them. It’s unfair how easily it settles against his skin, how it fits him in all the right places.
“And here I thought I was special.”
“You—” The words catch in your throat. You are special. A deep breath, and then, “don’t flatter yourself, Hal.”
The words are stiff, awkward, lacking that usual playfulness that comes so easily. Hal clocks it immediately, eyebrows raising, hands stilling where they tug down the hem of his shirt.
“Everything alright?”
It’s the concern that gets you, the warmth laced behind his words. He cares about you, of course he does. You don’t spend this much time with someone you don’t care about. It’s the nature in which he cares about you that’s hard to decipher.
You’re friends, yes. Something more, obviously. For a year now, it’s a weekly occurrence that one of you ends up in the other’s bed, clinging to each other to escape the world. But it’s this—the leaving in a haste, the playful banter that never goes anywhere deeper—that leaves you dazed.
Questions rise to your throat as quickly as they die. What am I to you? What is this? Do you feel as broken up about this as I do?
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Just tired. Think I need a nap.”
“So I did do a good job, got it.”
You toss your pillow at him, Hal easily catching it in his hand and laying it over his side of the bed. You cringe. His side of the bed.
Hal says his goodbyes, leaving you with a kiss on the cheek and a lazy salute the way he always does. You rub your cheek after he leaves, stuck sitting in your bed. Hal Jordan may very well be the death of you.
The air in the Watchtower is tense following the meeting, everyone stewing in their silence and going their separate ways. An argument between Hal and Bruce had left everyone on edge, the former storming out of the room.
You wait a few minutes to follow, the room clearing out before you feel comfortable enough to trail after him. You find him in his room, angrily pacing around while he tugs on his hair.
“Hal?”
“What?” The word is harsh and cutting, the frustration from his fight with Bruce clearly still lingering. Catching himself, he takes a deep breath, “what is it?”
The door closes softly behind you. “Are you sure this is a good idea? This mission, I mean.”
“What, are you worried about me?”
It’s the way he smiles when he says that that tugs on your heart strings. The way something lingers behind it, a quiet question he’s begging you not to answer.
“Kinda,” you admit, finding yourself sitting on the edge of the small, standard-issue bed. “I have a bad feeling about this, I feel like-like you’re in over your head.”
His smile flickers and dies. “I’m never in over my head.”
Wrong thing to say. Your nose scrunches on instinct, your head spinning as you try to find the right words. You know deep down for all that bravado, all that fearlessness, there’s something beneath it. A deep seated insecurity that’s slipped through the cracks during his stolen moments with you.
“Promise not to die on me?”
He’s come to rest on the bed next to you, the side of his knee touching yours. It’s such a small gesture, miniscule in the grand scheme of things you’ve done together, but still it has your heart jumping into your throat.
“Don’t worry about me, sweetheart.”
He rests his hand on your thigh, tingles burning their way up your spine. You swallow, and for just one moment, just this moment, allow yourself to have him more than you do. Allow yourself to feel for him more than you should.
You kiss him, lips fumbling awkwardly to find his. Hal takes it in stride, moving against you the way he has so many other times. The world falls away from under you until all that’s left is you and Hal. No Watchtower, no missions, no colleagues to hide from.
And then he’s pulling away, costume suddenly on. “Try not to miss me too much, yeah?”
“Ha—”
He’s gone before you finish saying his name.
Fate’s always been a funny thing to you. This moving, breathing force that ties people together through red string and irony. This intangible thing that can only be explained through feelings of dread and an inexplicable pull.
And looking at Hal Jordan, unconscious and injured, fate has a cruel sense of humour.
You’re exhausted, eyes dry and heavy sitting by his bedside. You’d been asleep when you got the call, Barry Allen’s hushed voice beckoning you back to the Watchtower. You’re not sure you’ve ever moved that fast in your life.
Barry had been outside the infirmary doors to greet you, pacing back and forth, his blond hair a mess. He’ll live, he’d said. He’s still Hal, unfortunately, but he’ll be just fine after some rest.
You cracked a smile at that, Barry leading you into the infirmary to see him. The sight of him left you winded, hot tears burning in the backs of your eyes. After giving you a big hug and telling you to call if anything changes, the man had left you to sit at Hal’s side.
So here you were, hours later, fatigue plaguing every bone in your body while you prayed to every god you could think of for Hal to wake up. Don’t worry about me sweetheart, his words ring in your ears.
Fucking liar.
The only thing worse than seeing Hal hurt is the gnawing regret, the words unsaid that linger around you like ghosts. The questions that have plagued you lately, the ones you hadn’t yet worked up the nerve to ask, burn at the back of your throat.
You’ve just made it through the L’s on your list of gods when there’s a groan followed by the sound of sheets shifting. Hal opens one eye at a time, the infirmary dark except for the IV in his arm and the dim lamp beside you.
“What time is it?” He rasps.
You fight desperately against your tears of relief, your chest feeling a thousand kilos lighter. You open your phone, checking the time as if you hadn’t been staring at the clock for the better part of the night.
“It’s about six in the morning,” you say. “How–how are you feeling?”
He winces as he pulls himself into a sitting position, the wound on his side clearly bothering him. “Like I got hit by a bus.”
Given what Barry had told you about the nature of his injuries—mild head trauma and cracked ribs—you figure that’s an apt description.
“I was worried.”
“I know.”
His nonchalance grates on you. You sink down in your chair, your heart sinking even lower in your chest.
“I mean, tonight. When you got hurt.” You risk a glance at him, “I was worried.”
It’s as though he’s sensed the emotional turn the conversation is about to take, using all of his strength to steer it the other way. He cracks a smile, “I’m fine, aren’t I?”
“I know, I just…” Missed you? “I was worried.”
“You don’t have to be.” He stretches all of his limbs like a cat, yawning, “I always make it back.”
A bitter mumble. “Except when you don’t.”
He freezes, that easygoing smirk melting right off of his face. He’s not sure he’s heard you right. “What?”
The frustration that’s bubbled under your skin for so long comes to the surface, having caught a ride with the relief that flooded you when he woke up. It rises to your throat like bile, stings at your eyes like tears.
It tumbles out before you can stop it. “What are we?”
He gets it now. The sudden change in your tone with him, the vacancy in your stare, that look on your face like you have something to stay. He understands now. Guilt wracks him, filling his veins until it’s all he’s made of.
“What?”
“Us, this. I—you must be feeling it too, right?” You force away your tears, force yourself to be steady. “I feel like I’m going crazy, Hal.”
The knife in his chest twists. The room before he left, the way you’d kissed him, the way you’d worried for him. How stupid he’d been to not see it, how stupid he’d been to think you could go on doing this without getting attached.
How stupid of him to get involved, knowing this is how he’ll lose you.
“I care about you, but I—” A rare moment where Hal considers his words instead of diving in head first. “You know I would never hurt you, right?”
Oh. Oh no. No sentence, nothing good in the history of ever, has started with those words. You brace yourself, arms falling around your body, because no one ever says that unless they’re about to hurt you.
“I thought you knew what this was, I-I didn’t think you felt that way!” His stomach churns at your inability to look at him. “I don’t…it’s not—”
Betrayal lingers in your bones. All of the tenderness, all of the moments spent together, the words spoken through late nights and early mornings, it had all meant nothing to him?
“It’s not what?” You snap.
He tugs at his hair, trying to find the right words to say without crushing your soul entirely. He sees the tears that pool in your eyes, the way you desperately try to swallow the lump in your throat. He did this to you, with his carelessness, with his inability to settle down.
“I don’t want what you want,” he says finally. “I don’t feel the same way.”
He sees the exact moment the hope in your eyes is snuffed out. He can feel the shift in the air, the sudden cold, the detachment. He sighs. Time of death: 6:13am.
You rise to your feet, wiping at your wet eyes. “Okay.”
“‘Okay’?” He repeats. “So we’re good?”
You take a few steps towards the door, your hand hovering over the handle. It’s just metal, just a door, and yet it feels like so much more. Like a portal to a world without this hurt, without Hal Jordan.
“No.”
Hal’s stunned, not sure if he can remember a time you’ve spoken to him this way, if this bitterness is something new or something that’s evolved for him over time.
“No, we’re not good.” You tug open the door, “and I hope I never see you again.”
You slam it shut behind you, ignoring Barry Allen’s concerned face when you do.
Two months. That’s how long it takes to untangle the threads of your life from Hal’s. You move further away from him, throw yourself into work, and do your damndest to scrub every trace of the lantern from your life.
It helps that Hal’s been gone since that night, disappearing without telling anyone where he was going. You’d been concerned, initially, the remnants of your feelings for him leaving you wondering if he was even alive. But then Dinah Lance had showed up at your door with a bag of takeout and an offer to join her team, and all thoughts of Hal Jordan went out the window.
Barry Allen’s been a constant in your life, too. He’d taken you home that night, having heard the last bits of your conversation with Hal and seen the devastation on your face. Barry lingered after that, taking you out for drinks and letting you rant about the stupid man who’d broken your heart.
To some degree, he’d known about your relationship with Hal. He caught the longing glances and heard the occasional detail from his friend. He just never saw what was happening beneath the surface, never thought Hal could break you so thoroughly.
The night he’d seen you cry, Barry had pledged to punch Hal in the face the next time he sees him. He just never thought that day would take so long to come.
“You’re hurt,” Barry frowns when you meet him outside the restaurant. Instinctively, he reaches for the small cut on your forehead. “What happened?”
Your hand reaches it first, shrugging him off. “This? It’s nothing, just something that happened with the Birds.”
“You and Dinah,” he shakes his head, holding the door for you, “kind of a terrifying pair, if you ask me.”
You duck into the restaurant, a weekly staple for you and Barry. “Me? Terrifying?”
“Yes, you.”
He bites his tongue while you speak to the host, following along in silence to your table. Barry shrugs off his jacket, hanging it on the back of his chair and settling into his seat. He’s fidgety today, a bundle of nervous energy.
“You can run faster than the speed of light and you’re saying I’m the scary one?”
He shrugs, investing himself into the laminated menu laid out in front of him. You narrow your eyes. You’ve been here no less than half a dozen times over the past few months, Barry knows the menu like the back of his hand. He twists his ring around his finger, your frown grows deeper.
Something is wrong.
You frown. “Is everything okay?”
“Me?” His head snaps up, too quickly, too unnaturally. “Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine.”
“You’re a horrible liar, Barry.”
His nose crinkles, cheeks pinkening. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t think you’d want to talk about,” he drops his voice, eyes darting around the room like someone might be listening, “him.”
Your stomach drops, fresh anxiety replacing the lining. “What about him?”
Barry cringes, bracing himself before he speaks. “He came to see me today.”
“He’s back?”
And suddenly, two months and several hundred miles of distance doesn’t feel like enough. You’re not sure any distance could ever be enough to sever the ties that bind you to him. Fresh nausea rolls over you.
“Yes, but I—he—” Barry sighs, “you guys should talk.”
“Talk? Talk? After everything, after all this—” You look up at him in utter disbelief, gesturing around the room. “—you think we should talk?”
“I know, I—”
“You were there Barry, you heard what he said, and I-I can’t believe you’d say that after everything.”
You grab your jacket off of the back of the chair, storming out of the restaurant.
Barry comes by later that night with apologies and your favorite dessert. A peace offering, he says. One that you’re more than willing to accept after your initial Hal Jordan-induced meltdown comes to an end.
The days that follow pass quicker, laced with constant nerves and an impending sense of doom. You don‘t sleep as well, your days with the Birds feel less rewarding and the very thought of returning to that Watchtower, knowing he’s there, ties your stomach up in knots.
By some miracle, or emergency, really, Dinah and Ollie manage to coax you back to the Watchtower. You can feel his presence the minute you enter the room, and you don’t need to look to know he’s staring at you.
You avoid his gaze, sticking to Dinah’s side like glue. Her and Ollie settle in next to Barry, the blondes creating a sort of protective barrier on all sides. Barry grabs your elbow, and your attention, offering you a reassuring smile.
“This’ll probably be quick,” he says quietly. “And then we can go for food or something.”
“Food,” Dinah agrees from your other side. “I forgot to eat before we came here.”
Your chatter dies down slowly, the meeting commencing. Batman’s gruff voice fills the room, pointing to pictures on the screen. You try your best to pay attention but it’s hard when you can feel Hal looking at you like he’s plotting the next way to ruin your life.
You bounce your leg under the table, trying to burn off some nervous energy. Barry lays a careful hand over your knee, thumb rubbing the seam of your pants reassuringly. The burning feeling of eyes on you seems to fade and finally, for the first time in two months, you manage to look at Hal Jordan.
He’s not looking at you anymore, his gaze locked onto the hand Barry has on you. He looks nauseous, sickly, even. His undereyes are dark and hollow, his hands shaking slightly. He’s shaved and cut his hair since he’s been back, but the remnants of a lost man remain. You can’t cut away that haunted look in his eyes.
You don’t feel the joy you expected to feel at the pathetic sight, the air in your lungs stilling instead. A familiar feeling comes creeping in, fanning the flames that once burned for him, that once threatened to consume you.
You cast your gaze ahead and push your feelings aside.
He catches you on your way to the bathroom.
The meeting had ended, everyone mingling, but your nerves had gotten the best of you. Five minutes alone, that’s all you asked. Just a handful of time to yourself to catch your breath, to get your head straight and snuff away your feelings. Dinah had offered to come with you, joking about being your bodyguard.
The minute Hal’s fingers had closed around your wrist, you regretted not taking her up on that.
“Don’t touch me.”
His voice is dry, devoid of that usual fight. “I—sorry.”
He drops your arm, folding his own behind his back like a soldier waiting for instruction. He shifts his weight between his feet, a telltale sign of his nerves.
“What do you want, Hal?”
The words stick to the back of his throat, his knees suddenly weak. He doesn’t know where to start or what to say. He’d had it all planned three hours ago—see you, talk, tell you what he needs to say. And then he saw Barry with his damn hands on you and that plan went out the window.
“You and Barry seem…close.”
You scoff. “Is that what this is about? Seriously?”
“I’m just asking—”
“Jesus, Hal.” You shake your head, taking a step back from him. “You’ve been gone for two months, and I don’t know if you remember, but it wasn’t like we were exactly best friends when you left. You have no right, none, to ask about my love life.”
“That’s not—”
“Fuck off.”
You walk away, locking yourself in the bathroom before he can see the way your hands have started to shake. The foundation you built over the past few months wavers, threatening to crumble from under you. And the resolve you had, that certainty you were over him? In two minutes, Hal had chipped away at that, too.
It takes a lot of coaxing from Dinah, and ultimately a threat to break down the door, for you to come out of the bathroom. Your tears had dried a while ago, but the possibility of seeing Hal had left you tethered to the bathroom.
You peek your head out of the door. “Is he still here?”
She quirks an eyebrow, “do you think I’d let him live if he was?”
Good point, you think, and inch your way out of the bathroom and back into society. Dinah clamps a hand over your shoulder, guiding you down the hall.
“He asked me about Barry,” you say.
“God,” she groans, “of course he did.”
“I told him to fuck off.”
She laughs, “and that’s why you had to hide in the bathroom for thirty minutes?”
“No, I was hiding because—” You blank, unsure of what to say.
“Because you hate him?”
And hearing it out loud has something heavy settling in over you. You stop in your tracks, looking up at her with that hopeless look you’d had in your eyes the night she came for you.
“Because I don’t.”
Hal is everywhere after that. Every mission, you’re partnered up with him. Every debrief, he’s there, sitting across the table with that haunted look in his eyes. Fate is playing tricks on you. Offering you two paths knowing they both lead the same place: all paths, it seems, lead to Hal Jordan.
He doesn’t talk about where he went the two months he was away, or what he saw to have him so spooked. People talk, theorize as they usually do. He was on a bender, he had an affair with a space princess, he was hiding in Batman’s basement.
The people who do know don’t say much. Barry, the other Lanterns, Bruce. Their silence speaks volumes, and the knowing glances that follow tell you they know more than they’re letting on.
Your missions with Hal are usually filled with silence and longing gazes. You can’t talk about your relationship before he left or your life after. He refuses to talk about where he went, or how he’s been living with a friend because he lost his apartment.
So you settle into silence.
Walking up the rocky hill, your joints aching and your throat clogged with dust, the heat is almost unbearable. Hal pants behind you, equally as winded from your long trek. You’d insisted—begged—him to just fly on his own, but Hal, stubborn as ever, had refused.
Hope swells in your chest when you reach the top of the hill, seeing the flat clearing that marks your extraction point. It’s a small area, less than 10ft in either direction, the edge opposing you giving way to a massive ravine.
You don’t bother to scope the area for threats before sitting down on the cliff’s edge, letting your legs dangle over while you look on to the world ahead. The sun is just starting to sink, the sky tinged pink at its departure.
Hal settles in next to you, leaving a generous distance. “This is stupid,” he throws a pebble over the ravine, “why even call for an extraction? I can fly.”
It tugs at your heart to remember the times there wasn’t so much distance between you, when you worked well together on missions and let yourself rest with him afterwards. Nowadays, you can’t wait for the mission to be done so that you can get away.
“Because not all of us fly, Jordan.”
He cringes at the sound of his last name. It’s a low blow, really. A desperate scramble for you to take some control of the situation, to once again solidify the cold shoulder you’ve given him.
“Yes but I fly, I’m strong. I can fly both of us.”
“If you want to leave,” you gesture to the open sky, “by all means.”
He frowns, shoulders slumping, and makes no move to leave. The sun sinks lower, the sky shifts to pink and then orange and then purple. The heat of the day starts to melt away, replaced with a gentle night breeze. It would be a perfect night if not for the man sitting next to you.
“Do you have plans after this?” He glances at you, “like, with anyone?”
You scoff. “You mean with Barry?”
He chews at his lip. His silence means yes.
“You’re unbelievable. Why are you so obsessed with me and Barry?”
“Because I left for two months and now you’re fucking my best friend!”
“For fucks sake, Hal, we’re just friends!” Your head snaps to the side, eyes narrowed on him with thinly veiled anger. “And I don’t fuck people I only view as friends.”
“Oh.”
Hal casts his gaze away, he doesn’t deserve to look at you right now. Instead, he focuses on his hands, on the calloused skin over his fingers, He looks to the horizon, to the darkening sky. He’s been here before, seen this before.
He twists the ring around his finger. “We watched a sunrise like this once.”
The memory doesn’t come to mind. You blink, shooting him a look out of the corner of your eye. It’s one second of vulnerability, one second spent where you’re not hating him. And for Hal, that’s enough.
“I don’t remember that,” you say dryly. “Must’ve been someone else.”
Hal focuses on the stars blooming in the sky. “Yeah, must’ve been.”
There are some things in life that have always just made sense, like the universe designed for them to be together. Dalmatians in firehouses, peanut butter and jelly, and formerly, you and Hal Jordan.
You’d felt a pull to him from the day you met, something in him sparking something in you. Every night spent together only made the flame burn brighter until it was unbearable, threatening to consume you. And then it was killed, pronounced dead in the Justice League infirmary.
Your chemistry died with it, and every mission with Hal since, has been stiff. Awkward. He’s overbearing, hovering too close to you during fights and getting in the way. You’re mistrustful, not counting on him to have your back the way that you should. The way that you used to.
It’s late in the Watchtower, the cup of coffee in your hands half-finished and completely cooled. The plush office chair you’re sitting in does little to ease your aching body, Hal’s presence doing even less to ease the nerves that chew on your stomach lining.
After four hours, the computer is only three quarters finished analyzing the USB you’d plugged into it. It’s already been a long night and at this rate, it’s only going to get longer.
“He’s fucking with us, right?” Hal groans, spinning in his chair, “surely we don’t actually have to sit here all night and watch it.”
You nod, lips pulled into a tight lipped smile. “Do you want to be the one to explain it to Bruce if something goes wrong?”
“...no.”
The mechanical whirs of the machinery cut through the silence that grows between the two of you. You’re never quite sure what to say to Hal, if you should even say anything.
Hal’s just as surprised as you are when you’re the first one to speak.
“Are you…doing anything later?”
His head perks up like an excited puppy being offered a treat. “Sleeping, probably. Why?”
“Sleeping alone?”
And Hal’s heart sinks at the underlying question, the silent intonation of hurt. That hopelessness reaches out and threatens to drown him again.
“Always alone, lately,” he grumbles.
“I find that hard to believe.”
“It’s true!” He raises his hands in surrender, “I’m a changed man.”
“That’s even harder to believe.”
Tension, a new norm for the two of you, thickens the air.
Hal does another spin in his chair, head tipped back lazily. He gestures to the computer, “why don't you take a crack at that? See if you can speed it up.”
“Me?” You shake your head, “why don’t you do it?”
“Because you’re the one that’s good with…”
He trails off upon seeing the strange look on your face. Brows drawn together, mouth twisted in concern. He breathes, snapping himself back to reality.
“Hal, is-is everything okay with you?” You lower your voice, “you’re not losing your memory from old age, are you?”
“Old age?!”
His reaction makes you laugh and Hal would be lying if he didn’t treasure the sound like the last day of sun before winter falls.
“Do you…can I buy you a drink?”
Your laughter stops, winter comes.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
He frowns, “it’s just one drink. Come on, please?”
“Hal…”
And his resolve breaks. He rises to his feet, getting up to leave before you can break the rest of him. “Sorry,” is all he says.
You don’t see Hal for almost a week after that, and part of you wonders if maybe it’s a sign. If not seeing him means that chapter of your life is finally done.
The shower water is hot on your body, washing away the dirt and blood from your late-night venture with Dinah. Having been too tired to head to your own place, she’d invited you to crash in their guest room.
You hear voices when the water stream in the shower dies down, the dripping from the tap interrupted by voices downstairs. Mopping up the water on your body with the towel Dinah left for you, you tiptoe your way to the door.
With your ear pressed against the lavish veneer, you can just barely make out Dinah’s voice.
“Absolutely not.”
Hal Jordan’s voice has you freezing in your tracks, the warm water on your body turning to frost. “Why not? Give me a good reason and I’ll leave.”
“For one, if you don’t leave, I’ll make you.”
“She will,” Oliver shouts, sounding further away than the other voices.
“Dinah, please. Five minutes, that’s all I ask. Don’t be—ow!”
You’d be lying if his sudden cry didn’t bring a smile to your face. The voices go quiet and you finish dressing, pulling on a clean pair of clothes you’d left here forever ago.
You’re barely out the bathroom door, steam pouring into the hallway like smoke, when Oliver catches your arm. “Before you go down there,” he starts.
“Hal’s here, I heard.”
“Dinah smacked him”
You laugh, “I heard that, too.”
Oliver retreats down the hall, presumably headed to their bedroom. You march on in the opposite direction, making your way down the stairs. It’s gone quiet now, which can only mean two things: he left, or Dinah killed him.
There’s no dead body when you enter the foyer, so clearly it’s the former. You hate the way your heart sinks just a little at his absence.
Hal’s unconscious on your welcome mat when you get home. A bottle in his hand, snoring, his body unphased by the cold night air. Digging your keys out of your bag, you poke him with your shoe. He stirs a little, eyelids twitching. Good, not dead at least.
Opening the door with a click, you watch as he slumps further, knocking his head against your doorframe. His eyes snap open, lashes fluttering while he deciphers his surroundings. His cheeks pinken and he relaxes a little at the sight of you.
“You—you’re home,” he slurs, and the heavy scent of alcohol stings your nose.
“Jesus, Hal,” you sigh, offering him a hand up. “What are you doing here?”
He takes it, putting just a little too much weight on you as he uses your body to lift himself up. You stumble, chest colliding with his, his arm reaching out to steady you. It’s instinctive, an all too familiar position for the both of you.
You peel yourself away from him, taking a big step back. “You didn’t answer the question.”
He stumbles in after you, wrist flopping awkwardly as he goes to slam the door. You pinch the bridge of your nose. He can barely stand.
“Missed you,” he slurs, “always missing you.”
He pitches forward, knees failing, but you’re there to catch him. Ducking under his arm, you manage to keep him up long enough to get him to the couch. Hal’s not much help, mumbling something about a wedding into your ear and dragging his feet.
You abandon him on your couch, the man slumped over uselessly, before coming back with a bottle of water. He manages to grab it—at least he’s good for something right now—and downs half the bottle in one go.
“You shouldn’t be here, Hal,” you say softly. “We’re not—I don’t feel the same way.”
Liar, the weight in your chest screams, but Hal doesn’t need to know that. He doesn’t need to know the way your heart beats for him, that even through the layers you’ve used to shut him out, you still yearn to touch him again.
“The wedding,” is all he says.
Your brows furrow in confusion, a hand reaching for him before you pull back. He’s not yours to touch anymore. You scan his face for any sign of him being high, red eyes or a loopy smile. You clock none of that.
He’s just Hal. Drunk, incoherently babbling Hal.
“The wedding?” You question.
He looks up at you, brown hair falling in his face and half-obscuring his eyes. “The wedding,” he says again. “You love—you would’ve loved it.”
“Who’s wedding, Hal?”
You hate this, playing into what he’s saying, hanging onto every word like you’re still hopelessly in love with him and just wanting him to love you back. Really, you should be going to sleep and leaving him on your couch to rot, but just as you draw up your knees to stand, he speaks.
“I hated watching you get married to another man.”
Your heart stops beating. “Hal? I’m not—I’m not married, you know that.”
His eyes go vacant for a moment, jaw clenching in that way it does when he’s said something he shouldn’t have. The way it does when he spits venom in an argument, or when he tells you he doesn't love you the way you love him.
“There were flowers,” he says, “Frangipani. Your favorite.”
“Hal I-I think you should go to bed.” You look at him seriously, “you’re drunk, you’re not making any sense. Just—sleep, okay? We’ll talk in the morning.”
He frowns, deep and sad. “You mean it?”
“Goodnight, Hal.”
You flick off the lamp, quietly leaving the room before he can say anymore.
You’re all geared up for your mission, costume on, weapons stocked, when you pull Barry aside.
“What’s going on?” He has that curious look in his eyes, the blue glistening with worry. “Is everything okay?”
“I think…” You glance around, making sure no one’s listening in. “I think something’s wrong with Hal.”
“Oh?”
“He keeps…saying these things that don’t make sense. I thought it was just forgetfulness but then he started talking about my wedding, and all of these things that didn’t happen and—”
The look on Barry’s face tells you everything. A flash of guilt and a mix of shame answering your question before you have time to ask it. Your eyes narrow, you take a step forward, cornering him.
“I don’t—he hasn’t told you yet?”
“Told me about what?”
Barry sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Hal said he would tell you.”
“Hal says a lot of things.”
“Believe me, I know.” He rests a hand on your shoulder, “it’s nothing you need to worry about, alright?”
“Barry—”
“Just trust me, okay?”
You open your mouth to say his name but then the speedster is taking off, a trail of lightning in his wake. You stare at the spot he was just standing, dumbfounded.
What could possibly be so bad, so top secret, that Barry himself can’t even tell you? The question sticks to the back of your mind.
It’s a cruel trick of fate that you’ve ended up here, back in this damned infirmary, with Hal at your side.
You’d been distracted on your latest mission, your conversation with Barry lingering in the corner of your head until it was all you could focus on. You got sloppy, every fight, every decision, worse than the last until finally, something gave.
A searing hot pain in your shoulder, blood trickling down your chest. You don’t remember much aside from the pain and the dizziness that followed. Hal had run to your side, had scooped you up into his arms. You passed out some point after that, but the look on Hal’s face is burned into your mind.
You open your eyes to the dim light of the infirmary, the scent of sanitizer and copper burning your nose. You’ve been in here enough to recognize the patterns on the roof immediately, the familiar burn mark that had come from Clark years ago.
An IV is in your non-wounded side, your injured shoulder now bandaged and cleaned and resting against the pillows. You stir, shimmying your way up the cot until you’re in a half-sitting position.
Hal’s head snaps up. “You’re awake.”
His eyes are bloodshot, hair messy and sweaty. His costume is gone, replaced with the same civvies he always wears—white t-shirt, blue jeans, work boots.
“What—” You clear your throat, your voice dry from lack of use. “What time is it?”
“Late, really late.” He rises to his feet, stepping closer to your bed to get a closer look at you. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
The air thickens with weeks worth of tension. Hal rubs his thumb against his palm, blinking slowly, trying to will the words to come to mind. But not even his ring can give him the right words to say, not right now.
He takes a deep breath. “Is this how you felt? That night, I mean.”
Bile rises in your throat, the monitor connected to your index finger beeping with the rise in your heartrate. Hal glances at the monitor, clocking the sudden change.
“No,” your voice breaks, emotion seeping through the cracks. “No, I actually loved you.”
Loved. Hal’s ears ring with the word, and though he’s been told—by himself and others—in a million different ways how badly he fucked up, how much he sucks, hearing it from you hurts the worst.
You cut off his thoughts. “Where’s Barry?”
“He had to step out, but I’m here—“
“I didn’t ask for you.”
And maybe it’s the hint of emotion in your words, or the way every second spent this close to you without touching you sends his stomach spiraling, but Hal can’t help himself. The words slip out like they’ve longed to for so long, the things he wouldn’t let himself feel rising to the surface.
“And you think I did?” He tugs on his hair, “fuck, do you think I wanted this? All of this?”
Your eyes widen, you sit up fully in your bed. “Nobody is forcing you to be here, Hal. You can leave if you hate me so much.”
“I can’t!”
You blink, shocked at the sudden outburst. You’re used to Hal’s yelling, to the constant arguments. But this, this bleeding of emotions, wearing his heart on his sleeve, it’s new to you. Uncharted.
“Can’t you see that? I can’t! You’re—you’re fucking haunting me.”
“Haunting you?”
His shoulders slump, forearms braced on the side of the bed. He dips his forehead between them. “Yes, haunting me.”
“I’ve barely been near you, how am I—how could I possibly..?”
“I left,” he says plainly, “to get away from you. I thought—I thought if I could just get off the planet for a little while, maybe I could figure out a way to make things right.”
You tilt your head in confusion, that earlier fight fading with every word he says.
“But I fucked up, I got caught in a wormhole and it–it sent me to another world. A lot of other worlds.”
And suddenly things start to make sense, the puzzle pieces that had been in front of you this entire time lining themselves up. That haunted look, the cryptic sayings, the sudden forgetfulness.
“I left to get away from you but in every world, in every last one of them—”
He wipes a few tears miserably on the back of his hand. You’ve never seen him like this, all miserable and broken, falling apart in front of you.
“It was you, it was all you. It—“ His voice cracks, “in every goddamn universe, I was with you. Always you.”
“Hal…”
“I watched us get married. I saw you up on that altar, marrying me and I just—I had to wonder.” He looks at his palms like they’re stained with something ugly, “what is so wrong with this version of me that I couldn’t seal the deal? That I’m the one Hal Jordan in the multiverse that doesn’t get to be with you?”
He’s fully in tears now, keeping his head down so that you can’t see the way they burn trails into his cheeks. His hands shake slightly, muscles in his back pulled tight in his frustration.
“The wedding,” you say finally. “I thought—I thought you were just drunk. You mean to tell me this whole time…?”
Your own nose stings with the threat of tears. All of this time, all of this heartbreak. You’d assumed he’d left to give you space, to go on some bender. Never did you ever consider he was doing it for himself, that this was as painful for him as it was for you.
“I had the chance and I fucked it up.” His eyes finally meet yours, “and I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry that you got stuck with the one me in the universe that fucks everything up.”
Instincts take over, your body on autopilot as you reach for his hand. He twitches at the contact but then his palm is swallowing yours whole, latching on to anything he can get from you right now.
“I wanted to fix it. When I came back, I came to fix it.” He squeezes your hand, “But you seemed so happy without me and I-I don’t want to take that way from you.”
Not without you, never without you. The words fill your mind but not your tongue, you’re left entirely speechless by his sudden confession, wondering how many different versions of you he must have seen in the months he was gone.
“How many?” You ask.
“What?”
“How many worlds?” You keep your tone even despite the lump in your throat, “how many versions of us?”
“Hundreds,” he confesses. “If not thousands.”
You suck in a breath, the air in the room suddenly feeling heavy.
“I’ve seen a thousand versions of you and this one—this one is my favorite.”
You break. Everything you’ve locked up and hidden away, everything you pushed through in an attempt to try and forget him, everything floods you. The dam is broken, the tears finally come and in your haze, you find yourself reaching for the fabric of Hal’s shirt.
Hal lets you manhandle him closer, your teary face stuffed into his chest. His arms go around you automatically, fitting against your body the way they’re meant to, the way they always have.
His scent helps calm you a little, his body heat and strong arms pulling you back even when your tether is broken. You sob against him for a while, breathing shakily until you finally come back to yourself.
“Hal,” you start.
“I love you.”
The air leaves your lungs.
“I-I know I fucked up, I know I didn’t say it before but fuck, sweetheart, I love you. I love you so much.”
He stares at you hopefully, expectantly. His heart is in his hands, presented to you on a silver platter, yours for the taking.
“Please say somet—”
You cut him off by smashing your lips against his, using the collar of his shirt for leverage. Hal’s eyes flutter shut, leaning into you, giving himself to you in a way he hasn’t been able to before. You feel the difference now. The sudden devotion, like you’re the altar he’s come to worship.
“I love you too.”
Hal sighs in relief, taut muscles finally relaxing. “Does this mean we can finally get that drink now?”
“Only if you tell me about these other me’s,” you tease. “Surely there’s one that’s a Green Lantern, right?”
“God, if only you knew the half of it.”
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thanks for reading & if you like it, please consider commenting, liking & reblogging!! /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
— this is part of my 7k sleepover event! thanks for participating <3
froggi yaps -> sorry this was so late :( more sleepover content to come! finally feeling less sick so hopefully ill get more writing done! enjoy <3
There are certain rules, you’ve learned, that come with befriending your Green Lanterns. The knowledge, hard fought over years of friendship, has yet to fail you. At least, when you actually follow it.
Never bet against Hal Jordan in a test of will. Avoid sparring with Jessica Cruz at all costs. Don’t get between Kilowog and a good night of rest, don’t piss off John Stewart and never, never ever under any circumstances, think that you can outdrink Guy Gardner.
It started with a bet. A sarcastic scoff, some light taunting. A shot glass offered up to you, clenched between gnawed fingernails and topped with a daring grin.
“C’mon,” Guy taunts. “You know you wanna.”
“Oh, no. No, no, no. I know better than that.”
The shot is plucked from Guy’s fingers by a set of familiar hands, the leftover paint on Kyle’s skin giving him away. Guy practically giggles in glee as the two of you watch the dark haired Lantern knock back the shot, leftover sugar from the rim glimmering on his lips.
“Lucky for you, Guy, I don’t,” Kyle beams. “Lemon drop, yum.”
His arm drapes around your shoulder, offering you a half hug before settling in on the bar stool next to yours. His arm hangs behind you, hand clutching the back of your seat and resting inches from your back.
Guy orders you a drink and another round of shots for the two of them. The bartender gives the group of you a tray full of shots, too many for you to even count. Like a bloodhound, Hal Jordan sidles up to the bar, eyes locked on the tray.
You shake your head and sip on your drink while the three of them go shot for shot.
The night carries on, more drinks are poured and by your third hour at the bar, Kyle can barely stand. His cheeks are flushed and full with an ear to ear smile, every step he takes punctuated with a drunken sway.
He leans up against the bar, settled between your legs. Sitting on the bar stool, Kyle feels so much taller than you, his presence everywhere.
His dark hair falls in his face. “Have I ever told you how good looking you are?”
You laugh, poking his cheek playfully. “You doing alright, Kyle?”
He rocks slightly on his feet, his eyes dilated with the liquor. He catches your hand before you pull away, clutching it between his. Good to know his reflexes are intact.
“Soo good,” he slurs. “‘specially cause you’re here.”
Butterflies swarm your stomach. His thumbs rub over either side of your hand, tracing every centimeter of skin like he’s trying to memorize it. And then he tugs your hand to his mouth, lips brushing over the skin.
The butterflies beat their wings harder.
“I think—” You swallow away your nerves, “I think we should get you home. And get you some water. Lots of water.”
“Home,” he says longingly.
You nod, sliding off the stool and leaving a stack of bills on the bar counter. Kyle’s grip on your hand is unyielding as you lead him out of the bar, through the swell of bodies and into the cold night air.
You stumble a little coming out of the bar, your own alcohol intake rushing to your head. Lucky for you, Kyle’s arms clutch your waist and keep you from falling, pulling you back into his chest.
“I got you.”
A deep breath fills your lungs as you try to ignore the heat beneath your skin. Even the gentle night breeze isn’t enough to sate it, fizzling uselessly against your body.
“T-thanks.”
It’s a quiet walk back to Kyle’s apartment, only ten blocks away from the bar. He hums happily, his footsteps more sure and sober now. Your skin is still warm from where his hands had grabbed your waist, his pinkie and ring fingers occasionally brushing against yours.
You wait at the door while Kyle kicks off his sneakers and sends them every which way. His jacket comes off next, shrugged off and hung on the handle of the closet door.
“Alright,” you say, heels braced to turn. “I should head out.”
Your own feet sit just in front of the threshold, not daring to cross further into his apartment. Not right now, not while you’ve both been drinking. He frowns, lips drawn into a fine line. His silence says it all, and coupled with the disappointed pout on his face, has your heart sinking in your chest.
“You don’t have to.”
He shuffles closer to the door, bracing himself on his forearm and leaning on the doorframe. “Go, I mean.” He looks at you, eyes warm and sobered, “you don’t have to go.”
He’s so close you can smell the lingering alcohol on his breath, mixed with something fruity. Stray strands shadow his face, long lashes casting shadows across his cheekbones.
“Kyle, I don’t—”
“Stay.” He leans impossibly close. “Please.”
“You’re drunk.”
An inch closer and his lips are on yours, the heavy taste of alcohol and lemon overpowering you. His free arm catches your waist, pulling you into him until your body is flush against his. Your eyes flutter closed, your senses bottoming out until all you feel is Kyle—his lips, his hands, his taste.
When he pulls away, you find yourself inside his apartment, several feet away from the now shut door. You blink, when did he even have time to close it?
“I love you.”
Your head clears, your senses come rushing back, and in your startled state, all you can muster is: “what?”
His cheeks pinken, a hand resting on the back of his neck. “God, this isn’t how I wanted to tell you, I—”
“You’re drunk,” you say carefully. “We’ve both been drinking. I-I should go.”
Kyle blocks your path with his body. “I love you, I just—please don’t go.”
“We can talk about this in the morning, okay?”
You push past him but you barely make it three steps before he grabs your wrist and tugs you back. On any other day, Kyle would let you go without another word. But not tonight. Tonight, he feels it all—his loves, his losses, the weight of the world around him.
He’s drowning in it, and you’re the only thing that can pull him back.
“I love you,” he says again, the word just as electric as the first time. “I need you.”
“Seriously, Kyle, I—”
“Tell me you don’t love me too. Tell me to take it back.”
Your lips still, tongue heavy in your mouth. The words get caught in your throat, fading away forever when you see the way he’s looking at you. Softly, lovingly, needingly. The minutes pass, thickened with silence. Kyle’s grip on your wrist loosens until he finally drops your hand.
“That’s what I thought.”
He steps closer to you, approaching you carefully. “Just…stay. We don’t have to talk about it, we don’t even have to sleep in the same bed I just—I want you with me tonight.”
You can’t possibly argue, not when he’s beholding you like you’re the brightest star he’s ever seen, not when he’s begging you to stay with him.
“Okay,” you say finally. “I’ll stay.”
He kisses you again, softer this time, slower. His hands roam your sides, feeling every inch of you like it’s the first time.
Twenty minutes later and you’re curled up in his bed, head laying on his chest. The steady pulse of his heart beats in your ears, a soothing rhythm you won’t ever forget.
“Kyle?”
“Hm?”
His hand stills on the top of your head like he’s bracing himself for what comes next.
“I love you,” your voice is quiet with sleep, words coming out half-mumbled, “by the way.”
You smile when you hear his heart speed up.
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thanks for reading & have a wonderful week /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
a/n: Saw superman and spiraled into a DC obsession phase. English isn't my first language, pls ignore the spelling and grammatical errors.
The home smelled like something sacred; something tied together with threads of love and serenity. Something fresh and sweet, a little savory, soft, but perfect. Jason didn’t know if you were still awake or not, 3 am is not the usual time for someone to come home but usual was never a word in Jason’s vocabulary;
perks of being a vigilante, I guess.
He quietly jumped in from the window pane, not using the door because he knew it creaked and also because you were a light sleeper, always quick to jump the moment you heard a sound,
perks of being married to a vigilante, I guess.
He went straight to the kitchen, washing his hands and gulping down some water from the already kept glass of water beside the sink, the thick of the night and the dirt and grime Gotham carried draining him out completely. He took out his gloves and carefully kept them at the counter, not ignoring the fact that you were very particular about your kitchen, being a baker and all. Thats when something caught his eye, a box, full of cinnamon rolls, neatly packed and kept on the counter, a small plate with three more kept aside and a note.
“The ones in the box are for tomorrow’s dinner at the mansion. I know how much Tim loves them. The ones in the plate are for you. I know how much you love them too
- wife💗”
An automatic smile appeared on his face, making him look like a child on Christmas morning. He felt like the luckiest man on planet earth. Which, according to him, he was. With a woman like you beside him he generally felt like he could do and achieve anything he wanted. Jason had changed a lot, he acknowledged his past, he learnt from it, mended his relationship with Bruce and moved on for the better good. All because he knew the kind of man he needed to become in order to bag you. He changed because he couldn’t offer you the life you deserved and the man you deserved with the emotional baggage and ego that he carried around. You lose some to gain some and gaining you has been the biggest achievement of his life.
He tucked the note and kept it in his chest pocket. A sort of metaphor for always keeping you closest to heart. His padded feat thumped across the floorboard of the house and reached the bedroom. He realized how loud his boots were, she’s probably awake by now, he couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty, mentally reminding himself to remove his fifty-pound boots next time. He peeped into the bedroom to gaze upon your ‘sleeping’ figure, how the soft curve of the blanket indicted that you were safely and very cutely tucked under the covers. He opened the door and rounded next to where you were laying and crouched down to your level, brushing a soft strand of hair out of your face.
“you’re late.” Worrying came naturally to you, so it was no surprise that you were slightly (very extremely slightly) pissed about your husband’s late arrival.
“s’rry sweetheart, was keeping the city safe for ya’” You knew how tired he was, slurring his words and barely managing to keep his eyes open. You knew he was going to snore today. To other people it might sound very irritating, snoring, one of the many reasons for the failure of a marriage but somehow Jason managed to make that cute as well, it was a shock to the bat family that there was something that Jason did which could be termed as ‘cute’, not very fitting to his brooding persona.
Well, they didn’t know him the way you did.
“excuses” you said while opening one eye and giving him a slightly lopsided smile. Jason let out a muffled laugh as he looked at you, really looked at you and just like that all his exhaustion scrambled away into the darkness of the room. He got one hand to your face, a gesture more for himself than for you, an act of grounding, something to remind him that you’re here and that after all is said and done, he can come back to you and you will always be waiting for him, he can come back to his home.
“Get in, I miss you…its cold without you” you murmured under the sheets and that was enough for Jason to get up and remove his suit in one go, leaving him in nothing but his boxers and socks. He climbed in from the other side and snuggled behind you. One hand draped around your waist and the other above his head. You could feel his soft breath on the nape of your neck, suddenly warm, you turned around in his arms and faced him, silently admiring the view. “You worried me, I couldn’t sleep” you said as you put one hand on his face; even in the dark of the night he could see the soft, barely there tears in your eyes.
“I know, I’m- I am sorry sweetheart, Gotham really was acting up today…I should’ve told you though. Saved you the worry.” You knew he was sorry; you also knew the city needed him. The incessant amounts of thefts and assaults increasing day by day was a testament to it. So, you understood and just wrapped your arms tighter around, not wanting to leave him now.
“Hmm maybe you should…still won’t be enough to make me sleep”
Jason smiled a little already knowing the answer to the question he was going to ask next.
“Yeah? And what’ll be enough?” you looked at him and slowly inched closer, closing the gap between the both of you and kissing him. Slow but sensual, the day’s exhaustion melting into the kiss like molten gold. Jason sighed into the kiss and drank it in, cradling the side of your face delicately. He pulled you in closer through your thigh, one hand slowly inching towards the lace of your underwear. You smiled into the kiss, “tease” you said breaking the kiss, a smirk already adorning your face.
“Only for you”, you couldn’t help yourself and kissed him again, this time a bit harder and with more vigor. “Tomorrow-” you said in between kisses, “You’re tired, you need rest.”
Jason was not the one to back down, call it the Wayne genes (genes are passed down from parents to offsprings- SHUT THE FUCK UP) but stubborn was his middle name.
“I need you” he whined a little, making you laugh mid kiss.
“I love you and you always need me but right now, you need rest and frankly speaking so do I, you have a habit of keeping me on my toes.” You said as you snuggled closer to him and closed your eyes for good.
“Yes ma’am” he said as he looked at your sleeping figure.
A sense of gratitude creeped up on him, Jason had done a fair share of wrong doings in life but whatever good he’d done, it was somehow enough for God- or whoever there was above, to like him enough and give him the opportunity to be loved by you. He didn’t really believe in God, but if he ever met her, he’d thank her for you.
“Love ya”, you felt a soft kiss being planted on your forehead and the last thing you heard was the soft snores emitting from beside you.
a/n: i loved writing this. reblogs are appreciated. please don't steal or copy my work.
