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After a tragic accident erased your memories, you no longer remember the man you married. Unfortunately for you, Ryomen Sukuna remembers everything. And he'll do whatever it takes to make you remember him too.
Everything was so much weird.
When you first opened your eyes, the world was a blur of harsh lights and a rhythmic, annoying beep that made your head throb. A crowd of people were hovering over your bed, their faces twisted into expressions of pure horror and desperation. It felt like they were looking at a ghost or maybe a god that had suddenly fallen from the sky. The moment you blinked and stared back at them with blank, unrecognizing eyes, the room dissolved into quiet, breathless weeping.
You were completely utterly lost. Who was the woman with the dark circles under her eyes calling herself Shoko? Why was she gripping your hand like her entire world was ending? You knew your own name y/n echoed clearly in the empty caverns of your mind, but beyond that single fact, there was only a vast, terrifying void. You understood the modern world. you knew what a smartphone was, you recognized the concept of Wi-Fi, and when you mumbled those details, the doctors in the room let out collective, gasping sighs of relief.
But the real shock came twenty minutes later.
The heavy door to the hospital room burst open with a violent slam. A man lunged inside like a madman, his chest heaving as he fought for breath. You had never seen anyone look like him. His hair was a soft, striking shade of pastel pink so pretty and unexpected that you wondered for a fleeting second if he had dyed it just to stand out. Dark, intricate tattoos mapped across his skin, curling around his sharp cheekbones and framing his eyes. And those eyes... they were a piercing, burning red, swirling with a volatile mixture of terrifying rage and profound, shattering sadness.
You just sat there in your oversized, faded blue hospital gown, looking small and fragile as your confused gaze met his. The man froze, roughly brushing a strand of pink hair out of his face. His clothes were covered in a layer of grey dust and dried grit, looking as though he had sprinted straight off a construction site the second he got the news.
"Fucking... God. Hey, princess... fuck, don't you ever scare me like that again" he breathed, his deep, gravelly voice cracking as he took two massive strides toward your bedside, staring down at you with a desperation that made the air feel heavy.
You shrank back into the pillows, your brow furrowing. Princess? Were you in some bizarre historical simulation? Did kings and horses still exist? No, the blinking medical monitors around you disproved that immediately.
"Mr. Sukuna, please. I need to speak with you in private for a moment" a woman in her mid forties interrupted, her expression incredibly grave as she stepped between you and the huge man. She glanced at the other people lingering by the door. There was a teenage boy, maybe sixteen, who had the exact same pink hair as the tattooed man, his face streaked with tears. Beside him stood another boy with unruly, spiky black hair and a dull, stoic expression that couldn't quite hide the anxiety in his eyes. At the doctor's quiet command, they all slowly filed out into the hallway.
Left alone for a moment, you stared at the stark white walls, the untouched glass of water on the bedside table, and the crushing, dull monotony of the room.
When the door clicked open again, the female physician returned, holding a thick medical chart. The tattooed man followed closely behind her. He tried to offer you a small, reassuring smile, but it looked incredibly strained on his rugged face. His crimson eyes locked onto you, tracking every breath you took as if you might literally vanish into thin air if he dared to look away for a single second.
"Hello, y/n. I am Dr. Jennifer" the woman said kindly, stepping up to the mattress. "Do you know why you were brought here today?"
You frowned, looking between her and the towering man. "No."
The syllable was short and hollow. Beside the doctor, Sukunaâs entire frame stiffened. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered violently beneath his tattoos, his knuckles turning white as he balled his hands into fists.
"Right. But you do remember your name?" she pressed gently.
"Yes... y/n I am Y/N." you answered firmly. You knew the name belonged to you, even if the history attached to it was completely gone.
"And do you know where you are right now?"
"A hospital?"
"Correct" Dr. Jennifer nodded, opening the document in her hands. "Look, I am going to explain exactly what happened, and I need you to listen very carefully, alright?" You gave a small, hesitant nod. "You were in a severe accident yesterday evening. You were walking home from the local market when a car veered off the road and hit you. It is a miracle you walked away with minor physical injuries, but the trauma to your head has caused a severe case of retrograde amnesia. Honestly, it's a surprise you even remember your name right now."
You let out a quiet hum, your eyes drifting down to your own hands resting on the thin blanket. That was when you noticed it a slender, platinum band set with a brilliant, flawlessly cut diamond resting securely on your left ring finger. It looked incredibly expensive, classy, and entirely foreign
So you were married.
"Y/n" Dr. Jenniferâs voice pulled you from your thoughts. You snapped your head up to look at her. "This man standing beside me... he is your husband."
The doctor tilted her head toward the giant. He was massive easily over six feet of raw, intimidating muscle, his tattooed face giving him a terrifying, dangerous aura. Your very first instinctual thought was that this man looked incredibly scary.
Sukuna didn't say a word. He just stood there, letting you analyze him, before he offered you a tiny, incredibly vulnerable nod. You tilted your head, staring into his intense red eyes, desperately searching for a single spark of familiarity. Did I really marry this giant?
"His name is Ryomen Sukuna, and he is going to take care of you" the doctor continued, closing her chart. "For the next few weeks, you need to let your brain rest, but you also need to gently stimulate it to try and regain those lost memories. Spending time in a familiar environment, in your own home with your husband, is going to be the best medicine for you."
You nodded mutely. You didn't exactly have a choice. You were being handed over to a complete stranger who happened to hold a legal claim to your entire life.
"Alright then. I wish you a safe and speedy recovery" Dr. Jennifer said with a final, empathetic smile before slipping out of the room.
The heavy silence that followed was suffocating. Sukuna cleared his throat roughly, taking a few slow, tentative steps toward the edge of your bed. He moved with an immense amount of caution, as if he genuinely believed a sudden movement might break you into pieces. He pulled up the small plastic chair, sinking into it.
"Hey" he said softly. Even in a whisper, his voice was incredibly manly, deep, and rough.
"Hello" you replied shortly, your eyes tracking his hands.
To your surprise, his large, scarred fingers were trembling slightly as he fidgeted with them, refusing to meet your eyes. When he finally looked up, you realized the piercing red of his irises was completely glossy, swimming with unshed tears.
"Yo... you're getting discharged today" he choked out, taking a deep, ragged breath as if the mere act of speaking was causing him physical pain. "I'm going to go sign the paperwork, and then I'm taking you to... our house. I'm going to do whatever the fuck it takes to help you remember, princess."
You stared at his rugged, tattooed face for a long moment before letting out a soft, distant hum.
An hour later, you were sitting in the passenger seat of a sleek, black Jeep, The man Sukuna kept his left hand firmly on the steering wheel while his eyes flicked toward you every sixty seconds, his intense gaze making a nervous flutter erupt in your stomach.
You stared out the window, watching the city buildings, sprawling neighborhoods, and vibrant green trees blur past. Intrigued by the warm breeze, you raised your hand, pressing your palm gently against the glass as if you wanted to touch the passing leaves. Instantly, the window smoothly rolled down. Startled, you turned your head to find Sukuna adjusting the master controls, his eyes locked onto you with an unreadable warmth.
"Can I ask you something-" you murmured softly.
"Yes." The answer came incredibly fast, almost desperate. He was hanging on your every word, practically begging for you to speak to him.
"How... how did we meet?" you asked, leaning your elbow on the door frame as the wind whipped through your hair.
"We met in high school" he answered quickly, navigating a sharp turn onto a quiet, "We've been married for seven years."
"High school?" You tilted your head, a faint smile touching your lips as you extended your hand just slightly out into the rushing air. "Were we friends back then?"
"Careful" he commanded firmly, though there was no real heat in his voice. You obediently pulled your hand back inside. A faint, nostalgic softness crept into his red eyes as he looked ahead. "Friends? no. You could say we didn't liked eachother each other when we first met. You thought I was a loud, arrogant mannerless jerk and I thought you were a stubborn, bossy brat."
He smoothly pulled the Jeep into a long brick driveway, coming to a stop in front of a breathtaking, modern two story house. It was painted a crisp, elegant white with sleek charcoal-grey accents, boasting massive, floor to ceiling windows that caught the afternoon sun.
"This is...our house" Sukuna murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "We've been living here for about four years."
He killed the engine, threw his door open, and practically sprinted around the hood of the car to open your door before you could even reach for the handle. He extended a massive, tattooed hand toward you, his palm open and waiting. You stared at his hand, your eyes traveling up the thick muscles of his forearm, before you deliberately stepped down onto the driveway without taking it.
Sukunaâs hand froze in mid-air. You watched his fingers slowly curl back into a fist before he pulled his arm away, a flash of pure, agonizing heartbreak crossing his features before he quickly masked it with a stoic expression.
As your feet hit the pavement, you looked up at the towering structure, desperately begging your brain to spark even a single ounce of familiarity. Nothing came. But as you turned around, you caught a glimpse of the man standing beside you. He was on the absolute verge of tears. His chest was tight, his jaw locked as he stared at you. You were his entire world, his beautiful wife, and yet you were looking at him like he was a total stranger. He suddenly felt a wave of profound hatred for every single time he had ever been mean or stubborn with you in the past, even in jest. He just wanted his girl back. His sweet innocent girl.
"The house is beautiful" you murmured gently, walking toward the porch.
'The house.' Not our house. The detached wording made Sukunaâs jaw clench painfully.
"Of course it is. I built the damn thing" he muttered, following closely behind you.
It was your exact dream house. Years ago, back when you were just broke college students dating in a cramped apartment, you had traced a clumsy design on a napkin, telling him you wanted a modern white house with endless windows, three bedrooms, and a kitchen large enough for the two of you to bake and slow-dance together while listening to old jazz records. Sukuna had kept that napkin. The moment he made his fortune, he hired a crew but did the vast majority of the heavy structural work with his own two hands. He had gifted you the keys on your third wedding anniversary, and he could still vividly remember the way you had wept tears of joy, throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him until you were both breathless. He wanted that smile back. He would give anything just to have you look at him the way you used to.
You stepped inside, ignoring the heavy emotion rolling off him. Sukuna quickly gathered your small hospital bags and followed you into the foyer, shutting the door behind him.
Your eyes immediately gravitated toward the kitchen. It was vast, open, and undeniably stunning, featuring a massive quartz island and a huge sliding glass door that opened directly into a manicured backyard garden. The entire layout felt strangely perfect.
"Let me show you... around" Sukuna offered quietly.
He spent the next half hour guiding you through the corridors of what was supposed to be your life. But as he showed you the grand master bedroompointing out the side of the bed where you used to curl into his chest every single night your face remained entirely blank. You felt a twinge of heavy guilt pooling in your stomach. He showed you the living room, drawing your attention to a collection of large, breathtaking canvas paintings hanging on the walls.
"You painted those" Sukuna noted, a faint trace of pride in his rough voice. "You're a brilliant artist, princess."
You blinked in genuine surprise, looking down at your hands. "I drew these?" You were suprised, you don't even remember touching a brush in your life. But this is your new life. New start.
"Yeah." Sukuna stopped at the edge of the hallway, looking down at you with completely bloodshot eyes. He hadn't slept a single second since the hospital called him about your accident. All he wanted to do was wrap his massive arms around your waist, pull you flush against his chest, and bury his face in your hair until the nightmare ended. But he couldn't. "Look... you can sleep in the guest bedroom down the hall, or you can take our bedroom and I'll stay in the guest room. Whatever makes you feel comfortable. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable you."
"Okay" you hummed softly.
His heart broke a little more at the compliant, distant tone. "I'll go start on some dinner, and then I'll get your medication ready. If you need a single damn thing, you just call out for me, alright? Your clothes are all in the dresser, undergarments in the top drawer, pajamas in the second..."
You nodded, offering him a polite murmur of thanks before retreating into the guest room. You changed into a simple, comfortable t-shirt and sweats. A little while later, his deep voice echoed up the stairs, announcing that dinner was ready. You walked down to the dining room, sitting at the large table like a polite houseguest waiting to be served.
"Do you need help?" Sukuna asked, carefully sliding a steaming bowl of homemade chicken soup and a large spoon toward you. You shook your head, grasping the utensil and taking a quiet sip. He sat across from you, his own bowl entirely untouched as he just stared at your face. "Y/n... you really don't remember a single damn thing about me?"
His voice cracked completely on the last word, the raw vulnerability of a ruthless man exposed right in front of you. You looked up, meeting his glossy red eyes.
"No... I don't. I'm really sorry" you whispered genuinely.
He let out a slow nod, swallowing the lump in his throat as he forced himself to look away. "Don't apologize. It's not your fault."
"Do I... do I have parents? Or friends?" you asked, a sudden curiosity about your own forgotten life bubbling up.
"Yeah. You have parents. Your fatherâ"
"Where are they?" you interrupted quickly, leaning forward. "Do they know I was in an accident? Why aren't they here?"
"They haven't spoken to you in over seven years. Not since the day you married me" Sukuna said, his tone dropping into something cold and bitter.
"Why?"
"Your family is rich as fuck. Extremely strict, arrogant aristocrats" Sukuna explained, his red eyes locking back onto yours. "They completely forbade you from seeing me because I was just a rough, tattooed bastard from the wrong side of the tracks with a criminal record and a unstable future. They told you that if you walked out that door with me, youâd be cut off permanently."
You stared at him, a sudden spark of heat flaring in your chest. "Well, that's so stupid of them. It sounds like a good thing we don't talk to them then."
The sheer, unyielding loyalty in your voice made Sukunaâs lips twitch, a genuine, heartbreaking smile threatening to break through his stoic mask. Even with a wiped memory, his sweet wife still possessed that exact same fiery, protective spirit.
"Yeah" he chuckled hoarsely, letting out a long sigh. "You have an incredible best friend named Shoko. You two are both doctors. you work in the exact same surgical unit at the city hospital. We have a ton of mutual friends we met back in our high school days. And those kids at the hospital? The pink-haired teenager is my nephew, Yuji, and the dark-haired one is Megumi, our friend's kid. They practically worship the ground you walk on, princess. You love those brats to death."
"Can I see them?" you asked, a genuine smile finally breaking across your face.
"Of course. Whenever you want." he promised, his eyes tracking the way your lips curved.
Sukuna let out a sudden, rough snort, a wicked glint flashing in his eyes. "Old or not, woman... you're still completely breathtaking."
A deep, violent blush instantly stained your cheeks. You hadn't been around an attractive man or any man, for that matter in your conscious memory, and having this giant, dangerously handsome individual throw such a raw compliment at you made your heart do a chaotic somersault. You quickly looked down at your soup, missing the way his eyes softened at your reaction.
Over the next three weeks, the fragments of a life began to surround you, even if the puzzle pieces wouldn't quite lock into place.
Yuji and Megumi came over to the house constantly. Yuji spent hours enthusiastically teaching you how to make his signature protein shakes and weird jello molds, his loud laughter filling the quiet house, while Megumi sat nearby with his usual serious expression. But the moment you offered Megumi a soft, encouraging smile, his sharp features would instantly melt into something deeply tender. Yet, beneath their smiles, you could see the underlying sadness in their eyes every time you failed to remember a shared inside joke.
When Shoko finally visited, she broke down completely, throwing her arms around your neck and sobbing into your shoulder. It was a bizarre maybe stupid too, overwhelming feeling being fiercely loved by people you couldn't even remember and a heavy weight of guilt began to settle deep in your chest. You even met Toji, Megumi's father, a tall, stoic man who didn't say much but looked at you with a quiet, profound pity that made you realize just how broken your situation truly was.
And then, there was Sukuna.
Your husband spent every single day patiently guiding you through your routines, driving you past your old university, cooking your favorite meals, and trying every gentle trigger possible. But your mind remained a stubborn, locked vault. Sukuna was growing desperate furious and completely fucked up by the stagnation.
To make matters worse, just one week before the accident, you had playfully taken down every single one of your framed marriage photographs to rearrange the living room gallery wall, hiding them away in a "genius spot" that Sukuna had completely forgotten more like you didn't even told him. He had spent hours frantically tearing the house apart while you were out, searching for a single modern photo of the two of you together.
He was completely unraveling. He couldn't sleep. The woman he loved was sleeping in the room next to him, yet she looked at him with the polite, distant eyes of a stranger. He felt like a ghost haunting his own home. One evening, he sat alone in the dark kitchen and wept the third time he had ever cried in his entire life. The first had been tears of pure joy on your wedding day when he saw you walking the aisle. the second had been out of terror when the ER doctor told him a car had struck you. and now, he was crying simply because he missed his wife so damn much
His phone offered no help either. his gallery was filled entirely with candid photos he had taken of you you stepping out of the shower with a towel wrapped around your head, you laughing in a department store dressing room, or a hilarious picture of you biting into a raw lemon and making a completely disgusted face. He had no photos of the two of you together on his device, you had always been the one insisted on keeping the physical, printed albums. The only joint photos he could find were a few faded, wrinkled prints from your high school days, showing a younger, wilder version of himself wrapping his arms around you from behind while you laughed into the camera. When he showed them to you, you just stared at them blankly. It was killing him.
At the end of the third week, Sukuna was sitting heavily on the living room sofa, completely exhausted after another failed search through the house. He was mindlessly scrolling through the candid photos of you on his phone, a faint, melancholy smile touching his lips. His fingers traced your face on the photo, your bright smile. your bubbly laughter at his most unfunniset jokes, now all of that are vanished.
The heavy front door clicked open. Shoko had taken you out for an afternoon of shopping to get you out of the house, and she had just dropped you off at the curb. You stepped into the foyer, balancing several shopping bags in your arms.
Sukuna instantly locked his phone, shoving it into his pocket as he stood up, his red eyes drinking in the sight of you. "Had fun, princess?"
"Yes, I did. And thank you... for letting me use your credit card" you said softly, walking over to the coffee table and gently sliding the black card back toward him.
"You bought dresses?" he asked, pointing toward the bags. Honestly, he didn't give a single fuck about the money. you could have emptied his entire bank account and he would have gladly signed it away just to see you happy.
"I bought a few things..." You cleared your throat nervously, your fingers twisting together. "But... I actually bought something for you, too."
The words hit his chest like a physical blow. Even with her mind completely wiped, your beautiful, kind soul was still looking out for him. "Really?" he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Can I see it?"
You gave a small nod, walking over to the couch and tentatively sitting down right next to him. The close proximity made his heart start to hammer against his ribs like a trapped bird.
"I don't know if it's really your style, or if you'll even like it..." you mumbled bashfully, reaching into a small velvet pouch and pulling out a heavy, intricately braided silver bracelet studded with raw, brilliant red stones. "The color... it just immediately reminded me of you. Of your eyes."
You gently reached out, grasping his massive, calloused wrist to drape the metal over his skin. Oh God, if you only knew how fast his heart was racing beneath his chest. Your soft, warm fingers lingering against his pulse point was pure, exquisite torture.
"It looks incredible, Y/n. Thank you." he whispered, a genuine, breathtakingly soft smile spreading across his tattooed face as he looked down at the crimson stones.
"Thank you... for being so incredibly patient with me" you said quietly, looking up at him through your eyelashes.
Sukuna let out a long, ragged sigh, his hand hovering over yours for a fraction of a second before he pulled back. "I will always be patient with you, princess. Always."
You looked directly into his burning red eyes, and for the first time in three weeks, a warm, genuine smile broke across your face. Sukuna felt his breath hitch. he was entirely certain he was about to pass out from the sheer weight of his love for you.
"Can you stay right here for a bit? I need to go jump in the shower real quick. I'll be fast" he muttered hoarsely, his hand instinctively reaching out to gently ruffle your hair a comforting, domestic habit he had carefully maintained. You let out a soft chuckle at the gesture.
The moment his heavy footsteps disappeared up the stairs and the sound of running water echoed through the pipes, you stood up, wandering aimlessly around the quiet main floor. Your feet pulled you toward the small, cozy library nestled just off the living room. The walls were lined with hundreds of books some ancient leather volumes, others modern art textbooks. You pulled one off the shelf, flipping through the pages before sliding it back into place.
As you stepped back, your eyes caught a glimpse of something hidden on the absolute highest shelf, shoved far back into the shadows near the ceiling. It looked like a massive, heavy frame leaning flat against the back wall, obscured by a decorative ceramic vase. Intrigued, you stood on your tiptoes, stretching your arms up as high as they could go, blindly reaching for the top edge of the wooden frame.
Your fingers caught the molding, but as you pulled, the heavy ceramic vase shifted, losing its balance.
Crash!
The vase shattered against the hardwood floor with a deafening, echoing smash. Startled, you let out a sharp cry, stumbling backward as the massive hidden frame came tumbling down from the top shelf, striking the edge of the desk before landing flat on the rug. The backing of the frame split completely open upon impact, and a massive cascade of loose, glossy photographs erupted across the floor hundreds of them, scattering like playing cards across the room.
You gasped, placing a hand over your racing heart as you looked away from the broken pottery, your eyes drifting down to the sea of images covering the floor.
You froze.
Right at your feet lay a massive, professionally printed portrait. In the photograph, you were sitting securely on Sukuna's lap. You were wearing a breathtaking, flowing white lace wedding dress, holding a vibrant bouquet of sunflowers, and laughing so brightly your eyes were crinkled shut. Sukuna was clad in a sharp, tailored black tuxedo, his massive arms wrapped fiercely around your waist from behind, an absolutely massive, unbothered, triumphant grin plastered across his face.
Your breath hitched violently. You stumbled forward, falling to your knees as your hands frantically snatched up another photo from the pile. In this one, you were hoisted high up on Sukuna's broad shoulders at a crowded, flashing outdoor music festival; your mouth was wide open in a breathless scream of laughter, while his large hands were clamped firmly around your thighs to keep you safe, both of your faces painted with pure, unadulterated euphoria.
You grabbed a third photo, and the entire world stopped spinning. It was a quiet, intimate shot taken right in the backyard garden outside. You were sitting cross-legged on the green grass, wearing a simple summer dress with a soft, shy smile, while Sukunaâs heavy head was resting completely in your lap. He was looking up at you with an expression of such pure, unconditional adoration it made your soul ache, while your fingers were woven gently through his soft pink hair.
Pink hair.
The backyard.
The jazz music.
The napkin.
A sudden, violent explosion of memories ripped through the barriers of your mind. It wasn't a trickle; it was a catastrophic, roaring tidal wave. Seven years of laughter, fierce arguments, passionate late-night apologies, the smell of his skin, the exact weight of his body pressing you into the master mattress, the sound of his deep voice whispering "I've got you, princess" into the dark. It all hit your brain at once with the force of a freight train.
The sheer, overwhelming velocity of the memories made the room spin violently. Your vision blurred into a vortex of white light and crimson eyes. You let out a choked gasp, your strength entirely giving out as your body collapsed sideways onto the hardwood floor with a loud, heavy thud, the scattered photographs of your life pooling around your unconscious form.
When you finally opened your eyes again, the harsh glare of the ceiling lights was gone, replaced by the warm, dim ambiance of the living room. You were laying flat on the soft fabric of the sofa.
"She's waking up! Sukuna, look, her eyes are moving!" Yujiâs panicked, loud voice cut through the quiet room.
You blinked heavily, your vision slowly focusing. Megumi was standing right beside his cousin, his dark eyes wide and completely swimming with anxiety. Shoko was hovering over you, a small medical flashlight in her hand, her face pale as she checked your vitals.
But your heart didn't care about any of them. Your eyes frantically scanned the tight circle of people, instantly landing on the massive, tattooed man standing frozen at the foot of the couch. His pastel pink hair was damp from the shower, his chest heaving under a plain black t-shirt, and his face was a mask of pure, absolute terror.
As your eyes met his, a single, heavy tear spilled over your eyelid, tracing a hot path down your cheek. The vast, terrifying void in your mind was completely gone, replaced by the roaring, beautiful fire of your reality.
"Ryo..." you choked out, your voice a broken, breathless sob.
Sukuna froze, his entire frame visibly violently shuddering at the sound of the nickname the private, intimate name only you were ever allowed to call him.
Before anyone else could even blink, you threw yourself forward off the sofa cushions, completely ignoring the dull ache in your muscles. You lunged straight into his space, your arms wrapping fiercely around his massive neck. You buried your face in the crook of his collarbone, gripping the fabric of his shirt with a desperate, white-knuckled intensity as you pressed a hard, crying kiss directly against his tattooed jaw.
"I remember... us" you sobbed violently into his skin, your entire body trembling as the tears flowed freely. "I remember everything, Ryo... I remember you."
Sukunaâs mind completely blanked. For a single, breathless second, he couldn't even process the words. And then, a raw, ragged sound escaped his throat a mixture of a sob and a laugh. His massive, powerful arms came crashing down around your frame, pulling you so close against his chest you could barely breathe, lifting your knees entirely off the floor as he buried his face into the crook of your neck.
And there, in the middle of his living room, surrounded by his family and the scattered photographs of your love, Ryomen Sukuna closed his eyes and wept for the fourth time in his life.
"I fucking love you" he whispers
(not me me writing all night just for 36 like and one reblogđŁđđŸ)
vance hated you. he hated the way you talked, the way you answered the teacherâs questions correctly every damn time, the way you smiled at everyone you saw. he hated your stupid friends, your stupid eyes, your stupid soft lips that he wished would just kiss him shut up! was it so hard to ask for? every hallway, there was always someone you were blabbing to. what could possibly be so interesting about that person that they could deserve your full, undivided attention? he wonât admit it, but he wishes that person was him. heâd rather lose at pinball than admit that he wants you to look at him that way. he wants you to look upon him with those soft, beautiful damn eyes with the love you so freely give away to the world. sometimes, vance bitterly thinks that youâre too good for this world. he thinks that no one this good should exist, and would be taken away sooner or later. maybe by the grabber. maybe by those stuck up dicks who play football like theyâre some kind of god. vance didnât know, but he knew your light wouldnât last in this dark, goshforsaken world (sorry i cant bring myself to say the word). at least, thatâs what he tells himself. vance doesnât look it, but he yearns. god, he yearns. he yearns for someone to understand that beneath this shitty stereotypical bully facade of his, he just wants love. but he canât admit it to anyone, not even himself. because admitting it would mean weakness. and the world has never rewarded weakness. you donât survive this world by being soft. you survive by shutting everyone out. thatâs how vance has been surviving, anyway. but he thinks this his world might just have a chance when you pass by him in the hallway, giving him that smile that he oh so adores. and when he looks into your eyes, he sees the same spark that explodes in his heart as soon as youâre in his line of vision. vance laughs gruffly to himself. âwell damn. i might just have a motherfuckinâ chance.â
i will find you in the next life, too àŒâ aang x reader
àŒâ synopsis: you think the world has already claimed aang as theirs, but he makes it clear his heart only belongs to you.
àŒâ content warningsïŸtags: soft!aang, jealousy, crying, heavy angst w/ a happy ending, established relationship, panic attacks, reassurance, soulmate fluff, kissing
àŒâ author's note: i have aang brainworms. i need more fluff fics of him. god i yearn for this man. also, i just came back from a short break, so my writing may be lackluster :,)
Republic City is alive tonight, a sprawling tapestry of lanterns and noise, all gathered to celebrate the legacy of the Avatars. You can feel the vibration of thousands of footsteps through the soles of your shoes, a pulse that matches the thumping in your chest as you weave through the dense, joyous crowd.
Beside you, Aang is a blur of kinetic energy and pure excitement. He holds your hand with a grip that is firm yet gentle, his skin warm against yours, a constant reminder of his presence amidst the constant noise. In his other hand, he clutches a greasy paper sleeve of unfried dough, a specialty of this particular festival that heâs been eyeing since you stepped off the boat. He takes a large, enthusiastic bite, his cheeks puffing out like a messenger-hawk's, and begins to talk before heâs even finished swallowing.
"You have no idea how great this is," he says, his voice muffled by the dough but bright with wonder. He points a half-eaten stick of pastry toward a row of intricately carved wooden arches decorated with swirling blue and white silks.
"They actually got the cloud patterns right on the Air Nomad tribute! Look at the way the silk hangsâitâs supposed to mimic the high-altitude winds of the Southern Temple. I didn't think anyone remembered those specific nuances after everything, but the organizers here... they really did their homework."
He stops to slurp up a loose bit of dough, his grey eyes wide and glowing under the light of a thousand orange lanterns. Around you, the world is populated by ghosts and legends. Everywhere you look, there is an Avatar. A tall woman with painted white makeup and heavy brass fans strides past, her green Kyoshi warrior robes rustling against the pavement. A group of teenagers in crimson Fire Nation tunics, sporting faux-beards and tall headpieces, laugh as they pretend to firebend like Roku.
Most prominent, however, are the children. Little boys and girls with painted blue arrows on their foreheads dash between the legs of adults, clutching miniature wooden gliders and shrieking with glee. You see a toddler sitting on a bench, his ginger cat patiently enduring a coat of white and brown washable paint, complete with a makeshift arrow on its head to resemble a tiny Appa.Â
Aang doesn't even realize he's looking at a sea of himself; to him, itâs just a beautiful tribute to a world he worked so hard to save. Because he isn't wearing his formal robes, just a simple traveling cloak and a scarf tucked high to hide his tattoos, heâs just another face in the crowdâa boy enjoying the night with his partner.
Watching him, a lump forms in your throat that has nothing to do with the smoky air. You think about the weight he carries, the sheer, impossible burden placed on shoulders that were only twelve years old when they had to hold up the entire world. While other children were learning to play games or master their first basic bending forms, Aang was facing down a warlord, deciding the fate of nations. He ended a century of darkness not with hatred, but with a kindness so authentic it redefined what it meant to be a hero. He is the most genuinely good person you have ever known, someone who chooses peace even when the world demands violence, and seeing him finally standing in a place where his culture is celebrated instead of mourned makes your heart ache with pride.
But as the night wears on and the crowd grows thicker, that pride begins to curd into a jagged edge of possessiveness that you canât seem to dull.Â
The more you see people cheering for the "Avatar," the more you feel a hollow, cold ache spreading through your stomach. Itâs a selfish, terrifying realization that you have to share him. Every person here feels like they own a piece of him; they see the icon, the savior, the legend who belongs to the history books and the public squares. They don't know the way his nose crinkles when heâs trying not to sneeze, or the specific, hushed tone he uses when he tells you he had a dream about the monks again.
You look at his profile, illuminated by the flickering glow of a nearby dragon-fire display, and you feel a desperate need to pull him away, to hide him in a place where no one else can look at him. It feels wrong to feel this way, especially when you know what he sacrificed for you. He chose you over the cosmic energy of the universe; he turned his back on the path to total enlightenment because his love for you was a tether he refused to cut. The world needs the Avatar to keep the balance, to be the bridge between spirits and men, but your need for him feels just as vital, just as cosmic. You need Aang, the boy who forgets to tie his shoes, not the master of all four elements who belongs to the masses.
The noise of the festival starts to feel like itâs underwater, a dull roar that presses against your ears. You see a young girl run up to a man dressed as Aang, hugging his knees and calling him a hero, and the sight feels like a physical blow to your ribs. You want to scream that the real hero is right here, but you also want to wrap your arms around him and never let go, terrified that the world will eventually ask for more of him than he has left to give. You are in love with a man who is a public utility, a living monument, and the jealousy of that shared existence feels like itâs suffocating you.
"And the firecrackers!" Aang exclaims, oblivious to the internal storm brewing beside him. Heâs looking up at a nearby stall where a merchant is demonstrating 'spirit-flashes' that burst into the shapes of soaring cranes. "They said theyâre using a new mixture from the Fire Nation colonies that doesn't produce as much smoke. Itâs so much cleaner! Don't you think thatâ"
He stops mid-sentence, the momentum of his walk carrying him a step further before he feels the resistance in your hand. He tugs slightly, his fingers tightening around yours as he realizes youâve come to a complete halt in the middle of the thoroughfare. Aang turns back, his expression shifting from exuberant joy to a sudden, flickering confusion. He swallows the last bite of his dough, wiping a smudge of sugar from his lip with the back of his hand.
"Hey, what's the hold up?" he asks, trying to maintain the lighthearted energy of the moment. He offers a goofy, lopsided grin, his head tilting to the side. "If you're waiting for the fire-flakes, I promise theyâre in the next square. Or are you just stunned by my incredible disguise? I know, the scarf is very dashing, Sokka said so himself!"
He chuckles, a soft sound, but his eyes are scanning your face with growing intensity. He hasn't realized the depth of your shift yet; he thinks youâre just tired or perhaps overwhelmed by the noise. He takes a step toward you, his free hand reaching out to brush a stray hair from your forehead, his touch as light as a summer breeze.
A weak, wet sniffle escapes you before you can choke it back. The sound is small, but in the micro-climate of your shared space, it hits like a thunderclap. Aangâs smile vanishes instantly, replaced by a look of panic that drains the color from his face. He drops the empty paper sleeve, letting it flutter to the grime-streaked pavement as he moves into your personal space, his arms coming up to rest heavily yet comfortingly over your shoulders.
"Whoa, hey, no, no," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave into a serious, frantic register. "What happened? Did someone bump into you? Are you hurt?"
He doesn't wait for an answer, his instincts taking over as he gently guides you toward the shadow of a closed tea shop, away from the main flow of the avatar-clad revelers. He creates a small pocket of privacy with his body, shielding you from the prying eyes of the children and the tourists. His thumbs rub small, nervous circles into the fabric of your shirt, his breath warm against your temple. You can't bring yourself to look up, feeling a crushing sense of guilt for ruining his night with a sadness you can barely explain.
"Talk to me, please," he whispers, his forehead leaning against your temple, the distant sound of celebratory drums continues to beat a rhythm that feels worlds away from the two of you.
The moonlight catches the dampness on your cheeks, and Aangâs expression softens. his eyes searching yours for a map through the silence. He pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin, his heartbeat steady and strong against your ear.
For a few minutes, the only sound is the distant, muffled cheer of the festival and the rustle of the wind through the nearby willow trees. He lets you cry for a long while, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles across the back of your jacket, his breath hitching only when you let out a particularly rough sob.Â
Eventually, the weight of the silence becomes a question he can no longer ignore. He shifts slightly, prying you gently from his chest so he can see your face.Â
"Hey," he whispers, his voice barely audible over the low hum of the evening insects. "You wanna tell me whatâs knocking around in there? Youâre acting like you just saw a Hei Bai spirit in a bad mood."Â
You look away, watching a discarded firecracker wrapper tumble across the grass. Your throat feels like itâs been lined with sandpaper. How do you tell the savior of the world that youâre struggling with his divinity? You shake your head, a small, jerky movement. "It's nothing, Aang. Just... the noise. The crowds. I think I just got a bit overwhelmed."
Aang doesn't buy it for a second. He gently cups your face, his palms warm and callous-roughened from years of staff-work and travel, forcing you to meet his gaze. His brow is furrowed, a deep V of concern etched between his arrows. Itâs an expression so heavy and somber that it looks foreign on his usually bright features.
"Youâre not being honest with me," he says, his tone firm but devoid of malice.
A startled, watery laugh bubbles up in your chest. "I think youâve spent way too much time around Toph. Youâve definitely picked up her lie-detection tricks. It's not fair."
Aang rolls his eyes, a flicker of his usual playfulness returning, though it doesn't reach the worry in his eyes. "I don't need a seismic sense to know when my favorite person is hiding something from me. You can tell me anything. You know that, right? No matter how small or how... dark you think it is."
He reaches down, lacing his pinky finger with yours. Itâs a childish gesture, one born of the early days when everything was simpler, before the city and the politics. Together, your voices rise in a shaky, hushed unison, reciting the old chant from the Southern Water Tribe you learned from Katara and Sokka lifetimes ago: "The stars see the path, the ice holds the past, the heart finds the home where the spirit will last."
The familiar rhythm of the words settles some of the tremors in your hands. Aang is smiling now, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way that always makes your chest ache. You swallow hard, the lump in your throat finally breaking.
"Itâs just... look at them out there, Aang," you start, your voice trembling as you gesture vaguely back toward the lights of the festival. "They love you. They worship you. And they should! Youâre the most kindhearted, authentic person Iâve ever known. You stopped a hundred years of war when you were a child. You carry the weight of entire nations on your back without letting it turn you bitter. You deserve every statue, every parade, every kid painting a blue arrow on their forehead."
Aang starts to shake his head, his face reddening with a modest "Aw, shucks" expression, but you press your palm against his chest to keep him quietÂ
"No, let me finish. I love that about you. I love that youâre the Avatar. But⊠Iâm so selfish. Iâm selfish! Iâm so incredibly selfish!" The words spill out now, a torrent of suppressed anxiety. "I look at them and I feel this... this horrible, gnawing jealousy. I hate that I have to share you. I hate that the world thinks they own a piece of you because youâre the Avatar. Every time someone stops you for a blessing or a photo or a story, I feel like a little more of you is being chipped away and given to people who don't know the boy who forgets where he put his glider or the man who hums in his sleep."
You start to cry in earnest now, the ugly kind of sobbing that makes your chest heave and your breath hitch in painful, ragged gasps. Your vision blurs into a kaleidoscope of moonlight and tears.
"I don't want the world to take you from me," you sob, the sound echoing off the brick walls of the tea shop. "Iâm terrified that one day, youâll give so much of yourself to maintain the 'balance' that there won't be anything left for me. Not even a crumb. And itâs not just nowâitâs the legacy. Youâre the Avatar. You belong to the cycle. In another life, youâll be someone else, and youâll find someone else, and Iâll just be a footnote in a past lifeâs memory. Itâs so unfair that I have to share you across lifetimes! You belong to the whole world, and you belong to the past and the future, and I just want you to belong to me! Right here! Right now "
Youâre bordering on a panic attack, your lungs feeling constricted, your heart racing like a trapped bird. Youâre certain heâll think youâre small, or petty, or unworthy of the man who chose the world over himself so many times.
"I don't want to lose you to the cycle, Aang! I don't want to be one of a thousand partners you've had over ten thousand years!â
"Hey! Listen to me. Stop." Aangâs voice is suddenly loud, commanding but infused with a staggering amount of tenderness. He grabs both of your hands, squeezing them tight to anchor you. He waits until your eyes lock onto his, until youâre breathing with himâlong, slow draws of air.
"You think I belong to them?" he asks, his voice low and vibrating with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. "You think the 'Avatar' is what matters most? I am the bridge between worlds, yes. I have duties that span centuries. But those duties are just... work. They are the things I do. You? You are the reason I want to do them. You are the reason I want the world to stay in balanceâso thereâs a world where we can sit in a park and eat dough together."
He leans in closer, his nose almost touching yours. "You aren't sharing me, because the parts of me that belong to you... they don't even exist for the rest of the world. They don't get my vulnerability. They don't get my fears. They don't get the version of Aang that is just a man. I love you with a soul that has lived a thousand years, and in every single one of those years, I would have spent every second looking for you if I knew you were there."
He squeezes your hands, his thumbs rubbing over your knuckles. "And don't you ever think you're just a footnote. You think because Iâve lived before that this is less special? Itâs the opposite! My spirit has been looking for yours since the sun first rose, Iâm sure of it. And as for the next life... well, Iâm the Avatar. Iâm pretty good at finding things. Iâll find you. I donât care if Iâm born in the Earth Kingdom or the Fire Nation or back in the temples. I will find you, and I will love you, and weâll do this all over again. Iâll find you in the next life, and the next, and every single life I ever have. Thatâs a promise, and I don't break those.Â
Youâre stunned into silence, the weight of his devotion pressing against you like a physical force. He doesn't wait for a response. He leans in, his hands sliding from your shoulders to cup your cheeks, his palms damp with your own tears.
He kisses you then, and itâs not the light, playful peck he usually gives you. Itâs a long, deep kiss that tastes of the salty remnants of your tears and the sweetness of the dough he was eating earlier. You can feel the vibration of a low, contented moan in the back of his throat as he pulls you flush against him. His thumbs sweep across your cheekbones, marking you as his, while your fingers tangle into the fabric of his cloak, holding on as if he might float away if you let go. The world around youâthe chatter, the lanterns, the legacyâsimply ceases to exist. His body is a warm pillar of strength, his thighs pressing against yours as he holds you like youâre the only thing keeping him grounded to the world.Â
When he finally breaks the kiss, he doesn't pull away far. He rests his nose against yours, and you realize with a start that his own eyes are swimming with tears. He lets out a shaky, half-breath of a laugh, wiping his eyes with his sleeve and composing himself with a sudden, bright grin that illuminates the dark alleyway.
"Man," he says, his voice returning to its usual bouncy cadence as he grabs your hand and begins to lead you back toward the lights. "Itâs pretty cruel to make the Avatar cry on Avatar Day, don't you think? Thatâs gotta be some kind of spiritual bad luck. I think the only way to balance the scales is if you buy me an extra large serving of fire flakes. With the extra spicy seasoning."
He swings your hand between you, his steps light, almost skipping. You look at himâreally look at himâand the jealousy doesn't vanish, but it settles into a small shaped, manageable hum. You realize then that heâs right. The world has the legend, but you have the heart.Â
And as you follow him back into the fray of orange lanterns and painted arrows, you know with a crystalline certainty that youâd choose him over cosmic energy, too.
SUMMARY: You were born a non-bender, but Aang tries to make you feel included.
WARNING(S): fluff, angst
WORD COUNT: 5,197
PAIRING: Adult!Aang x reader
A/N: Hope you like it! Comments and feedback are always welcome.
MASTERLIST
The first time Aang got you out of the house to teach you, he was all smiles.
Bright and hopeful, excited to share something that mattered to him. You donât think youâd ever seen him look that happy, especially by the fourth attempt.
Airbending.
The others thought you might pick something up eventually. Water, earth, maybe even fire, but nothing ever came of it. And deep down, you knew nothing ever would.
You werenât a bender.
You werenât going to wake up one day and move the ground beneath your feet, or shift water with your hands, or throw fire. It wasnât something you could learn. It wasnât something anyone could promise you. You weren't born to be able to bend.
But Aang didnât let it go.
And you didnât have the heart to take that from him, no matter how much it pained you.
So you let him pull you out of the tower youâd been calling home for years now and take you to the Southern Air Temple.
Youâd been there before, back when it was you, Katara, and Sokka, following him around while he showed you around. Youâd seen far greater things, but the temple in ruins always settled heavily in your heart. It felt different now. More overgrown. Quieter.
Still beautiful though.
And you knew how much it meant to him.
You ran your hand along one of the columns as you walked, the stone cool under your fingers. You wondered if he ever thought about what this place used to be. If being here made it harder or easier.
âOkay,â Aang says, clapping his hands together as he turns to you. âAirbending. My area of expertise.â
His grin widens. And just like that, he looks like himself again.
You cross your arms loosely, raising a brow at him. âConfident?â
He moves past you, then circles back, positioning himself a few feet away. His posture shifts without him thinking about it. He looks lighter on his feet, shoulders relaxed, arms loose at his sides.
âI have to be,â Aang says easily. âIâve only been doing this my whole life.â He steps back a little, giving you space. âBesides, you've made it through three trials. You haven't given up.â
âThree failures,â you correct.
âThree attempts,â he says, like it matters.
You sigh, finding your sandals more interesting, the dirt beneath them crunching with every press-down you make. You're pulled out of the hole you begin making up in your mind when Aang claps loudly again. The crack had made you flinch.
âOkay! Airbending isnât about forcing anything,â he starts. âThatâs why itâs hard to explain. You donât grab it like the earth beneath your feet, or push it like fire. You⊠move with it.â
You nod, even if you donât fully get it.
He gestures for you to stand straighter. âFeet apart. Don't stand too stiffly. You donât want to lock yourself in place.â
You adjust, trying to copy him.
âGood,â he says. âNow, donât think about making something happen. Just focus on whatâs already there.â
âThe air,â you say.
âYeah.â He gives a small nod. âItâs everywhere. You donât need to have a source like water or earth. You just⊠connect to it.â
You take a breath, slower this time.
Behind him, the wind moves through the open temple, brushing past the columns, slipping through broken archways. You can feel it on your skin, faint but constant.
âOkay,â he says. âFollow me.â
He steps into motion, slow and controlled. His arms move in a wide circle, like heâs tracing something invisible.
You mirror him. At least, you try to. Your movements feel heavier. Less natural. Like youâre thinking about every step instead of letting it happen.
âLoosen up,â he says gently. âYouâre resisting it.â
âIâm not trying to,â you mutter.
âI know...â
You exhale, forcing yourself to relax your shoulders. Your arms follow his again, slower this time, less rigid. You shift, trying to follow what heâs doing again.
âBetter?â
âYeah. Thatâs good,â he says. âNow justâŠmove your arms. Slow at first.â
You copy him, lifting your hands and pushing them forward in the same motion he just showed you.
Nothing happens.
You try again.
Still nothing.
Aang doesnât say anything right away. He just watches on, further heightening the fact that you were aware he was observing your every move.
âTry not to think about it too much,â he says after a second.
You let out a small breath. âThatâs kind of hard not to, especially when Iâm trying to make something happen.â
âI know,â he says. âBut if you focus on making it happen, it wonât.â
You glance at him. âThat doesnât sound very helpful.â
He laughs. âItâs true, though. Donât think on it too much.â
You shake your head a little, but you try again anyway. This time slower.
Less stiff, more loose.
Going with the flow.
For a second, it almost feels right.
Almost.
âNow shift your weight,â he adds. âDonât stay rooted. Airbenders donât stand still if they can help it.â
You step lightly to the side, copying the way he moves. Heâs already adjusted, already onto the next move before you've barely finished the previous action.
Youâre a step behind. Always a step behind. Never able to keep up with the rest of them.
âOkay,â he says. âNow guide it.â
Your arms move through the air, and for a second, you almost think you feel something pulse within your palms.
But itâs gone before you can figure out what it might be.
Probably nothing to be honest.
You drop your hands with a huff. âYeah. Still nothing.â
Aang steps closer, not an ounce of discouragement on his face. âThatâs okay. It takes time. With more practice, you're bound to get something out of it. It gets easier. Trust me.â
âFor you maybe,â you say. âYouâve been doing this since you were a kid.â
âYeah, but that doesnât mean you canât learn something from it.â
You give him a look. âAang, I canât move a leaf, I couldn't shift the water from the stream, I couldn't move the stupid pebble that Toph had me attempt to move. Zuko even tried having me light the fire for the camp we set up. We almost froze. I can't move anything!â
âNot yet,â he corrects. Oh, how you wonder where he gets his patience and his calm from? Something you were surely running out of.
You sigh, but thereâs no real frustration behind it. Yet, anyway.
He hesitates for a second, then moves behind you. âCan I?â he asks.
You nod. His hands hover near yours before settling lightly over them. Gentle, warm to the touch.
âLet me guide you,â he says.
You feel him push your arms through the same motions as before. Slower this time. More steady.
âBreathe,â he adds quietly. The warmth of his words tickles your ear.
You try to match his pace, his breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.
The air moves around you, brushing past your arms, your face. You can feel the wind, how it responds to him. The subtle breeze he lets swim in and out through your hair.
âFeel that?â he asks.
âYeah.â
You almost laugh at the sensation, but you keep going. Letting your hands move with his instead of trying to lead on your own.
For a second, the motions feel easier. Like youâre not working as hard to exert them, act them out.
There's barely anything happening. Most of which is done by Aang. But the air in front of your hands stirs.
You pause.
âDid youââ
âI saw it,â Aang says quickly, a little quieter now. âKeep going.â
Your focus breaks.
And just like that, itâs gone. You let your arms fall.
âOf course.â You huff in defeat.
Aang doesnât move away right away. âYou felt it, though, right?â he asks.
âBarely.â
âItâs still something.â
You turn your head slightly, glancing back at him. âIt only worked because you were helping. Iâm not even sure that was me just now.â
âMaybe,â he says. âOr maybe you just needed to stop trying so hard.â
You donât answer that.
After a second, his hands drop away from yours. You miss the warmth of them in an instant. The lack of his touch makes you want to pull him close again.
âDo you want to try again?â he asks. Chin dipping to try and get your eyes to meet his own. They don't. He looks down at the ground before waiting for your response.
You look at your hands, then back at him.
âMaybe later, if thatâs okay.â
"It's okay. We can take a break."
-
The hill you found and settled on feels nice and cool underneath your touch as the sun dips.
Long shadows stretch across the mountains, swallowing the land around them, making it quieter. Emptier. At peace.
You and Aang sit side by side, and you disturb a patch of grass by pulling grass stems from the ground. You'd guess your anxiety was to blame for impulsively messing with perfectly good grass. Aang had lain back, eyes darting up at the sky. His thoughts wandering, you'd guess as much, seeing as his fingers stopped tapping against his stomach.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
The wind moves gently through the open air, brushing past softly, reminding you of the reason for being there in the first place. You figured Aang could've been reminded of home. Of everything he lost, but who were you to speak for him?
Aang exhales slowly.
âItâs weird,â he says.
You glance at him. âWhat is?â
He doesnât look at you. Just out.
âThe sky. The temple, all the antiques we keep finding. Everything.â
His fingers curl slightly against the grass as he sits up.
âI used to think the temples would always feel full,â he admits. âLike, no matter what happened⊠I could come back, and itâd still feel like home. Still⊠alive.â Thereâs a pause. âBut it only reminds me of how everyone I've ever known...is gone.â
That lands heavier than anything heâs said all day.
You donât interrupt. You just listen.
âTheyâre gone,â he continues, voice quieter now. âThe monks. My friends. Gyatso. The stories they all used to tell, the way we used to celebrate, the food we would eat⊠even the stupid games we played.â A soft, broken laugh slips out of him. âIâm the only one left who remembers any of it.â
Your chest tightens.
âI donât even know if I remember it right anymore.â He finally looks down at his hands. "I keep thinking that if I die, my culture dies with me. What if I forget something important?â he whispers. âWhat if it all just⊠disappears with me? No one but me can carry on my past. My whole life rests in my hands.â
There it is. His fear. It hits you harder than you expected. Because for once, this isnât about being the Avatar.
This is just a boy, a man now, sitting in the ruins of his home, terrified of being the last voice of his people.
You donât think. You donât weigh your next words. You just⊠say it.
âThen Iâll carry it with you.â
Aang freezes.
You donât stop.
âIâll learn it,â you add quickly, heart racing now. âAll of it. The stories, the traditions... Whatever you remember, Iâll remember too. I wonât let it disappear.â
Heâs staring at you now.
Completely still. Like heâs not sure he heard you right.
âAnd if youâre worried about it endingâŠâ You hesitate, then push through it anyway, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.
âIâll give you a legacy.â
The silence falls heavily on you both. You look out into the valley, feeling the wind settle.
And the second it leaves your mouth, you second-guess your words.
Oh.
Oh no.
Your breath catches. âI-I didnât meanââ
Aangâs expression changes.
âYouâd⊠What?â he asks softly.
You shake your head quickly, heat rushing to your face. âI didnât mean it like that, I just mean, I mean I did, but notââ you let out a nervous breath, stumbling over yourself. âI just meant Iâd help. However you needed, Iââ
âYouâd give me children?â he interrupts.
That stops you. Your mouth opens agape, then shuts.
His voice is so quiet you almost miss it. You look at him properly now. Really take in the man before you. Give him children? You'd be stupid not to want a family with him.
Something in your chest settles warmly.
âYeah,â you say, softer this time. âIf you wanted me to. The only thing I could really give back.â You release a nervous laugh.
Aangâs eyes search yours, like heâs trying to find any sign of hesitation. Doubt. Anything that screamed that you were just trying to make up for what you lacked in, but you weren't
There isnât any. Because you meant it. Even if you didnât take into account how much you did until just now.
âYou donât have to do that,â he says, but thereâs no strength behind it. No real push. No malice. Just a hint of genuineness.
âI know,â you reply. A beat. âI want to, though.â
That hits him harder than anything else.
You see it in the way his breath stutters slightly, the way his shoulders drop just a fraction, like something inside him is loosening up for the first time all day.
âYouâd reallyâŠâ he starts, then stops, swallowing. ââŠyouâd learn everything?â
You nod. âEverything youâre willing to teach me.â
For a moment, he doesnât say anything. Then his hand reaches for yours. Slowly, hesitant. Like heâs still asking permission to touch you, when he has every right to. When you donât pull away, his fingers tighten slightly around yours.
âThat means a lot to me, Y/n,â he admits, voice barely above a whisper. "I never even considered the idea of having children right now.
You smile, just a little. âI figured. It looked like your heart stopped for a second there.â
A soft huff of breath leaves him. almost a laugh, but not quite.
The wind returns, gentle once more, curling around the two of you as if it felt the heaviness settle between you. Like it had listened in.
Aang glances down at your joined hands, then back up at you.
For once, he doesnât try to turn it into a joke right away. He just looks at you.
Like heâs still catching up to what you said and what it means. Not just the words, but the fact that you meant them. That you said them so easily, like it wasnât something huge you placed in his lap.
It was.
You can tell by the way he keeps holding your hand, squeezing every now and then, like letting go would break up the moment too fast.
âI donât know what to say,â he admits after a while.
You let out a small breath through your nose. âYou donât have to say anything.â
âI feel like I should.â
âYou donât have to.â
His mouth twitches a little at that, but it fades just as quickly.
âI justâŠâ He looks away for a second, out at the valley below, at the fading light and shadows. âIâve spent so much time thinking about what I lost that I never really thought about what could still happen. What I could still have.â
Your thumb brushes lightly over his knuckles before you can think better of it. Aang notices. His shoulders loosen again, but not enough.
âYou make it sound simple,â he says.
âItâs not simple.â
This turns his attention back on you.
âItâs just not impossible either,â you say quietly. âThereâs a difference.â
He studies your face for a second, and you can almost see the thoughts moving behind his eyes. Aang was never very good at hiding what he felt, but this is different. He's less open. More careful. Like heâs afraid of letting this conversation go in the wrong direction. Of making you angry.
âYou'd really give me children?â he asks again.
Not because he didnât hear you the first time. Because he needs to.
You nod once. âYeah.â
âAnd learn all of it?â
âYes.â
âThe stories, the customs, the food, the prayers, the weird gamesââ
You smile a little. âYouâre really trying to sell it now.â
That earns a breath of a laugh. Then he goes quiet again.
âEven if you canât bend?â
There it is. You had a feeling it would come back to that.
You look down at your lap for a second before answering.
âEspecially then.â
Aang frowns. You take a breath.
âI canât give back from the lack of bending,â you say. âI know that. I know Iâll never be part of your culture in the same way you were born into it.â You pause, picking at a blade of grass near your knee. âBut that doesnât mean I canât love it because it matters to you. It doesnât mean I canât help keep it alive. This could be one of the only things I can give back.â
His face changes at that. Softens. Something about those words gets through to him in a way the other words of the gang couldn't. Maybe it's because he knows youâre not saying it to make him feel better.
Youâre saying it because youâve already decided.
âI donât want you to think this is all youâre good for,â he says after a moment.
You look at him, caught a little off guard.
âWhat?â
He turns toward you more fully now, his hand tightening around yours.
âThe only thing you could really give back?â he repeats softly, using your own words. âDonât say it like that.â
Heat crawls up your neck in half embarrassment, and half of something else.
âI just meantââ
âI know what you meant.â His voice stays gentle, but thereâs something firmer in it now. âBut you make it sound like you have to make up for something.â
You open your mouth, then close it. Because there isnât a clean lie waiting to spill past your lips. Aang notices that too.
âYou donât owe me a legacy,â he says. âAnd you donât owe me children just because you canât bend.â
Your throat tightens a little.
âI know,â you say, but it comes out softer than you intended.
He watches you for another second, then shifts closer, close enough that your heads are leaning against each other.
âYou donât have to try and even the score for what you think you're lacking in,â he says. âNot for me.â
His words land hard. Too hard.
Because some part of you had thought exactly that, even if you didnât want to say it out loud. That if you could never stand beside the others in the way they did, through bending, through power, through something useful, then maybe you could still give him something that mattered.
Something lasting.
You stare down at your lap for a second, blinking against the sting behind your eyes.
âI didnât mean for it to sound like that,â you say quietly. âIâm not trying to make up with children for my lack of bending with you.â
âI know.â He says it immediately. Reassurance following his understanding. âI know youâre not.â
It helps. His words. A little.
You breathe out slowly.
âI just hate that I canât help out sometimes,â you admit. "Heck, even Sokka is out there being a hero... But what can I do?"
Aang goes still. Because he finally understands whatâs underneath all of the hurt you've bottled up inside of yourself.
The discouragement after every attempt. The way you'd look away from everyone's eyes after every attempt. The way you'd say itâs fine, when it clearly wasn't.
He shifts again, this time dipping his head enough that he can see your face better.
âWhat can you do?â he repeats quietly. And it's just him, sitting with the question instead of brushing it off.
You donât answer right away because youâve already answered it a hundred times in your head. Nothing, was always your response. He frowns as though the crease in your forehead gave you away.
âYou think being a hero is just about bending?â he asks.
You give a small shrug. âIt helps.â
âThatâs not what I asked.â
You glance at him, a little caught. He doesnât look away.
âYou think Sokka is a hero, but he can't bend?â Aang presses.
You hesitate. âYes, butââ
âBut what?â
You sigh, frustrated now. âBut he still does things, Aang. He fights. He plans. He actually contributes when something goes wrong.â You shake your head a little. âWhen things get bad, Iâm just⊠there.â
The words come out flatter than you meant them to. Like youâve said them before. To yourself. Too many times.
Aangâs expression tightens.
âYouâre not âjust there,ââ he says.
You donât argue. You donât agree either. You just look away again.
âDo you remember the canyon?â he asks suddenly.
You frown slightly. âWhat about it?â
âYou were the one who figured out how to settle the feud between the Gan Jin and the Zhang tribes,â he says. âYou made them work together to get us out of being eaten by those canyon crawlers.â
âWasn't that youââ
âAnd the village near the volcano?â he continues. âYou were the one who convinced the villagers that they needed to evacuate.â
You shake your head. âThatâs notââ
âAnd when Appa got hurt,â he adds, quieter now, âyou stayed with him the whole night. You looked over him, you lost sleep over it too.â
You go still because you do remember that memory.
You remember thinking it didnât count. That it wasnât enough.
âThatâs not fighting, though,â you say, softer now.
âNo,â Aang agrees. âItâs not.â
He leans in just slightly, not crowding you, just enough that you canât ignore him.
âBut itâs helping.â
You swallow.
âItâs paying attention,â he continues. âItâs seeing things the rest of us miss because weâre too busy trying to win something.â
His voice softens. âAnd it matters.â
You look at him again because heâs not trying to make you feel better.
Heâs not reaching just to say something nice. He means it.
âBut when something actually happensââ you start.
âYouâre there,â he says, cutting in gently this time. âYou donât run. You donât hide. You stay.â
Your chest tightens.
âThatâs not nothing.â
The wind shifts around you again. You look down at your interlocked hands.
âIt doesnât feel like enough sometimes,â you admit.
Aang nods. âI know.â
That catches you off guard.
âI get that, trust me,â he adds. âIâve felt that too.â
You blink at him. âYou?â
âYeah.â A small, almost self-conscious smile tugs at his mouth. âBeing the Avatar doesnât automatically make you feel invincible.â
You let out a quiet breath. That⊠comforts you more than you expected it to.
Aang studies your face for another second, then reaches out again. This time, slower, more deliberate, as he nudges your right cheek with his left hand, before pressing a gentle kiss on it. You donât pull away.
âI'm sorry if we made you feel that way. You donât have to be like the rest of us to matter,â he says.
You let that sit. It doesnât fix everything. But it settles the war that was waged inside you anyway.
âYou really believe that?â you ask.
He nods.
âI wouldnât be sitting here with you if I didnât.â
That makes you look at him again. A small, uneven smile pulls at your lips.
âYouâre really bad at letting people wallow in their self-pity,â you mutter.
He smiles back, softer now. âYeah,â he says. âIâve been told that.â
You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head.
"Why do you keep talking like bending is the only part worth carrying on?â
That shuts you up again.
Heâs not angry. If anything, he sounds a little sad. A little frustrated that you still canât see what heâs trying to tell you.
âMy people werenât just airbenders,â he says. âThey were monks, teachers, healers. They made toys for kids and baked fruit pies and played games and told stories theyâd told a hundred times before.â A small smile pulls at his mouth. âThey were annoying sometimes. And stubborn. And really nosy.â
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. Aang smiles a little wider when he hears it.
âMy culture didnât live in bending alone,â he says. âIt lived in how we treated people. What we believed. How we lived.â
He looks down at your joined hands. âAnd youâve been trying to understand that part of me since the day we met.â
Your heart settles.
âSo no,â he says softly. âYou wouldnât be giving me the only thing you could offer.â
You swallow.
âAangâŠâ
âYouâd just be giving me more of you.â
His words are so simple they almost hurt. You donât know what to do with them. So for a second, you do nothing. Then your hand tightens around his. His eyes flick down to it, then back to your face.
You shake your head a little, a laugh leaving you, thin and shaky. âYou always know how to make me feel stupid in the nicest way possible.â
That finally gets a real laugh out of him.
âYouâre not stupid.â
âMm.â
âYouâre not.â He presses firmly, gently.
You look over at him. âI heard you the first time.â
âGood.â
The breeze picks up around the two of you, cooler now that the sun has dropped. It lifts a few strands of your hair and brushes the fabric on his sleeves.
Aang leans back on one hand, still facing you.
âI think Iâd like that,â he says after a while.
You blink. âWhat part?â
He smiles, small and careful. A beat. âAll of it.â
Something in you eases. Not all the way, but enough to let you breathe easier.
âEven if I can't bend?â
He tilts his head, brows furrowing in feigned shock. âYou can't bend!â
You let out an offended noise and shove at his shoulder.
He laughs, catching your wrist before you can do it again.
âIâm kidding,â he says.
âYouâre not.â
âOkay, maybe a little.â
You roll your eyes, but youâre smiling a lot brighter now, and he is too, and the heaviness from a minute ago doesnât feel quite so sharp in your chest.
He keeps hold of your wrist for a second longer than he needs to. Long enough for the mood to shift again. Just slightly.
His smile fades first, not into sadness, but something more aware. Serious. You felt it too. The tension.
The way he raised his hand and his thumb brushed once, almost absentmindedly, over the side of your face.
âAang,â you say softly.
His eyes avert from your lips, falling on your softening gaze.
You lost your train of thought, the words you wanted to say falling off the tip of your tongue. Maybe it was nothing. His name just felt easier than everything else sitting between you.
His eyes search your face anyway.
âYeah?â
You shake your head, but not because you want to take it back.
âNothing.â
His mouth curves faintly. âYou sure?â
âNo.â
He studies you for another moment, then glances out at the valley again.
âYou want to stay here tonight,â he says. âIf you want, of course.â
You lift a brow. âYou mean avoid going back and getting interrogated by Katara?â
âThat too.â
You smile. âTempting.â
âVery. Itâs quiet here.â
You look around. The grass. The temple in the far distance, worn down but still standing strong, like Aang.
âIt is.â
Aang nods, then looks back at you. Letting the quiet air take over as he took in his favorite view. You. Who went back to pulling at the patch of grass you disrupted, he can't help but let his smile grow.
âI love you.â
There it is again. His plain honesty. It always got the best of you. You feel your face heat up, but thereâs no point in pretending you didn't hear him.
âI love you too,â you say, expression timid, but still facing the ground.
His heart beats faster. This was it for him. You were it. All he'd ever want, so long as the universe allowed you and him to last. To be.
His shoulders drop. His mouth softens. He looks younger for a second, and older too. Like the boy and the man heâs still becoming are both sitting right here beside you. Making your head spin and your heart full.
The wind curls between you again. Gentle. Familiar.
And this time, when the silence returns, it doesnât feel empty.
It feels full.
Aang glances at your joined hands once more, then back at you, his expression almost shy despite everything youâve just said.
"So you really want children with me?"
"Yes, Aang." Your grin grows as you stifle a laugh.
âDo you want to start...on our legacy?â he asks.
You smile.
âRight now?â you ask.
Aang freezes. âRight now?â
You shrug, biting back another laugh. âYouâre the one who asked.â
His brain immediately starts short-circuiting.
âOkay, wait, hold onââ he lets go of your hand just to gesture wildly, before stopping again. âI didnât mean like right now, right now, I meant like, someday right now. Future right now. Not, this exact moment on a hillââ
Youâre fully laughing now.
âAangââ
âNo, because thereâsâthereâs steps!â he insists, pointing at the ground like the steps might appear if he believes hard enough. âThere are definitely steps. We skipped all of them.â
âYou asked!â
âI didnât think youâd say yes that fast!â
You tilt your head. âYou wanted me to say no?â
âNo!â he says immediately. âNo, definitely not that either, just, maybe a warning? A little preparation time?â
You grin. âYouâre panicking.â
âI am not panicking,â he says, voice an octave higher than usual. âI am calmly evaluating a very big, important, life thingââ
He stops. Looks at you. Youâre still smiling at him like this is the best thing thatâs ever happened.
âYouâre serious, though,â he says, quieter now.
You nod. âYeah.â
That does it. He exhales, shoulders dropping, all that frantic energy softening just a little.
âOkay.â
A beat.
âOkay,â he repeats, like heâs trying to convince himself heâs got this.
Then.
âNot right now, though,â he adds quickly.
You laugh. âNot right now.â
âGood,â he says, relieved. âBecause I think Iâd pass out.â
âYouâd pass out?â
âImmediately.â
You bump his shoulder. âAvatar, master of all four elements⊠defeated by the talk of children.â
He points at you. âYouâre the one who started it!â
âYou asked!â
âAnd I regret nothing,â he says quickly, then pauses.
You laugh again, leaning your head against him. He relaxes this time, letting your head rest against his shoulder, still a little flustered but smiling anyway.
âWe can start with the easy stuff,â he mutters.
âLike what?â
âLike⊠teaching you those games I used to play here,â he says. âMuch safer.â
You hum. âYeah, probably a good place to start.â
âDefinitely a good place to start,â he agrees.
divider by: @cafekitsune & @omi-resources
word count: 4.4k
synopsis: Jason Todd didnât expect anything good to come from an early morning grocery run. He definitely didnât expect to find his pastâand his futureâfollowing him with a nerf blaster between the aisles.
a/n: I loved this request and concept but I can't decide how I feel about my writing, but I hope you all enjoyed!
Jason wasnât the kind of guy who did early morning grocery runs. Usually, his nutritional pyramid consisted of takeout containers, chalky protein bars, and coffee brewed with enough caffeine to burn a hole through structural steel. But Alfred had been on his ass lately about âproper sustenance, Master Jasonââand when Alfred Pennyworth made a request, no one in the family, absolutely no one, dared to disagree.
So, that was how he found himself in his current predicament: awake way too early, hood pulled low over his forehead, and hands buried deep in the pockets of his leather jacket. He was doing his best to mind his own business, despite the suspicious glares from the staff. In Gotham, a man of Jasonâs build lurking in a supermarket at 6:00 AM usually meant a robbery was imminent, not an innocent grocery run.
Fighting back an eye-roll at judgmental worried looks he was receiving, Jason wandered the cereal aisle of the half-empty store. The place smelled like damp cardboard and industrial floor cleaner. His cart was patheticâa few frozen meals, a carton of eggs, and two boxes of sugar-free cereal he knew would just sit in his cupboard for months.
It wasnât that he couldnât cook. In fact, out of all his siblings, he was arguably the best, having spent hours in the manor kitchen learning personally from Alfred. It was just that coffee and Big Belly Burger were path-of-least-resistance fuel.
Sighing, Jason veered his cart toward the pasta aisle, deciding he might as well commit to the bit and buy something that required a stove, just to get the old man off his back. He was eyeing the sauces, debating between vodka and Alfredo, when he heard it.
A low, dramatic "Pew! Pew!" followed by the unmistakable thwack of plastic colliding with cardboard.
Jason froze. His brow furrowed as a rogue foam dart sailed through the air and bounced off a box of rigatoni. He tracked the trajectory just in time to see a blur of movementâtiny sneakers skidding around the corner and the sound of muffled giggles.
The culprit was small. Somewhere between five and seven. He had a shock of messy black hair that looked like it had never met a comb, a t-shirt featuring a faded, peeling Bat-symbol, and wide blue eyes that glinted with pure, unadulterated mischief.
Jasonâs heart gave a strange, uncomfortable jolt.
Because that face? It was his.
Not as he looked now, of course. But as a kidâbefore the League, before the Pit, before death had pressed cold lips to his forehead. It was eerie. Like looking at a memory made flesh and given a sugar rush.
âPew!â the kid shouted again, raising a neon-orange plastic blaster.
He pulled the trigger and the dart shot out, and caught Jason square between the eyes. The foam dart stuck there for an absurd, lingering beat, perched just above the bridge of his nose like a pathetic unicorn horn, before it finally lost the battle with gravity and fluttered to the floor.
Jason blinked, the suction cup mark likely still red on his skin.
ââŠSeriously, kid?â he muttered.
The kid didn't cower. Instead, he cackled, eyes sparkling like heâd just pulled off the heist of the century. He just stood there grinning up at Jason like they were old friends, or maybe like Jason was the final boss in a video game and the kid had just landed a critical hit.
âGotcha!â the boy chirped, puffing out his chest with a pride that was painfully familiar. âYou were totally not ready for that. You didn't even duck! You just stood there like a big dummy!â
Jason looked down at the miniature ghost of his own past, his mind racing through a dozen responses before settling on a dry, parental deadpan. He crossed his arms over his chest.
âUh-huh. And what does your mom say about randomly shooting strangers in the face?â
The kidâs triumphant stance faltered. The neon-orange blaster lowered an inch as he narrowed his eyes, shifting his weight from one light-up sneaker to the other as if preparing to make a break for the frozen foods section.
âYou ainât gonna tell her, are you?â the boy asked, his voice dropping as he looked at Jason suspiciously.
Jason felt a ghost of a smirk pull at the corner of his mouth. He recognized that tone. That was the 'I-know-I'm-in-trouble-but-I'm-betting-on-your-coolness' tone.
âDepends,â Jason grunted. He leaned his hip against the handle of his cart, glancing down at the foam dart resting on the linoleum. âYou got a name, kid?â
The boy puffed his chest back out, his bravado returning in a sudden surge. âIâm AJ,â he declared. âAnd Iâm the best shot in the whole store.â
âAJ, huh?â Jason repeated. The name felt heavy and strange in his mouth. âWhereâs your mom? Gotham supermarkets aren't exactly playgrounds, AJâespecially not at six in the morning.â
AJ shrugged with a nonchalance that only a bored kid could pull off. He pointed a thumb vaguely toward the produce section. âGave her the slip,â he whispered conspiratorially. âSheâs over there looking at the boring green stuff.â
Jason let out a weary sighâthe kind that usually followed a lecture from Bruce. âWell, why donât you go find her before you make her worry? A kid like you shouldn't be wandering the aisles solo.â
AJ grumbled something under his breath about âbeing a big kidâ and stooped to retrieve his foam projectile from the linoleum. Taking the hint, Jason turned back to the wall of red sauces. He grabbed a jar of spicy vodka sauce and tossed it into his cart alongside a box of penne. He turned his back, fully expecting the miniature menace to have scampered off.
But no.
The kid was still there. Jason tried to tell himself that this kid wasn't his problemâhe had groceries to buy and a quiet apartment to get back to. He turned and continued down the aisle, only to hear the rhythmic, wet slap-slap of sneakers against the floor.
Jason tried to ignore him and kept walking, weaving his way toward the frozen food section. The kid kept pace, his short legs working double-time to match Jasonâs much longer strides.
ââŠAre you seriously tailing me?â Jason asked, not looking back as he yanked open a freezer door to grab a box of waffles.
âObviously,â AJ stated, his tone suggesting Jason was the one being slow on the uptake.
Jason cut him a sidelong, incredulous glance. âWhy?â
âNeed to make sure you arenât doing something suspicious,â the boy declared, narrowing his eyes at the cart.Â
Jason raised a brow. âIâm literally holding frozen waffles, man.â
âExactly!â AJ eyed the box disdainfully, his nose crinkling in pure, unadulterated judgment. âOriginal? Really?â
âYou judging my waffle choices now?â
âKind of,â the boy said, crossing his arms over his faded Bat-shirt. âThe chocolate chip ones are better. Everybody knows that. The originals are for old people.â
âFine,â Jason grumbled, swapping the boxes. âHappy?â
AJ nodded once, a look of solemn approval crossing his face as if heâd just successfully mentored a particularly slow student. âWise choice.â
Jason let out a huff that was half-annoyance and half-disbelief. He turned away, moving deeper into the frozen aisle to grab a bag of pizza rollsâbecause if he was already failing Alfredâs "real food" mandate by buying chocolate chip waffles, he might as well go all in on the processed junk.
AJ stepped closer, squinting at the bag. âPepperoni or Triple Cheese?â
âTriple Cheese,â Jason said, his tone daring the kid to disagree.
The boy considered this for a long moment, tapping his chin with the barrel of his plastic blaster. âAcceptable,â he finally declared. âBut you gotta cook 'em in the oven. The microwave makes 'em squishy, and squishy is gross.â
Jason froze, his hand hovering over the handle of his cart.
That was the exact same thing he told Damian when introducing the brat to the wonders of frozen snacks. The uncanny nature of the situation was starting to move past âweird coincidenceâ and into âfull-blown existential crisisâ territory.
âRight. No squishy pizza rolls. Got it,â Jason muttered, tossing the bag into the cart on top of the vodka sauce. He started walking again, his boots thumping heavily against the linoleum, half-expecting the kid to finally head back toward the produce.
Instead, AJ fell right back into step. The rhythmic squeak of neon sneakers kept perfect time beside the heavy thud of Jasonâs combat boots. It was a bizarre sight: a hulking, scarred vigilante in a leather jacket who looked more like a criminal than a customer, being followed through the fluorescent wasteland by a miniature gap-toothed child with a Nerf gun and light up sneakers.
âYouâre still here,â Jason noted, not looking down.
âGotta make sure youâre getting the good snacks,â AJ stated, his tone suggesting this was a heavy burden heâd been forced to carry. âGrown-ups are bad at picking snacks. They always buy stuff that looks like tree bark.â
Jason let out a short, rough sound that might have been a laugh in a different life. âIâm just a guy trying to get groceries before the sun comes up, kid. Which is what you should be doing. With your mother. Who is probably currently calling the GCPD because her mini-terrorist went AWOL in the pasta aisle.â
âSheâs fine,â AJ said, completely unfazed as he waved Jason off. âSheâs probably at the deli counter by now. Besides, she told me to stay close. Iâm just staying close to you now.â
Jason stopped the cart so abruptly the wheels squealed. He looked down at the boy, who didn't even have the decency to look intimidated.
âThatâs not how âstaying closeâ works, kid,â Jason grunted. âYouâre supposed to stay close to the person who actually knows you. Not the guy who looks like heâs about to start a bar fight.â
AJ looked Jason up and downâhis eyes lingering on the faint scar on Jasonâs jaw and the hardened set of his shouldersâbefore he shrugged. âYou look like you can handle yourself. Mom says Gotham is dangerous. If Iâm with you, nobodyâs gonna mess with me. Youâre like a big, grumpy shield.â
Jason felt a muscle in his jaw twitch. He wasn't sure if he should be impressed by the kidâs survival instincts or terrified by his total lack of a stranger-danger filter.
âDo you trust every suspicious-looking guy you come across?â Jason asked, his voice dropping into a low, warning rumble.Â
He couldn't decide what was worse: the heart attack this kidâs mother was likely having, or the terrifyingly lack of âstranger dangerâ lessons she hadnât seemed to have taught him.
AJ tilted his head, his messy black hair falling over one eye in a way that made Jasonâs chest tighten with a weird, phantom ache.
âYouâre not suspicious,â AJ countered, his blue eyes clear and infuriatingly observant. âYouâre wearing a Bat-shirt under your jacket. I saw the edge of it. People who like Batman donât snatch kids.â
Jason instinctively pulled his leather jacket tighter, cursing the fact that heâd grabbed an old joke shirt Dick had gotten him in his pre-coffee haze. Heâd been clocked by a child who barely reached his hip.
âItâs a laundry day shirt,â Jason snapped. âAnd Iâm not a hero, kid.â
AJ flinched at the harsh edge of Jason's voice. Seeing the kidâs dejected expression sent a sharp, unexpected pang through Jasonâs heart. It was like watching a mirror of his younger self getting scolded, and the guilt was instantaneous.
Jason let out a long, weary sigh, intentionally softening his tone. âHey. Look, Iâm sorry. Iâm just... not a morning person. You a big Batman fan, kid?â
AJ blinked, the dejection vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a noncommittal shrug. âHeâs alright,â he muttered, kicking at the floor with a his sneaker.
Jason raised a brow, genuinely surprised. In Gotham, you were usually a fanatic or a critic; there was rarely a middle ground for the Big Bad Bat. âJust okay? Tough crowd. So whoâs your favourite, then? Nightwing?â
Jason figured it was a safe bet. Dick had always been the familyâs resident golden boyâa hit with the kids, the women, and pretty much anyone with a pulse.
AJ scoffed, a sound so uncannily like Jasonâs own derisive snort that it made his skin crawl. âNo. I mean, heâs cool and he does all the flippy stuff, but Red Hood is the best.â
Jason nearly choked on his own breath. He gripped the handle of the shopping cart so hard the plastic groaned.
âRed Hood?â he repeated, his voice dropping into a low, stunned rasp. âWhy him? Heâs⊠heâs kind of a criminal, isn't he?â
âNo way! Heâs the toughest,â AJ declared, puffing out his chest as he waved his plastic blaster. âHe protects the neighbourhoods the other guys forget about. My mom says heâs got a good heart. Plus, heâs got a cool helmet and a gun.â
Again, Jason didn't know whether to feel immensely proud or deeply concerned for the kidâs moral compass. Before he could decide, a frantic voice sliced through the aisle.
âAJ? AJ! Oh my god! There you are!â
Jason froze. He recognized that voice. Heâd expected the kidâs mom to be some stranger and that heâd hand off this miniature headache and go back to his hollow apartment.Â
Yet, he found himself looking at the one person heâd never expected to encounter in a grocery store at dawn. You were still as beautiful as he rememberedâolder, perhaps, but with that same light in your eyes that heâd tried so hard to forget.
âAJ!â You gasped, dropping to your knees and pulling the boy into a crushing hug. âDonât you everâeverâdo that again! I told you to stay close!â
âI was, Mom. I was just doing recon,â AJ muffled into your shoulder, his bravado finally wavering in the face of your genuine fear. He gestured a small, sticky hand toward Jason. âand I found a guy with a Bat-shirt. Heâs cool.â
You let out a shaky, jagged breath, pressing a frantic kiss to the top of his messy black hair. You started to look up, a "thank you" already forming on your lips for the stranger whoâd kept your son safe.
The words died on your lips.
Jason stood there, silhouetted by the flickering fluorescent lights, looking down at the two of you. His hood was still up, but there was no hiding the way he was staringâlike a man finding water in the middle of a desert heâd long since accepted would be his grave.
â...Jason?â you breathed. The name was barely a whisper, trembling with years worth of grief, confusion, and questions.
The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the low, industrial hum of the nearby freezer cases. Jason didn't know what to say. He didn't know if he could speak. His mind was too busy doing the mathâtracking the timeline, looking at AJâs messy black hair, those defiant blue eyes, and the past heâd tried so hard to bury.
AJ looked between the two of you, his brow furrowing as he sensed the sudden shift. The suspicion returned to his face in an instant.
âWait,â the boy said, his voice cutting through the heavy air. âYou know Waffle Man?â
Jason blinked, the spell breaking just enough for him to glance down at the kid. âWaffle Man?â
AJ nodded firmly, his neon-orange blaster tucked back under his arm. âWell, you havenât told me your name, and your waffle taste is justâŠbad.â
âThat doesn't explain why I should be Waffle Man,â Jason grumbled, though his irritation was paper-thin. He turned his attention back to you as you stood up slowly, your legs looking like they might give out at any second.
Your hand stayed protectively on AJâs shoulder, your fingers trembling against the faded fabric of his Bat-shirt.
âHow⊠we had a funeral,â you whispered. âThere was a casket. I was there, Jason. I was there when they buried you.â
âItâs a long story,â Jason finally managed. His voice sounded like it was being dragged over broken glassâraw, jagged, and full of the things he couldn't say. âA really⊠really complicated one.â
The silence in the aisle felt like it was about to suffocate. You swallowed hard, your gaze flickering between Jasonâs scarred face and the son standing at your side.
âAJ,â you said, your voice shaking as you tightened your grip on the boyâs shoulder. âGo⊠go grab a box of ice cream. Put it in the cart. I need to talk to⊠to this man.â
âBut Momââ
âNow, AJ.â
The boy grumbled, shooting Jason one last suspicious look before trudging toward the cart. Jason watched him go, his heart hammering against his ribs. He turned back to you.
âIs heâŠ?â
âYeah,â You rasped, not bothering to hide the truth. âHeâs literally your carbon copy Jay.â
Jason let out a dry, shaky snort. He was clearly fighting to keep his expression from shattering. âYeah⊠I can tell. Heâs gotta be a handful.â
You gave him a watery, fragile smile. âHeâs stubborn as hell, but he has a good heart.â
Jasonâs hand dropped from the cart, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to reach out but didn't know if he still had the right. The hum of the freezer felt as if it was deafening nowâa steady, industrial drone that underscored the absolute wreckage of the last few minutes.
âDoes Bruce know?â he asked, his voice barely audible.
You shook your head, the movement slow and heavy. âAfter the funeral⊠I just couldnât stay. I found out about the pregnancy late, and by then, everything was different. Bruce wasnât the same. I didnât want him to look at AJ and see a replacement. I didn't want my son to be a second chance to continue the Roâthe mantle.â
Jasonâs gaze flickered to AJ, who was currently trying to see if he could balance a box of ice cream on his head. The kid looked so remarkably normal despite the Bat-logo on his chest.
âYou did the right thing,â Jason rasped, his throat tight enough to ache. âHe shouldnât be anywhere near that house. Or me.â
âDonât say that,â you whispered, reaching out to tentatively touch his sleeve. The leather was cold, but the man beneath it was radiating heat, solid and terrifyingly real. âHeâs been asking about his dad since he could talk. I told him his father was a brave manâsomeone who fought for the people who couldnât fight for themselves. Someone he should be proud of.â
Jason swallowed hard, his Adamâs apple bobbing. He looked like heâd been struck. âYou... youâd actually want me in his life?â
You suddenly looked uncertain, your hand fluttering away from his arm as if youâd overstepped. âIâI wonât force him on you, Jason. Itâs been years. You have a life, and I donât know what that looks like nowââ
âNo!â he interrupted. The word burst out of him with a raw intensity that made AJâs head snap up from where he was still trying to pick an ice cream flavour.
Jason immediately checked himself, lowering his voice and stepping closer until his broad shoulders shielded you from the rest of the aisle. âI mean... I want to. I want to know him. I want to know... you.â
Your eyes widened, shimmering with unshed tears. âThen why didn't you look for me?â you croaked, the pain of a hundred lonely nights finally bleeding into your voice. âWhen you came back to Gotham... why didn't you find me?â
Jason flinched as if youâd struck him.
âWhen I... returned... I wasnât a good man,â he admitted, his voice dropping to a gravelly, raw confession. âMy mind was a mess, and the only thing I had left was a need for revenge. I didnât want you to see what Iâd becomeâsomeone filled with bitterness and enough hate to burn this city down. I stayed away because I hoped youâd moved on. I thought you were safer if I remained a memory.â
You shook your head slowly, a single tear finally escaping. âHow could I?â you whispered, your voice breaking. âHow could I ever move on from you?â
The distance between you vanished. Jason took a final step forward, his large, calloused hand rising to cup your cheek with a tenderness that seemed at odds with his rugged, battle-hardened frame. His thumb brushed away the salt of your tear, his touch lingering as if he were memorizing the warmth of your skin to prove you weren't another hallucination.
âIf I had known about AJ... I wouldâve searched every inch of this earth for you both,â Jason swore, his eyes burning with a fierce, new purpose. âI know you have questionsâyears of themâand I promise Iâll answer every single one. But you need to know one thing: itâs always been you. No matter where I went, no matter how dark it got... it was always you.â
A choked sob escaped your throat. You werenât sure who moved first, but the world around you seemed to slip away. Suddenly, you were locked in a desperate embraceâtwo people finally reuniting against years of impossible odds.
Jason pulled back slightly, and then his mouth met yours with a hunger that was almost overwhelming. He kissed you like a man who had been parched for a lifetime and had finally found a drop of water. His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer as if he were trying to anchor himself to the reality of youâterrified that if he let go, heâd wake up back in the dark.Â
In that moment, the sterile supermarket and the hum of the freezers were gone. There was only the heat of you, the taste of salt and coffee, and the impossible truth that he was finally home.
A sharp, high-pitched "Eww!" suddenly cut through the air.
You pulled apart, breathless and flushed. Jason kept his forehead resting against yours for a lingering beat, his chest heaving. He finally glanced down to see AJ now standing by the cart, his face twisted in a mask of pure, childish disgust.
Jason cleared his throat, his face flushing a deep, uncharacteristic red as he slowly untangled his fingers from your hair. He looked down at his son, his expression a chaotic mix of sheepishness and overwhelming pride.
âWhy are you doing mushy stuff with my mom?â AJ demanded. His voice dropped into a suspicious growlâthe exact same one Jason used during interrogations, minus the deeper register and the actual intimidation factor. âAnd donât think sheâs gonna buy your waffles for you just âcause youâre moochinâ on her. Weâre on a budget!â
Jason let out a shaky, breathy laugh, for a fleeting second he glanced at you seeing your amused expression before he turned to look at the boy.
Jason let out a shaky, breathy laugh. For a fleeting second, he glanced at you, catching your amused expression before he turned back to the boy.
âI⊠uh⊠IâŠâ
âAJâŠâ You knelt down, resting your hands on his small shoulders to ground yourself as much as him. âIâm going to tell you something, and it might be a big shock. But this man⊠heâsââ
âMy dad whoâs also secretly Red Hood?â AJ interrupted. His tone was entirely matter-of-fact as he adjusted the grip on his toy gun.
The silence that followed was utterly stunned. Both you and Jason blinked in synchronized shock. You looked up at Jason, your eyes wide with a silent, frantic question: Is that last part true?
Jason could only offer a slow, stunned nod, his face pale beneath the grocery store lights. He looked back down at the boy, his voice failing him.
âHowâŠ?â you breathed, looking back at your son. âAJ, how could you possibly know that?â
AJ rolled his eyesâa gesture so perfectly âJasonâ it made your head spin. He pointed a small, accusatory finger at Jasonâs chest.
âDuh. I told you, I was doing recon,â AJ stated, with a huff. âI saw that old picture of you two from school, and he looks exactly like me. Plus, the date he went away matches the second Robin. And heâs also literally wearing Red Hoodâs leather jacket right now.â
âPlus,â AJ added, puffing out his chest with a smirk of pure, unadulterated victory. âRed Hood is the best, and my dad is the best. Itâs easy math.â
Jason let out a low, impressed whistle, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. âWell. I guess I donât need to worry about his observation skills. The kidâs a natural.â
âJust another thing he gets from you,â you laughed, the sound bright and shaky against the backdrop of the quiet supermarket.
Jason cut you a sidelong, knowing look. âI donât know about that. If I recall, you were the one who figured me out all those years ago with even less to go on. This?â He gestured to the tiny detective in the light-up sneakers. âThis is all you.â
AJ just shrugged, already moving back toward the cart. âWhatever. Can we go now? Dad needs to pay for my chocolate chip waffles.â
The word âDadâ hit Jason like a freight train, his eyes instantly welling up again as he watched the boy swagger down the aisle. He looked at you, a dazed, lopsided grin spreading across his face.
âI think Iâm in a lot of trouble, aren't I?â he rasped, his voice thick with a mix of terror and absolute wonder.
âYou have no idea,â you laughed softly, reaching out to interlace your fingers with his. Your hand was small in his, but it slotted perfectly against his. âHeâs exactly like you, Jason. Heaven help us both.â
Jason squeezed your hand, a silent promise in the gesture. He looked toward the cart where his miniature double was currently trying to sneak in a bag of gummy worms into the mix.
âAlright, kid,â Jason called out, his voice regaining some of its old strength. âLet's go. Weâve got a lot of catching up to do.â
ft. hal jordan ; the sex is over, but you are still horny⊠and hal's abs look too delicious to ignore
content. MDNI!! fem!reader, dry wet humping, dacryphilia, age gap (reader is in her late 20 and hal in his middle 40), riding someones abs, self-deprecation (not in a kinky way), after creampie, porn with feelings i guess
You still could feel Hal's cum dripping out of you, blended with your own slick and sweat â the few scraps of clothing still clinging to your body were wrinkled, half-open, stained with both your fluids. Yet, even with ragged breaths puffing from your lips, your chest rising and falling with deep gulps of air, you wanted more among the damp sheets; more of his pathetic words, more of his hands sliding over your skin, rubbing and grabbing your flesh between his fingers.
"Hal babyâŠ" you call out in a needy whine, eyes still teary from your second orgasm. "You too tired?"
Hal grunts something beside you, sprawled across the bed just as much as you are â his forearm draped over half his face, lips stretched in a grin that was half smug, half incredulous, "Aren't you?" He laughs.
You don't even notice you've brought a hand to his chest, nails lightly scratching the skin still marked with hickeys and smudges of lipstick. You hear him hiss, maybe from the sensation of your fingers trailing over the reddish shapes, or, perhaps, from your teeth nibbling at his neck, grazing the old mark you'd not a moment ago. The arm that had been resting over Hal's face pulls you closer, the calluses on his palm scraping against the small of your back.
"Gimme a minute and I'll see what I can do for you, babyâŠ" he promises with a heavy sigh, keeping his eyes closed, still savoring the fading echoes of pleasure.
Your teeth give the sensitive skin one last squeeze and, without much thought, you climb on top of him, your bare pelvis settling on his sweaty stomach.
"Hm? Someone seems real greedy." he teases, his eyes â still heavy with exhaustion â slowly opening, just enough to lazily admire your body positioning itself over his.
You feel your thighs trembling around Hal's waist as your hands seek refuge between his collarbone and chest. "I just can't seem to get satisfied with just a little bit of you."
"A little bit? I think you've already wrung out about 75% of me." You laugh with him, letting out a low moan when a sudden shiver runs through your body as his abdomen â twitching and flexing with his laughter â grazes your slick folds.
The firm ridge of his muscle created a delicious friction and, suddenly, you weren't laughing anymore â not when your clit, swollen again, bumped against one defined ridge after another.
"Oh?" Hal rests his hands on your thighs, his fingers tracing a slow path along the inside of your skin. "Looks like I won't have to do much work at all." He murmurs, a lazy smile spreading across his face as yours contorts in a moment of bliss.
You don't answer him, too busy trying to find a more comfortable position, grinding against Hal's stomach like someone riding a slippery saddle. Your mixed fluids only complicated your arduous battle to find that same friction again, that electrifying spark from moments before.
You barely even registered that you were practically riding his abs.
"âlike using me, uh?" Your attention snaps back to Hal, your glazed-over eyes searching for his. You let out a confused, timid grunt at the half heard phrase. "Didn't catch that? Too busy using me like your little toy?"
"Noâ" You brace your hands on his thighs, knuckles whitening as you grip the muscle. "Not a toy." The sounds slip from your lips easily, sliding off your tongue in soft, hungry moans.
"No? Funny," your breath hitches as Hal presses his stomach up against you, flexing tight, "that's not what it looks from down here." And that arrogant tone is back, gleaming in the pearly-white rows of teeth you've grown to love so much.
"What am I then, honey?" You feel his hands leave your thighs, giving you total freedom to continue your little impromptu show, as he tucks his hands behind his head like someone watching a TV show on the couch â watching his favorite late-night program, starring you, your bare breasts, and the fluids dripping from you onto Hal's skin.
"Ngh!" You cry out, the grinding of skin against skin faster now, a relentless hunt for the same climax he'd given you before.
"C'mon, what am I? Am I your little old boyfriend? Is that it?" You didn't know if It was his voice that sent shivers down your spine, or if it was feeding the small flame of growing irritation on your skin.
You end up nodding, too focused on the little jumps your clit makes with each precise friction â your orgasm drawing closer, almost palpable.
"Fuuuuck baby, you know how to make a guy feel special, uh?" Hal grunts, pushing his hips up just to disturb your rhythm, but it only forces a tearful moan from your lips.
You open your eyes, surprised you'd even closed them, when just looking at his arrogant, but tired face makes your pussy wetter. Hal grips your waist again, pressing his thumbs into your tummy as if trying to reach your womb â you bite your lip this time, satisfied by the heavy handed affection.
"That's why I like you, baby. Always thinking the best of shitty me."
Oooh, how you wished he'd just shut up and let you cum â at least those sad, brown eyes were on your side this time.
summary: you're convinced your betrothed, damian wayne, despises or at mostâtolerates you for the sake of his duty. it takes only one moron to try and steal your hand to prove that damian takes the promise of being your future husband as a role he will never let anyone else fulfill.
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
content: arranged marriage, protective and jealous damian!
"There you are, Beloved."
A trying suitor's expression falters at the sight of Damian, tall and imposing, wrapping his arm around your waist as if it had always belonged there.
"I was worried I had lost you." Damian murmurs aloud, though his gaze never leaves the suitor, sharpened into a knowing taunt.
It doesn't take long, it never does. Like a scurrying rat, he was gone in the blink of an eye.
Damian's lips finally form its familiar, scathing smirk. "Would you rather I say it outright that you are to be my wife? I assume you'll find that more displeasing."
He is right. It infuriated you that he knew where to push your buttons.
"To-be." You remind him. "I wouldn't get so comfortable with addressing me as your wife so soon."
"Ah." He drawls. "Shame. I was ecstatic at the thought of rifling the crowd."
Rifling was an understatement. Despite his cold demeanour, Damian was a fan of dramatics. After all, the first time you had met your betrothed, he nearly ended your life.
His gaze when he had looked down at you all those years ago clings like an aching, never healing wound. Disappointment. He must've expected someone greater, who rivalled him in his physical prowess and intelligence. Instead, he had you pinned to the ground, shame colouring your features that silently screamed burden.
The worst part was that it was the complete opposite for youâ because you admired him greatly. It didn't matter which version of him. Damian Al Ghul, who sharpened himself into a living weaponâa cold-blooded ruler, before he became the Bat's new protege. Damian Wayne, who somehow eased his way into less begrudging smiles, who fails to notice his pets' fur still clinging to the cuffs of his sleeves, who makes ill-timed jokes from his catalogue stolen from his older siblings.
That rare warmth he found here in Gotham hasn't and never will be extended to you. Still, you refuse to remain a burden, not to him.
You play your part as a useful shield in the one arena Damian still struggles to conquerâthe social world. Despite his striking looks and quick wit, Damian's always held a shared disinterest in the politics of social snakes who mingled solely for their own selfish gains.
Maybe it was a guilty pleasure. For one single night, Damian was your betrothed, and you were his. Even if his fake smiles were plastered on too tight, or the brush of his fingers over yours set the scene of young lovers much too convincingly, you could let your mind rest and rely on his presence just this once.
His hand extends, placed at the small of your back as he leads you through the room to somewhere less crowded. Unconsciously, he occasionally rubs his thumb in comforting circles, sending goosebumps down your skin. It's easy to smile and exchange repetitive niceties while Damian's gaze remains locked ahead of his path. The polite act engraved into your bones, functions as your greatest defence for the both of you, slithering your way through.
You had already memorised the layout of the room before even entering it, and you know he knows that. So, Damian's decision to keep his skin in contact with yours, guiding you, must be purely performative. Skin-ship to lure the wolves into falling for the bait, as you eye many envious onlookers distancing themselves from Damian at the unseemly sight of his arm wrapped around your frame.
"Have you chosen a city for your further education?" Damian murmurs into your ear.
You have. Though you could never predict his line of thinking that couldâve possessed him to show vague interest in your decision. This wasnât the first time his impulsive questions took you off guard from the routine youâre used to.
Your gaze narrows on him, trying to find his reasoning. "How I take my coffee in the morning wasn't enthralling enough for you?"
"Is Gotham one of your options?" He asks briskly.
Ah. Your gaze drops to the swallow in his throat, the tension in his question. He must be hoping you'd say no. Lesser the chances to be stuck in a suffocating room with you, performing duties for a faceless audience.
"If I say it is?" You test.
His gaze flickers, surprise adorning his features. It wipes itself away as quickly as it comes, and he gives a brief, imperceptible nod. "There are adequate institutions in the city. I can provide recommendations."
You raise a brow. "Of course, a future doctor already providing unneeded advice."
His expression thickens. âYou think my chosen field does not suit me."
It blurts out before you can stop it. "No, I think it does."
He pauses. You wince.
"You do?" He asks, almost disbelieving.
"Is it that hard to believe?" You mutter, eyes fleeting around for a much-needed drink.
"I only wish to understand your sudden agreement." He pushes, unsatisfied with your vague answer.
"Damian." You sigh. "Of course you'll be an amazing doctor."
He watches you, trying to detect any deceit. His immediate suspicion triggers your nerves. You may not be able to stand him, but that didn't mean you were blind to his abilities or the empathy he tries to hide behind his permanent frown.
If he hadn't held a semblance of a heart, he wouldn't be here plastering on a fake mask much to his displeasure so you wouldn't bear the night alone.
He wouldn't be out at ungodly hours, working himself to the bone to ensure that there was always a protector in the night, to save someone's life so they could make it home.
He wouldn't have signed up for the most brutal course at Gotham's top medical university despite already having an inhuman schedule.
"If I thought you lacked the heart to save others, I would've laughed at your decision to remain with your father in Gotham." You don't know why you feel this need to explain yourself. It hardly mattered if you understood his decision. He wasn't someone who needed the approval of others before making his own.
"Gotham has changed you." You answer. "For the better. If I had to put my bets on anyone to be the best doctor in this entire city, it'd be you."
If it had been anyone else other than you, maybe they wouldn't have caught the parting of his lips, the rare astonishment in his eyes. It's brief, but enough to tell you that you have spouted enough nonsense for it to feel as if you ripped open a gaping wound for him to spit at.
"I need a drink." You mutter. "I'll be right back."
Your quick escape seems to have finally sent the message for a much-needed break from his presence. Compared to other occasions, he wasâyou wouldn't use the word 'clingy', but he was certainly acting as a guard dog around you tonight. Then again, there were newcomers at this ball who seem to be unaware that you're Damian's betrothed, opting to try for your hand whenever he was separated from you for too long. It should be a relief that he bothered to protect youâbut it distracted your senses, being around him for too long.
It still stings that even after all these years, your complete belief in him hasn't faded at all. Or maybe it was the fact that he didn't even try to consider the possibility of you having faith in him.
Your glued frown finally serves a purpose, contrary to your mother's nagging, as it scatters the fidgety chickens around you to distance themselves, along with their prodding questions. Downing a glass of wine, it doesn't do its mandatory job of easing the vulnerability still pattering around in your chest.
"If it isn't the future Mrs. Wayne!"
It seems one wolf in particular has blinded senses of walking into the wrong territory.
Joaquin Reanes. A filthy, money-laundering jerk who pawns off his father's money from an instable empire that takes advantage of its many debtors to use as animals for unpaid labour.
"Reanes." You greet shortly, not even bothering to turn your body fully to grace him with your attention.
"I'm not surprised Damian's left you all alone, miserable at the bar." He sneers. "He's never been good company."
"Admit it." He mocks coldly. "He's never going to go through with the engagement. Your finger will remain bare for as long as he desires, and from the looks of it, he doesn't seem so keen on having you as his."
Your grip on your glass tightens. A flash of his corroded hair, dead from extensive bleach, drowned in wine, appears in your mind. You swirl your glass once, considering.
"I, on the other handâ" His teeth gleams with predatory intent. "âwouldn't mind taking second-hand scrapes. How would you like to be a Mrs. Reanes?"
Your laughter, cold and piercing, echoes through the air. His smug expression falters.
"Over my dead body." You hiss, slamming down your glass to push your palm roughly into his chest, sending him stumbling back. "Even if Damian hadn't been my betrothed, I would rather die alone than end up with the miserable likes of you."
His mask drops, revealing an ugly wrath that matched his true colours. His hand swipes a free glass from the bar on instinct, as if he's done it many times before.
In a blink, a cold sensation drenches your shoulders. Your gaze drops down, unable to hide your disgusted shock. The bastard purposely spilled wine on you.
Your expression darkens, meeting his narrowed eyes that were filled with wicked intent.
"Oh, my apologies." His act doesn't even come close to the twisted excitement in his gaze. "My hand slipped."
To cause this display in a Wayne charity ball is declaring war. You didn't wait for any passersby to noticeâno, you're fully prepared to start this alone. You can already imagine his rotten, bleached head smashed with glass and wine to match the stain on your shoulder, ruining his gleeful expressionâonly for a firm hand to wrap around your waist, brushing your drenched shoulder against a broad chest.
"Reanes." Damian's greeting barely registers past the goosebumps that spread along your exposed skin when you dare a glimpse of his expression. His eyes, swallowed by his darkened pupils and narrowed into sharpened blades, is filled with such loathing that even you're rendered speechless.
"Wayne." The slimy git greets, carefully manoeuvring his glass to hide his mocking smirk. "I was just having a lovely talk with your wife."
Damian's grip unconsciously tightens around you, puling you back discretely, his shoulder shielding you from the creep's intentional gaze.
"Having doubts, Wayne?" He taunts. "I've made my own concerns clear, though she seems to have mistaken my empathy. I was only conveying that if you take any longer to put a ring on her, it might suggest to others that she's easy to snatch away."
The atmosphere freezes. To say you're astounded at his audacity, his utter foolishness to not be terrified of Damian's wrath isn't enough. You're sure this moron has a death wish.
"Your confidence in your lacklustre charm is worth applause, Reanes." Damian's tone is so unbearably cold that it even makes you flinch. "Let's see if your will to survive is stronger than your pride."
"Is that a threat?" Reanes muses, but you detect his hesitation. "As the next Wayne heir, I doubt your decision to threaten me, a useful business partner, is particularly clever."
"You mean your tycoon built off your father's buried scandals and contributions to corruption with the previous Minister?" Damian announces casually.
Several figures within hearing distance have shifted their heads towards Reanes at the sound of Damian's accusation. Finally, sweat has begun to pool at the rat's brows.
"How didâ" Reanes's attempt at recovery is poor, his face seizing into an awful mess in realisation of his mistake of trying to find Damian's weakness. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Yes, of course." Damian's glare has narrowed into what could only be his hunting eyes. "Hypothetically, let's say you were to ever come near my betrothed again. I will have every piece of evidenceâinvoices, letters, emails, phone callsâall prepared into a file sent to the GCPD by tomorrow morning. How long do you think your family has before they come knocking down the doors?"
Reanes's face has lost all its colour.
"You're bluffing." He stammers.
It was satisfying to see all of his obnoxious confidence shrink into oblivion.
"You made an advance on my wife. You made a pathetic attempt of a threat against me." Damian hisses. "I haven't thought of all the possible ways to make you suffer just yet, Reanes. Stripping you of your stolen power is only the start."
"Unlike your father and his poor disguise of power as his empire collapses on itself." Damian taunts. "I protect what is mine."
Dread fills Reanes's expression. "Wayne, I misspoke. I won't so much as look at her."
Damian doesn't look close to satisfied. There's a want in his gaze, to torment him further. "Apologise to her."
Reanes grits his teeth, shame flooding his vile features. Forcing himself to look at your feetânot daring to meet your eyes, he spits it out. "I'm sorry."
"You are to never show yourself in front of us again." Damian declares. "Consider your offered partnership declined."
Reanes's entire expression sours, but one flick of Damian's brow has him scurrying off into the crowd, not even bothering with apologies when dirty looks are casted on him for pushing his way out to escape.
Damian's glare is still pinned into the crowd, and you sense his restrained bloodlust, something you haven't felt to this degree in years. The boy you once knew, who harnessed the blade better than anyone in its ability to end a beating pulse, has sprung out with his fangs and claws.
You unconsciously place one hand onto his chest in an attempt to soothe him, guide his attention back to his own body. He flinches, as if he had forgotten he was in the very room.
His nearly feral expression finds its way to the state of your ruined dress, the stain on your shoulder. He lets out a short breath, rationality kicking the gears in his mind. "We need to get you cleaned up."
You nod discreetly, at a loss for words as his hand comes up to grab yours, intertwining your fingers together and leading you away to a desolate hallway.
His fingers, covered in rough scars from countless battles, are caressing yours more gently than you could ever imagine. He's still refusing to look at you, gaze pinned straight ahead to the nearest bathroom.
Pushing open a door with a sudden force, you're dragged in with such a swift movement, that you barely have time to scout the room before your vision is blocked by his gaze pinning you down.
The barely visible green in his eyes are swarmed by his dilated pupils, filled with bitter rage and conflict. You've never seen him thisâunguarded. The events that unfolded earlier seems to have affected him more than you expected.
His lips part to say something, but his eyes flicker down to your drenched shoulder, covered in red. His eyes narrow into a vicious glare, and he lifts himself off the door, pulling something out of his pocket.
A napkin. He must've snatched it on the way without you noticing.
There's not enough shock generated in your veins to truly comprehend what just happened. Damian just called you his wife. It still rings in your ears like some prank that's been orchestrated to throw you off your beliefs on everything you were convinced he's thought about you.
"Damian."
He's turned towards the sink, running the napkin over running water, but his entire posture is off. Tense. Coiled into restraint that's bound to burst.
"I am fine." Even as the uncomfortable feeling of dried wine lingers on your skin, there's something about Damian's change in demeanour that pushes you to reassure him. You're not used to being unable to read him. "Thereâs no point of putting on an act here. I am perfectly capable of cleaning up after myself."
"Is that what you think this is?" He spits out, still refusing to look at you.
You freeze. His tone, which has always carried the Al Ghul's familiar patronisation, has descended into a cold rage that's never been directed on you before.
He exhales slowly, his mask slipping back into place as he turns around, cloth in hand as he approaches you slowly. Stopping in front of you, his eyes are narrowedâand the light in them has nearly extinguished. Leaving behind a darker shade of green that consumes you whole.
"He was looking at you like you were a piece of meat to consume." His voice has dropped several octaves, and his gaze is unfocusedâstill trapped in his wrath. "As if you weren't mine."
Your eyes widen, steps instinctively moving backward but his arm wraps around your waist before you can retreat any further.
He doesn't make a single sound as his fingers wrapped around the napkin comes to touch your shoulder, stained with dried wine. His touch is frighteningly gentle as he wipes your stained skin, his lip curled in displeasure.
It's horrifyingly intimate, and the sound of your own quickened breathing is mortifying on your sensesâknowing he could hear the effects of his strange, impulsive behaviour on you so clearly.
"I can do it myself." It sounds weak coming out from your mouth, even to your ears.
"Yes, you would like that, wouldn't you?" He mutters, sounding desolate. "Never letting yourself depend on me."
You scowl. "Why would I depend on you?"
"As much as you would like to pretend it doesn't matter." He grits. "I will be your husband. I will be the one who will lay down my promises and swear my life to yours. Now and even in death."
Leaning in, you feel his breath tingle against your skin as he whispers into your ear. "Do you think I am someone who takes my promises lightly?"
You resist a shudder, your lashes fluttering involuntarily. "No."
He scoffs. "Yet, you question my choice to defend you."
His breath lingers over your skin, right over the spot he's just cleansed free of wine, still cool to the touch from the dampness of the cloth. The tension is thick, making it difficult to think clearly when he's all but crowded the remaining space between the two of you.
He's only irritated that he's been indirectly insulted when Reanes pulled that ploy on you. You know how this will go. He'll wake from his delirious temper, fold back into the cold statue you know to be your betrothed, and remember the line that has been established.
He won't cross it. The boundary that's been drawn by you from the very beginning, in respect for whatever remaining autonomy the two of you had left in this arrangement. You're sure of your predictions... till you spot his expression. It seems that only nowâthe lack of distance has kicked in for him. The sudden stillness of his frame reveals something you never thought you'd see in your betrothed. Hesitation.
Nothing could've prepared you for what comes next. Damian's entire body leans in, caging you against the door. Tentatively, he places a soft, almost imperceptible kiss on your shoulder.
The oxygen in your lungs vanishes. Speechless, you can do nothing but stare at him with widened eyes, unable to comprehend what he just did. What it means.
"If you still have doubts about my loyalty." He mutters, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze, an unfamiliar intensity sealed in his. "Consider that my mark of a promise, which I intend to fulfil for the rest of my life. It was my mistake to make it seem as if you were easy to stealâbecause that will be impossible starting today."
This up close, you can count the freckles dotted under his eyes. He's always been dangerously tempting, but now, after he's defended your honour and stands before you looking the most wrecked you've ever seen himâyou want to do something foolish.
Something you might regret but have been wanting to do from the moment he marked you as his.
It's instinctive, almost natural when your lips press against his. It's brief, slotted at the wrong angle from his height that automatically has you wincing. You're quick to pull away, unprepared and desperately trying to come up with some excuse to forget the ordeal ever happened, when you see it.
The crack in his mask, over the single action of your lips pressed against his, unravels a devotion you've never seen before. Laying right in front of you, bared in the open. That is not the look of a man who despises you. If anything, he looks as if his restraints have finally snapped.
That brief glimpse is all you see before he pulls you in. His arms cage your body, drawing you towards him until your bodies press together. With no sense of hesitation from earlier when he had marked your shoulder, he presses you back against the door, and kisses you.
No, how could you have hallucinated his hesitation? The way he kissed you now, mapping your lips with devout intention, it's as if he's been wantingâwaiting to do it for ages.
You didn't realise it eitherâhow starved you've been for him till this very moment. You had been so focused on how trapped you felt under the expectations of your family, the firm belief that he felt the same way, that you buried the attraction that ran deep in your veins.
You hated it, that this kiss was the admission of how he was your weakness in the first place. That he knew exactly how to unravel you, turn your world upside down with his decisive behaviour that commanded the entire room. That the match between the two of you pleased you more than it should, driving you to push him away because... only he could invoke such insanity from your shattered composure.
"A few minutes ago, you couldn't even stand me." You manage out against a brief pause for breath, pushing your palm against his chest.
He pulls away just enough to cast you a look of frustration.
"What I couldn't stand was my betrothed always attempting to push me away." He reveals. "Do you understand the frustration you've caused me?"
His gaze flickers between your bitten lips and your half-lidded gaze, hunger bleeding through his eyes. "You see all of me. Without even trying to, it was as if you were placed in my life to be my one, singular weakness. You already had me wrapped around your finger, drawing all of my attentionâmaking it impossible to forget you even for a moment."
"My wife." He says it slowly, as if savouring it. "It is only because of you, that it feels as if I've been waiting my whole life to say those words. So, forgive me, for finding it difficult to restrain my displeasure when the woman of my devotion acts as if she would rather be paired with any other man than me."
Your brows furrow together at his words. "Why would I want to be paired with anyone else?"
His gaze locked onto you, narrows. "You claimed our match was a disaster waiting to happen."
"Yes." Averting your gaze, your admission comes out frail. "...Because I was compromised from the beginning. Even before our families put us together, I admired you. When my personal feelings got involved, the arrangement felt like a punishment."
"To be paired with someone for life that wasn't of my choosing was one thing, but for that person to be someone that actually mattered?" You swallow. "I pushed you away, because it hurt less if I made the decision to do so, rather than having to see your disappointment. Instead of being left to wonder that if you ever had the choice, would you even glance twice in my direction?"
He stares at you incredulously. "You believed that I did not want you?"
You pause at his tone. You didn't know what to believe, not with his actions just mere minutes ago contradicting everything in your system. You had been so focused on keeping your walls high, that you never thought to truly look into his gaze and search for what he saw in you instead.
"There isn't anyone else in the world that I would've sworn my life to." He declares abruptly. "If I had been given the choice in the first place, I would still be here before you. Yours."
"If you want my decision, I'll state it outright." He says, fingers coming up to grasp your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes. "I choose you. I had long erased myself of the expectations of what others want from me. My life is led by what I envision for myself, and you are in it. You always have been."
âI donât believe that the choices of others define us.â He answers. âEven if this marriage hadnât been arranged, I would have chosen you. I wouldâve come back for you over and overâand asked for your hand. If you had other suitors, I wouldâve rid your mind of all possibilities but me, because there is no one for me but you.â
"So, tell me." He says, and there's a vulnerability you never thought possible in him, echoed in the softening of his tone. "If you will choose me too."
Had he always looked at you this way, in such a soft, yet unyielding manner, as if his gaze had already been attuned to you in habit?
âIf you feel unsure, I wonât force you to decide.â He offers, but his crestfallen expression pleads otherwise. âI wonât let you be bound by the obligations of our families. I want you to choose meâwillinglyâjust as I have chosen you."
Has that ever been a question for you? Even in your denial, your fear of being rejected by the one person you were meant to spend the rest of your life with, you never doubted that the side of your heart had already engraved his name in secrecy.
You had always been his, even when you weren't sure if he was yours.
"I choose you, Damian." Your answer feels akin to offering your beating heart, only to reveal that it had always known the very same truth uttered through your lips. "That's never been a question. It's always been you, from the start."
His expression, tightened in exact preparation of being wounded, finally softens. He lets out an unsteady breath, his forehead dropping to rest on yours. In the quiet of this moment, you realise Damian looks devastatingly beautiful like this. Soft, vulnerable, and completely yours.
"I would very much like to kiss you again." He admits. "May I?"
You finally break out your own smile, and you sense the tension in his shoulders drop at the sight. "Only because you asked nicely."
His fingers still caressing your chin gently lifts your lips to his. This kiss is different from the first. It wasn't an explosion, a burst of restrained emotions over years of pining. No, it was softer. Gentle, in a true attempt to memorise your lips against his, shaping into a quiet whisper of a promise that this won't be the last.
When he parts, there's a soft quirk in his lips, as if he can't help himself from feeling that warmth in his chest.
"I still can't believe you called me your wife." You mutter, still unable to wrap your mind around it. Lifting your empty hand, you can't help but tease. "You're going to start a rumour on how a Wayne can't afford to gift his own wife a ring."
"You are right." He mutters in displeasure, and you suspect his mind has already wracked on another situation steps ahead just from your words alone.
"I suppose we'll have to arrange a marriage ceremony soon." Damian decides casually. "The last thing we need is more wolves thinking they have even a chance of your hand."
You think he's joking. You certainly were.
Yet, looking at his gaze which has now flickered to your ring finger, already analysing the measurement, you think there's a miscalculated understatement about your soon-to-be husband's proactiveness.
"What's going to happen to Reanes?"
Damian's merciful act earlier did nothing to fool you. He wasn't the type to leave loose ends.
His gaze darkens immediately, but his expression doesn't so much as shift when he says. "He'll be dealt with."
"The Al Ghul way?" You lift a brow. "Or the Wayne way?"
His lips quirk up imperceptibly. "I'm sure my siblings have creative interrogation methods they've been meaning to find an outlet for."
Pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, he mutters. "...I'll just have a leading hand for tonight's patrol when we infiltrate Reanes's warehouse."
"So, the worst of both worlds."
A dark smirk crosses his lips. "Only what he deserves, Beloved."
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