Being Damian Wayne’s chaotic!GF who’s the opposite of him HEADCANONS
Being Damian’s chaotic!GF includes… him always being the one to be calm and collected in the relationship whereas you’re loud, talkative and always out and about doing something random instead of relaxing.
There are instances where Damian does end up letting go and sports a real smile, and there’s definitely moments where you have to step up and be the calm and collected one in the relationship when Damian’s anger gets the best of him.
You guys compliment each other in that way.
Date night ranges from watching a movie in Damian’s room at the manor or a midnight drive around the city with his hand on your thigh and you absolutely butchering the lyrics to a song at full volume.
Damian usually pretends like he doesn’t see the strange looks the pedestrians throw you from the sidewalk.
Every now and then, you and Damian switch roles for the evening. You’ll get real quiet and listen attentively to his rant about the manga he’s been reading, and you’ll bask in his voice, which always ends up putting you to sleep.
Damian wayne dresses for convinience over style. Of course, he’s not the type of man who just blindly reaches into his closet and pull out random pieces of clothing, but his style is definitely on the more simple side. When he’s not wearing cultural/cultural inspired clothing, he’s always in a basic tee and pants/jeans or in sports clothes for training.
You’re far more expressive than Damian with your clothing. Opting for flashy pieces that feel like you, and definitely attract more attention than Damian’s own clothing.
Don’t be surprised when ever week in the Gotham Magazine there’s new paparazzi photos of the both of you spotted in and about Gotham, focusing on your diverse taste in fashion.
It kinda gives underdressed bf and overdressed gf
At night when you’re both cuddling and on the verge of falling asleep, you’ll get a spurge of energy and start asking him dumbass questions that he’ll just grumble about.
You defo slap Damian’s ass in public so many times that he stops telling you off and instead just glares half-heartedly at you. You even got snapped by the paparazzi once and the series of photos including you slapping Damian’s ass and folding in half, holding your stomach while you die laughing because he’s glaring at you so hard becomes a meme for a good year.
Given his upcoming, Damian has always been used to over analyzing his surroundings wherever he goes, it’s a given that his accident rate is about 0.01%.
Yours on the other hand, really can’t compete. With time, Damian ends up developing a new sense for an accident including you that’s about to happen.
Damian loves your outgoing nature because when he gets tired of talking to guests at a gala (generally after the first 10 minutes), you’re there to speak their ears off and answer their questions with pride.
You guys have the type of relationship where you’re posting instagram stories about your life each 10 minutes everyday and his followers are lucky to even have one story every few months.
Talking about socials, Damian’s account has about 20 followers and they’re all his brothers and friends. Yours is public and you’ve got about 500 thousand followers checking your page everyday for updates on the most famous couple in Gotham.
Unlike Damian, who loves keeping your relationship reserved to the both of you, you love flaunting him. Every month without fail you’ll post a 20 picture long post about the both of you and the places and things he’s brought you to and bought you.
Don’t be fooled, Damian loves having you on his phone. Your contact is pinned, half of his gallery are candied pictures he’s snapped of you and your name is always first on his predictive text (the three suggested words your Iphone gives you when typing). But he never posts you publicly because he hates having people commentating or intruding your relationship.
Damian is always tidy and put together, whereas you on the other hand, is always so messy and unorganized. You’re always testing his patience and making him rethink his dating choices, but it works out in the end.
Everyday without fail, you just have to wind up the dogs before dinner time. And everyday without fail, when Damian brings out their food bowls, he ends up getting muddy paw prints all up on his shirt because they’re restless and only want to play.
Damian considers himself a refined young man whose eardrums are satisfied mainly by orchestral tunes and classical music. Cue in the usual halfhearted argument in the car before a long car trip because you want to listen to something a little more ‘energetic’
If Damian and you met when he was first brought to Gotham and the Manor, he’d absolutely hate your guts. 10 year old Damian would have absolutely no patience for a cretin such as yourself.
You start growing on him during your mid-teens, when he’s still grumbly about every single thing on earth but starts opening himself way more to people.
At 17, Damian accepts that he can’t run away from his feelings for you and is genuinely doomed with a future with the most chaotic person he could ever name. He wouldn’t have it any other way though.
- NSFW below:
Let’s not kid ourselves and pretend like Damian is some super kinky dude who likes being tied upside down and spanked until his skin’s raw…anyway. Damian is definitely a vanilla and pretty boring guy but he just does you so good that it makes up for his lack of craziness.
You, on the other hand, love the thrill of exploring new things with Damian. He’ll always agree to trying new things, to an extent of course, but they never last too long and by the end he’ll have you back in missionary.
He’s more into that romantic slow sex and you’re more into that carnal, crazy sex. But he always makes you come so hard even in the most basic positions so you never really complain.
Damian loves it when you ride him. It also give you a canva to fulfill your desires on him. Sometimes when you feel the sex is a bit too boring to your taste, you’ll tie his hands to the headboard with his tie. It’s not something Damian would’ve asked for, but he’ll do it for you.
You take a lot of guilt and pleasure into seeing Damian comming back home frustrated and pent up after a long night of scouting Gotham. Generally it means he’ll be rougher and harder on you and you love it.
Nevertheless, given the nature of his night job and his upbringing, Damian has more than enough energy to keep up with you, he’s just far more reserved and calm than you. It doesn’t mean that he loves you any less, just that he has to brace himself for 10 minutes every morning before dealing with you.
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A/N: currently finishing an actual ff but i’m kinda feeling the headcanon vibe recently so like
Vacation with Damian includes… him ABSOLUTELY refusing to buy one of those tourists straw hats at the beach while your head is burning 40 degrees under the sun.
You end up getting it anyways. He caved and burrowed it from you after 30 minutes under the tropical sun.
Damian’s more of a cabin in the woods/rental rather than a hotel kind of guy because it’s far more private. Damian’s idea of comfort and relaxation most definitely isn’t a place crowded with people.
Also, he’ll be closer to nature that way and can be his inner Snow White in peace.
No zoos, definitely no zoos. But you both do end up visiting a couple of wildlife sanctuaries. By the end, you’ve successfully gotten 200 pictures of Damian getting his cheeks pulled at by a monkey.
Definitely see Damian as the type of guy that dresses like a local to the point where people know you’re tourists only because of you. Also because you’ve dragged him through hundreds of local shops and now he’s got his hands full of bags.
Damian is the type of man on vacation that doesn’t bother leaving space in his suitcase because he knows he’s only bringing back MAX 3 souvenirs.
He keeps his second suitcase empty for you.
Vacations with Damian quickly turn passionate because he enjoys the fact that no one is here to bother or interrupt the two of you. No work, no saving Gotham, just uninterrupted time with you in a foreign bed.
He’ll give you the night of your life and leave you limping but still expect you to be up and running by 5:30am sharp because you guys have a hike that needs doing.
Damian pretends like he didn’t plan much when whole time he was hunched up on the Batcomputer night and day trying to plan the best vacation for you.
He’s had to fight his family not to intrude your trip, but he doesn’t tell you that much because then you’d feel bad and in turn it’ll make him feel bad. You already know how it’ll end, and next thing you know, the whole family would be there cramping up your cabin.
Vacation with Damian Wayne includes feeling bummed out on your beach chair because every woman in the vicinity is staring at him since the second he slipped his shirt off.
You can’t blame them, setting sun rays shinning on those delicious abs, there’s even drops of water dripping down to his v-line and you lowkey have to restrain yourself not to bone him in front of all these women.
Queue a confused Damian as to why you’re sulking at him for ‘being too hot’. He rolls his eyes at first but then he starts thinking that he’s actually ruining your trip and pulls you to his lap.
In front of…everyone.
You’re ashamed that Damian had to go out of his comfort zone just to appease your childish sulking, but there’s something so satisfying in the way the women roll their eyes at the sight.
Also, your back against his brick-wall of a chest feels amazing and you’re not sure you care about anything else at that moment.
Damian’s utterly embarrassed when you ask some grandma passing by to take a picture of you both along the shore with your digital camera, but the sight of you so giddy makes up for it.
She did take killer pictures though.
Damian does everything. From surfing, to jet skiing, to parasailing. You’ve got to have a strong heart to date someone like Damian.
Vacation with Damian means seeing that side of him that he rarely shows, even to you. He’s relaxed and offguard and it makes your heart swell all the most.
He definitely ends up befriending the local cat and HAS to end up saving one animal while he’s there.
Also, you have to fight him not to bring back every damn stray he sees back to the manor.
You’re not sure how you’re supposed to fit 6 dogs, 2 cats and one huge fuckass iguana back in the jet, but apparently that’s something you’re supposed to figure out.
“Don’t worry about it” becomes your favorite line on vacation. There’s nothing too expensive for Damian Wayne, and nothing too heavy that those beautiful muscles you’re currently drooling over can’t carry back to the room for you.
Damian opted out of a tour guide so you both could take all your time exploring. Also, so he could stop at every single point of interest to sketch them out.
He definitely sketches you secretly every time your eyes are lost on the horizon. He even writes little notes at the bottom like “She’s entranced by a toucan, might have to get her one back home” or “ Fell in a river slipping on a mossy rock after i told her 15 times to be careful. Still looks beautiful as ever, even with algae in her hair.”
If you two aren’t already married yet then Damian would definitely consider proposing to you on holiday. He doesn’t want to do anything half-assed though, so when you do end up going back home, he’ll spend the next months planning the best trip for you and start looking into rings.
Don’t expect to spent the whole day lazing about though. Even if Damian means to be relaxing, his routine makes it so that he’s never idle for too long.
If you want to spend one day resting up in your rental, don’t be surprised when he’s gone by 5am to go hiking or at the closest gym.
Anyways…just make the mental image of Damian with one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh. He’s got sunglasses on and the sunset’s hitting his complexion perfectly. You’re surrounded by greenery and you’re absolutely in love.
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A/N: fun fact that nobody gaf abt but english is my third language after creole and french.
IN WHICH you broke off your engagement with Damian because you didn’t want to raise children with a half-absent father and Damian couldn’t leave Gotham behind for you. A year after and a change of heart, he’s desperate to get you back home.
or Cinderella, better get your ass home.
WC: 8.2k
WARNINGS: ANGST, hurt/comfort, ex-catgirl!reader, breakups, cheating (not from damian or reader), depression, alcoholism, canon deaths, suggestive/mentions of sex, reader is shorter than Damian, mentions of having children, stalking.
Loneliness greets Damian as he steps foot in the Bat Cave. The chilling kind that makes his bones grind together in discomfort, and carries a silence that Damian should’ve been used to by now. But he isn’t, and the only greeting he receives when entering the cave is the resounding patter of his dress shoes hitting the pavement.
The exhaustion of the double life begins to catch up to him faster than he’s imagined. The type of tiredness that seeps deep into his bones and cries out every time he slips on the cowl. In the instances when his fists are bloody and the charcoal beneath his eyes bleed further down the cowl, Damian Wayne grieves your soothing hands.
He reminisces of the soft palms that used to tend his aching muscles after long nights. It's an array of painful memories that grip him by the horns late after midnight, and sometimes when he's busy cuffing up a thief whose hair color resembles yours, his mind rushes back to the first time you’d kissed him. He'd worn the Robin emblem with so much pride back then, and his love ran so deep that he would have let you sink your claws right through his chest if you’d wanted to.
The Batcomputer casts a dim light upon Damian’s frowning face, monitors turning to life upon the clock of a button. When he’s done, he stays sitting before the screens a little longer with the hope that someone is going to worry for him. The time at the bottom corner of the computer screens 03:40 when Damian ultimately shuts it down. There was no one left but him in the manor to worry about anyway.
Alfred's long gone and Damian bears the scar like a fresh wound, he's yet to even accept his late father. It’s always hard to accept falling down from the summit. The blood son, a true Wayne, the young prince heir to the infamous League of Assassins and Wayne Enterprise. And despite all the titles that Damian had borne in his life, he still believes there was no better title than being yours.
Your nemesis, your friend, your boyfriend, your fiance. Damian's existence orbits around you, It's fun to belong when everything already belongs to you.
When you'd first met Damian, it hadn't exactly been love at first sight. Disdain ran mutual between the both of you. He was that bratty, arrogant, snobby boy who thought everyone had to play by his rules. And you were that annoying, over-the-top girl who did nothing but stand in his way. Rivalry quickly grew into friendship, despite how much Damian always denied it.
Then one random day, between the changes in the pitch of his voice and awkwardly growing limbs, Damian made the mistake of glancing at you. It was as if years of denial and restraint had suddenly slipped away, and there, standing in the middle of his door frame he would once grumbled about, he thought you to be the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid his eyes on.
No more of that childish girl who’d try to better him at everything, no more of that bratty boy who lived to prove that he was better than you. Then when you’d finally gathered the courage to kiss him because you knew he’d never have the balls, one clawed hand holding a death grip around the collar of his Robin suit, he’d practically melted against you.
His arms were laying stiff against his body and it took all of your restraint not to laugh into his mouth. You were only 17 then, but you’d already known that Damian was it for you. He wasn’t the best boyfriend, had never been and would probably never be, but he tried and he did it for you, and you loved him through and through.
Unfortunately, all good dreams have an end.
For years of your life, you were brought to believe that you’d been good for nothing but living off of scraps and that goddamn cat suit. Selina had taught you that Gotham didn’t need you as much as you needed it, so what’s a kid must do to survive? At 15, much to your disdain, Damian started teaching you there was more to life than just surviving.
You didn’t need to live off of scraps, you could thrive alongside Gotham. And so you did, for the next 15 years as you stayed by his side. Protecting Gotham like he himself once couldn’t have even imagined the thought of. You’d been there with him through everything. Through his siblings leaving, through his father, through Alfred.
You’d both been playing dress-up in costumes that carried responsibilities far too heavy for children of your age to bear. In the end, you’d grown tired of playing the same, tiresome game of heroes, and your priorities started shifting. Now, you wanted to play house.
Sometimes when Damian lies awake late at night in the manor’s master bedroom, which he’d moved in shortly after Bruce’s passing, he imagines the feeling of your palms rubbing warmth back into his shoulders. He’d been sitting on the edge of Bruce’s king sized bed, staring vacantly into the wall like it would erase all the misfortune that had occurred in Damian’s life. He could still remember the heart aching sensation of your arms snaking around his neck, feeling the weight of your knees sinking into the mattress right behind him as you held him in your embrace. If he prays hard enough, he can still recall the temperature of your body against his as you pressed your chest against his back in silence.
He’d only sighed then, but you’d known, like you always did when it came to him, that this grief was eating at him. You couldn’t undo the past, couldn’t go back and save Alfred and Bruce or even bring back Titus, couldn’t change his upbringing or his lineage, but you’d be there for him through it all. As the sobs wracked his body in a violent heap, you’d simply embraced him tighter. He could still recall the feeling of your lips against his tear-stained cheek.
The grandfather clock chimes behind him as the door slams shut, a once-unusual silence falls heavy upon the manor. The walk from the study to Bruce's room is filled with ghosts in the form of picture frames, Damian keeps his head down during the entire walk to the bedroom to avoid meeting the familiar faces nailed onto the wall.
He walks a little faster when he knows he’s nearing that picture that Alfred had hung of you kneeled down, embracing Titus.
That night like many others, sleep eludes Damian. And like all other nights, he finds comfort in bloody fists and charcoal coated eyelids. When he finally sheds his clothes for the night, he does his best to ignore your ring that you left on his bedside table, and he feeds his soul with that spicy tang of bourbon to knock himself out into a dreamless slumber.
—
Damian crowds your every thought as you lay on the sofa in your apartment. Below, Gotham bustles alive with noise. You can hear your neighbor yell at her husband through the thin walls, and for the fifth time this week, it slowly drives you crazy. You try to distract your mind to stop yourself from drifting back to Damian and the argument you last shared.
But no matter how hard you try, the TV slowly drifts into static noise in the back of your head, and serves the sole purpose of illuminating the room in a faint cast. The kettle brewing in the kitchen drowns to the furthest part of your mind, and soon that damned scarf you'd been trying to complete for the past month slips past your fingers and onto your lap.
Your phone buzzes on the sofa beside you, and you have to fight yourself not to hope too hard. Damian’s most definitely not coming back, he said it himself. He'd chosen Gotham over you and your future, and yet, you couldn't rid yourself of the love you held for him. It burns as strong as it did since you were nothing but children.
Your neighbors are getting louder now, a baby whines and then all you can hear is the infant's wailing. Your phone buzzes again.
It’s 7 notifications in when you finally decide to pick up the phone. You find that they’re all texts from the same guy. Carter Brooks, the rising Hollywood star that started hitting you up after reading the scoop about yours and Damian’s split.
He’s a pretty handsome dude, sure he’s got nothing on Damian, but he’s got those silky blonde strands that could entice just about anyone to run their hands through. Oh, and you’d definitely not seen those abs in the trailer of his upcoming movie.
It’s a painful minute that passes by as you stalk his socials and compare his pictures to your memories of Damian. You reread the messages from your notifications center without opening his chat yet. You end up concluding that he seems like a sweet dude, and moreover, he seems like he really wants to know you. You’re not sure you’re thinking straight when your thumbs press onto the notification and onto his chat.
By the time your eyelids start to flicker shut and your thumbs can’t seem to keep up with your words, you find the apartment complex to have been slumbered into a quiet silence. What was supposed to be a quick text turned into a 3 hour conversation and a promise to let him take you on a date.
When you finally drop your phone onto the coffee table and pull up the blanket to your nose, you notice that the noise from the other side of your wall has drowned out, and that it’s been 3 hours since you’ve last had a heart aching thought about Damian and your apparently wasted years.
If Damian wouldn’t pick you, then you’d find someone who would.
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Plot: it's7 months after and you're dating someone new, Damian drowns himself in work and alcohol. He finds out that you got cheated on as much as the entire news and shows up in front of your door. You're already humiliated enough.
Damian can physically feel his heart halt to a stop as he reads the newspaper that morning. Time passes in a fury, and it had already been 7 months since you’d ended things between the two of you and that Damian had chosen this city above you and your dreams. 7 months of fighting this urge to contact you, despite this persistent ache, Damian believes that you’re better off without him. You deserve far better than a man who has dragged you on a hell ride for years only to give precedence to the very thing that’s destroying him night after night.
Damian knows he’ll crumble to his knees and beg for forgiveness in a pitiful act the second he sees you again. It is selfish and it is all the most pathetic but it’s everything that makes him your Damian.
His fingers clench onto the newspaper so hard that he’s crumbling the paper all the way to the middle of the page. The sound of his dress shoes resound around the big office room in a continuous tap. He's carpeted the floor, and yet, anxiety bounces all around him.
Emerald iris retraces the headline over and over again to find a flaw, a mistake, and yet all he finds is the sting of the truth.
“Ex Mrs.Wayne reveals new relationship with star Carter Brooks with a passionate entrance!”
The picture on the front page rubs him in all the wrong ways when he realizes that the smile you wear on your face is meant for another man. You look as ravishing as the day you walked out on him, even got your hair done and a new pretty black dress he knows you nagged your new boyfriend for. The thought makes him want to throw up. You’d never never have to beg a day in your life with him for such trivial things, he’d buy you everything you’d ever desire.
It’s selfish, but the muscles in Damian’s neck tenses when he shifts his focus to him. He’s got his grimy right hand clad in your ringless left hand, and he’s sports the smile of an all victorious man.
At some point, Damian’s office door opens without his knowledge. His assistant tells him something about a meeting and an hour that his brain shuts out as his eyes trail on your hand in that Carter Brook guy’s one. Damian doesn’t hear the door shutting behind her, and doesn’t notice the effort she’s put in her appearance today. He definitely doesn’t notice the way her smile falls when he doesn’t pay an ounce of attention to her.
Instead, he’s got his brain stuck on how the entirety of the article flaunts your maiden name like you hadn’t been Mrs.Wayne to the entirety of Gotham for years now. Sure, with the way things had gone by, Damian hadn’t really had the time to make it official, but to the eyes of the Gothamite, you’d been Mrs.Wayne long before he even kneeled before you.
That evening, Damian didn't even wait until dinner to pour himself a drink.
—
The relationship doesn't last very long. It takes you all your might not to scratch up his face as you find him with another woman in your home. It's nothing scandalous, you don't catch him fucking her in your own bed while you're meant to be at work. You don't find underwear that's clearly not yours in the washing machine while doing laundry. No, instead you find Carter cooking her a meal in your kitchen while she cozies herself in your spot, on your own goddamn sofa. She's got her eyes fixed on your TV while she watches some comedy Carter has been talking your ear off about.
You're not surprised to find out how little it affects you to see her on your couch making herself at home. Sure, she's got that perfect voluminous blowout and a figure you'd have killed yourself for when you were 17, but the thought of Carter betraying you doesn't hurt as much as it should have. You don't have a hard time figuring out you've never really loved the man, and there's no need to assume that he's always felt the same way.
The only reason you feel yourself getting wound up is the thought that for weeks, if not months, he'd been fucking that 2-dollar-whore on your furniture without your knowledge. You shudder thinking about all the times you've sat up in their mess, and it suddenly makes you even more mad knowing that he'd probably fucked you right after doing her in your own home.
Nevertheless, Carter doesn't hear the sound of your heels clicking against the floorboard as you walk up to him. His little girlfriend surely does, but that frightened look on her face tells you she's not going to ruin your surprise entrance anytime soon. Carters too busy with his face shoved into the rosemary scented fumes above the stovetop to notice that the woman standing beside him isn't who he thinks it is, and when he turns to you with that bright smile, ready to sling an arm around who he thinks isn't you, you can see the exact moment his soul leaves his body.
“W-wow there darlin’, someone came home early.” He's stuttering up his words as he's talking to you, sweating in a way that tells you it has more to do than with the heat of his cooking. There's a paleness to his face that wasn't there when he was cooking for two, now, he's got to plate the table for an extra guest he clearly wasn't expecting to see this early on tonight.
“Jaimie here was helping me do inventory, y’know they've been making me do a lot of overtime lately.” You can feel the woman's eyes trailing you fixedly as you round up to Carter, he's got the audacity to lean in to kiss you as if he wasn't using your own apartment to play house behind your back with another woman. You waste no time dodging his stupid advances at calming you, pushing two palms against his chest to send him back. It's not enough force to send him toppling onto the kitchen island, but it's enough to have him trip over his own feet, back landing against the countertop softly.
He looks shocked that you haven't killed him yet, and a part of him worries when his gaze catches against your array of kitchen knives, and most importantly that you haven't yet brought up the elephant in the room.
The woman, who you've learned to know goes by Jaimie, ogles you like you've grown three heads as you walk through the kitchen and into the living room to sit on the sofa beside her. She notices the way you promptly ignore her and mistakes it for shock and heartbreak. Denial.
Instead, you grab the remote from beside her and change the channel mundanely like you hadn't just caught your boyfriend and his apparently coworker “doing inventory”, as he says. You wonder if they've done it in your store room, and the thought makes you want to dump all of your produce in the trash. You can feel her stare burning holes into the side of your face, and for a second, you wonder if she feels guilt. Or shame.
Probably shame.
Jaimie opens her mouth to say something, but the look you cast at her is enough to shut her off. You don't need a half-assed excuse or an apology. You knew that she knew. Your relationship with Carter was all over the news when you decided to make things public only 1 month after you’d both started dating. Foremost, you doubt she's even an ounce sorry. If you hadn't caught them in your house, you doubt she'd have even a pretence of respect or shame in your regard.
A minute of awkwardly tense silence passes by before you hear Carter sigh loudly in the kitchen, his work shoes clacking against the floorboards before you inevitably hear the door shutting behind him with a loud boom. Jaimie, who's probably trying not to kill herself with the embarrassment of being abandoned by Carter in his girlfriend's home, clasps her fingers together in an attempt at soothing her nerves.
The sight makes you huff as you turn your head to look at her, prompting her to raise her own back at you. “Need help finding the door, sweetheart?” Sarcasm rolls off your tongue as she stares you in the eye, and she doesn't even give you a second before she's shuffling off your apartment in her dainty heels, muttering apologies under her breath you're not really sure are even meant for you.
The door shuts close for the third time tonight and you allow yourself for the first time since you've entered your home to breathe. Even though you're not sad about Carter himself, there's this feeling that tugs at your chest as you think of everything that just went down. Your own boyfriend has been seeing this woman behind your back. They've been in your home and God knows where else. Has he been seeing her since you guys started dating? Since he's been texting you? Were you not good enough for him to be loyal to you? Were you not enough?
Your inner turmoil lasts for a good 45 minutes as you stare into the now black screen of the TV, and you come to the conclusion that no, maybe, you aren't enough. Because if you were, you'd never have gotten cheated on, and more importantly, if you were, Damian would have never chosen a city that’s inevitably going to kill him too over the woman who has cherished him since before she even knew she did.
The night ends with you writing down a list of things you'd spend your weekend doing. Deep cleaning, the food bank, and probably crying yourself to sleep. You end up booking a hotel room that night. You're not sure you want to sleep in your bed ever again.
—
It doesn’t take long for your name to feature in the hottest scoop yet again, and the press wastes no time profiting from the scandal. Just a week from then, yours and Carter's face are plastered onto thousands of magazine copies that sell out by evening. You can't even turn on the TV without finding your names all over the news. There's this humiliating feeling burning at you through your gut the longer you think about it, now that your breakup went public, everyone knew that you weren't good enough of a woman to keep.
You're not sure what to do besides wallow in your pity and drown yourself in the endless articles written about the scandal, because one day you're sure you'll kill yourself worrying about what they're saying about you.
For the first time in an entire year, Damian Wayne feels something other than nothingness. Instead, he feels that youthful anger rise in his veins as he reads the daily scoop. The same anger he used to harbour at only 10 years old while other kids his age were busy scraping their knees falling down from swinging up too high and living up their childhood.
Damian doesn't drink that night, the sight of your face on the headlines intoxicates him much faster than the bottle of whiskey sitting on his desk. How could anyone deceive a creature as dazzling as yourself? He would've never done this to you, Damian thinks to himself. He couldn't even bare the thought of betraying the same girl who had remained by his side even when times got rough and his tongue got loose. Back when he couldn't quite grasp the concept of friends and made sure to keep you at arms length, you were the only one who hadn't given up on him.
And when he'd grown confused between who he was and who he wasn't anymore, you helped him understand without ever making him feel weak for being vulnerable. You were the only person in this damned world that understood Damian further than he understood himself, and he'd ruined it. Just a year and a half ago, he’d gotten down on one knee and slid a ring on your finger, and then you’d grown tired of playing dress up. Tired of fighting crime in dark alleys, tired of patching up Damian after making him promise that he'd be careful tonight, tired of that dead look in his eyes after he'd pushed himself past his limit again.
He could still remember the feeling of your palm against his knee, stabling and soothing, as you bore your heart out to him. Your new dreams, a family, a home. A real, stable home. Children. He could tell it was all genuine as you spoke to him. The unusual furrow of your brows, the way your lips trembled as you spoke to him. It was selfish, something you'd both avoided speaking of in the past because it was still a scar that hadn't healed properly.
And yet, as you sat before him, you'd chosen him to be part of this dream. You'd chosen him to better the wrongs of the people who'd walked this path before the both of you. Because you weren't your parents, and you'd be damned if you'd ever be like them.
But he couldn't. He'd never repeat the same mistakes as his father had. Would never drag a child into the same path he'd been forced to take. And you being you, had never asked him to choose between Gotham and you, you wanted him to. You wanted to matter enough to him that it didn't come as an option but as a decision. But he didn't, and in the end Damian had lost the thing that mattered the most to him.
Somewhere along the line, the dreamless sleep began shifting into images of you playing in the sand with two toddlers that shared your features. And every single time he’d wake up, a part of him would grieve the life he never even had. He’s tried blaming it on his guilt, but deep down, he knew it was because he’d warmed up to the idea.
No longer did the thought of having children into this fucked, twisted world repulsed Damian like it once had. No longer did the thought of beholding a family with you feel unattainable. No, because he'd grown and warmed up to an idea that once wasn't his. Now when he pictured the future, it came with a dream and the faces of two children plagueing his very thought. Damian no longer had anything to live by but his dreams, and you were in every single one of them.
And yet, how do you ask the woman whose heart you've shattered and aspirations you've dismissed to start over? Damian's not exactly sure how, but that night as he tosses the newspaper into the hearth, he places the unopened bottle back into the cabinet. The car keys of the mobile that once belonged to his father burn in his pockets, but he's got a place to be, and a dream to save.
—
Humiliation still picks at you until morning. You haven’t been taking care of your hair, which now sits messy in your head, and you haven’t gone out to breathe in some fresh air besides your balcony’s in 4 days now. At first, it was because you hadn't needed to, now it was because you were too embarrassed to face the people. You’ve been ordering takeout ever since Carter left your home a disgusting reminder of his betrayal, and even facing the delivery guy felt shameful.
You’re scared to turn on the TV or glance at your phone because you know they’re still talking about you. You know that your face is still on the cover page of all magazines and it makes you hate yourself that you’re known as the woman who's not enough, it eats you up until you make yourself throw up.
On the other side of the city, Damian’s in the comfort of his father’s black Porsche. He’s got no worry beside your own because he knows that the media love him, son of the late billionaire playboy, the media craved him. He spent enough time last night reading the articles to know that you’re not as lucky.
He’s already got his assistant dealing with the press to take them down, but he knows you well enough to assume that you’ve already read them all.
On the passenger seat, he’s got a bouquet of your favorite flowers he hopes will be enough of a peace offering for him randomly showing after a year of no contact. He’s a fool, but he’s got dreams and a drive and he still remembers the way to your apartment like the back of his hand. He’s wearing that cologne you’d always jump on him for, maybe, because he’s a little delusional that it’ll make you want to kill him a little less.
The sports car sticks out like a sore thumb in your neighborhood, and in seconds, the photographers crowding the entrance of your apartment notice him. One of them steps so close to him that Damian’s urging to knock that camera out of his hands. Flashing lights blind him in a way he knows will end up as yet another scoop by tomorrow morning.
Damian pushes past them with a huff, grumbling under his breath as he ignores their questions about you and him. In the crowd, a news reporter that’s been camping by your apartment complex for a day now asks something about you two getting back together and his heart starts thumping a little faster. The glass doors shut behind him with the click of a lock and the security officer shoots him an exasperated look.
Because it wasn’t enough that he had to stop these borderline maniacal reporters from entering the complex, now the one and only Damian Wayne just had to show up at the door and shake up some more attention.
He ignores the man and shoves a healthy amount of cash in his hand as he heads for the stairway. Damian’s learned since young that money ruled everything and everyone in Gotham, and he’d be doomed, because he was blessed with it.
Carefully polished dress shoes drag him up onto your floor, he decides he’s too anxious to wait in the elevator. He’s impassive, but his act starts to unravel the second his feet draw closer to your door. Number 76, he remembers. He’ll never forget, never you.
His hand moves faster than his brain, and before he’s realized, there’s two knocks resounding against your door. Inside the room, you’re at war with yourself by the time the sound reaches you. Perched against the glass, you feel the past year catch up to you in a flash. Downstairs, the money hungry, fame-hunting reporters are out to get you. You’ve lost the love of your life just a year ago over your own selfishness and yet, you can’t seem to be able to keep a man for the sake of it.
There’s that heart-clenching sorrow that grips you so hard you can almost physically feel your chest caving in. Just a year ago, you would’ve never imagined that you’d have ever fallen this low. You feel like you’re constantly drowning in this black hole that’s pulling you back in no matter how hard you try to swim away. It’s something you don’t know the name of, or won’t name, because acknowledging that you’re not okay just makes everything so much worse.
Another knock shakes you up from your spiraling as you finally turn your gaze away from the mass of people waiting impatiently for you below. You’re not sure who’s waiting for you at the door, but as long as it’s not Carter or that damned side piece, you think you’ll be fine.
On the other side of the door, Damian’s hand tightens upon the bouquet as he hears the locks turning from inside. He thinks about how unsafe it is that you’re being guarded by a simple lock, and how safer you’d be at home with him, at the manor. Finally, the door pushes open, and Damian gets to witness the exact moment you realise that he’s anyone but who you could’ve expected to be knocking on your door.
“Damian” your words fall short on your lips as you stare at the man before you. He still towers over you in that way that makes you go weak in the knees. He looks so put together, hair gelled back in those spiky little strands of hair you’ve always loved and his suit clinging to his muscular form. But amongst everything, you don’t miss the dark circles that cup the lower part of his eyes, or that almost exhausted look in his eyes. There’s a break in his normally perfect stance, and your heart races when you notice the slight hunch of his shoulders.
Along your inner monologue, you notice the way Damian’s eyes stay fixed on you in all of his silence, and you unfortunately remember how dishevelled you look. Your hairs a real, unwashed mess on your head that’s got flyaways sticking up in all positions. The hoodie and sweatpants you’re wearing aren’t the most flattering piece of clothing as they swallow your figure whole. You revel in the fact that you’ve at least taken the time of day to shower and brush your teeth amongst your little self-depreciating ritual you had going on for the past days.
“I’ve seen the articles,” You bring up a hand to brush your hair into place but his words stop you short in your movement. The pit in your stomach nearly triples in size and you’re sure that with a little more shame, it’ll burst out your body and swallow you whole. Embarrassment boils in your gut because you know that he’s seen the things that people are saying about you, and besides, the scandal in itself is nothing really to pride yourself in.
“I don’t know what you want me to tell you Damian. You show up at my door a year after we split and now you’re here to make fun of me?” the words take him aback, and if you didn’t know Damian well enough, you would have missed the imperceptible way his eyes widened.
“You don’t think I'm embarrassed enough already?” Damian opens his mouth to retaliate but he backs down with a pained expression, like what you’ve said was really the nail in the coffin. That gloomy look on your face invokes a feeling in Damian’s chest that he’s been used to feeling this past year. He can tell that you haven’t been taking care of yourself like you once prided yourself in, and it’s not hard to see how quickly the past year seems to be catching up to you.
“I am not here for any of that” the worsts come out of his mouth with a coldness you didn’t know he could ever even mutter at you, and it makes me you feel even impossiblely more horrible than you already do. Damian can tell he’s losing this war but he doesn’t relent. “You’re aware that I would never ridicule you, no matter what the circumstances are.”
There’s a flash of shame that washes over your features as Damian realizes he’s sinking himself further into the hole he dug himself in. This time, instead, he takes a minute to breath and thinks thrice before speaking.
“I apologize.” it comes out weak, but you don’t break eye contact or interrupt him. You’ve always been so good to him, even when he didn’t deserve it.
“I apologize for not choosing you when all you have ever done was put me first. I’ve never meant to make you feel undervalued, or second to anything.” Damian’s eyes never leave yours as he bears his heart out to you. You realize, with the way his hands hold a distant tremble around the bouquet, that he’s laid bare and vulnerable to you in a way he’s never been before. It’s new and different, and Damian Wayne hates different, but he pushes through because that’s his way of telling you that you’re far more important to him than his own discomfort.
If it came to it, he’d change himself a hundred times just to have a chance at being yours again.
“You’re my everything,” the way he whispers your name nearly brings you to your knees, but you manage to catch yourself before you can even move, and Damian still flinches all the same, ready to catch you. “And I never imagined how hurtful it would be to lose you until I did.
You can see his lips parting as-if to start apologizing again, but this time you beat him to it.
“No, it was selfish of me to ask that of you,” you’re wrong and you both know it, because you’ve never really asked anything of him, but Damian doesn’t interject because hearing your voice speak to him so softly after a year of radio silence soothes him. And deep down in his mind, the one that only sees rights in your wrongs, he knows that you have been selfish. But you weren’t perfect, and Damian would always love you like you were.
“I know how much it means to you Damian, I would never ask you to abandon Gotham for me” you know you’ve been selfish before, you’d never asked, but you had deep down expected him to stop along you. To allow himself to settle down with you without having to wonder if he’d come back to you injured or worse. You wouldn’t raise your children with a half-absent father, and Damian wouldn’t leave Gotham behind because at some point of his life, that was all he’d known.
Normalcy as such had become so foreign to Damian that he’d alienated it from his future. How could he ever raise children and be Batman all at once? He couldn’t bear the thought of ever becoming like his father. He had to be better, and ‘better’ to Damian had once meant giving up on such dreams.
“But I would, I would in a heartbeat for you, Hayati.” his voice drops an octave as he whispers that word he’d always call you by. Devotion swims in his pupils as the bouquet now hangs upside down in his grip, half forgotten.
“But it’s not what I want, you need Gotham just as much as it needs you. I was upset because I couldn't look past my own selfish dreams to see your fears, but I see it now, I see you.” Damian knows he doesn’t deserve you, it’s something he’s thought about multiple times in the past, but to have you stand in front of him and say that you’d renounce on something you had hoped so hard for in a distant future ruins him. It almost makes him want to retrace his steps back home because you are so much more deserving of what Damian has ever offered you.
“I’m not scared anymore, not when I think about doing it with you. There hasn’t been a night since you left that I have imagined a future without you and felt anything but agony” the apartment complex falls silent under his words. Behind you, the herd of reporters or photographers drown under the weight of his confession. Your eyes droop down to the floor because you can’t handle looking him in the eyes as he bares his soul to you.
Silently, you allow yourself to bask in the words you’d spent hours praying to hear just about a year ago. Your victory comes with no dramatics or surprise party, but the warm words of a man you thought was going to haunt you for the rest of your life. There was no future for you if it wasn’t with Damian. So now, as he stands before you and confesses this change of heart, your words log in your throat, unable to escape.
“So if it’s still something you dream of, I’d love to be a part of your future.” Damian whispers, and there’s a ball forming in your throat the more the seconds go back. The irrational part of you fears that somewhere along the line, he’ll change his mind again or regret ever agreeing to doing this with you. Damian doesn’t give you a minute more to spiral, he’s a man on a mission, and tonight, he’s bringing you back home. “Tell me what you want, I'll give you everything, Habibiti.”
You don’t think about it very long, or very hard. The reasonable part of you hollers at the back of your mind, but it’s ultimately shut down by irrationality. Sure, he’s hurt you before, but you were no saint either. The thoughts of you and Damian happy, together again, completely overshadow the images of you crying alone in your apartment a week after the split. You think that for once, you’re allowed to be irrational to let yourself be happy.
You've done a whole year of thinking and Damian’s done a whole year of drinking on your account, you’re not sure you can last another moment as the man you’ve pictured the rest of your life with stands in front of you, at your doorframe.
Your resolve comes crashing alongside your heart, it feels like for the first time in forever, you can finally breathe without that suffocating feeling crushing your lungs. You choke down on a sob before you can even stop it, and Damian wastes no time catching you before you fall.
Your arms lock around his neck with no hesitation, face stuffed in the crook of his neck like you’ve done a thousand times before. His arms wrap around your waist and the back of your shoulder, the bouquet falls from his hand with little to no care, and the petals scatter into your apartment. It’s the last thing on his mind as he relishes in the smell of you. For, he’d buy you a whole garden if you asked.
Tears drip from your eyes and onto his skin, dripping down to the collar of his shirt. Damian’s lost in the feeling of you when he feels you muttering something incoherent against his neck. The hand resting your shoulder moves up to cup the back of your neck, gently pulling you off his neck. He tilts your head up to meet his insistent gaze, filled with a love you were once so used to seeing.
“I just want my ring back,” the whisper sails across his skin and melts his tougher exterior like warm butter. You don’t miss the way the corners of his mouth tilt slightly upwards, and the hand on your waist tightens its hold on you. Damian doesn’t say anything and he stares you in the eyes, like he’s reading all the way through your soul, and you let him because for the first time in a year, you’re staring at more than just the memories of him in the form of photos you couldn’t get yourself to erase.
—
The second you tell him you have no intentions in sleeping in your apartment that night, Damian’s quick to pack you a duffel bag of essentials. It feels so intimate being back in your space, things that are so mundane but feel so special that you’re allowing him back into this part of your life, like grabbing a handful of underwear from your drawer to provide for your stay with him.
It makes him feel bashful like he’s 17 all over again.
Once he’s done, he meets you in the living room using the entry mirror to fix yourself the best you can. You both use the fire exit at the back of the building to evade the curious crowd blocking the main exit. You barely make it to the car without being noticed, and the sound of your laughter as you run to the car to take cover from their evasive cameras nearly makes Damian trip in his steps.
The ride back to the mansion is spent in silence, and for the first time in a year, silence doesn’t feel like a punishment for his wrongdoings. Damian can feel the burn of your eyes of the side of his face as you stare at him, he doesn’t comment on it or admit that he’s noticed you staring, but deep down, he relishes in the feeling. He hopes that soon enough, you’ll feel comfortable enough to connect your phone to the carplay again and blast your favorite songs Damian always pretended he hated.
Once you arrive, Damian opens your door and walks in front of you to unlock the door, but his steps come to a halt when he feels your hand snaking in his empty one. He’s got your duffel bag on his other shoulder and you can almost repaint the picture of him carrying your stuff into the mansion when you’d first agreed to move in with him. It already felt like that was a lifetime ago.
The door unlocks with a twist of his key and his hand tightens around yours as he pulls you inside. The Wayne Mansion has lost all of its soul without you, there’s an almost eerie silence that falls onto the both of you as you step in. The house is dark and full of ghosts that haunt Damian’s every move. But with your hand in his, the voices finally quiet down before falling silent.
All he hears is the sound of your breathing and his heart pounding against his ribcage.
He drags you up to the bedroom and breathes a sigh of relief when he finally places your duffel bag on the bed. Emerald eyes follow you carefully as you sit down on your side of the bed like you’ve never left, familiarity picking at his chest. His eyes quickly shift from you and to the ring on his bedside table. Before Damian can even make a move, you’re sat up before him, asking him if he can bring you something to drink.
He’s back just as quick as he left with a glass of water for you, and by the time he makes it back to the room, the sound of the shower resounds all the way until the hallway.
The door’s closed and your clothes are still carefully folded in the bag, now at the foot of the bed. He’s not sure how far he’s allowed to push the limits with you, how much he’s allowed to see and touch now that you’re his again. He also notes that he didn’t even get the time to give you a clean towel of your own from the wardrobe before you rushed in, he guesses that you’ve already taken one, because you know where they are.
This was your house.
This Is your home.
Damian’s not sure how long he’s spent standing up, staring at the bathroom door, but he quickly get answers to his questions as the door opens with a twist of the knob. His feet remain glued to the carpeted floor as he watches you emerge from the room. Your hair’s wet and clinging down to you, finally clean. Your skin is shining under the ceiling light and most importantly, you’ve got his towel wrapped around you.
It’s nothing but a towel, but the sight of you wrapped up in his things nearly brings him down to his knees. A drop of water drips down your hair and down your cleavage and suddenly he's fighting a war with himself. You’re approaching him like a predator chasing its prey and he lets you, he needs you all up in his space before he loses his mind.
In the corner of his eyes, Damian doesn’t miss the absent shine of the ring on his table. Before he can fully turn his head and investigate, your palm settles on the side of his face. You’re perched on your toes to reach him, and the sight of you smiling up at him does it for Damian.
The cold metal of your engagement ring cools his cheek and his resolve completely slips. You feel his lips on yours before you can even comprehend that he’s leaning down, and his hands are all up on you. Gone is that restraint he was trying so desperately to keep up since you’d embraced him at the apartment, Damian doesn’t care to be chivalrous when his top lip encases your bottom one.
Your hand slides up to tangle in his brown tuffs of hair, earning you a brief huff. The movement causes the towel to unravel at the top and slide off your body unceremoniously onto the floor. Damian makes no move to help. The sudden chilliness makes you gasp in surprise as you throw an arm down to try and rescue your - his - fallen towel. Damian wastes no time shoving his tongue down your mouth, and suddenly you need both arms gripping his arms in order to keep yourself up.
There’s nothing romantic in the way Damian’s tongue lapped against yours. Nothing sweet to a desperate man’s kiss. It makes you weak in a way that you almost forget that you’re bare in his arms, but the thought does little to bother you. Damian, on the other hand, is completely aware. His hands draw you in and explore your body like he hasn’t already mapped the area hundreds of times before.
The clock ticks 00:00 by the time his suit joins his towel on the floor. Your legs bracket his hips and he’s completely lost in the feeling of you, it’s carnal, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. You know by the strain in your lower stomach that you’ll wake up tomorrow morning with no regrets and a limp to your walk. Nothing matters anymore when you feel Damian’s fingers intertwine with your ring-clad ones, warm breath tickling your neck.
In the end, the sheets are all crumbled and you’ve managed to push off the entire wall of decorative pillows to the floor. You end up on your back somewhere along the way, the bed groans, the frame bumps against the wall and Damian finishes with a deep groan that has your nails scratching at the expense of his back.
The satin sheets welcome you back into its embrace when your arms fall limp back to your side. It's warm and it's soft and it’s the type of intimacy you grieved so hard when you were in the arms of another man, but now you’re back and Damian’s buried so deep you’re sure you’ll feel the ghost of him until tomorrow morning.
By 00:47, you’re tempted to glance outside to make sure the Porsche hasn’t transformed into a pumpkin. It feels almost too good laying in his arms that you’re convinced you're living a fantasy. Damian’s chest heaves up and down under your palm, and for the first time in a year, you sleep tight in the arms of your lover.
-
A/N: guys if the plot is mixed up and makes no sense it’s because i genuinely be writing parts of different scenes all at once bye…
⤿ JASON TODD was immediately obsessed with you, the second you started talking his ear off on that first date. And now, your daughter is just as talkative, and he's not complaining.
!! fluff. wife!reader. talkative!reader. girl dad!jason todd. this was so fun. i have so much girl dad jason todd idk if its too much to upload it all today LMAO. pls dont comment on the baby dialoge bc it was important for that ONE moment. ENJOY.
The apartment was never quiet anymore.
Not in the hollow, echoing way it used to be when Jason lived alone and the only sound was the refrigerator humming at three in the morning. Now it breathed. It hummed. It existed in layers of noise that felt alive. Soft rattles of toys against hardwood. The gentle rustle of a baby monitor. And, most consistently, the steady, animated rhythm of your voice.
Jason had learned the different cadences of it.
There was your distracted voice, the one you used when you were half-reading something on your phone while stirring pasta. There was your annoyed voice, quick and sharp and muttering under your breath about people who didn’t use turn signals. There was your sleepy voice, soft and syrupy in the early hours.
And then there was your baby voice.
He heard it from the hallway before he even stepped into the living room.
It was bright and theatrical and impossibly expressive, rising and falling like you were performing on a stage for a sold-out crowd of one very small, very drooly audience member.
Jason leaned his shoulder against the wall for a moment before rounding the corner, letting himself watch.
You were on the floor again, sprawled on your stomach across the rug with your hair falling around your face. Your daughter sat propped up in front of you, surrounded by plush animals and soft blocks, her tiny socks already half-kicked off.
“And another thing,” you were saying, holding up a stuffed rabbit like it was making a legal statement, “if Mr. Bunny expects to live in this house, he needs to contribute to the emotional well-being of the family. We cannot have freeloaders.”
Your daughter stared at you with enormous eyes.
Jason bit back a smile.
You continued without taking a breath. “Because in this economy? Absolutely not. We are a one-income baby. You need to start pulling your weight. Do you hear me? Pull. Your. Weight.”
The rabbit flopped dramatically as you emphasized each word, causing your daughter to squeal.
You gasped, delighted. “Oh! Oh, so you agree? You think Mr. Bunny should get a job? That’s very progressive of you, peanut.”
Jason finally stepped fully into the room, boots heavy against the floor. You didn’t even glance up.
“And while we’re on the subject,” you kept going, rolling onto your side so you were face-to-face with her, “we need to talk about your sleep schedule, little miss. I was under the impression we had an agreement. A signed contract, very official.. it was notarized by the teddy bear.”
Your daughter let out a string of babbles, hands smacking together with ferocious enthusiasm.
You sat up straighter, nodding as if she’d made a compelling counterpoint. “I see. I see. So you’re saying the 3 a.m. wake-up was necessary for character development. That’s a god argument.”
Jason dragged a hand down his face, fighting laughter while you were still going.
“And then,” you gasped, picking up a block and waving it around like a visual aid, “you threw the pacifier! Which, frankly, felt personal. I offered it to you out of love, out of kindness. And what did you do? You launched it.”
Your daughter shrieked, thrilled by the intensity of your delivery. And you couldn't help the smile that came to your lips at the sight of her excitement.
Jason stepped closer, towering over both of you, and finally you glanced up when the light was suddenly blocked.
“Oh, hey Jay,” you said casually, as if you hadn’t just been giving a forty-five minute lecture to a six-month-old. “We’re in a big big business conference right now.”
“I can tell,” he muttered, his eyes filled with amusement while flicking between you and your daughter.
He crouched down beside you, one knee on the rug, arms resting loosely over it.. meanwhile, you barely slowed down.
“Babe, tell her,” you insisted, pointing at him. “Tell her we do not negotiate with pacifier-throwers.”
Jason looked at his daughter, who blinked up at him like she had no idea what you were talking about.. because she didn't.
“She’s innocent,” he shook his head and shrugged, a cheeky and boyish grin pressed into his cheeks wen his eyes landed on you.
Your jaw dropped. “You are enabling this behavior! Unbelievable!”
He reached out and scooped your daughter up in one smooth motion, settling her against his chest. She immediately grabbed onto the collar of his shirt and began enthusiastically babbling at his chin.
“Ba! Da! Mamamama!”
Jason stilled, his hands sturdy on her small, squishy body while his eyebrows shot up.
You gasped, hands flying to your mouth. “Oh my God. Did you hear that? That was clearly mama.”
“Sounded like ‘da’ to me,” he replied calmly, glancing at you sideways while biting back a smirk. He knew that would get on your nerves, so he couldn't help himself.
Your daughter let out another stream of nonsense syllables, louder now, as if mimicking the way she hears you talk.
And that was when it happened, you started talking again. Fast. Animated. Overlapping her sounds.
“Okay but listen, peanut, pronunciation matters, because if you’re going to credit someone for nine months of back pain and literally creating organs, I just think-...”
“Ba Bababa!”
“...-that we need to enunciate and be very very clear-..”
“DaDADA!”
Jason sat there in the middle of the living room, holding a giggling baby who was now yelling directly into his face, while you spoke in rapid-fire bursts beside him, words tumbling into each other without pause.
You were gesturing, the baby was flailing... both of you were making noise at the same time.
He looked from you to her, then you to her.
Two girls. Two constant, unstoppable sources of sound.
And somehow, instead of feeling overwhelmed, he felt… surrounded. In life, warmth, just something that was loud and real.
Your daughter smacked a hand against his jaw, babbling triumphantly.
You poked his arm. “You’re outnumbered, y'know.”
He huffed a laugh. “Yeah. I noticed.”
You leaned your head briefly against his shoulder, still talking, still narrating your daughter’s imaginary defense strategy while she contributed her own very passionate, very incomprehensible argument.
Jason just sat there and let it wash over him. The noise. Your voice. Her voice... it filled every quiet space he used to carry inside him.
While he absolutely loved coming home from a rough day to be with you both.. and listen to you both.. truthfully, mornings were his favorite.
Not the early ones when he slipped out of bed before sunrise, waking you and having to leave after kissing you once, twice, and a third time before whispering a promise that he'd be back.
He loved the slow and lazy ones. The ones where the light crept through the blinds in thin golden lines and no one had anywhere urgent to be.
He was half-asleep when you stirred beside him, sheets rustling softly.
“You awake?” you whispered.
“Mm,” he grunted, not opening his eyes.
“That’s not a real answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re gettin’.”
You laughed quietly, pressed a kiss to his shoulder, his jaw, then his lips.. and while he followed the feeling of your kiss, you pulled back and slipped out of bed.
He heard the soft shuffle of your steps down the hall, the faint creak of the nursery door, and then the gentle murmur of your voice.
“Oh good morning, my favorite human. Yes, oh, I know, I missed you too. It’s been at least seven hours, which is basically a lifetime.”
A small, sleepy babble responded causing Jason to crack one eye open. His one arm slung over his forehead, his shirt discarded off by his nightstand and the sun warming his bare arm.
You reappeared a moment later with your daughter tucked against your chest, her hair sticking up in dark, soft tufts from sleep.
You climbed back into bed carefully and set her between you both. Immediately, you settled on your side, facing her and your husband, watching the both of them in a sleepy lovey-dovey way.
All the while, your daughter blinked at the ceiling fan like it was the most fascinating invention in the world.
“Family meeting,” you announced softly, settling against the pillows with a lazy laugh.
Jason rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. Your daughter turned her head toward him slowly, recognition dawning, and then she smiled. It was wide, gummy, and radiating love.
Jason felt his chest tighten, as his worn hands came up to gently brush against her cheek, as if ensuring she was still there.
“Well,” you said, already starting, “today’s agenda includes breakfast negotiations, potential park attendance, and a discussion about why socks are apparently optional in this household.”
Your daughter kicked her bare feet in response.
“See?” you continued immediately. “This is what I’m talking about. There’s no consistency.”
“Baby doesn’t care about socks,” Jason murmured.
“Hmmm... you know, once she doesn't have these cute little feet, she better. .”
Your daughter let out a delighted babble and smacked her hand against your cheek.
You gasped dramatically. “Assault at a board meeting.”
Jason laughed, low and warm, reaching out to gently grab her tiny hand before she could do it again. "Be nice to your ma."
And then you started really talking.
About the dream you had. About the grocery list. About how you thought maybe you should try that new coffee place down the street because the reviews were suspiciously enthusiastic. About how your daughter’s hair was starting to curl at the ends and how that was unfair because you had spent years trying to get your own to cooperate.
You didn’t pause. You talked to the baby. You talked to him. You talked to both of them at once.
“And then,” you continued, brushing a finger over your daughter’s round cheek, “when you’re older, we’re going to tell you how your dad pretended he didn’t want pink onesies but then he folded them like they were sacred.”
“I did not-..”
“You did. It was cute.” You smiled and winked, your hand coming around from your daughter's back to poke his chest
Your daughter began babbling again, long strings of syllables that rose and fell like she was telling her own story.
You immediately turned to her, nodding seriously. “You’re right. He did cry at the first ultrasound.”
Jason froze. “You promised you wouldn’t tell people that.”
“She’s not people yet,” you teased gently, "And, to be honest, that was the hottest thing I had ever seen. I like when you're emotional."
“BA BA DA!”
You gasped softly. “Oh my goodness, she’s backing me up.”
Jason dropped back onto the pillow with a groan, staring at the ceiling as both of you continued.
You talking, her babbling. The words blending together in a warm, chaotic melody.
He turned his head to look at you.
Your hair was messy, your eyes were bright. You were smiling down at your daughter like she’d just solved world hunger with that string of nonsense syllables.
And he felt it again.
That overwhelming, steady sense of being exactly where he was meant to be.
Your daughter rolled onto her side, pressing her tiny body against his chest while still making soft, insistent sounds.
You leaned across her to kiss his cheek.
“Good morning, handsome,” you murmured in a playful tone.
He wrapped one arm around both of you, pulling you closer, letting the noise continue without trying to quiet it.
Two talkative girls.
One very large, very soft man in the middle of it.
Jason closed his eyes, listening to you both.
And for the first time in his life, the sound of constant noise felt like peace.
hiiiii, i really adored Cinderella, better get you back home, we already know what happened with Bruce and Alfred but I was curious as to what happened with the rest of the batfam and if they and Damian still speak ?
Hii nonny, glad you liked my work🫶🏽🫶🏽
i won’t even lie to you but i thought about it when i was 3/4 through the story and i literally didn’t know how to add the rest of the batfam without having to write like 2k more of lore that’d just bore everyone.
I think we can just imagine a bit of canon, every kid obviously grew up and left the manor. Damian rarely keeps contact but it doesn’t mean there’s any crazy bad blood between the siblings. Only exception is Dick. I just think that Damian’s not the type of person who’d go to his siblings for help now that he’s grown up, especially not in this private aspect of his life so it’s kinda easy not to include them.
Sorry if it’s confusing but i was also wondering the same question while writing the fic LMAOOO.
IN WHICH you broke off your engagement with Damian because you didn’t want to raise children with a half-absent father and Damian couldn’t leave Gotham behind for you. A year after and a change of heart, he’s desperate to get you back home.
or Cinderella, better get your ass home.
WC: 8.2k
WARNINGS: ANGST, hurt/comfort, ex-catgirl!reader, breakups, cheating (not from damian or reader), depression, alcoholism, canon deaths, suggestive/mentions of sex, reader is shorter than Damian, mentions of having children, stalking.
Loneliness greets Damian as he steps foot in the Bat Cave. The chilling kind that makes his bones grind together in discomfort, and carries a silence that Damian should’ve been used to by now. But he isn’t, and the only greeting he receives when entering the cave is the resounding patter of his dress shoes hitting the pavement.
The exhaustion of the double life begins to catch up to him faster than he’s imagined. The type of tiredness that seeps deep into his bones and cries out every time he slips on the cowl. In the instances when his fists are bloody and the charcoal beneath his eyes bleed further down the cowl, Damian Wayne grieves your soothing hands.
He reminisces of the soft palms that used to tend his aching muscles after long nights. It's an array of painful memories that grip him by the horns late after midnight, and sometimes when he's busy cuffing up a thief whose hair color resembles yours, his mind rushes back to the first time you’d kissed him. He'd worn the Robin emblem with so much pride back then, and his love ran so deep that he would have let you sink your claws right through his chest if you’d wanted to.
The Batcomputer casts a dim light upon Damian’s frowning face, monitors turning to life upon the clock of a button. When he’s done, he stays sitting before the screens a little longer with the hope that someone is going to worry for him. The time at the bottom corner of the computer screens 03:40 when Damian ultimately shuts it down. There was no one left but him in the manor to worry about anyway.
Alfred's long gone and Damian bears the scar like a fresh wound, he's yet to even accept his late father. It’s always hard to accept falling down from the summit. The blood son, a true Wayne, the young prince heir to the infamous League of Assassins and Wayne Enterprise. And despite all the titles that Damian had borne in his life, he still believes there was no better title than being yours.
Your nemesis, your friend, your boyfriend, your fiance. Damian's existence orbits around you, It's fun to belong when everything already belongs to you.
When you'd first met Damian, it hadn't exactly been love at first sight. Disdain ran mutual between the both of you. He was that bratty, arrogant, snobby boy who thought everyone had to play by his rules. And you were that annoying, over-the-top girl who did nothing but stand in his way. Rivalry quickly grew into friendship, despite how much Damian always denied it.
Then one random day, between the changes in the pitch of his voice and awkwardly growing limbs, Damian made the mistake of glancing at you. It was as if years of denial and restraint had suddenly slipped away, and there, standing in the middle of his door frame he would once grumbled about, he thought you to be the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid his eyes on.
No more of that childish girl who’d try to better him at everything, no more of that bratty boy who lived to prove that he was better than you. Then when you’d finally gathered the courage to kiss him because you knew he’d never have the balls, one clawed hand holding a death grip around the collar of his Robin suit, he’d practically melted against you.
His arms were laying stiff against his body and it took all of your restraint not to laugh into his mouth. You were only 17 then, but you’d already known that Damian was it for you. He wasn’t the best boyfriend, had never been and would probably never be, but he tried and he did it for you, and you loved him through and through.
Unfortunately, all good dreams have an end.
For years of your life, you were brought to believe that you’d been good for nothing but living off of scraps and that goddamn cat suit. Selina had taught you that Gotham didn’t need you as much as you needed it, so what’s a kid must do to survive? At 15, much to your disdain, Damian started teaching you there was more to life than just surviving.
You didn’t need to live off of scraps, you could thrive alongside Gotham. And so you did, for the next 15 years as you stayed by his side. Protecting Gotham like he himself once couldn’t have even imagined the thought of. You’d been there with him through everything. Through his siblings leaving, through his father, through Alfred.
You’d both been playing dress-up in costumes that carried responsibilities far too heavy for children of your age to bear. In the end, you’d grown tired of playing the same, tiresome game of heroes, and your priorities started shifting. Now, you wanted to play house.
Sometimes when Damian lies awake late at night in the manor’s master bedroom, which he’d moved in shortly after Bruce’s passing, he imagines the feeling of your palms rubbing warmth back into his shoulders. He’d been sitting on the edge of Bruce’s king sized bed, staring vacantly into the wall like it would erase all the misfortune that had occurred in Damian’s life. He could still remember the heart aching sensation of your arms snaking around his neck, feeling the weight of your knees sinking into the mattress right behind him as you held him in your embrace. If he prays hard enough, he can still recall the temperature of your body against his as you pressed your chest against his back in silence.
He’d only sighed then, but you’d known, like you always did when it came to him, that this grief was eating at him. You couldn’t undo the past, couldn’t go back and save Alfred and Bruce or even bring back Titus, couldn’t change his upbringing or his lineage, but you’d be there for him through it all. As the sobs wracked his body in a violent heap, you’d simply embraced him tighter. He could still recall the feeling of your lips against his tear-stained cheek.
The grandfather clock chimes behind him as the door slams shut, a once-unusual silence falls heavy upon the manor. The walk from the study to Bruce's room is filled with ghosts in the form of picture frames, Damian keeps his head down during the entire walk to the bedroom to avoid meeting the familiar faces nailed onto the wall.
He walks a little faster when he knows he’s nearing that picture that Alfred had hung of you kneeled down, embracing Titus.
That night like many others, sleep eludes Damian. And like all other nights, he finds comfort in bloody fists and charcoal coated eyelids. When he finally sheds his clothes for the night, he does his best to ignore your ring that you left on his bedside table, and he feeds his soul with that spicy tang of bourbon to knock himself out into a dreamless slumber.
—
Damian crowds your every thought as you lay on the sofa in your apartment. Below, Gotham bustles alive with noise. You can hear your neighbor yell at her husband through the thin walls, and for the fifth time this week, it slowly drives you crazy. You try to distract your mind to stop yourself from drifting back to Damian and the argument you last shared.
But no matter how hard you try, the TV slowly drifts into static noise in the back of your head, and serves the sole purpose of illuminating the room in a faint cast. The kettle brewing in the kitchen drowns to the furthest part of your mind, and soon that damned scarf you'd been trying to complete for the past month slips past your fingers and onto your lap.
Your phone buzzes on the sofa beside you, and you have to fight yourself not to hope too hard. Damian’s most definitely not coming back, he said it himself. He'd chosen Gotham over you and your future, and yet, you couldn't rid yourself of the love you held for him. It burns as strong as it did since you were nothing but children.
Your neighbors are getting louder now, a baby whines and then all you can hear is the infant's wailing. Your phone buzzes again.
It’s 7 notifications in when you finally decide to pick up the phone. You find that they’re all texts from the same guy. Carter Brooks, the rising Hollywood star that started hitting you up after reading the scoop about yours and Damian’s split.
He’s a pretty handsome dude, sure he’s got nothing on Damian, but he’s got those silky blonde strands that could entice just about anyone to run their hands through. Oh, and you’d definitely not seen those abs in the trailer of his upcoming movie.
It’s a painful minute that passes by as you stalk his socials and compare his pictures to your memories of Damian. You reread the messages from your notifications center without opening his chat yet. You end up concluding that he seems like a sweet dude, and moreover, he seems like he really wants to know you. You’re not sure you’re thinking straight when your thumbs press onto the notification and onto his chat.
By the time your eyelids start to flicker shut and your thumbs can’t seem to keep up with your words, you find the apartment complex to have been slumbered into a quiet silence. What was supposed to be a quick text turned into a 3 hour conversation and a promise to let him take you on a date.
When you finally drop your phone onto the coffee table and pull up the blanket to your nose, you notice that the noise from the other side of your wall has drowned out, and that it’s been 3 hours since you’ve last had a heart aching thought about Damian and your apparently wasted years.
If Damian wouldn’t pick you, then you’d find someone who would.
—
Plot: it's7 months after and you're dating someone new, Damian drowns himself in work and alcohol. He finds out that you got cheated on as much as the entire news and shows up in front of your door. You're already humiliated enough.
Damian can physically feel his heart halt to a stop as he reads the newspaper that morning. Time passes in a fury, and it had already been 7 months since you’d ended things between the two of you and that Damian had chosen this city above you and your dreams. 7 months of fighting this urge to contact you, despite this persistent ache, Damian believes that you’re better off without him. You deserve far better than a man who has dragged you on a hell ride for years only to give precedence to the very thing that’s destroying him night after night.
Damian knows he’ll crumble to his knees and beg for forgiveness in a pitiful act the second he sees you again. It is selfish and it is all the most pathetic but it’s everything that makes him your Damian.
His fingers clench onto the newspaper so hard that he’s crumbling the paper all the way to the middle of the page. The sound of his dress shoes resound around the big office room in a continuous tap. He's carpeted the floor, and yet, anxiety bounces all around him.
Emerald iris retraces the headline over and over again to find a flaw, a mistake, and yet all he finds is the sting of the truth.
“Ex Mrs.Wayne reveals new relationship with star Carter Brooks with a passionate entrance!”
The picture on the front page rubs him in all the wrong ways when he realizes that the smile you wear on your face is meant for another man. You look as ravishing as the day you walked out on him, even got your hair done and a new pretty black dress he knows you nagged your new boyfriend for. The thought makes him want to throw up. You’d never never have to beg a day in your life with him for such trivial things, he’d buy you everything you’d ever desire.
It’s selfish, but the muscles in Damian’s neck tenses when he shifts his focus to him. He’s got his grimy right hand clad in your ringless left hand, and he’s sports the smile of an all victorious man.
At some point, Damian’s office door opens without his knowledge. His assistant tells him something about a meeting and an hour that his brain shuts out as his eyes trail on your hand in that Carter Brook guy’s one. Damian doesn’t hear the door shutting behind her, and doesn’t notice the effort she’s put in her appearance today. He definitely doesn’t notice the way her smile falls when he doesn’t pay an ounce of attention to her.
Instead, he’s got his brain stuck on how the entirety of the article flaunts your maiden name like you hadn’t been Mrs.Wayne to the entirety of Gotham for years now. Sure, with the way things had gone by, Damian hadn’t really had the time to make it official, but to the eyes of the Gothamite, you’d been Mrs.Wayne long before he even kneeled before you.
That evening, Damian didn't even wait until dinner to pour himself a drink.
—
The relationship doesn't last very long. It takes you all your might not to scratch up his face as you find him with another woman in your home. It's nothing scandalous, you don't catch him fucking her in your own bed while you're meant to be at work. You don't find underwear that's clearly not yours in the washing machine while doing laundry. No, instead you find Carter cooking her a meal in your kitchen while she cozies herself in your spot, on your own goddamn sofa. She's got her eyes fixed on your TV while she watches some comedy Carter has been talking your ear off about.
You're not surprised to find out how little it affects you to see her on your couch making herself at home. Sure, she's got that perfect voluminous blowout and a figure you'd have killed yourself for when you were 17, but the thought of Carter betraying you doesn't hurt as much as it should have. You don't have a hard time figuring out you've never really loved the man, and there's no need to assume that he's always felt the same way.
The only reason you feel yourself getting wound up is the thought that for weeks, if not months, he'd been fucking that 2-dollar-whore on your furniture without your knowledge. You shudder thinking about all the times you've sat up in their mess, and it suddenly makes you even more mad knowing that he'd probably fucked you right after doing her in your own home.
Nevertheless, Carter doesn't hear the sound of your heels clicking against the floorboard as you walk up to him. His little girlfriend surely does, but that frightened look on her face tells you she's not going to ruin your surprise entrance anytime soon. Carters too busy with his face shoved into the rosemary scented fumes above the stovetop to notice that the woman standing beside him isn't who he thinks it is, and when he turns to you with that bright smile, ready to sling an arm around who he thinks isn't you, you can see the exact moment his soul leaves his body.
“W-wow there darlin’, someone came home early.” He's stuttering up his words as he's talking to you, sweating in a way that tells you it has more to do than with the heat of his cooking. There's a paleness to his face that wasn't there when he was cooking for two, now, he's got to plate the table for an extra guest he clearly wasn't expecting to see this early on tonight.
“Jaimie here was helping me do inventory, y’know they've been making me do a lot of overtime lately.” You can feel the woman's eyes trailing you fixedly as you round up to Carter, he's got the audacity to lean in to kiss you as if he wasn't using your own apartment to play house behind your back with another woman. You waste no time dodging his stupid advances at calming you, pushing two palms against his chest to send him back. It's not enough force to send him toppling onto the kitchen island, but it's enough to have him trip over his own feet, back landing against the countertop softly.
He looks shocked that you haven't killed him yet, and a part of him worries when his gaze catches against your array of kitchen knives, and most importantly that you haven't yet brought up the elephant in the room.
The woman, who you've learned to know goes by Jaimie, ogles you like you've grown three heads as you walk through the kitchen and into the living room to sit on the sofa beside her. She notices the way you promptly ignore her and mistakes it for shock and heartbreak. Denial.
Instead, you grab the remote from beside her and change the channel mundanely like you hadn't just caught your boyfriend and his apparently coworker “doing inventory”, as he says. You wonder if they've done it in your store room, and the thought makes you want to dump all of your produce in the trash. You can feel her stare burning holes into the side of your face, and for a second, you wonder if she feels guilt. Or shame.
Probably shame.
Jaimie opens her mouth to say something, but the look you cast at her is enough to shut her off. You don't need a half-assed excuse or an apology. You knew that she knew. Your relationship with Carter was all over the news when you decided to make things public only 1 month after you’d both started dating. Foremost, you doubt she's even an ounce sorry. If you hadn't caught them in your house, you doubt she'd have even a pretence of respect or shame in your regard.
A minute of awkwardly tense silence passes by before you hear Carter sigh loudly in the kitchen, his work shoes clacking against the floorboards before you inevitably hear the door shutting behind him with a loud boom. Jaimie, who's probably trying not to kill herself with the embarrassment of being abandoned by Carter in his girlfriend's home, clasps her fingers together in an attempt at soothing her nerves.
The sight makes you huff as you turn your head to look at her, prompting her to raise her own back at you. “Need help finding the door, sweetheart?” Sarcasm rolls off your tongue as she stares you in the eye, and she doesn't even give you a second before she's shuffling off your apartment in her dainty heels, muttering apologies under her breath you're not really sure are even meant for you.
The door shuts close for the third time tonight and you allow yourself for the first time since you've entered your home to breathe. Even though you're not sad about Carter himself, there's this feeling that tugs at your chest as you think of everything that just went down. Your own boyfriend has been seeing this woman behind your back. They've been in your home and God knows where else. Has he been seeing her since you guys started dating? Since he's been texting you? Were you not good enough for him to be loyal to you? Were you not enough?
Your inner turmoil lasts for a good 45 minutes as you stare into the now black screen of the TV, and you come to the conclusion that no, maybe, you aren't enough. Because if you were, you'd never have gotten cheated on, and more importantly, if you were, Damian would have never chosen a city that’s inevitably going to kill him too over the woman who has cherished him since before she even knew she did.
The night ends with you writing down a list of things you'd spend your weekend doing. Deep cleaning, the food bank, and probably crying yourself to sleep. You end up booking a hotel room that night. You're not sure you want to sleep in your bed ever again.
—
It doesn’t take long for your name to feature in the hottest scoop yet again, and the press wastes no time profiting from the scandal. Just a week from then, yours and Carter's face are plastered onto thousands of magazine copies that sell out by evening. You can't even turn on the TV without finding your names all over the news. There's this humiliating feeling burning at you through your gut the longer you think about it, now that your breakup went public, everyone knew that you weren't good enough of a woman to keep.
You're not sure what to do besides wallow in your pity and drown yourself in the endless articles written about the scandal, because one day you're sure you'll kill yourself worrying about what they're saying about you.
For the first time in an entire year, Damian Wayne feels something other than nothingness. Instead, he feels that youthful anger rise in his veins as he reads the daily scoop. The same anger he used to harbour at only 10 years old while other kids his age were busy scraping their knees falling down from swinging up too high and living up their childhood.
Damian doesn't drink that night, the sight of your face on the headlines intoxicates him much faster than the bottle of whiskey sitting on his desk. How could anyone deceive a creature as dazzling as yourself? He would've never done this to you, Damian thinks to himself. He couldn't even bare the thought of betraying the same girl who had remained by his side even when times got rough and his tongue got loose. Back when he couldn't quite grasp the concept of friends and made sure to keep you at arms length, you were the only one who hadn't given up on him.
And when he'd grown confused between who he was and who he wasn't anymore, you helped him understand without ever making him feel weak for being vulnerable. You were the only person in this damned world that understood Damian further than he understood himself, and he'd ruined it. Just a year and a half ago, he’d gotten down on one knee and slid a ring on your finger, and then you’d grown tired of playing dress up. Tired of fighting crime in dark alleys, tired of patching up Damian after making him promise that he'd be careful tonight, tired of that dead look in his eyes after he'd pushed himself past his limit again.
He could still remember the feeling of your palm against his knee, stabling and soothing, as you bore your heart out to him. Your new dreams, a family, a home. A real, stable home. Children. He could tell it was all genuine as you spoke to him. The unusual furrow of your brows, the way your lips trembled as you spoke to him. It was selfish, something you'd both avoided speaking of in the past because it was still a scar that hadn't healed properly.
And yet, as you sat before him, you'd chosen him to be part of this dream. You'd chosen him to better the wrongs of the people who'd walked this path before the both of you. Because you weren't your parents, and you'd be damned if you'd ever be like them.
But he couldn't. He'd never repeat the same mistakes as his father had. Would never drag a child into the same path he'd been forced to take. And you being you, had never asked him to choose between Gotham and you, you wanted him to. You wanted to matter enough to him that it didn't come as an option but as a decision. But he didn't, and in the end Damian had lost the thing that mattered the most to him.
Somewhere along the line, the dreamless sleep began shifting into images of you playing in the sand with two toddlers that shared your features. And every single time he’d wake up, a part of him would grieve the life he never even had. He’s tried blaming it on his guilt, but deep down, he knew it was because he’d warmed up to the idea.
No longer did the thought of having children into this fucked, twisted world repulsed Damian like it once had. No longer did the thought of beholding a family with you feel unattainable. No, because he'd grown and warmed up to an idea that once wasn't his. Now when he pictured the future, it came with a dream and the faces of two children plagueing his very thought. Damian no longer had anything to live by but his dreams, and you were in every single one of them.
And yet, how do you ask the woman whose heart you've shattered and aspirations you've dismissed to start over? Damian's not exactly sure how, but that night as he tosses the newspaper into the hearth, he places the unopened bottle back into the cabinet. The car keys of the mobile that once belonged to his father burn in his pockets, but he's got a place to be, and a dream to save.
—
Humiliation still picks at you until morning. You haven’t been taking care of your hair, which now sits messy in your head, and you haven’t gone out to breathe in some fresh air besides your balcony’s in 4 days now. At first, it was because you hadn't needed to, now it was because you were too embarrassed to face the people. You’ve been ordering takeout ever since Carter left your home a disgusting reminder of his betrayal, and even facing the delivery guy felt shameful.
You’re scared to turn on the TV or glance at your phone because you know they’re still talking about you. You know that your face is still on the cover page of all magazines and it makes you hate yourself that you’re known as the woman who's not enough, it eats you up until you make yourself throw up.
On the other side of the city, Damian’s in the comfort of his father’s black Porsche. He’s got no worry beside your own because he knows that the media love him, son of the late billionaire playboy, the media craved him. He spent enough time last night reading the articles to know that you’re not as lucky.
He’s already got his assistant dealing with the press to take them down, but he knows you well enough to assume that you’ve already read them all.
On the passenger seat, he’s got a bouquet of your favorite flowers he hopes will be enough of a peace offering for him randomly showing after a year of no contact. He’s a fool, but he’s got dreams and a drive and he still remembers the way to your apartment like the back of his hand. He’s wearing that cologne you’d always jump on him for, maybe, because he’s a little delusional that it’ll make you want to kill him a little less.
The sports car sticks out like a sore thumb in your neighborhood, and in seconds, the photographers crowding the entrance of your apartment notice him. One of them steps so close to him that Damian’s urging to knock that camera out of his hands. Flashing lights blind him in a way he knows will end up as yet another scoop by tomorrow morning.
Damian pushes past them with a huff, grumbling under his breath as he ignores their questions about you and him. In the crowd, a news reporter that’s been camping by your apartment complex for a day now asks something about you two getting back together and his heart starts thumping a little faster. The glass doors shut behind him with the click of a lock and the security officer shoots him an exasperated look.
Because it wasn’t enough that he had to stop these borderline maniacal reporters from entering the complex, now the one and only Damian Wayne just had to show up at the door and shake up some more attention.
He ignores the man and shoves a healthy amount of cash in his hand as he heads for the stairway. Damian’s learned since young that money ruled everything and everyone in Gotham, and he’d be doomed, because he was blessed with it.
Carefully polished dress shoes drag him up onto your floor, he decides he’s too anxious to wait in the elevator. He’s impassive, but his act starts to unravel the second his feet draw closer to your door. Number 76, he remembers. He’ll never forget, never you.
His hand moves faster than his brain, and before he’s realized, there’s two knocks resounding against your door. Inside the room, you’re at war with yourself by the time the sound reaches you. Perched against the glass, you feel the past year catch up to you in a flash. Downstairs, the money hungry, fame-hunting reporters are out to get you. You’ve lost the love of your life just a year ago over your own selfishness and yet, you can’t seem to be able to keep a man for the sake of it.
There’s that heart-clenching sorrow that grips you so hard you can almost physically feel your chest caving in. Just a year ago, you would’ve never imagined that you’d have ever fallen this low. You feel like you’re constantly drowning in this black hole that’s pulling you back in no matter how hard you try to swim away. It’s something you don’t know the name of, or won’t name, because acknowledging that you’re not okay just makes everything so much worse.
Another knock shakes you up from your spiraling as you finally turn your gaze away from the mass of people waiting impatiently for you below. You’re not sure who’s waiting for you at the door, but as long as it’s not Carter or that damned side piece, you think you’ll be fine.
On the other side of the door, Damian’s hand tightens upon the bouquet as he hears the locks turning from inside. He thinks about how unsafe it is that you’re being guarded by a simple lock, and how safer you’d be at home with him, at the manor. Finally, the door pushes open, and Damian gets to witness the exact moment you realise that he’s anyone but who you could’ve expected to be knocking on your door.
“Damian” your words fall short on your lips as you stare at the man before you. He still towers over you in that way that makes you go weak in the knees. He looks so put together, hair gelled back in those spiky little strands of hair you’ve always loved and his suit clinging to his muscular form. But amongst everything, you don’t miss the dark circles that cup the lower part of his eyes, or that almost exhausted look in his eyes. There’s a break in his normally perfect stance, and your heart races when you notice the slight hunch of his shoulders.
Along your inner monologue, you notice the way Damian’s eyes stay fixed on you in all of his silence, and you unfortunately remember how dishevelled you look. Your hairs a real, unwashed mess on your head that’s got flyaways sticking up in all positions. The hoodie and sweatpants you’re wearing aren’t the most flattering piece of clothing as they swallow your figure whole. You revel in the fact that you’ve at least taken the time of day to shower and brush your teeth amongst your little self-depreciating ritual you had going on for the past days.
“I’ve seen the articles,” You bring up a hand to brush your hair into place but his words stop you short in your movement. The pit in your stomach nearly triples in size and you’re sure that with a little more shame, it’ll burst out your body and swallow you whole. Embarrassment boils in your gut because you know that he’s seen the things that people are saying about you, and besides, the scandal in itself is nothing really to pride yourself in.
“I don’t know what you want me to tell you Damian. You show up at my door a year after we split and now you’re here to make fun of me?” the words take him aback, and if you didn’t know Damian well enough, you would have missed the imperceptible way his eyes widened.
“You don’t think I'm embarrassed enough already?” Damian opens his mouth to retaliate but he backs down with a pained expression, like what you’ve said was really the nail in the coffin. That gloomy look on your face invokes a feeling in Damian’s chest that he’s been used to feeling this past year. He can tell that you haven’t been taking care of yourself like you once prided yourself in, and it’s not hard to see how quickly the past year seems to be catching up to you.
“I am not here for any of that” the worsts come out of his mouth with a coldness you didn’t know he could ever even mutter at you, and it makes me you feel even impossiblely more horrible than you already do. Damian can tell he’s losing this war but he doesn’t relent. “You’re aware that I would never ridicule you, no matter what the circumstances are.”
There’s a flash of shame that washes over your features as Damian realizes he’s sinking himself further into the hole he dug himself in. This time, instead, he takes a minute to breath and thinks thrice before speaking.
“I apologize.” it comes out weak, but you don’t break eye contact or interrupt him. You’ve always been so good to him, even when he didn’t deserve it.
“I apologize for not choosing you when all you have ever done was put me first. I’ve never meant to make you feel undervalued, or second to anything.” Damian’s eyes never leave yours as he bears his heart out to you. You realize, with the way his hands hold a distant tremble around the bouquet, that he’s laid bare and vulnerable to you in a way he’s never been before. It’s new and different, and Damian Wayne hates different, but he pushes through because that’s his way of telling you that you’re far more important to him than his own discomfort.
If it came to it, he’d change himself a hundred times just to have a chance at being yours again.
“You’re my everything,” the way he whispers your name nearly brings you to your knees, but you manage to catch yourself before you can even move, and Damian still flinches all the same, ready to catch you. “And I never imagined how hurtful it would be to lose you until I did.
You can see his lips parting as-if to start apologizing again, but this time you beat him to it.
“No, it was selfish of me to ask that of you,” you’re wrong and you both know it, because you’ve never really asked anything of him, but Damian doesn’t interject because hearing your voice speak to him so softly after a year of radio silence soothes him. And deep down in his mind, the one that only sees rights in your wrongs, he knows that you have been selfish. But you weren’t perfect, and Damian would always love you like you were.
“I know how much it means to you Damian, I would never ask you to abandon Gotham for me” you know you’ve been selfish before, you’d never asked, but you had deep down expected him to stop along you. To allow himself to settle down with you without having to wonder if he’d come back to you injured or worse. You wouldn’t raise your children with a half-absent father, and Damian wouldn’t leave Gotham behind because at some point of his life, that was all he’d known.
Normalcy as such had become so foreign to Damian that he’d alienated it from his future. How could he ever raise children and be Batman all at once? He couldn’t bear the thought of ever becoming like his father. He had to be better, and ‘better’ to Damian had once meant giving up on such dreams.
“But I would, I would in a heartbeat for you, Hayati.” his voice drops an octave as he whispers that word he’d always call you by. Devotion swims in his pupils as the bouquet now hangs upside down in his grip, half forgotten.
“But it’s not what I want, you need Gotham just as much as it needs you. I was upset because I couldn't look past my own selfish dreams to see your fears, but I see it now, I see you.” Damian knows he doesn’t deserve you, it’s something he’s thought about multiple times in the past, but to have you stand in front of him and say that you’d renounce on something you had hoped so hard for in a distant future ruins him. It almost makes him want to retrace his steps back home because you are so much more deserving of what Damian has ever offered you.
“I’m not scared anymore, not when I think about doing it with you. There hasn’t been a night since you left that I have imagined a future without you and felt anything but agony” the apartment complex falls silent under his words. Behind you, the herd of reporters or photographers drown under the weight of his confession. Your eyes droop down to the floor because you can’t handle looking him in the eyes as he bares his soul to you.
Silently, you allow yourself to bask in the words you’d spent hours praying to hear just about a year ago. Your victory comes with no dramatics or surprise party, but the warm words of a man you thought was going to haunt you for the rest of your life. There was no future for you if it wasn’t with Damian. So now, as he stands before you and confesses this change of heart, your words log in your throat, unable to escape.
“So if it’s still something you dream of, I’d love to be a part of your future.” Damian whispers, and there’s a ball forming in your throat the more the seconds go back. The irrational part of you fears that somewhere along the line, he’ll change his mind again or regret ever agreeing to doing this with you. Damian doesn’t give you a minute more to spiral, he’s a man on a mission, and tonight, he’s bringing you back home. “Tell me what you want, I'll give you everything, Habibiti.”
You don’t think about it very long, or very hard. The reasonable part of you hollers at the back of your mind, but it’s ultimately shut down by irrationality. Sure, he’s hurt you before, but you were no saint either. The thoughts of you and Damian happy, together again, completely overshadow the images of you crying alone in your apartment a week after the split. You think that for once, you’re allowed to be irrational to let yourself be happy.
You've done a whole year of thinking and Damian’s done a whole year of drinking on your account, you’re not sure you can last another moment as the man you’ve pictured the rest of your life with stands in front of you, at your doorframe.
Your resolve comes crashing alongside your heart, it feels like for the first time in forever, you can finally breathe without that suffocating feeling crushing your lungs. You choke down on a sob before you can even stop it, and Damian wastes no time catching you before you fall.
Your arms lock around his neck with no hesitation, face stuffed in the crook of his neck like you’ve done a thousand times before. His arms wrap around your waist and the back of your shoulder, the bouquet falls from his hand with little to no care, and the petals scatter into your apartment. It’s the last thing on his mind as he relishes in the smell of you. For, he’d buy you a whole garden if you asked.
Tears drip from your eyes and onto his skin, dripping down to the collar of his shirt. Damian’s lost in the feeling of you when he feels you muttering something incoherent against his neck. The hand resting your shoulder moves up to cup the back of your neck, gently pulling you off his neck. He tilts your head up to meet his insistent gaze, filled with a love you were once so used to seeing.
“I just want my ring back,” the whisper sails across his skin and melts his tougher exterior like warm butter. You don’t miss the way the corners of his mouth tilt slightly upwards, and the hand on your waist tightens its hold on you. Damian doesn’t say anything and he stares you in the eyes, like he’s reading all the way through your soul, and you let him because for the first time in a year, you’re staring at more than just the memories of him in the form of photos you couldn’t get yourself to erase.
—
The second you tell him you have no intentions in sleeping in your apartment that night, Damian’s quick to pack you a duffel bag of essentials. It feels so intimate being back in your space, things that are so mundane but feel so special that you’re allowing him back into this part of your life, like grabbing a handful of underwear from your drawer to provide for your stay with him.
It makes him feel bashful like he’s 17 all over again.
Once he’s done, he meets you in the living room using the entry mirror to fix yourself the best you can. You both use the fire exit at the back of the building to evade the curious crowd blocking the main exit. You barely make it to the car without being noticed, and the sound of your laughter as you run to the car to take cover from their evasive cameras nearly makes Damian trip in his steps.
The ride back to the mansion is spent in silence, and for the first time in a year, silence doesn’t feel like a punishment for his wrongdoings. Damian can feel the burn of your eyes of the side of his face as you stare at him, he doesn’t comment on it or admit that he’s noticed you staring, but deep down, he relishes in the feeling. He hopes that soon enough, you’ll feel comfortable enough to connect your phone to the carplay again and blast your favorite songs Damian always pretended he hated.
Once you arrive, Damian opens your door and walks in front of you to unlock the door, but his steps come to a halt when he feels your hand snaking in his empty one. He’s got your duffel bag on his other shoulder and you can almost repaint the picture of him carrying your stuff into the mansion when you’d first agreed to move in with him. It already felt like that was a lifetime ago.
The door unlocks with a twist of his key and his hand tightens around yours as he pulls you inside. The Wayne Mansion has lost all of its soul without you, there’s an almost eerie silence that falls onto the both of you as you step in. The house is dark and full of ghosts that haunt Damian’s every move. But with your hand in his, the voices finally quiet down before falling silent.
All he hears is the sound of your breathing and his heart pounding against his ribcage.
He drags you up to the bedroom and breathes a sigh of relief when he finally places your duffel bag on the bed. Emerald eyes follow you carefully as you sit down on your side of the bed like you’ve never left, familiarity picking at his chest. His eyes quickly shift from you and to the ring on his bedside table. Before Damian can even make a move, you’re sat up before him, asking him if he can bring you something to drink.
He’s back just as quick as he left with a glass of water for you, and by the time he makes it back to the room, the sound of the shower resounds all the way until the hallway.
The door’s closed and your clothes are still carefully folded in the bag, now at the foot of the bed. He’s not sure how far he’s allowed to push the limits with you, how much he’s allowed to see and touch now that you’re his again. He also notes that he didn’t even get the time to give you a clean towel of your own from the wardrobe before you rushed in, he guesses that you’ve already taken one, because you know where they are.
This was your house.
This Is your home.
Damian’s not sure how long he’s spent standing up, staring at the bathroom door, but he quickly get answers to his questions as the door opens with a twist of the knob. His feet remain glued to the carpeted floor as he watches you emerge from the room. Your hair’s wet and clinging down to you, finally clean. Your skin is shining under the ceiling light and most importantly, you’ve got his towel wrapped around you.
It’s nothing but a towel, but the sight of you wrapped up in his things nearly brings him down to his knees. A drop of water drips down your hair and down your cleavage and suddenly he's fighting a war with himself. You’re approaching him like a predator chasing its prey and he lets you, he needs you all up in his space before he loses his mind.
In the corner of his eyes, Damian doesn’t miss the absent shine of the ring on his table. Before he can fully turn his head and investigate, your palm settles on the side of his face. You’re perched on your toes to reach him, and the sight of you smiling up at him does it for Damian.
The cold metal of your engagement ring cools his cheek and his resolve completely slips. You feel his lips on yours before you can even comprehend that he’s leaning down, and his hands are all up on you. Gone is that restraint he was trying so desperately to keep up since you’d embraced him at the apartment, Damian doesn’t care to be chivalrous when his top lip encases your bottom one.
Your hand slides up to tangle in his brown tuffs of hair, earning you a brief huff. The movement causes the towel to unravel at the top and slide off your body unceremoniously onto the floor. Damian makes no move to help. The sudden chilliness makes you gasp in surprise as you throw an arm down to try and rescue your - his - fallen towel. Damian wastes no time shoving his tongue down your mouth, and suddenly you need both arms gripping his arms in order to keep yourself up.
There’s nothing romantic in the way Damian’s tongue lapped against yours. Nothing sweet to a desperate man’s kiss. It makes you weak in a way that you almost forget that you’re bare in his arms, but the thought does little to bother you. Damian, on the other hand, is completely aware. His hands draw you in and explore your body like he hasn’t already mapped the area hundreds of times before.
The clock ticks 00:00 by the time his suit joins his towel on the floor. Your legs bracket his hips and he’s completely lost in the feeling of you, it’s carnal, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. You know by the strain in your lower stomach that you’ll wake up tomorrow morning with no regrets and a limp to your walk. Nothing matters anymore when you feel Damian’s fingers intertwine with your ring-clad ones, warm breath tickling your neck.
In the end, the sheets are all crumbled and you’ve managed to push off the entire wall of decorative pillows to the floor. You end up on your back somewhere along the way, the bed groans, the frame bumps against the wall and Damian finishes with a deep groan that has your nails scratching at the expense of his back.
The satin sheets welcome you back into its embrace when your arms fall limp back to your side. It's warm and it's soft and it’s the type of intimacy you grieved so hard when you were in the arms of another man, but now you’re back and Damian’s buried so deep you’re sure you’ll feel the ghost of him until tomorrow morning.
By 00:47, you’re tempted to glance outside to make sure the Porsche hasn’t transformed into a pumpkin. It feels almost too good laying in his arms that you’re convinced you're living a fantasy. Damian’s chest heaves up and down under your palm, and for the first time in a year, you sleep tight in the arms of your lover.
-
A/N: guys if the plot is mixed up and makes no sense it’s because i genuinely be writing parts of different scenes all at once bye…
summary: in which reader has to work through some unresolved feelings towards bosco after landing in antwerp
pairing: bosco leroy x fem!reader
word count: 4.8k
tags: idiots in love, roommates-to-lovers (vacation edition), only one bed, fluff mostly — spoiler warning for now you see me: now you don’t (2025) !!
cross-posted to ao3!
a/n: new to dominic sessa + obsessed w/ nysm = lethal combo. enjoy ^^
Atlas has the group of you holed up in a hotel suite in Antwerp. It’s altogether much nicer than you could’ve anticipated. The four of you (Charlie, most insistent out of the lot) offered to split on the setup, but Atlas unceremoniously insisted on the jet ride over that he could cover the cost all on his own. You couldn’t tell if he was showing off—though, knowing his track record, it wouldn't have been out of the realm of possibility. Regardless, when you all roll up to the room with your duffels and suitcases, and Atlas nimbly keys into the suite, you feel like a kid on vacation.
“Voilá,” he hums, tucking the keycard in the inner-pocket of his coat. Though you adore the Bushwick warehouse-turned-flat that you’ve decorated with your friends—a motley collection of magic books, occult items, cult-classic movie posters, and ill-assorted furniture—this is fresh. The suite is a perfected site of opulence. For starters, it’s grand—ten times larger than any other old motel room back home, with doors that lead God-knows-where. Everything’s draped in red silk-damask, persian rugs line the floors, and there are dark-wooden, carved countertops protruding out the walls straight out of a storybook; the only clue to modern-times are the plain-white lampshades sprinkled throughout the main room.
You can feel Charlie and June practically radiating beside you. Bosco, too, wears a small, satisfied grin on his face—one you’re all too familiar with. This, by far, is the greatest score yet. All four of you are there on a particularly special directive—but it doesn’t mar the fact that you’re all young and abroad. After letting you all soak it in, Atlas takes the first step through the doorway—breaking the barrier in. The rest of you shuffle in behind him.
“Two-bedroom suite. And a sofa bed,” he says coolly, “Obviously, I can take the larger room—that’s got the king. You kids can figure out the rest.” With that, Atlas wanders his way off with his bags into the next room over—as if he’s already figured his way around. It’s clear that he's already quite ready for his personal space, having been bombarded throughout the entire jet ride over by all of your curious questions.
It takes just a moment for each of you to get up to speed, before June perks up. “Yeah—dibs on the other room.” You curse her mental acuity, wishing that you would’ve thought to call it first. But, you can’t stop her; she’s already made wide-steps in the opposite direction to go unpack in the second room.
“You can’t call dibs on a whole room,” Bosco calls out. June doesn’t think to respond back. You’re too busy trying to map out the next best arrangement, when Charlie puts up his index finger, “Dibs, too. I have that thing about bed bugs.” And, suddenly, you feel like you’re about to suffer from heart palpitations.
You lay a measly glance at Bosco. He’s gripping the strap of his backpack like a vice, slouching just slightly—and he seems to be staring Charlie down. This is evolving faster than you can catch it. Tutting softly, you shake your head: “If there are bed bugs on the couch, there’s probably bed bugs on the beds.”
He hesitates, “…Better to be safe than sorry.” It sounds nearly like a question, rather than a conviction—but Charlie picks up his duffel and jogs to catch up with June.
“Right. We’ll be on the front, then.” Though Bosco aims the thought at Charlie’s back, it seems now like he’s finally turning his attention onto you. Bosco peers down at you—trying his hardest, maybe, not to pout—you can finally see the reddened tint that’s donning his cheeks. If you didn’t know better, you’d say that he’s mortified to be boarding with you. Usually? Bosco has lots to say. He’s got a sharp tongue and a big mouth and always knows just the right thing to tick people off. This has certainly been the case for the last twenty-four hours, give or take, with Atlas. He’s softer with the three of you—because you’re familiar, and you’re family.
Lately, Bosco has been off-kilter with you. It’s only really observable to the trained eye—the way that he opens his mouth and shuts it hastily whenever he wants to crack a joke at you; or, how he always seems to have that terrible rush of blood to his cheeks whenever the two of you are alone. You wonder, most of the time, if you’re making it all up in your head. But, you have to remind yourself that your interpretations of Bosco’s newfound behavior are grounded in evidence.
The last time you’d been in a remotely close situation with Bosco was a month ago. Underground bar in May. He was flirty, then—because the cover had asked for it. He made sure to pin you up against the brick wall of the bar you were staged at—a well-timed distraction for a big-shot politician. Being the ex-Julliard performance student that he was, Bosco knew just the right way to sneak his thumb over your lips and kiss between the two of you. You fed into the whole act, mussing his curls with your fingers and leaving sloppy dark-red lipstick prints all over his jaw (the sensation of which made you feverish well into the night).
It hadn’t just been that. For the greater part of the year, you’ve found yourself feeling more and more aware of him. You’re in part to blame, always eyeing him the way that you do. You can’t help but sneak little glances at him—watching the way that his eyes light up when he’s amused, waiting for him to make witty comebacks, soaking in when he’s particularly pleased about a good gig. And, he’s no better than you are—offering to stay up with you while you design tricks, filling the fridge with your favorite flavors of seltzer. Friends. That’s what you were.
Now, with Bosco towering beside you, seemingly glued to the floor… you aren’t sure what to say. So, he starts—shakes his head gently, putting both hands up. “I can cram onto one of the side-chairs. Don’t sweat it.”
You’re tempted to laugh at the thought of his lean body attempting to fold onto the cushioned seat—arms and legs jutting out in all directions. He looks just slightly ticked by your amused expression, so you try to drop it. “Don’t be a prude, Bosco. It’s one sleepover.”
“I’m not a—that’s rude. And, grossly outdated,” he scoffs. “I’m actually being respectful, polite, chivalrous…”
“I’m just saying! You’re not going to die if we share a sleeper—unless you have some strange condition that makes you allergic to human touch. In that case, you’d already be long gone,” you snort.
He drops his backpack onto the floor, right next to your stagnant rolling suitcase. “I don’t have a condition—and fine! We’ll share the bed.”
It doesn’t take long for nightfall—especially considering how much the flight over to Antwerp cut out of your day. Atlas is surely already straight off to bed—not having come out of his room since walking in. You’re sure that you can hear Charlie and June chortling away on the opposite wall. You try to help Bosco as much as possible with the sofa bed; he unfolds the mattress, you toss on the sheets. It’s only a matter of time before the two of you are ready to sleep. You try to remind yourself that you’re already well-acquainted with Bosco. You live with him—and, frankly, you’ve seen each other in more compromising positions.
Now, though, you can’t be so sure that there’s anything more compromising than this: your “I <3 NY” shirt and tiny shorts, and his gray sweats and white-tee. You’re both inclined toward absolute disaster. You let yourself stare down Bosco’s cotton-clad back for only a second as he goes around the suite to turn off the lamps; by the time he’s back toward the sofa bed, you’re already well-tucked under the safety of the duvet.
As soon as he lifts the covers up beside you, he murmurs out a little, “Goodnight, Ace,” before settling down himself. Quite similarly, you both end up polar opposites on either side of the bed, deliberately faced away from one another. From your view, you can see the moving shadows crossing back and forth in Charlie and June’s room; they’re still wide-awake. All the while, you’re stuck nearly back-to-back with Bosco—wondering if he can hear your pulse as loudly as you can. You know you won’t be able to sleep for at least another hour.
It doesn’t help that this suite has a major shortage in blankets; it’s all too late for you to call room service, and you also feel just a bit too prideful to ask anyone for help. The thought of moving even a centimeter out of your symmetry with Bosco makes you terrified; so, you stay still, shivering. Another five or so minutes passes before you realize Bosco has caught on. He seems to huff out a little bit, before asking, “Are you cold?”
“No.” You’ve decided to stick to being stubborn for as long as you can; it’s that or death.
Bosco tries again. “I can practically hear your teeth chattering from over here.”
“Fuckin’ freezing in Flanders.”
“Alliteration—cute. You didn’t think to bring a sweater or something?”
“You’re not wearing one either.”
“Uh, yeah—that’s ‘cause I’m a living, breathing heater,” Bosco says, “Remember?”You do. You’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve walked around Manhattan with Bosco at midnight—you three bundled in coats, and him in nothing but a button-down. He lets you both stall for a moment, before shuffling around behind you. You’re sure that he’s looking over his shoulder at you, when he asks, “Do you need me to ask Atlas where the spare covers are?”
Again: “No. He’s probably passed out after today. Practically burst a blood vessel on the plane over.” This makes Bosco laugh under his breath (the culprit he is)—which makes you peep a smile under the covers.
“We can’t have you getting hypothermia before we take down Sister Vanderberg. It’s just not productive.” It all feels more dramatic than it actually is; truly, you could probably get away with sleeping cold. You’ve done it plenty of times in the Bushwick flat in Winter. But, before you can protest, you can hear Bosco drag himself up off the mattress. In the dark, you can see him scramble over to his backpack, unzip the main pocket, and dig around for something specific. When he finds it, he whispers a little resolute “a-ha!” before tossing it onto your lap: his dark-gray, lined hoodie—folded neatly into a little bundle. Even static, over the covers, it smells like Bosco’s pine cologne.
Bosco lands back onto the mattress beside you as you undo the hoodie and slip it on; it covers the entirety of your frame, down over your shorts. Decidedly, he tells you, “You can keep it for the whole trip if you don’t end up buying something from that tourist trap down the street.” You sincerely believe that you won’t try to replace what you’ve got on now—but you still hum to agree with him.
Now, you’re nothing but warm, and though you’re both settled back in, you can still hear the sound of Bosco drumming away on the pillow by his head. A tell—he’s still all nerves. So, you pipe up: “I’m stoked for Charlie, you know. I’ve got a really good feeling about how this’ll all go down.” He already knows your thoughts on the matter, because you’ve said it a billion times over.
“Yeah. Me too.”
—
Antwerp is different. It’s all Baroque and corner bakeries and superfluous quantities of glass windows. This is what you notice the morning after your little overnight situation with Bosco, as Atlas walks you through some tourist-populated town square. That’s when he finally takes the time to clarify that there are three days between now and the Heart’s auction. Three more days, you think. Nothing you don’t already know—but, you would’ve appreciated greater hindsight that you’d be sharing your boarding accommodations with Bosco the entirety of the time.
The four of you, collectively, don’t make it out of the suite beyond meals; you’re all just too busy trying to prep tech for the big event. Charlie works on programming the carbon copy of the Heart’s plexiglass casing, while Bosco works on detailing for the faux Heart. You and June work logistics around the guest list, the building layouts, and the timing. All the while, Atlas reviews the soundness of the entire design. At some point in the night, between takeout and work, you decide to shower and change into your pajamas: again, a pair of shorts, and Bosco’s hoodie. You regret it as soon as you make your way out of the bathroom and into June and Charlie’s room.
June has a coy look on her face—surrounded by floor plans and laptops, momentarily distracted by the article of fabric that’s found its way onto you. She wolf-whistles at the sight: “Oh. This is rich. Are you even wearing anything under that?”
“Obviously—yes,” you scoff. You can already imagine the little tale she’s whipping up in her head of how you’re intending to seduce an innocent, unknowing Bosco Leroy. You’d only intended to get more comfortable for the long night—though, that sounds just as bad. “Just scoot over,” you tell her, shooing her to the other side of the queen-bed. You try to take a closer look at the transparent papers scattered around the two of you—one of the auction venue, another of a nearby ship port, all the while June attempts a “good” impression of Bosco.
“Oh, wow,” June-as-Bosco bellows, “Just—geez, Ace, you’ve got me all hot and bothered. Is this for me?” She reaches to tug at the collar of the hoodie, threatening to pull at the zipper. You hastily swat her away. The quick slap that you lay on your hand sends her into a fit of coquettish laughter. It isn’t before long that you hear a shuffling of steps down the hall: Charlie (you can tell by the dragging of his soles against the carpet), coming to see the commotion. When you look up, he’s leaning against the doorway, arms crossed—scrutinizing your choice of dress.
“I’ve got a shirt underneath,” you insist. It’s true: there’s a camisole underneath—so, it’s not nothing.
Still, Charlie grins, “I don’t know if I believe you.” He looks back over at June, “Do you?”
June nods slowly, but blurts out an assured, “Definitely not.”
Another set of footsteps. You want it to be Atlas—by God, you do—but the sound of a lightweight stride… from down the hall, you hear a concerned “Y’know, I’m trying to work on my Schrieber, and all I can hear is the three of you cat-fighting.”
Bosco stops just beside Charlie in the doorway, the two of them wedged side-by-side. He has his phone turned landscape, resting in his palm, wired earbud wedged into his right ear—probably mid-watching an interview to study mannerisms. His attention is almost completely honed in on the screen, until he finally drags his gaze up to see exactly what he’s missing out on. You’re half-tempted to scramble off of the bed, unzip the hoodie, and toss it straight at his chest. But, you’re just spooked enough, a deer in headlights, to stay planted on the queen bed. You watch Bosco’s eyes make the slow descent from your face, to the hoodie, down your bare legs, and right back up.
“I think you’re drooling, B.” June judges your ribs.
“Shut up, June.” You swat her away.
“Yeah—shut up, June,” Bosco echoes. He’s bright-red as he pulls the earbud out of his ear by the wire, and jumbles it with his phone into a wiry mess; he shoves it straight into his pocket, before straightening up his posture. “I mean, I gave it to you for a reason. I’m just glad it’s being put to good use.” Bosco nods at you, crossing his arms tightly. You give him a nod back, sorting together the transparent papers—a useless distraction.
“What was the reason, again?” Charlie interjects, feigning confusion, “Please, do share. I don’t think we’ve been clued in.”
“The reason, obviously, is that,” Bosco blinks, “it’s cold.” He tries to suppress the slight pout that’s urging itself onto his face—an unintended result of his cop-out answer. He tries again: “It was cold last night, so I’m lending it. It would've been inhumane if I hadn’t.”
Charlie hums contemplatively, “Wow, dude. Real model citizen.”
“So sweet, Bosco,” June praises. A beat, and she coughs—trying to summon another impression out of herself: “It was so cold last night, Ace. I would’ve used myself to keep you all warm n’ cozy, but I’m too much of a chicken-shit—so I gave you my hoodie instead.”
“Is that supposed to be me? Funny.” Bosco scoffs. Still red. "Your intonations definitely need a bit of work.”
Charlie pokes the bear: “Actually sounds pretty accurate to me.” Bosco rolls his eyes—exactly what Charlie would’ve wanted—and it isn’t till then that you realize that he’s got a refusal to look you in the eyes, opting for the floor, the ceiling, the floor plans, his shoes…
You’re just about to shush them both, when Atlas yells down the hall—a muffled “Dinner, kids!” You reach to give June’s arm a quick pinch, but she rolls off the bed quicker than you can reach, grabs Charlie by the wrist, and skitters away. You slide off the duvet, too, tugging at the hem of the hoodie to make sure it doesn’t ride up. When you get to Bosco, he’s finally shaken off a little bit of his blush—leaving only a tinted remnant of what has appeared under June and Charlie’s teasing.
Now, you’re both in the halo of the doorway—your eyes raised up to meet his. Being chest-to-chest like this is eerily reminiscent of last May. It’s like you’re back in that underground bar again, Bosco’s practiced Brooklyn accent asking you if you’re having a good time, calling you nice things like “baby” and “sweetheart.” For the cover, you told yourself, all in good fun. Now, a month later, you’re all the way in Belgium of all places—trying not to panic over a stupid article of clothing. Bosco’s not making it any easier with the way his eyes are flitting from your eyes downward.
“Do you want it back?” you ask him. He lets out a soft, strangled sigh, like he’d been holding his breath in for the greater half of Charlie and June’s interrogation.
“Of course not,” Bosco tells you. Then, he nudges you gently by the small of your back down the hall. “Now, go on, before Atlas throws another fit.”
—
So, you’ve been sent on a long trip with J. Daniel Atlas, the night before the private auction, so Charlie can tend to his… other obligations. The great excuse that you’ve concocted is concerned primarily with the auction’s black-tie dress code. You’ve got everyone’s measurements logged on your phone—save for Atlas, whose refusal to let you measure him is a clear indication that everything’s going to plan. You’re due to shop around Meir for a couple hours with him to find everyone’s night-of attire.
This brings you to a classy sort of department store, sifting through racks of sale dresses for you and June to wear; Atlas has been tasked with Bosco’s suit and Charlie’s waitering uniform. Every now and again, you take a photo of possible options for yourself—partly out of indecision and partly out of the need to stall. The group chat you share with Charlie, June, and Bosco is aptly titled with a rabbit and a hat emoticon. The picture you send of a nice, dark-blue satin dress and a matching thin scarf conjures up an unquantifiable amount of exclamation points from June and a satisfying “Classy, Ace” from Bosco. You let out a stunted snort. At the sound of Atlas sidling up beside you, you quickly pocket your phone into your back pocket and hang the dress over your arm—as coy as you can.
This makes him stifle a laugh. “Pro-tip, kid? Showmances are a dangerous game. You should be more careful.” He slips his hands into his pockets like he’s going to give you a proper lecture.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about you and Leroy. Will they, won’t they… Reminds me of the good old days. Seriously, I could be sick.”
“Still, no,” you hum—moving down to the rack of black dresses nearby. You want your cluelessness to make him come off it, but it’s clear that he’s laser-focused on, now, on your affairs.
“I’m pretty sure you have an idea. And, if he’s anything like I was—which he unfortunately is—he’s probably all tongue-in-knots, pre-teen angst. Terribly cliché,” Atlas rambles on, “But, his ego is telling him to stick it out and not surrender to temptation.”
You want to stop him, but you’re still trying to catch up. “Your silence is telling me I’m right on the nose,” he nods, “From what I’ve seen, you’re quick, you’re smart, you know how to plot a good trick. You’re running miles around Bosco—which, by the way, definitely does it for him—and you two have all this unresolved tension you have no idea where to put. So, your two little cheerleaders are trying to weasel it out of you.”
“Cheerleaders… that part sounds pretty familiar, actually. I’m not so sure about the rest.”
“And, you’re in love with him, too… Figures.”
“I’m not in love with Bosco. He’s one of my best friends.”
“Right. And Henley was just my assistant—until we started shacking up,” Atlas admits, tilting his head. “You and Junior are a ticking time bomb.”
Something tells you that you should’ve loaded Atlas onto June instead—but you’d volunteered long before Antwerp to take him. Now, he’s making some pretty brash assumptions about your love life that you’re seemingly unable to prove wrong. Atlas lowers his face a bit closer to the rack, noting how you’ve practically got your nose shoved into. “Want me to let you in on a secret?” he asks you. “Figure it out when neither of you are being strung-up sideways for a trick. It’ll give your relationship a better running chance.”
—
Schrieber is due to roll into Antwerp by ten o’ clock—so the four of you are up early getting dressed into your covers. You and June as lost college students abroad, Charlie and Bosco as Vanderberg PR and chauffeur. When you exit the bathroom with your lost-traveler outfit, Bosco’s already leaned back on the folded sofa—stark-white button-up, suit jacket, black sunglasses on. You join him, sinking down on the cushion, before snatching the sunglasses off the bridge of his nose and placing them atop your head. “Rule twenty-two.” No sunglasses indoors, Bosco. You’d come up with that with Charlie and June, alongside rules one through twenty-one, in the apartment back home.
“We’re in another country, and I was trying to take a nap.”
“Still cohabitating—so, they still apply,” you shrug. It isn’t until he sleepily rubs his eyes that he recognizes that you’re already changed; he gives you a thumbs-up—which you realize, seconds after, is supposed to be a hitchhiker’s sign, and not of approval. This makes you snort, nudging him with your shoulder and pushing his hand down half-force. “Dick.” Pleased, Bosco puts it down, a smug grin on his face.
A pleased, little giggle erupts out of June and Charlie’s—before the door clicks shut (likely Charlie, having a bit of mercy on you). This makes Bosco grumble: “My God, they need to put it down already.” Something in the way he says it—the disgruntledness—ticks you off. It’s not just some ploy the two of them fabricated out of thin air. In your defensiveness, you can feel your cheeks start to spring heat.
So, you tell Bosco, “They can’t help it. It’s second-nature—especially after May.”
“Right, May,” Bosco repeats, slow and weary. He blinks, not keen on expanding. It’s like he’s trying to walk through a minefield.
“When you ‘kissed’ me,” you urge.
Bosco seems a bit disgruntled with you. “We. Emphasis here is we. And, it was a stage-kiss. Doesn’t really count.”
“But, you started it,” you correct him. Atlas’ pep talk is doing wonders for your courage. “We could’ve staged a fist fight or something, instead—but you were feeling touchy-feely.”
“I’m pretty sure I remember you attacking my neck.” You did; Bosco had lipstick prints all up his jaw to under his collar. But, that’s not exactly the point, either.
“I was trying to make it more convincing!”
“Yeah, it was a real good act.”
You can’t help but your eyes. “Don’t act like you didn’t like it.”
“Trust me, I liked it.” Bosco says it like it’s the most simple thing in the world. There it is, laid out on a silver platter. He liked it—of course, he did. Would’ve been plain stupid if he hadn’t. The two of you sit in silence—your eyes wide, Bosco trying not to chew his bottom-lip.
“You could’ve said that, like, way earlier.”
“Well, I’m flighty. And, a bit of a loser—which I’m glad you’ve sort of forgotten about,” Bosco chuckles under his breath, clasping his hands together and resting his elbows on his knees. Even from the side-profile, you can see that his cheeks are a pinkish-red. “To be completely frank, it’s been driving me crazy—you in bed, you in my clothes, you. It’s driving me crazy right now,” Bosco says, “I need a little bit of a fixin’ or I think I might pass out.”
“I’m pretty sure I can help you out with that,” you murmur. You adjust your body to face Bosco more clearly, and he finally straightens up to match you—moving one hand to rest on your thigh. Just before you close the gap, you slot your thumb over his lips and lay a short kiss between the two of you. He opens his eyes, looks down at your shit-eating grin, and shakes his head.
“Gonna need a little bit more than that. C’mere.”
Impatiently, Bosco slots both of his hands on either side of your face—cupping your jaw to pull you toward him. He’s more tender than you would’ve expected, slotting his lips into yours—tentatively, at first, trying to learn his way around. You move your hands up into his curls, and you can feel him try to suppress a smile as he leans down to deepen the kiss.
Bosco’s hands—calloused and warm—run down to your hips, sliding just beneath the hem of your tank-top. They threaten to go higher, but you shake your head, pushing them down gently, and pressing them back into your hips. He yields. You’re still very much in Antwerp, in the middle of a hotel suite—with a job to do. “You’re excited,” you try to get out between kisses. He’s relentless, leaving pecks from your lips to your jaw down to your sternum. Bosco laughs, “Can you blame me? This is hot.”
Your back-and-forth goes on for at least another minute, before you interject again—placing two flat palms on Bosco’s chest and separating the two of you with a rushed, “Okay, okay.” He leaves one last peck on your lips, before finally giving it up. You pull yourself back to fix and fold Bosco’s collar, and neaten his hair; he readjusts the hem of your shirt back to where it was.
“This started way before May, didn’t it?”
He nods keenly, “Way before.”
Unbeknownst to the two of you, Atlas is standing in the doorway of his room. He jingles the keyring in his right hand to bring the two of you to attention. “Once you two are done playing girlfriend-boyfriend, I need someone to bring the car around.” He tosses the keys up into the air, and you catch it in your right hand; you swear he gives you a bit of wink—left unobserved by a sheepish, red-again Bosco—before he turns back into his solo room and shuts the door.
“Shake to figure it out later?” You raise your hand up to shake Bosco’s. He returns it—gripping your palm with his fingers, twisting your hand to brush his lips against your knuckles.
what we deserve (bosco leroy x f!reader), nsfw, 11.4k words
summary: you're summoned by the eye to investigate a strange series of events involving the four horsemen. before that though, you meet a stranger in a club. after slipping away from an incredible night together, you meet again. now, following the events of now you see me: now you don't, you struggle with your feelings and just hope you don't end up alone.
warnings: nsfw, semi public sex, alcohol, implied bosco and reader aren't virgins, language, crime, mild violence. if there are any other warnings please let me know so i can add!
notes: dylan shrike's niece!reader, no use of y/n, she/her reader, part of the eye!reader. reader is older than june, but in her 20s. the newbies know about dylan!! PLEASE let me know what you think!!! and thank you for reading<3
Danny won’t arrive in New York until tomorrow, so you use your free night to go to a club.
It’s not often you’re able to let loose. Being free and having fun on a weekend like a normal person in their twenties is actually pretty rare for you, due to your chosen occupation and various ill-advised life decisions.
You were practically born into the Eye, your Uncle Dylan shaping you into a better magician, con artist, and liar than he ever could be. You love your Uncle Dylan with all you have, and you know in your heart the work you do helps the little guy and can change people’s lives for the better while taking down the most evil, privileged assholes the world has to offer, but it doesn’t leave much room for fun.
Most of your life has been filled with magic tricks, how to solve them, do them, create them. You know deception like the back of your hand and, if Dylan was to be believed, perfected a Disappearing Act before you could even walk. Many times.
It wasn’t all magic though.
It was secrecy, strategy, planning, and hours of practice practice practice until all your muscles knew thousands of skills and how to pull a trick off before your brain could even decide on which to do, until your lungs could stand at least five minutes with no air, because the traumatic loss of your grandfather is now your burden to bear, to overcome. It’s the only way your parents let Dylan train you. You wouldn’t be like the Great Lionel Shrike, you would be better. Had to be.
You and Dylan are the only members of your small family in the game, both of you being the ousted black sheep, so you made your own small herd.
From an early age, everyone knew you were different, more curious and awestruck by magic, the need to perform and take too strong to just fester within you, so Dylan took you under his wing, always an eye on potential, always betting on the long game.
Your family loves you, just not all the necessary crime and deceit that comes with your profession. No matter how much they attempt to reassure you (which wasn’t a lot, actually), you can tell by their tight smiles and apprehensive eyes that they do not trust you and never will.
Their limit began and ended with parlor tricks, Three Card Monty on thin ice, and robbing someone, whoever they are, only left you and Dylan on the receiving end of tight lipped displeasure.
Though, no matter how much they disapprove, they never snitch because they love you and Dylan—they just don't like you.
Suffice to say, you didn’t have a normal childhood. You expect your adulthood will turn out much the same.
So when J. Daniel Atlas, infamous magician and frontman for the legendary Four Horsemen, calls you for the first time in years and tells you about a tarot card he received from the Eye, you contact Dylan immediately.
You’re the only one who can.
You were the only one able to visit him in prison, and, not that the others know, the only one who knows where he is now that he’s out.
It took a lot of time and skills you had no choice but to pick up, but you and The Eye were able to get him out after a few years.
But you couldn’t tell the other Horsemen, and you still don’t know why.
You have hunches, yes. Maybe Dylan’s pride embarrassed him, maybe he didn’t trust the Horsemen anymore, maybe he had a secret so dangerous he couldn't even share with you, but you were instructed to never tell them. You hope one day Dylan would, because whatever the reason is, apparently it’s worth a near decade of festering guilt and ruined lives.
Dylan tells you he will investigate, because The Eye has so many networks he can’t keep up with them all, and to meet up with Danny in New York.
So here you are. The Big Apple. You’ve been a few times on a job, but never stayed long enough to sightsee. You were usually cooped up in an apartment or warehouse with blueprints and props and other Eye members to enjoy much of anything. Danny’s flight gets in tomorrow, and you had nothing better to do.
Clubbing it is.
It doesn’t bother you that you’re going by yourself, you’re pretty much always alone. What they don’t tell you among the adrenaline of a trick perfected and a job well done, is how lonely a magician’s life can be.
The pulsing beats and flashing lights of the club pull you in, and you take a chance on a fruity drink before you hit the dance floor.
While you’re not on a job or otherwise involved in reconnaissance, you never let you guard down. One drink won’t lower your defences, and whatever affects your blood will have worn off by midnight at the latest. Your inhibitions will remain intact and sharp, but you desperately want to have fun and alcohol is guaranteed to kickstart your night.
While your life is a somewhat solitary one, you’re more than experienced with social interactions and expectations, and how to elicit positive responses. You easily make friends with a bachelorette group who can’t be much older than you, and they take pity on your loneliness. You don’t mind, whatever this is won’t last, and you want to soak up every minute of their friendship you can.
You dance and sing and laugh for hours, feeling so close to filling that space with yourself that you never want to acknowledge, and the only other thing you drink besides water is a shot bought by the bride-to-be herself for her bridal party and you, having named you an unofficial member of their party.
Later, you’re spilling out of the bathroom with half the party after one girl felt that last shot come up the wrong way when you see him.
More specifically, you see him slip his hands into a pocket that was decidedly not his, and in a flash, transfer a wallet from one clueless person to his own sneaky one.
You watch him even as you’re led to the bar again (the girls knew not to get you an alcoholic drink at this point), and it seems as though you’re the only person in this packed club who is witness to the impressive thievery currently going on.
He’s swift and decisive, quickly determining who the easy scores are and who aren’t worth the trouble. He glides through the sweating bodies, occasionally stopping to dance with anyone trying to get his attention, and every time, that unlucky person will leave the club without an item or two less than what they came in with, completely blinded by his intense eyes and mischievous smirk.
His pockets must be endless with the amount of game he’s managing to stuff in there. He’s dressed as a typical twenty something year old guy would in a place like this and a goal like that: stylish, but nothing identifiable. Attractive, but not memorable.
You see him though.
His clothes, nice and clean as they are, are older and well-worn. It looks great on him, but you know it’s more for practicality and convenience. It’s probably one of the nicest garments he owns. His hair is a mess of curls, but not styled with product or tools. His mouth is always twisted so wickedly, but to anyone else unfamiliar with the streets would think it’s simply a cocky grin (it very much it is) but to you, it’s an act. All of it.
You pay closer attention.
His victims are those under the most influence, with the most influence, and have actual karats and ice on their bodies. This club isn’t exclusive, but with a ridiculous $20 door fee (that you did not pay, thank you very much), it’s trying very hard to be something it’s not.
He’s stealing from the richest people here.
Forgetting yourself, you grin into your drink.
“Please tell me you’re gonna talk to him,” a voice says next to you.
Startled, you turn around and are met with the bachelorette party you nearly forgot about. They’re smiling and giggling and drunkenly winking at you, and you know you’re absolutely fucked.
So, maybe you were staring. Maybe it was a little too long. Maybe you should never do shots again.
You dart your eyes around, and tuck a lock of hair behind your ear. “He’s cute,” you shrug noncommittally.
This guy is cute, no question. But it’s easier to feign interest than explain he robbed half the club and ruin his night. Besides, he didn’t take anything from the group you found yourself in, so it really doesn't matter to you what he has down his pants.
Well, now you’re thinking about something else. Fuck.
Shaking your head, you grin at the group, ready to brush this off, but they won’t let up. At once, they seem to all have an opinion and wish to express it. Loudly. In the middle of the dance floor. They’re going on and on about how you need to dance with him, to loosen up (you thought you were), have fun with a man.
“But I am having fun!” You insist, waving your hands in an aborted motion. “With you guys. I don’t need a guy to enjoy a night out.”
Finally, the bride-to-be turns to you, something twinkling in her eye. “No,” she says, taking the drink from your hand. “You don’t. But we want you to. He can help you in ways we can’t. Sorry about this, girl.”
Your eyes widen, totally blindsided and unprepared for that comment. “Sorry about wha—” You begin to ask, but your word morphs into a yelp as you feel hands on your shoulders, pushing you away. The sudden move unbalances you, and you stumble into a different pair of arms.
His.
You blink up at him, mouth opening and closing in a stutter as you try to explain why you so rudely ran into him, but nothing comes out. All you can do is focus on those dark, intense eyes you surveyed just moments ago, now on you. Only on you.
You weren’t planning on confronting him, and now he’s right in front of you, holding you steady with your arms holding each other, and you can’t find the words. Any of them.
He clears his throat. “Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” you say back automatically.
He chuckles deeply, the noise vibrating your bones. Your throat is dry as you swallow.
What the fuck. You’re not like this. You’ve never been like this. Not with anyone. You don’t bumble or stutter; on the rare occasion you have to honeypot for a job, you’re smooth and confident, knowing the right words to say to have your target eating out of the palm of your hand, while the other reaches into their pocket.
And now, all you can say is “Hi”?
“Psst!” a voice not so discreetly sounds from the direction you were forcibly ejected from. You and the thief both look over and find the entire bachelorette party staring. Some wave, others give you a thumbs up, the rest are swooning. “Ask her to dance,” the bride whisper-shouts, then gives you not one, but two thumbs up before turning around, leaving you alone with him.
“Friends of yours, I take it?” he asks. You whip your head back to the stranger, and he’s got a content look settled onto his face, apparently rolling with the interruption. He has an eyebrow quirked and the corner of his lips twitching up in amusement.
“No actually,” you say with a smile. His eyes widened with suprise, not expecting that answer. “I just met them a few hours ago. I came here by myself and they took me in. That’s probably the last time I’ll ever talk to them, actually.”
“Well that's no good," he mutters.
You reply with a shrug, “It’s okay. They were nice and I’ll miss the company, but it happens.”
“No, I mean—” The guy looks away for a second, then back at you, a small grin on his face. “It’s no good you’re here on your own.”
You feel redness creeping up on your cheeks, but you’re not shy as you reply. “I don't feel alone.”
“I don't either,” he responds, and your heart cracks in your chest. “Wanna dance?”
You do, so you say yes.
It only takes a few minutes to shake off the initial awkwardness and a well timed song before he spins you around, your back flush against his front, arms around your waist.
“Is this okay?” he mutters in your ear, breath hot against the shell of your ear, fingers pressing into your skin with intention. You’re shaking.
If you said no, you knew he would back away. You don’t know why you were able to read him so well. This guy is as guarded as you are, but it feels right to know him, to be confident you do.
“Yes,” you sigh, and lean back into him.
You dance together for what feels like hours, definitely longer than you two have danced with anyone else tonight, and you feel so young and free as you grind into him, as his hands run over every inch of your body he could without getting you kicked out for public indecency.
That’s when you feel it. You were wondering how long it would take him, the itch too strong to ignore.
His hand that was laced with yours slid down your wrist and arm, but you feel the exact moment he lifts your bracelet and drops it with the rest of his stuff.
Little did he know…
You turn in his arms, wrapping yours around his neck and his remain around your waist as you bring him into a slow dance. Inappropriate for the song currently playing, but perfect for you.
You get a good look at him, no hint of what he just did on his face, and you laugh. God, he's kinda perfect.
“What,” he drawls, low as a hum.
“What time is it?” you ask him, smiling so wide your teeth are showing.
He lifts his wrist where his watch is. Or was, before you.
You see the barely contained panic in his eye as he finally notices its absence, and he pats his pockets.
“What,” you say in a teasing tone. “Can’t tell the difference between your watch and the five others you have hidden in there?”
When he looks up, meeting your gaze and looking at you like he unlocked the secret to life itself, it feels like Heaven.
He blinks. Blinks again. That soft, mystified look is still there, never slipping off as he recounts every bit of your time together tonight, trying to place the moment you pulled one over him.
You hold his watch up. “Baby, I got a hold of this before we even started dancing.” You wink at him.
“You saw me,” he says in awe, clutching you closer. You feel every inch of him.
“I think I always will,” you admit, and that hole inside you shrinks and he tightens his grip and leans down. His face is so close that you're practically breathing into each other’s mouths.
His eyes bare into yours, almost desperate. “Do you wanna leave,” he practically groans out and god, you need to hear that noise again. And more. So, so much more.
“Yes,” you gasp, and he’s pulling you away.
***
He slams you against his bedroom door, holding you up as he attacks your mouth fervently. Your legs are wrapped around his waist and your hands are in his hair and scratching at his shoulders.
He pries open your mouth and kisses you like a man starved. It feels like he’s drinking you up, and well, maybe that’s exactly what he’s trying to do. You match his pace, for once not feeling that empty loneliness that’s been making itself known to you this time of night for the last decade or so.
It’s not there tonight, and it’s because of him. All because of him. You hope he doesn’t catch onto the fact that your kisses are also a thanks, because you’re not entirely ready to bare yourself to him like this, but you think maybe you can someday.
Your thoughts are pushed away as Bosco (you have since learned his name on the way to his place) does something so brilliant with his tongue that you cannot possibly think of anything else but him, and the fact that neither of you are naked.
“Clothes,” you gasp out. “Clothes. We’re wearing too many. Take this off right now.” You tug at his shirt incessantly. He chuckles and just spins you away from the door, then tosses you onto his bed. You lean up on your elbows and watch as he strips the offending article off.
He moves to climb over you, but you stop him with a heel to his sternum. He didn’t take everything off, and that wasn’t right.
“Just wait, baby,” he says with a low rasp. He reads you so well and fuck, did he call you baby? Just as you think this night couldn’t get any better, he takes your heel in his hand and bends down to kiss the inside of your ankle. Then he’s kissing up your calf, your thigh, and you're so wet you growl as he takes the time to slip off your panties at an achingly slow pace before finally diving under your dress, making you thoroughly lose your mind.
He’s blessedly rough as he licks you, tongue working as expertly down there as he was inside your mouth. He laps up your hole, darting in and out as you whimper above him. He adjusts your legs so they’re slung over his shoulders, and the new angle lets him go even deeper. You’re near sobbing when he finally makes his way to your clit, and your heels dig into his back and he sucks in your button. The pressure of his tongue is so intense and like nothing you’ve ever felt before that you can't even give him a warning before you flood his mouth. You moan deeply as you come, and you’re making pathetic little noises as he works you down your high.
You’re still panting as he makes his way up your body, bunching your dress up as he goes. You take the hint and sit up, peeling it off, the only thing left is your bra.
Bosco leans his forehead against yours as his hands trail along your body again. You wipe off his glistening mouth, and surge in to kiss him again, sucking at his mouth and moaning when your tongues find each other again. He’s kissing you almost desperately, and you pull away to tell him to take off his pants and your bra before diving back to his pink, inviting mouth.
The pants come off immediately but he’s slow to discard your bra, and his fingers trace invisible lines along your back in a way that makes your skin sing until finally, you feel it snap off. You toss it away, and climb into his lap.
“Can I touch you,” he whines, eyes round and watering and begging, “please?”
You’re a little taller than him now, so you lean your head down to touch your foreheads again. Then, you take one of his hands in yours, and bring it up to your breast. You sigh into his mouth as he squeezes you in his huge palm, and when he thumbs at your nipple, you dig your fingers into his curls and pull.
You feel Bosco hiss, your lips touching but not quite kissing, and suddenly both his hands are on your chest, and you become a puddle on his lap as he positively worships you.
At some point, you end up laying down and Bosco’s mouth is all over your tits, his fingers pumping inside you and you’re still a writhing mess under him. He wouldn't let you suck him off, saying he wanted to come inside you or not at all, before he began finger blasting you to high Heaven.
The fingers aren’t enough.
“Bosco,” you say breathlessly. “If you don’t fuck me right now I’m going to take everything you stole tonight and toss it into the Hudson River.”
He stops what he’s doing and his eyes shine. “You wouldn’t.” He muses, but crawls up to your place on his pillows, leaning on an elbow and running his fingers (the non-sticky digits, he can be a gentleman when he wants to be) through your hair. “You’d pawn it and donate it to the women's shelter we passed on the way here, about three blocks away.”
God, he’s right. A lifetime of studying socioeconomics and magical radicalization wouldn't allow you to throw away money so carelessly like that. No matter where it came from, money is money and money helps those without.
The fact that he knows exactly what you would do makes you throb even more.
“Bosco. Fuck me. Now.”
You’ve never seen him move as fast as he did to put a condom on, not even when he scored in the club. You’re grateful for his swiftness, because the second he sinks into you, you see stars.
He starts off slow to let you adjust, but he picks up the pace as you move against him, not wanting him to be gentle, but to fuck you like he meant it.
This primal urge shocked you. You really do not get out much, and while you have experience in this area, it is certainly minimal. With Bosco though, it’s easy to forget all of that and just be with him. To listen to your bodies and screw the life out of each other because you can.
It’s nice, feeling like this. Hot, needed. Not alone.
Bosco makes a very impressive thrust that has you gasping, and he wraps a hand around your thigh to bring it up, and now he’s hitting your sweet spot relentlessly, both of you babbling, grunting messes from how insanely good you feel together. You match his pace, working together to bring you both to the edge. It’s so good your nails rake along his back, and he keens at the sensation.
Suddenly, you feel it coming, and you warm him.
“It’s alright, baby,” he moans. “I got you. I got you.”
It’s the way he cares for you, physically and verbally, that pushes you off the edge. You cry out in pleasure as you come, and a few seconds later, Bosco whimpers into your ear as he spills into you, and you don’t think there's a word in this world for how beautiful that sound is. A sound he made because of you.
After your highs wear off, he slips out of you and buries his head into your neck.
This is everything. He is everything.
“You’re everything,” you whisper, stroking his curls. You feel him smile, then he peppers kisses to your skin.
You lay there for a long while in each other’s company, knowing you need to get cleaned up eventually, knowing you need sleep, knowing this can't last forever. For now, the two of you lay in the wet, sticky mess you made together, basking in the afterglow and not caring about anything but each other. This is contentment, this is fulfilling, and freeing, and the dark hole inside you seems so filled it’s almost bursting. This is him, and you, and nothing matters except the kisses you share and sweet nothings you exchange until you’re both so tired it all comes out as nonsense. You fall asleep together, in each other’s arms, and for once you feel at peace.
***
It nearly kills you to leave him.
You slip out just before dawn breaks, stopping for a moment to take in the man sleeping, face entirely at ease and not the tense, determined expression you were first introduced to.
You close the door behind you, and your heart shatters.
***
You meet up with Danny later that day after hearing from Dylan.
Apparently, the Eye did not send out cards to the Horsemen, and it’s your job to investigate the mystery behind it all. The Eye says it doesn't seem malicious, but to be on guard as they can’t know for sure. Unfortunately, Dylan also emphasized that Danny, and whoever else got a card, did not know about anything. You were to work behind the scenes and tag along with Danny on this adventure, doing whatever it takes to unmask the truth.
They warned that the architect behind this might not be so welcoming with your unexpected intrusion, and you assure them you would be cautious moving forward and would make yourself an indisposable member in their plot to avoid being pushed out.
You’re one of their best, they trust you.
You hope.
In any case, you know whatever happens Danny will defend you. You’ve only met a few times in person and got into contact with each other when necessary (and sometimes, on Danny’s end, unnecessarily), but you know he feels a kinship toward you.
You met after their first performance during their year of hiding. You were so young, but Dylan wanted the most important people in his life to meet, and you think, maybe, the protective streak Danny has over you is because of the guilt he’s carried for nearly a decade over Dylan’s imprisonment.
On occasion when he looks at you, it feels like he’s seeing someone else. His eyes pass through you and settle on a shadow, and the thing about shadows is you can always trust them to follow. Always.
You’ve met all five Horsemen and love them as much as your uncle, but Danny is the one who keeps in contact the most. You think he needs the company more than you.
Maybe it’s not a shadow he sees in your eyes. Maybe it’s himself.
You’re together now, and you both hesitate for a moment before hugging. It’s nice, and you feel him exhale in what sounds like relief as you tuck your head under his chin.
Danny pulls away awkwardly and is clearly eager to get started, and whenever the two of you are in close proximity, you plan. He shows you all the files the “Eye” sent him on Veronika Vanderburg and her stupid diamond, and after reading up on her, he tells you that someone is using the faces of the Horsemen to do a show tonight and that you need them.
You hadn't heard about that, but you’re positive that whoever these imposters are, they’re just luring the Horsemen into their act. Danny is the only one here, so where is everyone else? What are these people trying to achieve?
Later, you and Danny dress inconspicuously and head to the venue. It’s packed when you get there, and you head to the balcony on the second floor to get a better vantage point. It starts soon enough, and Danny even tsks in irritation as he's met with himself. He doesn't fool you, you can tell he’s impressed.
It took a few moments, but you deduce these images were constructed by a master at graphics, obviously pulled from their previous shows (which would explain why this one only had the original crew and Lula was nowhere to be found), and were made possible with high tech projectors angled perfectly.
By chance, you look in the direction of the bar just in time to see a girl pickpocket what looks to be a gold phone. She swipes a few more from Gold Guy’s friends and Jesus. They’re textbook douchebags.
The girl, who cannot be much younger than you, shares a smirk with the bartender, who had gone unnoticed to you until this moment.
A hooded figure slinks past, and the figure is so familiar it makes you stop. You see the girl pass him the phones, and he disappears into the crowd.
Ah. So, it's the three of them, then.
You share your observations with Danny, who immediately pulls out his phone to research them. Unfortunately, the mystery figure has yet to show his face, so for now you only have information on the bartender and girl. You can’t stop thinking about the figure, feeling like the answer you didn’t even know you were asking is at the tip of your fingers, just out of reach.
When the faux Horsemen randomly pick from the audience (nothing is ever random at these kinds of shows), it’s the hooded figure who cheers and hauls himself on stage.
Your body freezes.
It’s him.
Bosco.
The man you left this morning and cried about in your hotel room for hours until Danny knocked on your door.
You suck in a sharp breath and have to grip the balcony’s rung to stop yourself from stumbling forward.
Well fuck. Nothing is ever random, is it?
Danny spares a concerned glance your way, and you give him a smile you know is distracted, assuring him you’re fine. He quirks his eyes in that Danny way he does, but trusts you to work through whatever slipped you up and turns his attention back to the stage.
You do too, and can’t help but admire Bosco. Without question, he’s in his element with an act to perform and an audience to feed it to. Lapping up the attention like it’s natural, damn near peacocking on the stage as he does incredible impressions of the Horsemen.
Merritt needs work though.
The visuals are stunning and so is he, the trick impressive and deserved. The douchebags get what they deserve, and soon everyone is tearing off in fear of the cops.
You’re still reeling from the revelation that the sweet, mischievous guy from last night is behind your newest job, and you stop as you realize you and Danny have to confront him. Tonight.
Well, them. But it means you have to see him again. That he will see you, and you have to work together because the Eye said so, but no, they didn't because these kids sent the cards but actually, the real Eye said to do what was necessary to unravel everything so technically they did tell you to work together and—-
God, it’s too much. It’s all too much for you and you hadn't even started yet.
You shake your head and catch up with Danny.
He shares the information he learned about the three kids, and you listen to him relay Bosco’s entire life story, some which you gathered yourself last night. You remain cool in front of Danny, but the way he talks about Bosco, so cold and clinical, like Bosco’s just another pawn in the game and not someone warm and inviting and complicated, whose laugh sounds like magic when mixed with yours, felt wrong.
You beat the three to their illegal hideout, and you shudder as you recognize the building.
Flashes of open mouth kisses against the aging brick, laughter ghosting over lips, and fingers drawing on skin cross your mind, and your stomach turns.
You swallow as Danny instructs your entry and how to sneak in, where you’ll hide and how he’ll take the lead before he decides it’s safe enough to reveal yourself.
Now inside, you hope the wall you’re crouching next to swallows you whole before Bosco gets the chance to see you.
When you hear his voice, that familiar, low, sexy drawl, you squeeze your eyes shut and wait.
You listen to them bicker, and when Danny determines that they’re harmless, he discreetly signals you. You sneak into the kitchen and hop on the island counter, no one noticing your arrival.
You cross your legs and rest your palms on the countertop as you watch the scene unfold, and when in typical Danny fashion, he comes after Bosco’s name, you roll your eyes.
“Okay, Atlas. What’d your mom have sex with a map?” And you can't help it. Bosco’s sarcastic delivery and thorough takedown of Danny on his high horse is way too hilarious to not laugh at.
You’re still snickering as the three look at you in bewilderment, clearly wondering who you are and how you got in. Charlie and June were, at least. Bosco looked like someone punched out all the air in his lungs.
You only hesitate for a moment, then your mouth slips into a smile. “Hello,” you sing, wiggling your fingers in their direction. “Can I just say that you guys were amazing out there? Danny would never admit it, but he was impressed too.”
“Haha,” he deadpans, and explains that you’re with him. As Danny is introducing you, taking care to not mention your semi-nepo status, you can practically see Charlie and June masking their shock, running through scenarios on the inside on how to make this work, sizing you up to see if you’re worthy enough to join their game.
You know you have a part to play, your own mask to hold up, but all that flies out the window as your eyes meet Bosco’s.
It’s been less than a day since you met, but you feel so rattled with his attention on you, and you’re just sitting on his counter, in his safe space, like you didn’t run away from the first meaningful connection you had in a long time. All you left him with were memories and, when he asked, a whisper of your name given in between lovebites.
You wonder if his sheets smell like you.
He looks positively wrecked, and not in the pleasurable way he did last night. His face folds in on itself, his body completely tensed up, and his eyes—those once beautiful, dark eyes—are broken. All because of you. You want to tell him so badly, how if you only knew who he was last night you would never have left him. That you would've stayed.
But now isn’t the time. There’s a job to do.
So you sink into a persona not entirely unlike yourself, but something more confident and unfazed. It was the only way you could get through.
You all debate heavily about going to Antwerp, with Bosco firmly on the opposing side. You had a hunch last night, but you didn’t realize until now just how frustrating he could be.
“Look, the Eye needs us there,” you interrupt. “All of us. This Heart Diamond can change people's lives, and it’s in the wrong hands. We have the chance to make it right; we should take it.”
Bosco scoffs, and you whip your head around at the offending noise. You raise your eyebrows at him, daring.
“Us. We,” he mocks, tone ice cold. “Who even are you, anyway? I’m pretty sure Atlas got the tarot card, not you. Why are you even here?”
You inhale shakily, willing yourself not to lose it. You know he’s upset with you, you know he’s angry that you’re brushing him off, but you know that he’s arguing for the sake of it, acting like the three of them don't have a trick up their sleeve involving the Heart Diamond and he’s being contrary just to be a subversive asshole because apparently someone in their group has to be.
“I’m Dylan Shrike’s niece, alright?” you admit, practically in his face. Whatever. His fault for crowding you. He blinks in surprise. “I was born into the Eye, magic is all I know and I am good. You’re right, I don’t have a card, but the Eye sent me with Danny, so that’s where I’m going. You don't have to come, but—” You cut yourself off abruptly.
“But what,” he persists, a flash of curiosity amidst the irritation.
You chew the inside of your cheek and go for it. “But you will.”
“I will?”
“Yes, you will.”
“And you just know that, huh?”
“I do.”
“Oh really.”
“Yes, you asshole.”
“...”
“...”
“Fine.”
“Thank you!” Danny mutters, throwing his arms up.
That’s how you find yourself spending the night in the same building for the second day in a row, but in a different bed.
Despite their plans getting messed up with your arrival, you can tell they’re able to adjust easily to your presence, especially knowing who you are and that you’re actually part of the Eye.
You and Danny head back to the hotel to grab your stuff and get dinner for everyone, because they seem to live off take out and beer, and it’s much easier to make arrangements when you’re all together, and Bosco makes a snarky comment about how Danny should've led with a free trip to Europe.
As a control freak is wont to do, Danny is never done planning. His perfectionism a fatal flaw as well as an asset, but you tap out. June offers her room, one part excited to not be the only girl for once, the other curious to know you.
So you and June end up on her bed, giggling under her sheets as you recount a card trick you pulled on a sexist finance bro a few weeks ago during street hustle.
“Oh my god, you have to show me that trick.”
“Of course! It’s actually really easy. I’ve done it so many times.”
June sighs. “That sucks. We’re magicians in our own right and we deserve to be treated the same as any other street performer. We shouldn't have to fight to get an audience to suspend their disbelief, men never have to do that, they get it just by being men.”
“I know,” you agree sadly. “You wanna know the best part about being a female magician?”
June nods her head eagerly. “We always have each other’s backs no matter what. I’ve seen it and experienced it firsthand and June, I promise I will have your back.”
June is a little teary eyed, and she holds up a pinky. You hold up yours and lock them together. “I promise to have yours,” she says.
She falls asleep soon after, and it hits you just how young she is. You can see how close she is with Charlie and Bosco, but you doubt she would be as vulnerable with them as she was with you just now. You’ve seen her in action, how she puts up a stone cold, untouchable wall. She has to, to get where she wants to be. She plays everything so cool and she is, but you wonder how much longer she can keep it up before the wall cracks.
Whatever happens, you’ll be there for her.
Only, on the plane, you start to regret this.
She would not stop bothering you about Bosco.
It’s your own fault, admittedly. Neither of you were subtle with all your weighted gazes and bickering, anyone could see there were hidden meanings behind them. Danny refused to bring it up with you last night, vaguely reminding you to keep your focus.
She spoke in quiet, teasing tones, taking care even though Bosco had headphones in and his eyes shut in the row behind you.
“Come on, there’s something there,” she insists. “I know what I saw.”
You shake your head, “What you saw was two people with explosive temperaments passionately disagreeing. He gets under my skin, I get under his. There’s really nothing more to it.”
“Passionate, yes. Nothing more to it, no. Honestly, the way you speak to each other makes me think you already know him or something.”
You stay silent.
“I mean, the three of us can read each other pretty well, so I know he’s hiding something from us. About you,” she continues. “Which is so weird because normally he doesn’t shut the fuck up—don’t get me wrong, I love the guy—it’s just so weird. The way he's acting, I mean. About you.”
You sigh, the familiar pinch of a headache creeping up.
“June, I’m sure whatever his hang up is with me is personal. It’s really none of your business how we know each other.”
You startle at June’s sudden squeal. “Wait, you said ‘how we know each other.’ Which implies you do. You do, right? You met before yesterday?”
Ah fuck. Normally, you’re more careful with your words, ethos being a powerful tool you wield well. But you're so tired and stressed and no matter how much you travel, planes suck. June is so disarming, and you’ve felt affection for her ever since she nicked that douchebag’s ridiculous phone.
Really, it’s her incessant questions that make you spill.
You slam your head against the headrest. “Jesus Christ, fine. I’ll tell you but it has to stay between us, okay? I don’t want it to distract from the job, got it?”
June nods her head rapidly, eyes alight, her cheeks sucked in and—is that a tiny smirk?
Damn, you think. She’s good.
So you tell her about that night. Catching him, meeting him, feeling for him, going home with him.
“That was you!?” June nearly shrieks, incredulously.
You shush her.
“You were there?” You whisper furiously, noting a few heads turn your way on the otherwise quiet plane. “He told me his roommates were gone!”
June huffs. “Well we were. We came back early but had to leave again because we heard him fucking a girl within an inch of her life. You! What the fuck. Is sex supposed to be that loud or were you trying to help him win the Most Obnoxious Roommate Award? Cohabitating with Charlie isn't always easy but I’ll take obsessive late night rambling over whatever you did to Bosco. You guys are freaks. Eugh,” she shutters.
Despite it all, you snort. What you and Bosco did wasn’t nearly as freaky as it could've been, so June should thank her lucky stars the two of you didn't stop long enough to discuss kinks.
Crossing your legs, you begin to wonder what else gets Bosco Leroy off.
***
By the time you land in Antwerp and check into a hotel, you’re kind of over playing double (triple?) agent.
Danny is a softie at heart, so all it takes is one tiny mention of chocolate before the four of you are begging him to get you something artisan, and you’re finally alone with them.
“Look,” you assert. “I know you sent the tarot cards. I’ve been part of the Eye for as long as I can remember, and you might've convinced Danny, but I know how they work.”
The three of them tense up, their faces closing and eyes assessing you similar to how they did at the apartment. You need their trust; it’s now or never.
“The Eye sent me with Danny to determine if you were dangerous or not, and I don’t think you are. I don’t know why you’re targeting Veronika Vanderburg, I know there’s more to it than exposing a money laundering scheme. This screams personal, seriously.” You huff at their disbelieving faces. “I’m not going to tell Danny or the others—oh don’t look at me like that of course I know they’re gonna pop up at some point. I’m sure there’s a reason you’re not telling anyone. I know the Horsemen. I want to help. Let me help you.”
You wait for their judgement, shocks of emotions running through their faces. To be honest, they didn’t really have a choice, but you hope they let you be part of their trick. You may be a member of the Eye, but after meeting these three, you felt that being with them makes you part of something greater.
They take you in for a long moment, and your palms begin to sweat. You’ve been shot at, threatened, ran for your life, and been suspended hundreds of feet in the air with nothing to catch you if you fall, and yet, nothing has ever made you more nervous than you are right now.
Then, a smile blooms on June’s face. You only had a second to prepare before she squeals and launches herself at you, yammering something incoherent, yet excited all the same. Over her shoulder, you see Charlie with a similar smug grin and he shrugs.
He admits, “I knew it. I had a good feeling about you. We didn't plan on you being here, but I’m glad all the same.”
You don’t know Charlie that well, he’s pretty closed off and you suspect he’s the one with a score to settle with the Vanderburgs. Shortly after seeing him in action (or not in action, you should say) and reading up on him, you knew immediately he’s a Chameleon.
That’s two down.
June has you in a side hug, apparently latching herself to you for the foreseeable future, and you’re glad for the support as Bosco stares you down.
He’s so… unreadable. You thought you knew him but after what you put him through, he shut down. You know you have to talk to him, explain yourself, and relearn him; you just hope he gives you the chance.
He doesn't say anything for so long you’re afraid Danny will come back before it’s all settled.
Finally, after standing there agonizing like a lovesick fool, his lips pull up slowly, then all at once.
“Welcome to the team, Shrike,” he says, voice just as inviting and syrupy-sweet as you remember. It’s not your last name, but you’ll take it, relief hitting like an avalanche.
Charlie and June whoop, and the four of you are a mess of limbs as you’re pulled into a warm, enthusiastic embrace.
Oh, you think. So this is what it’s like.
All huddled up, your gaze meets Bosco’s, sending him a small, hopeful smile. He scoffs, an amused little puff of air, and winks. Your stomach flutters. Head dizzy. Heart bubbling.
Danny comes back a little later, bitching in his signature way, and you’re ready to get started.
You’re used to strategizing, picking apart a blueprint of a building, determining what supplies you’ll need and when to use them, and running recon.
Nothing prepared you for Charlie.
The aptitude on him was off the charts, and at least twice he makes such small, precise suggestions that when Danny comes up with an idea, you know it was actually Charlie’s.
You’re not sure what you expected, but the acute manipulation of one J. Daniel Atlas has you nearly applauding. A Chameleon, indeed.
Later, Danny heads off to bed, the old man. June and Bosco are snoozing on the beds, having retired a while ago claiming jetlag.
You take a second to admire that same peaceful look on Bosco’s face. He’s so cute when he sleeps. You’re tempted to slip under the covers next to him, but he’s sharing with Charlie and it would be a mess and a half to explain anyway.
You take a peek at him, and you realize he’s already looking at you, eyebrows raised knowingly. Goddam it.
“Shut up,” you bite.
He snickers. “It doesn't take a genius to figure out what’s going on between you and my guy over there.” He nods his head in Bosco’s direction.
Completely done and most definitely influenced by lack of sleep, you hurriedly change the topic like a coward.
“You are though. A genius. I meant what I said the other day—you really are amazing.”
He blushes. “I’m not Bosco, stop flirting with me.”
You roll your eyes at his obvious deflection. “I’m being serious, dude. Take the compliment. Own up to your genius.”
He looks down sheepishly. “Thank you.” Then he looks back up with a devious expression. “Are you going to own up to your feelings for Bosco?”
Something inside you snaps. In a hushed tone, you snark back, “I never once doubted what I feel for him, it’s just not the right time. I fucked up, Charlie. I don’t even know if he likes me. I probably ruined whatever we had and he deserves a lot better than what I gave him.”
You plop down in a chair, utterly defeated.
Charlie comes up and sits beside you, a hand on your shoulder. “Just talk to him. He might be an asshole, but he’s an asshole who cares. He’s not like me—he doesn't hold grudges. He’s a lot more understanding than what you give him credit for.”
So you sit with that, all your nerves firing and twisting all complicated inside of you.
You want, too. You want and want and want. You hope he wants you too.
***
The heist goes off without a hitch, sort of, and you pick up three more people.
The Horsemen.
Except Lula, which upsets you, but Charlie explained that there weren't enough images of her to deepfake, and the ones he got his hands on were too grainy to use. Apparently, he actually had no idea where she was no matter how hard he searched, and hoped Jack would bring her along. Like a plus one on a wedding invite.
Jack decidedly did not bring her along, and you silently thank Merritt for asking her whereabouts.
It gets you thinking though, because you were positive Jack and Lula were a sure thing, having seen them together on occasion and they always seemed so in love and infinite. But now they're not together, and that frightens you.
You think about Bosco.
If you start something with him, who’s to say it’ll last? You’re not experienced with romantic relationships and you can barely maintain a friendship, what if you blow it? Well, actually, now that you’re thinking about Bosco, irritation flares inside you.
You know he’s an actor and you know he had to distract Veronika, but seeing him with her, flirting and attempting to dom her felt so wrong. Disgusting. That wasn’t him, and you know it was for the job but it pisses you off all the same.
So, you're mad at him.
It was easy to ignore these annoying, stirring feelings as you ran and fought for your life and reunited with everyone (who were glad to see you again, all grown up, if not slightly confused by your presence). Now, standing around on a rickety little boat, you have time to sink into vexation as everyone argues.
They were trying to split off and repress their issues again, everyone eyeing you carefully at the mention of your uncle, so you and Charlie take that as a cue to jump in and convince them to stay.
Later, exploring the mansion, you curse as you lose sight of your adventure buddy Merritt.
“How do the elderly move so fast,” you mutter under your breath. He could be literally anywhere, and you’re not paying attention when you turn the corner and run straight into Bosco’s arms.
“Hi,” he says, voice low.
“Hi,” you croak.
The way he’s looking at you in that soft way he does, holding you like you’d fall to pieces without him, brings you back to a few days ago. His familiar warmth relaxes every part of you, and his crisp scent is like coming home.
He’s so close, and it’s such a dizzying position to be in that you almost miss when he speaks.
“God, I thought I would never get rid of Atlas. He’s such a control freak, it’s crazy.”
You giggle and bite your lip. “Well, you’re defensive and kind of a dick so it evens out. Merritt and I found a room that’s literally just mirror, you two should check it out. Do some reflecting. See what I did there?”
His grip on you feels stronger now. “What,” he says flatly, “ever.” His gaze is severe, and you notice how zero’d in on your lips he is. Unconsciously, you take a step forward and have to tilt your head to look at him.
“You’re so cute,” he grumbles.
All at once, you feel like mush.
How can he bring out so many of your emotions? Now that’s a real magician. Every time you’re around him, you feel them all. Which reminds you.
You close your eyes for a brief moment, then attempt to harden your gaze. “I’m mad at you, by the way.”
“What,” he narrows his eyes at you, clueless. “I thought I was mad at you. When did we agree it was your turn?”
“When you spent half the night flirting with Blood Diamond Barbie,” you snap. “I mean seriously, did you need to lay it on that thick?” You were relatively calm bringing it up, but now you're lowkey fuming. “Like, be so for real. A woman as powerful as her should not have been so easy to seduce. Do you think she was desperate? I think she was desperate. I guess money can’t buy you everything. Which is weird, because she can certainly afford that if she really wanted to."
Your rambling trails off after catching the unexpectedly hurt look on Bosco’s face.
“Desperate?” he asks quietly, there’s an uncertain edge to his voice you’ve never heard before.
Wait, did he think—? Your clasp on him tightens.
“No, no baby, I didn’t mean it like that,” you reassure him, and just like that you’re back to how you were that night. Together. Intimate. Understanding.
You bring a hand up to cup his cheek and he absolutely melts into you.
“I mean Veronika Vanderbitch has all the money in the world and probably pays that security guard to fuck away the emptiness inside of her, and she might say diamonds are a girl’s best friend, but at the end of the day, it’s just ice.”
He chuckles, and you feel it go down to your very core.
“You aren't making any sense,” he comments. Yet, he’s grinning from ear to ear.
“I don't care,” you reply, “Are you okay now?”
He nods. “Yeah. I just. When you said ‘desperate’ I—” You cut him off, needing to put an end to that insecure train of thought.
“No, that night I wasn’t deperate to fuck someone and decided you were good enough. I was desperate to fuck you.”
You barely finish your sentence before his head dips down and his mouth is on you.
You moan into him, his tongue immediately finding yours as he gives you a hot, desperate kiss. God, you missed this. Your lips sucking at each other and so demanding. It’s so right, so balanced, and you nearly fall apart as he whimpers into your mouth.
“Atlas was being an asshole,” Bosco says, breathless. You don't care and pull him back in.
A few moments later, he breaks away again. You want to scream, but decide to attack the exposed skin of his neck as he talks since he evidently has to. “And I wanted to get rid of him, right? Oh fuck please keep doing that, mhmm. Guess what I found? A bathroom. It’s really nice—god your mouth feels so good—and quiet.
In seconds you and Bosco are in the bathroom (he’s right it is very nice), struggling with his belt and feeling murderous.
“Why won’t this stupid thing come off, I swear to god. Why do you have the stupidest belt in existence, take it off. I don't ever want you to wear this thing again, this is so stupid.”
Seriously, seriously, if you’re not getting railed within the next minute you might actually strangle Bosco with his own belt.
He laughs at you and you punch his shoulder, but he acquiesces because try as he might, he’s just as hopeless and needs to get inside you.
No sooner than his difficult, stupid belt is off is your hand inside his pants, stroking his girth and bringing him to tears.
Both of you know it has to be quick, so you just shove your bottoms down and face the mirror, gripping the edge of the sink.
You can’t help the whine that escapes you as he pushes in from behind, no prep because you told him it’s now or never, and he’s fucking into you furiously.
You’re grateful and touched that the cheeky asshole brought a condom, because watching his blissed out expression in the mirror as he pumps into you again and again feels like a sick kind of baptism. Unlike before, both of you are on the same page, and it feels like a renewal. A clean slate you both get to write on.
He slams into you, and you groan a vow.
You arch your back as he slides his hands up your shirt to cup your tits. His hands are warm, and you're so overwhelmed with affection that you twist your head around and capture his lips.
“You’re a fucking dream,” he growls and you know it’s his vow to you.
He quickens his pace, snapping his hips with such finesse you nearly stumble, and you can tell he’s getting close. You want to come together, so you bring one of his hands in between your legs and he rubs your clit until you're gasping your release into his mouth, and he’s mewling into yours as he spills inside you.
You take a few seconds to stand there, both holding each other up and breathing the other in, not caring you're half naked messes. Your hand reaches back to stroke his hair, the curly wisps calming you down. His eyes are shut as he rests his face next to yours, arms around you tight.
This is the moment you know.
***
You’re struggling with a police officer as they yank you and June into the bullpen. As Veronika attempts to persuade the cops to release the two of you into her custody, your eye catches onto an achingly familiar woman.
She’s hunched, dressed in rags, and her makeup makes her look decades older, but you’re sure it’s her.
Soon, a fire breaks out, and so do you.
It’s a full on brawl getting out of the police station, and you’re flying over cops and dodging their attempts to grab you. You’re doing well, but your attention is split between securing your own freedom and checking on June’s well-being.
She’s holding her own, twisting and deceiving like a magician does in a street fight. You notice she copies a defensive move you made moments before, and you feel pride swell in your chest.
In your distracted state, you don’t notice the cop creeping up behind you. He grabs you by the hair and slams your head down into a desk. For a moment you feel nothing but shock, then you cry out in pain, and you struggle against him as your head explodes. Distantly, you hear a panicked June shout your name.
Like a papa bear, Merritt barrels into him and you take the opportunity to stand straight. The head rush that comes immediately after has you stumbling. You’re caught by June, and she holds you up.
“Get her out of here,” you hear Merritt yell. You want to protest—you couldn’t leave him alone in this place!—trying to push June off but in your hazy state, she easily overpowers you and you’re running for your lives. June is strong as she maneuvers you to safety, but you can feel her shivering.
When you meet up with Jack and Lula, they’re on you in an instant, asking you what’s wrong and if you’re okay, and all you can think about is Merritt. Alone. With the enemy.
Slowly but surely, the four of you (it should’ve have been five, fuck) make your way to the a safehouse. You’re still disoriented, so Jack and June help you walk while Lula leads the way.
Once inside, everyone rushes to you. You’re grateful for their care and attention, it fills you with so much warmth you feel buzzed, but you only want one person.
You and Bosco collide, holding each other so close you’re not sure where you end and where he begins. You breathe him in deep, his hands holding you secure, and you feel so much better. You stay there, hugging and holding and so so thankful.
You feel more arms wrap around you, Charlie and June joining your hug. It’s a powerful thing, the four of you together. Distantly, you hear your uncle's voice in your head: a single organism.
Eventually, the adultier adults give you an ice pack and have you lie down on a couch. Soon after you, Henley, Lula, and June have your little female magician moment of solidarity, the arguing begins again, but you fall asleep in the middle of it all.
You’re not entirely sure what happened after you conked out, but now everyone is ready to get Merritt back and take down Veronika and her bloody empire.
You feel a lot better after resting, and they make sure you’re okay to join this act. The wheels are turning, and Charlie discreetly clues you in on his own plan, giving you a job within the job.
On the plane ride there, you confide in Bosco about your guilt from leaving Merritt. He takes your hand in his and is quick to correct you.
“There was literally nothing you could've done. There were too many of them, and Vanderbitch has them in her pocket. Did you expect him to do anything other than protect you? They might act all exasperated, but these old timers love us.”
You swat his arm. “Do not call them that,” you say, but you’re smiling. He is too, but then his face pinches together.
“I get it. Do you know how guilty I was when we all got separated and you got arrested? I was ready to charge in, no plan, until they talked sense into me. I felt like it was my fault. If I hadn't gotten into a pissing match with Atlas then we would have had time to escape. All of us. You wouldn't have been hurt, Merritt would never have been kidnapped. And Thaddeus—”
“Stop,” you command. “Don’t go there. That was no one’s fault except the cop who shot him.” You bring your foreheads together.
“Can we agree then,” he says quietly after a few minutes, “to not feel guilty about anything that happened these past few days?”
You make a strangled noise. “I… don't know if I can do that,” you respond. Your chest constricts, and tears well up in your eyes as you thought about that night. “If I knew who you were, I never would have left, I swear.”
“It’s okay,” he tries to calm you. “I get it.”
You shake your head. “It killed me leaving you after all of that. I’ve never regretted anything more.”
Your foreheads are still touching, and Bosco takes your head in his hands, forcing you to look at him. “I get it. You were in an impossible position. I forgive you, and we're here now. You’re not going to—”
“No,” you gasp out in agreement. “I’m not leaving you. Ever.”
“Good,” he swallows. “I’m not leaving you either.”
Then, he kisses you so sweetly you melt into his mouth.
***
Once you land in Abu Dhabi, it all happens quickly.
The Horsemen are getting Merritt back, and you’re following Bosco as he swerves around the city in the stolen Formula One car. It’s not easy, and you’re pissed when he gets arrested, but seeing him swagger out of the police van in victory is so fucking hot.
“You’re so fucking hot,” you tell him as he jumps in your car. You lean over the console and crush your mouths together.
“Fuck you’re amazing. Are you alright, baby?” he asks in concern, searching your eyes for a hint of pain or discomfort.
You brush a thumb over his cheek. “Just a small headache. But I’m fine.”
He takes your hand and kisses your palm. “Good. Now, let’s help Charlie get his revenge.” You kiss him one more time, then floor it.
***
In the end, Charlie steps into the light, the Horsemen are together and gain four new members, and you? You get everything.
***
You’re giggling into Bosco’s mouth as he presses you down onto his mattress.
“Get off, they’re going to be here any minute! We have to get ready,” you say, not attempting to get up at all.
In a melted tangle of limbs, Bosco’s half on you, and one hand trails up your naked thigh. You keen at his touch.
“See, why would I leave this bed?” He leaves butterfly kisses in the crook of your neck, and you hum in appreciation. “It has the most beautiful girl in the world in it, and she’s all mine.” He latches onto your collarbone and sucks. You hiss in pleasure. “Out there, I have to share her.”
You breathe in deeply and hold his face in your hands. “Okay. Okay. Fuck it. C’mere,” and you drag him down, lips on yours. You’re so lucky your boyfriend is a good kisser. He’s lucky he makes you wet.
You’re still kissing as he grips your thigh and hikes it over his waist. At this angle, he easily slides inside of you, and makes a little noise in the back of his throat.
“Fuck, you’re so tight. So wet and tight for me.” You nod and mumble in agreement. His thrusts are slow and deliberate, and you take the time to enjoy each one. He treats you so well.
“Mhm, you’re so deep. Filling me up,” you whisper praise in his ear. You rock against him. “So good. Harder, baby. Please fuck me harder.”
Bosco groans above you, completely losing it at your words. It never gets old, hearing you say them. He’ll never get used to you wanting him. You’re a vision, and you’re his, and he’s so happy he could die.
He fucks you so hard you bite his shoulder when you come to stop yourself from screaming so loud.
He hasn’t come yet, but he takes a second to check the damage in the mirror. When he sees the indent you left, he blurts, “I love you.”
Now it’s your turn to push him down on the mattress and straddle him. He looks so pretty and pliant underneath you, and when you start to ride him, his face crumples.
“I meant what I said the night we met. You’re everything. Of course I love you,” you confess, and he floods your pussy instantly.
You’re both giddy and blushing as you clean up and pull on clothes. You each spray on a fragrance to mask the scent of sex. There’s a kiss stolen here and there as you get ready, the afterglow of sex and love too strong to come down from.
The two of you trip out of his room, beginning to think you got away with it when you’re met with literally everyone. They have mixed expressions. June and Charlie are used to this by now, and they’re laughing at everyone else. Lula and Henley are by far the most pleased with this turn of events, both of them giving you nods of appreciation and Lula cheers for you. Jack and Merritt are kind of confused with this development, but out of the corner of your eye you see both of them silently giving Bosco fist bumps. (You would have been more annoyed had they each not given you one later on.)
Danny is plain horrified. He stutters even more than usual and talks in circles, then finally the most coherent thing he manages to jabber out is an incredulous, “Was that you two in the bathroom? In the mansion?” There are gasps.
Motherfucker. You weren’t going to tell anyone about that.
“Atlas,” Bosco admonishes, a red flush climbing up his neck. “C’mon man.”
This is as good as a confession, and pretty much everyone is screaming at you guys or just screaming in general. It’s all in delight and shock, mostly teasing and others slightly disgusted.
“What!”
“That’s my girl!”
“You hooked up in the mansion? That’s like, sacred ground for magicians, guys, gross!”
“How did you even have time?”
“When I lost you after the mirror room I was worried sick, young lady. Only to find out you were getting a little hanky panky? Well I’ll be damned. Kids these days."
“This is… Gross. I can’t handle this, I just can't. Ugh. I’m going to bleach my brain."
Through it all, you knew they were happy for you. You used to be so lonely, and now you have all of this. You’re not alone, and you never will be again. The thought makes you fuzzy inside.
Bosco wraps an arm around your waist and leans down. “You deserve this, you know,” he whispers.
You turn to him and rest a hand on his chest, beaming. “You do too.”
You're a little chaos gremlin.
Daryl Dixon thinks its adorable. Not that he'd ever tell you that.
The first time Daryl Dixon realized you were going to be a problem, you were hanging upside down from the roof of the RV.
Not metaphorically.
Actually upside down.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, staring up at you where your knees hooked over the metal edge, your body dangling freely while you rummaged through a ripped backpack. “What the hell’re you doin’?”
You looked at him with all the calm confidence of someone not currently one bad grip away from a concussion.
“Inventory.”
“You’re upside down.”
“Blood flow helps me think.”
“That ain’t a thing.”
“Says who?”
“Says common damn sense.”
You grinned at him then—bright, crooked, utterly unashamed—and tossed a can of peaches down toward him. Daryl caught it automatically against his chest before glaring harder.
“See? Teamwork.”
“You’re gonna break your damn neck.”
“But I haven’t yet.”
“That’s not comfortin’.”
You dropped lightly to the ground beside him, boots crunching against gravel, and dusted your hands off like none of this had been strange. Which, unfortunately, was becoming normal for you.
Daryl watched you shove another two cans into your bag before wandering toward the tree line like a raccoon with opposable thumbs and absolutely no fear of God.
He should’ve been annoyed.
Probably was annoyed.
But somewhere beneath the headache you constantly gave him was something warm and helpless and dangerous.
Because you made this dead world feel alive again.
The group called you many things.
Rick called you a liability.
Carol called you “resourceful.”
Glenn called you “the human equivalent of a lit firecracker.”
Michonne once stared at you for a full thirty seconds after catching you trying to teach Judith how to throw knives and simply said:
“No.”
You’d smiled innocently.
“Okay.”
Five minutes later Daryl found you in the yard showing Carl how to pick handcuffs with a bobby pin.
“You ever listen?” Michonne snapped from the porch.
“Not particularly!”
Daryl nearly choked trying not to laugh.
That was the problem.
Nobody else saw it.
To everyone else, you were chaos incarnate. Tiny disaster. A gremlin in human form who somehow survived entirely on caffeine, spite, and poor decisions.
But Daryl saw the little things.
The way you made Judith laugh when she cried.
The way you always gave someone else the bigger food portion when supplies got low.
The way you stayed awake beside people having nightmares because you knew what it was like to wake up afraid.
You hid kindness under sarcasm and recklessness.
Daryl knew something about that.
Which was probably why he kept ending up near you.
Even when he swore he wouldn’t.
“You are banned from traps.”
“I don’t think you can legally ban me.”
“I ain’t askin’ legal permission.”
You sat cross-legged on the floor of the church, pouting dramatically while Daryl dismantled the horrifying contraption you’d built from fishing wire, a soup can, and what looked concerningly like a fork.
“It was defensive.”
“It was pointed at the bathroom door.”
“In case of intruders.”
“It nearly took my damn eye out.”
“You still have both eyes.”
“Woman…”
You snorted.
He tried to stay irritated.
Then you smiled at him.
Daryl hated that smile.
Not because it was bad.
Because it wasn’t.
Because it made something inside his chest go soft and stupid.
You leaned back on your palms, watching him work.
“You’re pretty when you’re grumpy.”
Daryl almost stabbed himself with the screwdriver.
“I ain’t pretty.”
“You kinda are.”
“Shut up.”
“You blush really easy for a scary redneck.”
“I ain’t blushin’.”
“Your ears are red.”
“Cold.”
“It’s August.”
He glared at you.
You grinned wider.
And Christ.
That grin was going to kill him someday.
You had absolutely no survival instincts.
That became obvious during a run when you found an abandoned toy store.
“Absolutely not,” Daryl said immediately.
“But—”
“No.”
“There could be useful supplies.”
“You’re lookin’ at a stuffed giraffe.”
“It could contain medicine.”
“It contains fluff.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know exactly that.”
Twenty minutes later, Daryl walked out carrying ammunition, canned food, and somehow three stuffed animals because you’d shoved them into his arms with an expression so heartbreakingly hopeful he physically could not say no.
“You’re manipulative,” he informed you.
“You like me.”
“I tolerate you.”
“You carried the giraffe.”
“…Shut up.”
You beamed like you’d won something.
Maybe you had.
The prison changed things.
Not all at once.
But slowly.
Quietly.
Daryl got used to hearing your footsteps beside his.
Got used to your voice drifting through cell blocks.
Got used to finding little stupid things left for him.
Half a candy bar.
A sharpened hunting knife you’d spent hours fixing.
A note that said:
found this. thought of your grumpy ass.
You never signed them.
You didn’t have to.
And Daryl—
Daryl started smiling more.
Not big smiles.
Tiny ones.
Rare enough that the entire prison noticed.
“You like her,” Glenn said one evening.
Daryl nearly walked directly into a wall.
“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“She’s literally sitting in your lap.”
Daryl froze.
You were.
Somewhere during game night, you’d apparently climbed onto the bench beside him, gotten comfortable, and eventually ended up sprawled half across his lap while arguing with Maggie about card rules.
Neither of you had noticed.
Or maybe you had.
Because when Daryl looked down, you tipped your head back to look at him upside down and smiled sleepily.
“You comfy?”
Every thought left his head.
“…Yeah.”
Glenn made a face like he wanted to scream.
The thing about you was that you trusted Daryl completely.
Without hesitation.
Without fear.
You’d hand him your weapons without thinking twice.
Fall asleep against his shoulder.
Reach for his hand automatically in crowds.
And Daryl, who’d spent most of his life feeling unwanted, didn’t know what to do with that kind of trust.
Especially because he wanted more of it.
Wanted all of it.
Every smile.
Every laugh.
Every terrible impulsive idea.
Every moment.
It scared the hell out of him.
“You ever gonna tell her?”
Carol sat beside him on the prison tower roof while Daryl cleaned his crossbow.
He didn’t look up.
“Tell who what.”
Carol snorted softly.
“You’re hopeless.”
“Ain’t ask for commentary.”
“You look at her like she hung the moon.”
Daryl immediately scowled.
“I do not.”
“Mmhm.”
“She drives me insane.”
“You’re smiling right now.”
His face flattened instantly.
Carol laughed outright.
Below them in the yard, you were attempting to roller skate using scavenged children’s skates two sizes too small.
“You’re gonna bust your ass!” Daryl yelled.
“I believe in myself!”
“You shouldn’t!”
Two seconds later you crashed directly into a fence.
Carol nearly cried laughing.
Daryl was already climbing down the ladder.
“Y’alright?”
You sat in the grass blinking up at him after your spectacular wipeout.
“One day,” you announced solemnly, “my athleticism will reveal itself.”
Daryl crouched beside you, trying and failing not to smile.
“You got a death wish.”
“You caught me last time.”
His expression softened before he could stop it.
Because he had.
Months earlier.
You’d slipped climbing a shelf during a supply run and Daryl had caught you before your head hit concrete.
You’d stared at him afterward like he’d hung the stars.
Daryl remembered every second of it.
Now you looked at him that same way again.
Open.
Warm.
Fond.
Dangerous.
“You always catch me,” you said quietly.
Something painful tugged in his chest.
He looked away first.
“C’mon. Let’s get ya cleaned up.”
You took his hand immediately.
No hesitation.
Never hesitation.
The first time Daryl kissed you happened because you almost got bitten.
Which honestly felt fitting.
You’d split from the group during a run after hearing a dog barking somewhere nearby.
Because apparently your survival instincts had fully evaporated.
Daryl found you cornered in an alley with three walkers closing in.
Afterward, after the blood and panic and violence, after he killed the last walker with brutal fury, he grabbed you by the shoulders hard enough to make you stumble.
“The hell were you thinkin’?!” he shouted.
You looked startled.
“There was a dog—”
“You coulda died!”
“I didn’t—”
“You don’t get to run off like that!”
Your face changed then.
Not angry.
Hurt.
“I said I’m sorry.”
Daryl stopped breathing.
Because your voice had gone small.
And he hated that.
Hated being the reason for it.
You looked down, rubbing your arm awkwardly.
“I just thought maybe if it was alive—”
Before he could think better of it, Daryl grabbed your face and kissed you.
Hard.
Desperate.
Like he’d been holding it back for months and finally snapped.
You made a tiny surprised sound against his mouth before kissing him back instantly.
Like you’d been waiting too.
When he pulled away, both of you were breathing hard.
Daryl looked horrified with himself.
You looked delighted.
“Well,” you whispered. “That’s one way to communicate.”
“I—”
“You really need healthier coping mechanisms.”
He groaned and dropped his forehead against yours.
You laughed softly.
Then kissed him again.
And Daryl Dixon, perpetually grumpy survivalist, realized he was completely and utterly screwed.
Dating you was a nightmare.
Not because you were difficult.
Because you were impossible.
You stole his shirts constantly.
You hid plastic spiders in his bedroll.
You once convinced Glenn to help you paint tiny smiley faces on all of Daryl’s bolts.
He discovered them mid-run.
“What the hell is this?”
You looked unbearably pleased with yourself.
“Morale.”
“You vandalized my weapons.”
“They’re happy weapons.”
“Why are they winkin’?”
“Artistic flair.”
Daryl stared at the bolt.
Then at you.
Then back at the bolt.
And despite every effort not to—
He laughed.
A real laugh.
Rough and rusty from disuse, but real.
Your entire face lit up.
There it is, your expression seemed to say. There you are.
And God.
Nobody had ever looked happier to hear him laugh.
You loved him loudly.
Openly.
Without shame.
Daryl had no idea what to do with that at first.
You kissed his cheek in passing.
Curled against him at night.
Told him you missed him after short supply runs like he’d been gone for years instead of hours.
And every single time, Daryl looked vaguely stunned.
Like love was something he still didn’t fully believe belonged to him.
One night, lying together beneath a threadbare blanket while rain hammered the prison roof, you traced the scars on his arm gently.
“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” you murmured.
Daryl shrugged.
“Nothin’.”
“Liar.”
He stayed quiet for a long moment.
Then finally:
“Ain’t never had… this before.”
You looked at him carefully.
“This?”
“Someone carin’ this much.”
The honesty in his voice nearly broke your heart.
You shifted closer immediately until your forehead touched his.
“Then I’ll care enough for all the years nobody else did.”
Daryl stared at you like he physically didn’t know how to process that sentence.
Then he kissed you slow and deep and aching.
Like he was trying to memorize the feeling.
The prison fell.
Everything broke after that.
But not you two.
Never you two.
Even separated, even terrified, even covered in blood and grief and exhaustion, Daryl searched for you like breathing.
And when he found you again—
God.
He nearly collapsed from relief.
You ran toward him through the trees so fast you almost tripped.
Daryl caught you around the waist as you slammed into him.
“You idiot,” you choked out, crying and laughing at once. “You’re alive.”
He buried his face against your neck.
Couldn’t speak for a second.
Because you were alive too.
And that was everything.
Absolute everything.
“I gotcha,” he muttered hoarsely.
Your arms tightened around him instantly.
“I know.”
And you did.
You always did.
Years later, after Alexandria, after wars and grief and rebuilding, after all the ugly parts of surviving finally softened around the edges—
Daryl still woke up every morning with you tangled around him like a sleepy octopus.
Still found random objects hidden in his vest pockets.
Still watched you climb things you absolutely should not climb.
Still heard your laughter carrying through whatever place became home next.
And every single day, Daryl loved you more.
Even when you filled his motorcycle saddlebags with stolen candy.
Even when you taught Judith swear words “educationally.”
Even when he found you sitting on the kitchen counter at two in the morning trying to train a possum you’d found outside.
“You cannot keep that thing.”
“He likes me.”
“It hissed at me.”
“That’s just his personality.”
“You said that about me once.”
“See? Soulmates.”
Daryl stared at you holding the possum like a proud mother.
Then he shook his head slowly and stepped between your knees, hands settling automatically on your hips.
“You’re a damn menace.”
You smiled lazily, wrapping your arms around his neck.
“But I’m your menace.”
And there it was again.
That feeling.
That soft helpless warmth that had started the first day he found you hanging upside down from an RV roof.
it pisses me off everytime i see someone write “i gave reader a name because i don’t like Y/N”…i can’t even REMEMBER the last time i read the word Y/N in an X reader because it’s just that easy to avoid😭
Just say you wanna write an X OC and get on with it
A/N: this was very much inspired by THIS post here by @wjehfshs Also y’all I am writing on the clock at my job that’s how deep in this hole am. SUE ME! (This lowkey may be a bit OOC but just lemme have my moment)
Translations: (as usual lemme know if anything is wrong)
Toruk: great leonopteryx
Sa’nok: mother
Sempul: father
Tsahìk: clan healer
Ma tìyawn: love.
(Eveything else should be translated)
Warnings: TOOTH ROTTING FLUFF! mentions of infertility. Dad!So’lek. Mentions loss and of depression (if you squint)
Summary: So’lek is many things: warrior, protector, grump. You are wonder and laughter and soft chaos. Between river water, stolen smiles, and a sleeping child, the two of you learn that family is not only born. It is chosen.
The sun was barely peeking over the celebration arches when So’lek watched you set off for the day. Burden Rest still slept, the river beside it slow and misted, and for once he felt no urgency pressing against his ribs. You and he had made a home here, however temporary, just off the water’s edge. The land was healing after the many months since the devastation nearby caused by mercer. It had also been some time now since he worried about sleep or his next meal. Not with you beside him.
You leaned in to press a soft kiss to his forehead before slinging your bow over your shoulder, your fingers lingering to caress the small, dark crown of the infant cradled in his arms. The motion was instinctive and gentle, the kind of touch that spoke of care without effort.
She was a child of war. Her parents had been lost to a cause that should never have existed, a cruelty brought by the sky people and paid for by those who had done nothing but live. It was a cause So’lek had once fought with relentless fury, until her. Until the small life he now held so carefully against his chest.
You and So’lek had been mated for many suns, moving through the world with little more than the clothes on your backs. Together, you had traveled across Pandora in the seasons following the cleansing of the land, seeking new tribes and new understanding. Yet no matter how far you wandered, you always found your way back toward Hometree. That was where you were headed now, toward the Aranahe, to welcome this new life properly into the clan.
When you and So’lek learned you could not carry life of your own, the grief had hollowed you in a way he had not known how to mend. You had withdrawn, retreating into yourself, and there were moments when he barely recognized the na’vi he loved. He tried to console you, to remind you that he saw you fully, body and soul, and that this truth did not lessen you in his eyes. He would never see you differently. Still, the ache remained. The knowledge that your clan, his clan, would not continue through you weighed heavily, and he could not take that pain from you.
It was part of why he followed you when you chose to leave, trusting the journey itself to offer clarity where words could not.
By the will of Eywa, it did.
The RDA helicopter had come without warning, its shadow falling over a Na’vi camp already half-destroyed by its landing. You and So’lek had been traveling for days when you stumbled upon the devastation, but by the time you reached it, the damage was done. Tents lay crushed beneath twisted metal, smoke curling through the trees.
Together, you fought back. Arrows flew. Humans fell. Some fled, scrambling for survival, but many Na’vi were already lost. When So’lek rushed into a burning tent, calling your name through the smoke, he found a young Na’vi mother curled on the ground. She was grievously wounded, her breath shallow as she cradled her infant close.
Her pleas had been quiet, broken, yet unmistakable. She pressed her child toward him with shaking hands, knowing she would not survive. You watched as So’lek swore to her that her daughter would be safe, that she would be loved. The mother died moments later, her final breath leaving her with the babe still in her arms. You turned away as So’lek gently lifted the child and called you to follow him, the tent collapsing behind you as you escaped.
Now, as the morning light warmed his skin, So’lek stood in that same quiet truth.
Peaceful. Content. Yet carrying the memory of what was before.
Holding the child, he faced a future he had never imagined for himself—one that will be shaped not by vengeance or war, but by care, by patience, by love.
And for the first time in many years, he welcomed the challenge.
Though you spent most of the journey with the babe clinging to your chest in a carefully fashioned wrap, So’lek insisted on taking her when he could, giving you moments of quiet between her cries. He knew this child was a blessing from Eywa, even if the path that led her to you had been steeped in loss. Still, the light that returned to your eyes each time you rocked her to sleep was something he had missed more than he ever admitted. The first time he saw it again, it struck him hard—beautiful and devastating all at once—to see his yawne happy again.
That was what you were to him. Beloved.
And now, it seemed, the two of you were.
The day before, you had spoken excitedly about taking advantage of the river, about fishing together before setting off again. As So’lek rose from sleep, he watched you move ahead of him through the tent, through the leaves, skipping lightly over roots and stones, your hand brushing along low-hanging vines simply because they were there. You let Pandora touch you freely, welcoming it against your skin. This was the version of you he had missed so deeply, the daring, adventurous soul that delighted in the world’s gifts without hesitation.
He wished he could say the same for himself.
Beyond the quiet bubble the three of you now occupied, So’lek offered no such softness to the world. He kept his distance, his vigilance sharp, and his presence firm. If it meant keeping his new family safe, he would gladly bear the weight of being seen as stern or unyielding. You teased him often for it, calling him grumpy or overprotective, always with that fond smile that softened the words. And you knew, you always knew, that once the world narrowed back down to just the two of you, he would loosen his guard and soften for you alone.
When you vanished from sight along the river’s edge, So’lek adjusted the child gently into the makeshift wrap against his chest. You had not yet given her a name, choosing instead to wait for the ceremony the clan would perform in her honor. Still, each time he looked into her wide, curious eyes, something shifted inside him. A feeling he had never been allowed to name before, nor dared to claim. Was this fatherhood? Or was it simply the instinct to protect, sharpened now by love?
She stirred softly, nestling deeper against him, her small body relaxing as sleep claimed her once more. So’lek soothed her with slow, steady movements, the rhythm natural despite his inexperience.
“Gentle, my little pxisìk… gentle.”
His little blossom, indeed. Though the two of you had only known her for a short while, love had taken root quickly, unfurling with quiet certainty. She was already growing, already reaching. So much potential held in such a small body, more promise in her now than either of you had dared to hope for before.
With the child settled, he stepped fully from the tent, the morning sunlight briefly blinding as it spilled across his vision.
There were already Na’vi gathered around the fire, sharing quiet morning conversation as they warmed themselves against the lingering chill. So’lek glanced once more toward the river, hoping to catch sight of you, but you had wandered farther out of view, swallowed by reeds and stone.
Cradling one arm securely beneath the small girl, he made his way into the gathering, offering quiet greetings to the Zeswa who had so kindly lent you a tent for the past few days. Their hospitality had not gone unnoticed, nor unappreciated.
“Ah,” a voice called from the main tent, rich with warmth and amusement.
So’lek turned to find Eylan, the camp’s leader, standing at the mouth of the tent. The woven fabric behind him glowed with deep purples and reds as the sun climbed higher, catching in the dyed fibers.
“Pandora’s mighty warrior,” Eylan said, arms spreading wide in greeting. Then his gaze dropped, softening as it landed on the infant in So’lek’s arms. “Or should I say… mighty father now?”
He motioned gently toward the babe, a fond smile pulling at his mouth. “How does this life treat you, my friend?”
So’lek’s response was uncharacteristically sheepish. He looked down at the small girl nestled against his chest, her face tucked close as she mouthed her thumb in her sleep.
“It is more than I could have asked for,” he said at last. “Eylan, my friend.”
The Zeswa leader stepped closer, placing a hand on So’lek’s shoulder as his eyes lingered on the child. “She is healthy?”
So’lek nodded firmly. “As healthy as a mighty Toruk.”
They shared a soft laugh, the sound easy and unguarded. Eylan followed So’lek’s earlier glance toward the river, where you had reappeared, skipping lightly across the stones at the water’s edge. You laughed as you splashed through shallow puddles along the bank, wholly unbothered by the cold.
“And your mate?” Eylan asked gently.
So’lek watched you for a moment longer, his smile returning—warmer now, unguarded in a way few ever saw. “Adjusting,” he said quietly. Then, after a breath, “I am blessed, Tsmuken.”
Though Eylan called him friend many times, it felt only right to call him brother.
Eylan’s grip tightened at his shoulder, grounding and sincere. So’lek had spoken to him of the past—of loss, of struggle, of how this fragile family had come to be. Eylan had listened without judgment, offering comfort freely. He had even suggested, with gentle insistence, that you name the child yourselves.
So’lek had thought about it. Still did. But he knew you wished for the clan’s ceremony to be fulfilled properly, and so he set the thought aside, waiting.
“Go,” Eylan said at last, stepping back with a knowing smile. “Eat. Join her. Spend the time Eywa gives you as if it is precious.”
He paused, eyes kind. “Even if it lasts forever.”
The words pull at him differently now than they ever did before. In the past, when war was constant and death always hovered just beyond reach, So’lek had learned to live as if every moment with you might be the last. Now, in the quiet reassurance of this life, he feels something new taking root. Something dangerous in its hope. For the first time, forever does not feel like a foolish thing to believe in.
Having the babe was a curve neither you nor So’lek had expected, a lesson learned in careful steps. With no way to provide nourishment yourselves, you turned to the Zeswa clan’s tsahìk for guidance. She reassured you gently that many mothers would gladly help care for the child, that feeding and providing for another’s young was considered an act of Eywa herself. There was no shame in it. Only continuity.
For the times when the two of you traveled, as you were now, she taught you how to gather sap-milk, a nursing alternative drawn from the trees, warm and sweet, meant to sustain a Na’vi infant. It had carried you far on your journey back toward Hometree, and So’lek had learned quickly how to feed the girl, his movements growing steadier with each passing day.
After finishing his own meal, he filled a bowl with stew for you and made his way toward the river.
You hadn’t noticed him approaching. He paused when he saw you standing among the reeds, speaking softly as you worked, your attention fixed on the world around you rather than the water itself.
“Narlor,” you murmured, more to Eywa than to anyone else.
It was moments like this, calling the reeds beautiful, that he cherished most about you. When you found wonder in things, even if you did not heed his words or listen to his warnings. Yes, So’lek could be... Protective.
It reminded him of the last time you walked the water's edge together, hopping from stone to stone along the riverbank, waistcloth blowing without concern as water splashed your calves.
“Nari si,” So’lek had called.
“I am being careful,” you replied, immediately slipping.
He didn’t move fast—he was already there. One hand catching your arm before you could fall.
“That,” he said flatly, “was not careful.”
He remembered you grinning at him, eyes shining. “But it was fun.”
Another memory of your travels through the forest surfaced.
You had veered off the path without warning, crouching beside a cluster of glowing moss as if summoned by it.
“Look at this,” you murmured to him, brushing your fingers through it.
“Do not touch—” So’lek had started, already stepping closer.
“Too late,” you say cheerfully.
He exhaled through his nose, shifting the child higher against his chest. “One day,” he muttered, “Eywa will test my patience through you alone.”
So’lek now tilted his head, watching as you gathered hollow reeds, lifting them to admire how the rising sun caught along their smooth surfaces before tucking them carefully into your pouch. It seemed fishing had been abandoned in favor of curiosity, your attention pulled toward whatever caught your interest in the moment.
“No luck with your catch?” he asked at last, making his presence known.
You startled, spinning around—then softened immediately when you saw him. The sling resting against his chest, the babe nestled securely within his hold.
“Ma yawne—” you breathed, relief warming your voice. “You frightened me.”
So’lek laughed quietly, extending the bowl toward you. “That was not my intent.”
He leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your temple before moving past you to settle on a nearby rock, the child still cradled close. The morning light filtered through the leaves, and for a moment, everything felt exactly as it should
“It seems my fishing skills are not as sharp as my hunting,” you say lightly, lifting the bowl to take a sip of the stew. Without thinking, you find yourself drifting closer to him, settling gently beside him on the rock, careful not to disturb the small girl nestled against his chest.
You set the bowl down and forget it entirely, distracted by something glittering in the water.
“Eat,” So’lek says.
“In a moment.”
“Now.”
You sigh dramatically but comply, taking another sip. “You are very bossy for someone who claims to be gentle.”
“I am gentle,” he replies. “With reasonable people.”
You smiled again, watching as So’lek adjusted the wrap at his chest. “Have I said you look very fashionable this day, ma tìyawn,” you add with a soft giggle.
So’lek turns to you, amusement flickering briefly in his eyes, but he doesn’t rise to the tease the way he might have once. Instead, his gaze softens. “Haven’t you heard?” he says quietly. “Fatherhood suits me.”
He presses another kiss to your temple, shifting one arm to better cradle the babe so he can lean closer, breathing you in as if the scent of you grounds him. You set the bowl down once more as your hand comes to rest on his arm, fingers curling there as you both look down at her together.
“She is a blessing, So’lek,” you say softly. “One that you have deserved for some time.”
The words catch him off guard. He pulls back just enough to look at you, not with doubt, but with a sudden, startling clarity, as if some truth he never wanted has finally been named.
“Do you not believe you deserve this blessing as well?”
You blink, the question catching you off guard, searching for words to gather back the truth you let slip.
“Ma yawne—”
He places his hand over yours where it still rests on his arm, grounding you. “The true blessing,” he says after a moment, voice low and unwavering, “is witnessing you become her sa’nok.”
His hand lifts to cup your cheek, thumb brushing gently over the chipping paint still traced along your skin from days past. “You deserve this,” he murmurs. “Her.”
The realization comes to him with quiet clarity, threaded through with love. Something he said he would wait for. Would never claim against tradition or expectation. But seeing you here now—hesitant, uncertain in your joy—he understands that this is not something borrowed or temporary.
This is your family.
Together.
He takes your hand from his arm and guides it beneath the small girl, helping you cup her gently as he looks down at her sleeping form, peaceful and unaware of how fiercely she is loved.
“Atìra,” So’lek says softly, the name settling like truth between you. “We should name her… Atìra.”
Your eyes snap to his, and all you see there is love. Open, unwavering admiration. A warmth in his gaze you have never been able to witness so fully, so wholly, as you do now.
“You named her?” you ask softly.
So’lek’s hand finds yours again, his thumb brushing absently across your knuckles. “No,” he says gently. “Not without you, ma tìyawn,.”
His hand slides an inch higher along your arm, a quiet promise in the touch. “Never without you.”
His ears flattened an inch. “It was just a thought.”
The warmth that floods your chest is overwhelming, your eyes stinging as the truth of his words settles in. “Atìra,” you breathe, hearing the name from your own lips and feeling immediately how right it is.
You lean down, pressing a tender kiss to her small crown. “Oel ngati kameie,” you whisper. I see you.
So’lek watches you with something steady and sure in his expression: relief. With the certainty that no other of his kind could have been made more perfectly for him than you. His soul has long been entwined with yours—and now, Atìra’s as well.
He lowers his head to rest his forehead against yours, the contact grounding and intimate as you sit together in the quiet acceptance of the choice you’ve made.
Now it is by the will of Eywa, and soon, by the will of the clan.
The sound of footfalls nearby pulls So’lek from his quiet bliss. His body stiffens instantly, demeanor shifting as his arms tighten around you and Atìra without conscious thought. Instinct takes over before reason can follow.
A group of young Na’vi boys bursts through the trees moments later, laughing as they splash through the shallows, chasing one another with sticks and tugging playfully at each other’s tails. Dread loosens its grip on him as you pull back slightly, smiling at the boys as they disappear downriver.
“It is only the young, So’lek,” you murmur.
He exhales slowly, forcing the tension from his shoulders. The protective edge in his soul never truly fades; it only waits, but for now he pushes it aside. When he looks back at you, the hardness in his eyes has softened, a breath of relief washing over him completely.
“Yes,” he says quietly.
You slip free of his hold entirely then, moving straight for the water. He adjusts his grip on Atìra instinctively, watching as you crouch and cup a small amount of river water in your hands. Before he can protest, you flick it toward him.
He turns automatically, shielding the babe with his body as the water splashes harmlessly against his shoulder.
“What are you doing?” he asks, laughter breaking through his voice despite himself.
“Loosen your back, Ma So’lek,” you tease. “Come.”
He gives you a look—one that clearly says she is sleeping—just as Atìra stirs, a soft coo escaping her as small hands push from the sling, reaching toward the light.
He sighs, gently rubbing a hand beneath the sling to soothe her. “Look what you have done,” he says, mock accusation threaded with fondness.
You crouch in front of him, lifting one of the reeds you gathered earlier and waving it gently before Atìra’s curious gaze.
“Do you see that, little pxisìk?” you whisper. “That is your sempul pretending he is not smiling.”
So’lek’s jaw tightens. “I am not smiling.”
Atìra answers with a soft sound, eyes bright in the full sunlight.
You gasp theatrically. “She agrees with me.”
“She is too young to conspire,” he replies, though his mouth betrays him anyway.
You tug gently on his arm, beckoning him into the water. After two small pulls, he relents, rising from the stone and stepping forward until the river curls cold around his ankles. You hold your hands out in silent request as Atìra stirs fully awake. Without hesitation, So’lek lifts the girl from the sling, allowing her to stretch her legs with a small yawn before placing her carefully into your waiting arms.
He has never held anything so small, so fragile before. And when he passes her to you, Atìra curves instinctively to the shape of your chest, settling as though she has always belonged there. She finds comfort in your scent, nuzzling close as you sway her in gentle, practiced circles.
All roads have led to this moment.
You stand in the river with your daughter held safely between you, peace humming softly through the world around you while love anchors you firmly at his side. There is no memory in So’lek’s life that could ever replace what he sees before him now. His chest feels full to the point of ache, not with fear, but with hope—with the quiet certainty that this moment will not be the last.
this is a bit of an angsty one, ending with fluff - that's my favorite category to read and write woo!
So'lek's mate is kidnapped by the RDA while gathering herbs, used as bait to lure him in. He rescues her, tends to her recovery, and they rebuild in a new hidden home together. Ends soft and sweet
TWs: kidnapping, interrogation, non-graphic torture, a device used on a kuru - read at your own discretion
The morning had the particular quality of mornings that don’t know what they’re about to become.
Soft, warm, and unhurried. The kind that arrived gently on Pandora. The light filtering down through the canopy in long pale shafts that moved slowly across the floor of the home as the sun climbed. The sounds of the forest coming awake around the kelku in layers — first the birds, then the insects, then the deeper resonance of the root network humming its slow, ancient frequency beneath everything.
You had been up before So’lek, which was unusual. He was a light sleeper by habit and long practice. The kind of man whose body had learned to surface at the smallest change in the room, and so it was rare that you moved through the early morning without waking him.
But today he slept deeply, the lines of his face smoothed out in a way they rarely were when he was conscious, and you had lain beside him for a long time watching that — the specific unguarded quality of him in sleep, the way he looked younger, the way the weight he carried everywhere lifted from him in the dark — before you had finally, carefully, slipped out of the hammock without disturbing him.
He had been pushing hard lately. Three facilities in two weeks, each one further than the last. The resistance was stretched thin, and the RDA was pushing back in ways that meant So’lek came home with new bruises layered over the old ones and the particular exhausted set to his jaw that told you he had folded up more than usual on the journey back.
You had learned to read him the way the forest read the weather — in the small signs before the thing itself arrived. The way he held his shoulders. The careful way he lowered himself to sit when something was hurting that he wasn’t going to mention. The quality of his silence, which had many different textures and which you mapped over years of loving him until you could tell the contented ones from the ones that needed tending.
He needed tending lately. He always did, he never said so, and you long since stopped waiting for him to say so.
The salve was running low. You mentioned it to him the night before, briefly, the way you mentioned practical things — not as a complaint or a request, simply as an observation. The quiet inventory of someone who was always thinking three steps ahead about what was needed. He nodded and said he would gather the kxania root himself on the next hunt to save you the trip. You smiled, said of course and privately decided you would go in the morning while he slept because the next hunt could be days away and his shoulder was not improving on its own.
You packed your gathering satchel quietly in the grey pre-dawn light. You left a small bundle of his favorite dried fruit where he would find it when he woke, arranged in the particular way you arranged things when you wanted him to know you had been thinking of him while you did it. You slipped out into the early morning forest and let the door close softly behind you.
The path was familiar. You had walked it enough times that your feet knew it without consultation. The particular placement of roots and stones mapped in your body the way the constellations were mapped in your mind — not consciously, just known.
The forest was luminous and cool at this hour, the bioluminescence still visible in the lower growth where the morning light hadn’t yet reached, and you moved through it with the easy, unhurried pace of someone who learned to belong in a place.
You were thinking about So’lek’s shoulder. The left one, which he favored less than usual lately and which he had deflected from twice when you’d tried to look at it properly. You were thinking about the best approach — whether to simply begin treating it while he was distracted, which sometimes worked, or to address it directly and wait out the mild resistance before he allowed you to help, which also sometimes worked and took longer.
You were thinking about this with the focused, gentle strategy of someone who had made a long study of caring for a man who did not always know how to be cared for. You were not thinking about the forest around you, or the distance you had covered, or the fact that you had, gradually and without noticing, moved further from the kelku than you usually went alone.
You found the nightbloom first. A cluster of them growing in the crook of a fallen tree where the moisture collected, exactly what you needed. You crouched to harvest them with careful hands, turning each one to check the bloom before adding it to your satchel with the practiced efficiency of someone who had done this many times.
You found the kxania root a little further along. And then, further still, the particular grey-green moss that you used as a base for the wound paste that So’lek went through fastest.
You were reaching for it when you heard the sound.
Not the forest. Not anything that belonged here.
You straightened slowly. Turned.
The clearing behind you was not empty.
—
So’lek woke to an empty hammock and lay still for a moment, reading the quality of the absence before he opened his eyes.
Not wrong. Just empty. The particular emptiness of someone who had risen carefully rather than been taken, the hammock still holding the warmth of you on the side where you slept, the kelku carrying the small sounds of morning rather than the sounds of disturbance.
He opened his eyes. Looked at the ceiling. Listened to the forest coming awake outside and the absence of you inside and understood, without urgency, that you had gone out.
He sat up. Found the dried fruit on the mat beside the hammock where you had left it — arranged in the particular way you arranged things when you wanted him to know you had been thinking of him while you did it — and held it in his hand for a moment before he ate it slowly, looking at the stacked containers near the fire.
The salve. You mentioned it last night, briefly, the way you mentioned practical things. Running low. He had said he would gather the kxania root himself on the next hunt to save you the trip. He had thought that settled it.
He almost smiled. You had not waited.
He rose. Moved to the door of the kelku and looked out at the morning forest, pale and cool and luminous at this hour, and thought that you were probably not far. That you knew these paths as well as anyone, that you would be back before the morning was properly underway with your satchel full, your hair catching on things and some new observation about something you had seen on the path that you would tell him over the morning meal with the particular enthusiasm you brought to the world that he had never once found excessive, only extraordinary.
He made tea. He began his morning tasks. He kept one ear toward the path.
—
The transmission came through two hours later.
Teylan’s voice, urgent and clipped, the particular register that meant something had moved faster than expected. A facility north of the mountain range, a signal the resistance had been tracking for days that had suddenly gone active. Equipment being moved. A window of hours before it closed.
So’lek listened to the transmission data with the focused attention he brought to all intelligence. The coordinates verified. The source confirmed through Priya’s secondary check. The signal consistent with RDA operational patterns he had encountered before.
He had been uneasy from the first word. He learned, over years of this work, to trust the feeling — the particular quality of alertness that arrived in his chest before his mind had caught up with the reason for it. He turned the data over twice, looking for the thing that was prickling at him, and found nothing.
He had tried your frequency before he left. No answer, which meant you were still out on the path, still gathering, your communication piece left at the kelku the way you sometimes left it when you went close to home. He left a message. He told himself he would be back before you were.
He had been three hours out when he found the facility.
Empty. Not recently evacuated — empty in the way of a space that had never been properly occupied, a shell of infrastructure with nothing inside it, no equipment, no personnel, no evidence of the operation the signal described. Constructed well enough to pass initial verification and nothing more, intended to be found and found quickly. To send whoever found it somewhere very far from where they needed to be.
The unease became something that had no adequate name.
So’lek was already moving before he fully processed the thought.
—
He tried your frequency first, running back through the forest - flat out, every resource committed to speed, the forest floor blurring beneath him. No answer. He tried again. The silence on the line had a quality to it that was different from a simple failure to connect, a texture he recognized and refused to name.
He tried Teylan.
“The signal was false,” he said, when Teylan answered. Not a question.
A beat of silence. “So’lek —”
“Where is she.” The words came out with the particular flatness of someone who has moved past the register of normal speech into something that runs deeper and colder. “Where is my mate.”
“We’re looking,” Teylan said carefully. “There may have been a breach in the network. Someone found a thread we thought was scrubbed — a record we believed was gone. So’lek, we think they’ve had this planned. The false signal was designed to move you. The timing —”
“How long since you lost her frequency.”
A pause that told him everything before Teylan said: “Two hours.”
So’lek said nothing. He ran.
—
He found the satchel first.
It was lying at the edge of the path, half open, the nightbloom scattered around it in the way that spoke of sudden movement, of something set down fast or knocked loose rather than placed. He stopped beside it, crouched and looked at it for a moment with an expression that no one was there to see, which was perhaps fortunate.
Your gathering knife was three feet further along. Still in its sheath, which meant you hadn’t had time to reach for it.
He picked both up. Set them carefully inside the satchel. Closed it and held it in his hands for a moment before he made himself set it down against the base of a tree where it would be safe, where he could find it again, where he could bring it back to you.
He stood.
The forest around him was as it always was — luminous and vast and entirely indifferent to the thing that had happened in it. The bioluminescence pulsed at the roots of the trees. The canopy moved in the high wind.
So’lek stood in the path where your things had fallen and let himself feel, for exactly the span of three measured breaths, the full specific terror of what he was feeling. He did not look away from it. He let it move through him entirely, catalogued it, understood it, and then he folded it up — not small, not the way he folded up the small daily frustrations, but differently. The way you folded something you needed to carry a long distance without losing — and he set his jaw and opened his transmission to Teylan.
“Find her,” he said. “Now.”
—
It took Teylan forty minutes and it was the RDA’s own transmission network that found you.
“They moved her between units,” Teylan said, his voice tight with the controlled urgency of someone managing multiple things at once. “Internal frequency, encrypted but not well enough. We intercepted the relay. So’lek — we have coordinates.”
“Send them.”
“Already done.” A pause. “There’s something else. They transmitted to your personal frequency. Deliberately. They want you to see it before you go in.”
So’lek was already moving. “Send it.”
“I don’t think —”
“Teylan.” One word. The tone beneath it left no room.
A beat. Then the transmission came through to his device, and he slowed to a stop in the forest and he watched it.
Forty seconds.
The interior of a small room. You, restrained, your wrists bound above you, your kuru exposed and vulnerable in a way that made the breath leave his body in a slow controlled exhale that was the only outward indication of what it cost him to keep watching. The RDA operative’s voice, sharp and demanding, asking you something you were not answering. The device in his hand. What it did when he used it. The sound you made in response — the sound that came from somewhere below the composure you had been holding onto, involuntary and small and entirely honest about what was being done to you, the kind of sound you would never have made if you had known he was watching.
The transmission cut out.
So’lek stood in the forest with the device in his hand and was very, very still in a way that was not stillness at all but its shadow — the shape stillness left behind when everything inside it had become something else entirely.
“So’lek.” Teylan’s voice, careful and distant. “They sent it to provoke you. To make you go in reckless. She needs you to go in with a clear head. You hear me?”
He stood there for another moment.
“I hear you,” he said. His voice was even. What was underneath it was something he was going to have to manage very carefully for the next hour or it was going to make him dangerous in ways that would not serve you.
He started running again.
—
The RDA facility was smaller than most — a forward outpost rather than a full installation. The kind that appeared quickly and disappeared quickly and existed for specific purposes rather than long occupation. It sat in a depression in the landscape where the trees thinned, ringed with perimeter lighting that So’lek had disabled from three separate installations before this one and disabled again now without breaking his stride.
He went in from the east. He went in alone, which Teylan had argued against and which So’lek had not argued back about because there was nothing to say. There was only the facility and the forty seconds of transmission and your satchel sitting at the base of a tree in the forest waiting to be brought home.
He moved through the first two rooms without stopping.
And then he heard you.
He was in the second corridor, moving toward the third room, when the sound reached him through the wall — the RDA operative’s voice, sharp and demanding, asking you something you were not answering, and then the device, and then the sound you made, and it came through the wall and hit him somewhere below thought entirely.
It got louder with every step.
Your voice, strained and ragged, still refusing to give them what they wanted. The operative’s voice, harder now, less patient. The device again. The sound you couldn’t stop making no matter how hard you were trying not to make it, and So’lek could hear that you were trying. Could hear the effort of it in every breath, and that — that specific detail, the sound of you fighting to hold yourself together while they used that thing on the most sacred part of you — was the last thing that reached him before he stopped being able to hear anything except the door in front of him.
He went through it.
The room. Two operatives. You, restrained, your head down, your kuru bearing the marks of what had been done to it, the device still in one of their hands. So’lek registered all of it in a fraction of a second and then he stopped registering things the way a thinking person registers things and began operating on something considerably more fundamental.
He was not counting. He was not calculating. He was not the controlled, methodical, tactically precise fighter that the resistance knew and that the RDA had learned to be afraid of. He was something older than all of that and considerably less interested in restraint. The room was small and there were two of them and neither of them was prepared for what came through that door.
He was still moving when it was over. Still somewhere the rational mind had no useful contribution to make. His breathing hard and ragged in a way it almost never was. The forty seconds playing behind his eyes and the sounds from the corridor still living in his ears and his hands —
A sound.
Small. Involuntary. From across the room where you were still restrained, a sound that was not fear of what he had just done, but something physical. The echo of pain still moving through you in the aftermath of everything that had preceded him into this room.
It reached him like a hand on his shoulder.
He stopped.
He turned.
You were looking at him. Your eyes clear despite everything — despite the exhaustion and the hours of it and the marks on your kuru and whatever it had cost you to hold yourself together in this room without breaking — and you were looking at him with an expression that he would carry for the rest of his life because it was not fear. Not of him, not of any of this. It was relief, enormous and uncontrolled, and underneath it something steady and certain that had apparently never wavered.
“So’lek,” you said. Quietly. Just his name.
He crossed to you. His hands, which had been something else entirely thirty seconds ago, were gentle on the restraints. Careful. Deliberate. He freed your wrists and caught your arms as they came down and held them with the same focused attention he brought to tending your injuries, to anything that involved you — the care that lived in him for you specifically and expressed itself differently than anything else in his life.
“I have you,” he said. Low and certain. More to himself than to you.
“I knew you’d come,” you said. Your voice was hoarse and small, nothing like its usual self.
He looked at your kuru. At the marks on it. And the thing that had been running hot in him since the forty second transmission did something complicated and quiet. He closed his eyes for a single moment before he opened them again and looked at your face instead and held onto that.
“Can you walk?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He picked you up anyway.
—
He carried you out of the facility and through the perimeter and into the forest with the particular focused deliberateness of a man who was doing one thing only and that thing was getting you away from there and he was not going to put you down until you were somewhere safe.
Behind him, at a distance he had communicated to Teylan before he went in, the facility ceased to exist.
He didn’t look back.
—
He found a place in the forest, far enough from the outpost, where the roots of a great tree formed a natural shelter and the bioluminescence was strong enough to see by, and he sat down with you still in his arms and he held on.
You were quiet for a long time. He could feel you shaking, finely and continuously. The kind of shaking that came from hours of fear finally finding somewhere to go, and he held you through it and said nothing because there was nothing to say yet. He understood that what you needed right now was not words but this — his arms, and his heartbeat, and the specific irreplaceable certainty of him, solid and present and not going anywhere.
Eventually the shaking eased.
“They knew who I was,” you said. Very quietly. Into the space between his jaw and his shoulder.
“I know,” he said.
“They knew about you. They said —” You stopped.
“You don’t have to tell me now.”
“I want to.” A breath. “They said they would keep taking things from you until you stopped. That you should have understood there were consequences.” Another stop. “They said that you would come for me and they were right and I was so — So’lek, I was so frightened that you would walk into something.”
He pressed his mouth to the top of your head. Held it there.
“I’m here,” he said. “I’m whole. You’re whole.” His arms tightened. “That is the only thing that matters right now.”
You were quiet for a moment.
“My kuru,” you said, and your voice was different on those words, something in it that was not quite the physical pain but something adjacent to it. Something that lived deeper.
“I know,” he said. Low and careful and carrying everything he felt about that in a way that he was choosing very deliberately not to put into full words right now because you did not need his fury, you needed his steadiness, and he was going to give you his steadiness even if it cost him something to do it. “I’m going to tend to it. As soon as we’re home.”
“You should let me tend to yours first,” you said. “Your shoulder has been —”
“No,” he said. Simply. Firmly. With the absolute finality of a man who was not going to be argued with on this particular point.
“So’lek —”
“No,” he said again, gentler.
You didn’t argue. You tucked your face back against his neck and breathed slowly and he held you in the shelter of the great tree and the forest moved around you both in the dark and neither of you said anything else for a long time.
—
He didn’t sleep that night.
You did, eventually — exhaustion pulling you under despite everything, your body making the decision that your mind might not have, and he lay beside you in the dark and listened to your breathing. He kept his hand light and careful near your kuru without touching it, looked at the ceiling, and thought.
He thought about the forty seconds of transmission. He thought about the marks on your kuru. He thought about the sound you had made in the corridor getting louder with every step he took toward the room and the way you had been fighting to hold yourself together in there and the specific quality of your voice saying I knew you’d come with such steadiness, such certainty, as though the possibility that he wouldn’t had never entered your mind.
He thought about the satchel in the forest path. The nightbloom scattered around it.
He had known there was risk. He had always known. The resistance work, the facilities, the name the RDA had given him — he had known that name meant something. That it painted a target; the space around him was more dangerous than the space around others. He had believed he had protected you from that. He had believed the precautions were sufficient.
He had been wrong.
That wrong had a weight and a specific shape and he was going to sit with it until he understood its full dimensions, because that was what he did with the things that mattered — he looked at them clearly, without the mercy of distance or the comfort of partial understanding, and he let them be what they were.
You stirred at some point in the deep of the night, found him awake and said nothing. Just reached for his hand and held it. He turned his palm up and held yours in return, and the night moved slowly around you both.
—
The days that followed had a texture he had not experienced before.
Not the texture of grief — you were here, you were healing, every hour that passed was an hour further from what had happened and closer to you being whole. Not the texture of fear, which had its own particular quality he knew well. Something else. Something quieter and more persistent, something that sat in him at a low level all the time and that he had to move around carefully the way you moved around a bruise — not ignoring it, not pressing on it directly, just aware of its location at all times.
He did not leave. He said he wouldn’t, and he didn’t, and there was no discussion about it because it was simply what was happening. The way weather simply happened.
He tended your kuru with the same focused care you brought to his injuries, which he understood was not a coincidence — that you taught him this without meaning to, by example, by the years of quiet, attentive healing you had offered him without making him ask for it. He learned the particular way you needed it handled, the pressure and the angle, and the specific warmth that helped. He brought that same careful attention to it every time with the focused dedication of someone who understood that what had been done to this part of you was not only physical and needed to be met accordingly.
He made your meals and brought them to you and sat beside you while you ate and did not hover but was always within reach — the presence without the pressure, the availability without the demand. You taught him that too, in the early days, by being exactly that for him.
You slept a great deal. Your body was doing the work of recovery, and he left it to that work without interfering. Lying still beside you during the long afternoon sleeps, listening to the forest, thinking.
On the third day you said: “You’re blaming yourself.”
He was quiet for a moment. “I failed to protect you.”
“The RDA laid a trap,” you said. “Specifically designed to move you away from me. That is not a failure of your protection. That is them being willing to do anything.”
“I missed something in the intelligence.”
“Teylan missed it. Priya missed it. The entire resistance network missed it.” You looked at him steadily. “And you are sitting here deciding it was yours alone to have caught.”
He looked at you. Said nothing.
“So’lek.” Your voice, gentle and absolutely certain. “Hear me. What happened to me was not a consequence of your choices. It was a consequence of theirs. They chose to do what they did. The responsibility for it belongs to them entirely.” A pause. “You came for me. That is what I will remember. You came and you were —” Something moved across your face. “The look on your face when you came through that door. I will remember that every day of my life.”
He looked at you for a long moment.
Then he reached out and took your hand with the same care he had been bringing to everything involving you since he carried you out of that facility, the specific tenderness of someone who has been reminded, at great cost, exactly what they are holding.
“I will do better,” he said quietly. “With the intelligence. The network. The precautions.”
“I know you will,” you said. “And while you’re doing that —” you turned your hand over in his, “you could also let me tend your shoulder. Which I have been trying to do for two weeks and you have been avoiding.”
A silence.
“It’s fine,” he said.
“It is not fine,” you said pleasantly. “I have been watching you favor it since before the false signal. I have the salve, I have the time, and you are going to sit still and let me help you.”
Another silence. Then, very quietly, with the particular rueful quality of a man who knew when he had been outmaneuvered: “You just recovered from —”
“So’lek.”
He sat still. He let you help him.
And you worked in the quiet together, your hands on his shoulder and his eyes on your face and the forest breathing around the kelku, and it was the most ordinary thing. It was also, in the particular way that ordinary things became extraordinary after you understood what it meant to almost lose them, everything.
—
The move happened ten days later.
Not far — not so far that the work was impossible, that the resistance lost So’lek’s reach entirely. But far enough. Deeper into the forest, further from the known coordinates, into a part of the mountain range where the trees grew thick enough that the canopy blocked aerial surveillance and the root network was so dense that Teylan could reroute the signal through it in ways that left no trace in any direction.
The new kelku was smaller than the old one. Older, built into the base of a tree so ancient that its roots had formed the walls themselves, the wood grown through and around the woven structure over decades until the two were inseparable. It smelled of moss and deep soil and the particular dark sweetness of old wood and it was, in the way of places that had held generations of life inside them, immediately and entirely a home.
So’lek stood in the middle of it on the first evening and looked around at what you had brought with you — the woven things, the containers of salve, his weapons arranged carefully along the root wall the way they always were, your star charts pinned to the interior where you could look at them from the hammock — and felt something in him settle that had been unsettled for ten days.
You appeared at his shoulder. Looked at where he was looking.
“It’s good,” you said.
“Yes,” he said.
A beat of quiet.
“Your satchel,” he said then. He turned to the pack he carried in and withdrew it — your gathering satchel, the one he had found in the forest, which he had carried back and kept in his pack ever since, waiting for the right moment. “I kept it for you.”
You looked at it. Something moved across your face.
“You found it,” you said.
“Yes.”
“When you were —” You stopped. “On the path.”
“Yes.” He held it out. You took it, held it in both hands, and he watched you look at it. He thought about the moment he had found it, your knife beside it in the dirt, and he thought about all the things he had not allowed himself to think about in the weeks since. He let them move through him briefly and completely, then he folded them up and set them down.
You looked up from the satchel and found him watching you.
“The nightbloom is probably past using,” you said softly.
“I gathered more,” he said. “On the way here. I thought you might want to make the salve again.”
You looked at him for a long moment. At this man who had gathered nightbloom on the path to a new home because he knew what you needed before you knew you needed it. Who carried your satchel for ten days because setting it down somewhere else felt wrong. Who stayed awake every night listening to you breathe and held your hand in the dark and had sat still and let you tend his shoulder and had said I will do better with the quiet certainty of someone who meant every word of it and would spend the rest of his life making it true.
“So’lek,” you said softly.
“Mm.”
“Come here.”
He came. You put your arms around him and he folded around you the way he always did — completely, without reservation, with the ease of two people who have learned the precise geometry of each other and no longer have to think about it. His face pressed into your hair. Your face pressed into the curve of his neck. His arms pulled you in and held on with the quiet certainty of someone who had been given something back and was not, not ever, going to take the holding of it for granted again.
Outside, the new forest breathed around the new kelku, ancient and unhurried and entirely its own. The bioluminescence began to strengthen as the evening deepened, finding its way through the old wood walls in faint traces of blue and green, painting the interior of the kelku in the colors that had always meant home to you. That would always mean home to you now, wherever they appeared.
“We’re alright,” you said. Into the warmth of him.
His arms tightened.
“Yes,” he said. His voice low and certain and entirely without qualification. “We are.”
So’lek held you and breathed slowly. Outside, Pandora turned toward dark, and the forest kept its deep indifferent watch over all the small tender things sheltering within it.
And they were, both of them, finally, all the way home.
prompt: how will the sully family react when they find out that the eldest is pregnant with her mate, tarsem?
pairings: Tarsem x fem!omatikaya!reader, Tarsem x eldest sully daughter!reader
wc: 3.0k
warnings: fluff, touchy feely tarsem, jake being a girl dad, sorta protective dad!jake, kinda suggestive, pregnant reader, family feels.
notes: this has been in the drafts for a while, i love tarsem he needs more fanfics okay bai
You are awakened by something you’ve never felt in your life. An unwanted, thick quest that arrives before you even open your eyes.
In the first blurred moment of waking, before the village has even shaped itself for the morning, there is a hollow weight in your chest.
You feel starved and full at the same time, then you double over and spew all over the floor. Tears fall, almost at once and your hand flies back to clutch Tarsem’s, anchoring yourself.
His heart jumps and he sits up immediately, assessing, watching. Your tail is still, stiff and lifeless, shoulders weak and tense at the same time.
He has never seen you like this.
He straightens, one hand moving around your waist and the other still holding your hand, his fingers curl in yours now, rubbing your knuckles softly.
“Stay upright, slow breaths.. you hear me?” He says calmly.
You sob quietly, the large hammock sways as you rock back and forth in slow motions. Tarsem is there, rubbing your back, massaging your shoulders—because he doesn’t know what else to do, and nothing feels worse.
“I will get Mo’at.”
“Please,” you gasp, head falling onto the hammock, body curling when his warmth is gone.
Tarsem moves straight to Mo’at’s kelku, not stopping to greet any villagers who may still be awake, his focus is entirely on you and getting you the treatment that you need.
He returns minutes later with your grandmother, Mo’at’s eyes narrow slightly when she sees the emesis just beneath your hammock.
“Tarsem, place her on the mats.” She says.
He doesn’t hesitate, he slips one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you from the hammock as if you might shatter in his hands.
Your body feels too heavy and too light all at once and you groan softly, fingers curling in his chest.
“I’ve got you, yawne.” he murmurs, unsure if he’s trying to steady you, or himself.
He lowers you onto the woven mats, one hand covering your shoulder as if afraid to let go completely.
Your breathing is uneven, shallow, and your eyes squeeze shut against another wave of nausea that twists through you.
Your grandmother kneels beside you immediately, her presence is different from Tarsem’s, where his is warmth and urgency, she is stillness.
Her hand hovers near your abdomen first, not touching, just feeling, reading.
Your grandmothers eyes close, calculating, listening to something deeper than what is seen. “Breathe, my grandchild.” She says quietly, though it is not a suggestion—just a command rooted in calm.
You try and your chest stutters for just a second, then slowly obeys.
Mo’at finally places her palm against your stomach. It’s warm, steady in a way that cuts through the dizziness just slightly.
“This is not sickness of the body alone,”
Tarsem’s jaw tightens. “Then what is it?”
Mo’at’s gaze shifts to your face, studying the tears that haven’t stopped, the way your body curls inward instinctively—as if protecting something you don’t yet understand.
“This is change.”
Tarsem glances at you, then back at her. Confusion flickering across his face. “Change?”
Mo’at does not answer him immediately. Instead, she presses a little more firmly against your abdomen, and something in your body reacts, subtle, but unmistakable.
Her ears tilt back slightly, and she smiles. “You are not empty,”
Even through the nausea, the weakness, and the strange fullness, you feel it. Something shifts in your chest that has nothing to do with pain.
Tarsem freezes. “Tsahik, what do you mean?”
Mo’at finally looks at him completely. “She carries life.”
Tarsem’s hand finds yours again, this time it is different, he his holding you. “Are you certain of this?”
“Yes.” Her hand never leaves your abdomen, she places a soft kiss to your temple. “You will see me again when I call for you.”
“Yes, grandmother. Don’t tell dad yet, or mom.”
She smiles mischievously. “I will not.”
You nod softly, then your eyes drift to Tarsem, low and tired. Your fingers tighten slightly around his.
“How do you feel?” He asks quietly, leaning to kiss your temple. His eyes search yours like the answer might change everything.
Tarsem doesn’t rush you.
He doesn’t move his hand away, even as the moment stretches, even as the weight of what was said settles deeper into both of you. His palm stays warm against your stomach.
Your body still aches, still feels unfamiliar, but something inside you has shifted. The nausea, the weakness.. they’re still there, but no longer frightening in the same way, just overwhelming.
Your eyes drift half-shut, lashes damp, and your voice comes out softer than you expect. “I feel strange.”
“We will figure this out, my love.”
“I don’t know how my father will react..”
Tarsem freezes for a second, offering you a side glance. “He won’t react before we are ready for him to.”
“No. he won’t.” You smile.
Later, you and Tarsem sit surrounded by your family in their kelku. Jake passes around tiny bowls of teylu, Neytiri organizes portions of meat and paskalin.
Neteyam displays portions of drinks, and Kiri helps with the roasting. Lo’ak and Tuk laugh about something stupid in their corner of the hut and you…
You and Tarsem remain seated in complete silence. Tense and unmoving.
The fire crackles between you and your family, Jake hands you the food, your mother plates it for Tuk—it’s a happy mess.
You eat a bunch, Tarsem occasionally wipes your mouth with a cloth and makes sure to remind you that you should slow down.
Of course, your family notices the silence—but they don’t comment on it. Dinner drags on for what feels like hours until the food is gone, the only sound left being the fire, and your family’s conversation.
You stand to assist your parents in cleaning bowls and utensils. “Papa,” you say, “can you pass me that bowl there?”
Your father passes you the bowl immediately, kissing your head as he passes. Jake pauses suddenly, turning to look at you.
“What’s that smell?” He says.
“Hm?” You ask without looking at him.
“You smell like your mother when she was- you pregnant?”
You turn sharply, the bowl almost slips from your fingers. “Dad!”
“What?! I’m just asking! I mean it’s, it’s normal- it’s okay to be pregnant.”
“I am not pregnant!” You almost hiss, brushing past Tarsem and shoving the bowl in his chest a little too hard.
He catches it instinctively, glancing at you over his shoulder. He turns slowly to face everyone, they’re all staring at the entrance where you left.
Tuk and Lo’ak are no longer laughing, just staring—eyes wide in confusion. Your mother shoots your father a pointed glare, he shrugs.
“What did I say?”
You and Tarsem continue to visit Mo’at secretly, she determines that you are seven weeks along—a likely result of your mood swings and morning sickness.
You are in the training grounds when your mother comes by—Tarsem, pressure flaking a newly crafted bow, straightens when he sees her.
Neytiri watches you train for a moment, the way you intake more breath than usual, and the way you very often glance down at your belly before releasing an arrow.
What she watches the most is your chest, your breathing pattern, and the way your breasts have curved into something larger.
She steps closer, her hands smooth through your hair—it is moist, moist with sweat. “ma’ite,” she sighs. “You are breathing heavier than usual, are you hurt?.. or tired?”
“No.” You say, shifting again.
Tarsem moves closer, very subtly. Neytiri smiles then, “you are carrying new life.” She says not a question, just a truth.
Your eyes skim over her expression for a second before moving back to the target. “Yes.” You whisper.
Her smile grows, a hand moving down to your belly. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Tarsem and I have only just mated… it felt too soon. We were careful, I promise.”
“It does not matter. You are my eldest. The life you carry is a blessing, not something to hide. You are not standing apart from this family, you are growing it.” She reassures, one hand cupping your cheek. “You are loved, always. Did you think your father and I did not face the same fears when we first had you?”
You smile softly, wiping tears you hadn’t realized were falling. “Don’t tell dad yet.” You laugh.
“You wanna repeat that?” His voice cuts through the space, not loud, but sharp enough to still everything.
“Yes,” Jake nods once, jaw tight. “I did, just makin’ sure I didn’t imagine it.”
Your eyes finally lift to him, “dad-“
“I was right,” he interrupts. “How long?” There is no anger in his words.
“Seven weeks..” you admit quietly.
Jake runs a hand over his face, pacing once, and then another time—like he needs to move or he might explode. “Seven weeks,” he repeats under his breath.
His eyes flick to Tarsem. “And you didn’t say anything?”
Tarsem straightens, shoulders squared despite the tension. “It was a mutual decision, sir.”
Jake studies him for a long moment, measuring. “Nobody thought to tell me?” His eyes go back to you.
You swallow. “I was going to.. I just needed time.”
Jake huffs a breath, shaking his head slightly. “Baby girl, you don’t get seven weeks of ‘time’ on something like this.”
“I only found out two weeks ago.”
Neytiri finally turns fully toward him. “Jake. She does if she needs it.”
Jake glances at her, something unspoken passing between them, before his shoulders drop, just a fraction.
Silence stretches, then he looks at you again. At the way you’re standing, the slight tension in your body. The way your hand hovers—without realizing—near your stomach.
Something in him shifts. His voice, when he speaks again, is different. Softer. “C’mere, you okay?”
You edge nearer and he pulls you in, your forehead against his chest.
Your lips part, and for a second, you can’t answer. “I’ve been sick,” you admit. “Tired.. everything feels strange.”
Jake nods slowly, “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That sounds right. Your mom was the same, knocked her flat some mornings.”
That seems to calm something in him.
“I love you, we’re here for you.” he mutters into your hair.
You let out a shaky breath, gripping his arm. “I know.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you again, hands still on your shoulders. “You’re gonna be a mom, my baby’s having a baby” he says, like he’s still processing it himself.
A small, disbelieving huff of a laugh escapes him. “Damn.”
His gaze shifts to Tarsem again, lingering a second longer this time. “You and I are gonna talk later,” he adds, not unkindly, but definitely meaning it “just focus on takin’ care of yourselves.”
His hand squeezes your shoulder once more, steady and sure. “Let’s get you home, you need rest.”
Jake guides you gently, Tarsem holding your arm at the opposite side.
You can barely make it inside without everybody noticing, not because anyone says anything, but because of your father’s protective gestures; a hand on your arm, one on your back.
Tarsem being around longer than usual, holding you, helping you with everything, barely going on hunts any more.
Lo’ak is the first to speak. “What’s going on?” He asks, glancing between all of you.
Kiri looks up from where she’s sitting, head tilting slightly. Tuk pauses mid-sentence, eyes bouncing between faces.
Neteyam doesn’t say anything but he’s watching.
“You wanna tell ‘em?” Jake asks exhaling through his nose, squeezing your shoulders briefly.
You hesitate, kinda, then.. “I am with child.”
Silence falls, absolute. Lo’ak blinks, when his eyes open, they are wide. “What? You’re what?”
Tuk gasps, loud and dramatic, hands flying to her mouth.
“You’re joking? Nah.” Lo’ak says.
“I’m not.”
“Oh..”
Kiri goes still, eyes softening almost instantly. Neteyam straightens slightly, processing, eyebrows raised.
“There’s a baby here?!” Tuk pokes your stomach.
“Yes-“ you laugh weakly.
“Let me touch!”
Jake’s lifts a hand. “Easy.”
“It’s okay.” you murmur.
Lo’ak drags a hand down his face. “No way. no way.” Slowly, his head turns to Tarsem. “You?”
Neytiri’s ears flick. “Lo’ak.”
The next day, you’re sitting near the fire, picking slowly at food while Jake watches as if you’ll fly away if he doesn’t.
“Eat a little more, babygirl.” He says, nudging the bowl back toward you.
“I am,” you mumble.
Tarsem sits close behind you, arms locked around your waist, head resting against your shoulder—almost asleep, tired from the long morning hunt.
Neteyam is across from you, sharpening something, Kiri is nearby, half listening, half somewhere else entirely.
Lo’ak is lounging, which is bad in itself. He glances at you and Tarsem, a grin slowly forming like he’s been holding onto something all morning.
Neteyam notices and nudges his shoulder subtly, but he doesn’t care. “So, I've been thinking, right?”
Jake doesn’t even look up. “That’s new..”
Lo’ak smirks, “about how fast this all happened.”
You freeze, listening. Tarsem pauses behind you.
“You are talking about my mate.” Tarsem says, muffled against your shoulder.
“Lo’ak,” Neteyam follows, but he doesn’t stop, just saying things without thinking.
“I mean, what? I’m just saying, seven weeks is-“
“Lo’ak.” Jake warns
Like a complete idiot, Lo’ak keeps going. “they’ve been mated for two months, they had to be busy..”
His eyes widened as if he wasn’t the one saying it, a hand slapping against his mouth.
Tarsem fails at holding you back, despite the small giggles escaping your lips, you launch yourself at Lo’ak, pinning him down and punching his chest.
“Off!” he yells, pushing you away, laughing.
“Stop teasing him.”
“Fine!”
Your family doesn’t stay away, you sit inside, weaving with Kiri. “How do you feel, ma tsmuke?”
“About the baby?”
“Yes,” she sets down her equipment, taking your hand.
“Nervous. Tarsem is ready, I can feel that he is.. I’m more nervous about myself.”
“You will be the greatest mother. My only tip is to never leave your child with Lo’ak.”
“Yeah.. that was never really an option.”
“Good..”
Neteyam comes in, hands clapping your shoulders. “You feel okay?”
“Yes, just tired.”
“We’re going on a hunt. Kiri, come.”
“I am not hunting.” She says.
You crawl closer to her. “Then go roll in the riches of the forest like you love to do.”
She giggles when you ruffle her hair.
The rustle of the doorway catches your attention, it is Tarsem.. “My love, I am staying here with you.” He breathes, crouching beside you.
“Good.” You murmur, half teasing, half appreciating.
Your siblings leave and relief floods your body, you immediately turn to face your mate.
“We have not had any alone time in so long. My family is glued to me because of this baby.” You take his hands, guiding them to a comfortable place on your thighs.
“I agree, but I like to see them happy.”
“Me too, I just miss you so much, sometimes it feels like I’m forgetting to ask how you are feeling about all of this.”
“I could not be happier,” he says, hands riding up and down your thighs now.
Your cheeks flush, hands moving up to rest against his shoulders.
He pulls you in, fingers squeezing the bottoms of your thighs, guiding you onto his lap. “Tarsem-“ you try, but his lips catch your words.
“mm,” you hum, one hand curling in his braids.
You’re completely lost in him when he deepens the kiss, fingers tightening in his braids, body moving slowly against his.
“Be careful,” he murmurs, but his own actions betray his words.
He moves slow, and you lean into it without thinking, your breath catches, a soft, involuntary sound escapes from your lips. “Tarsem-“
It’s quiet, barely more than a whisper—sounds that he’s obviously heard before. But that always does it for him.
His hands cup your breasts, kneading gently. Another, unplanned, small sound pulls straight from your chest.
Tarsem pauses mid kiss, panting heavily, head cocking back. You don’t notice the sound of the hut’s flaps moving, or the stillness around you until you hear a sharp inhale from the doorway.
Your eyes snap open too late, Neteyam, Kiri, Tuk, and Lo’ak stand there frozen for one second and then Lo’ak breaks. A wheeze escapes him, and his shoulders tremble violently. “No way I just heard that.”
You jerk back from Tarsem so fast you nearly fall off of his lap. “Lo’ak—“ you start, horrified.
“Ohh my eywa…” he gasps, straightening just enough to look at you. “Tarsem-“ he repeats in a painfully accurate, breathy imitation.
“Stop!”
Kiri turns away immediately, biting her lip to keep from laughing. Shoulders trembling.
Tuk just stares. “What noise was that?”
“Nothing!” you snap, face burning
Lo’ak clutches his chest like he’s been personally attacked. “don’t lie. that was not nothing!”
Tarsem is still behind you, watching your tail flick. “Lo’ak. You will stop speaking now.”
Lo’ak points at him immediately. “Bro she said your name.”
“Lo’ak!” You scream, “stop! I am trying to have some alone time with my mate and that I cannot even do!”
Tarsem is suddenly more alarmed than he was before, standing and pulling you against him.
Lo’ak’s eyes widen and Kiri just rubs your arm. “She is hormonal.” She says.
“Oh yeah, we can tell.” Lo’ak is still teasing and Neteyam slaps the back of his head.
“Get out!” You yell, pushing him away, guiding Neteyam and Kiri away after him.
They leave in a couple of hurried steps, Tarsem pulls you into him within seconds. “It’s okay,” he murmurs.
“I am so embarrassed.”
“I know.” He laughs. “You said my name.”
“Tarsem,”
“yes?”
“be quiet.” You warn, but you stay calm against his chest.
“They will love this child,” he murmurs.
“I know,” you reply, your voice steadier now. “I feel that they already do.”
For a moment, neither of you speak.
The fire crackles low. The forest hums beyond the walls, your family’s chaos carries on just outside. but in here, wrapped in his arms, with his hand over yours and both over something new.. something growing, everything feels exactly where it should be.
cw: Omatikaya clan; fluff; friends to lovers; courting
You remember the first time Tarsem truly looked at you—not as one of the clan’s many young weavers or singers, but as you.
It is before the Sky People return in force, before Jake’s family flees to the reefs, before the weight of leadership ever touches Tarsem’s shoulders.
He is already respected—a quiet, steady hunter with a calm strength that makes elders nod approvingly and young warriors listen when he speaks. But he is not yet Olo’eyktan. He is simply Tarsem: thoughtful, observant, slower to smile than most, but when he does, it feels earned.
You are gathering sweetberries near the base of the new village with a few friends when he approaches. Not boldly like some other males, striding up with loud compliments and flashy gifts. He waits at the edge of the clearing until you notice him, then steps forward with measured grace.
“I have something for you,” he says, voice low and even.
In his hands is a single, perfect bloom—a rare night-glow orchid that only opens after dusk, its petals shimmering soft violet and silver. He must have climbed high into the upper canopy at twilight to find it untouched.
You take it carefully, fingers brushing his. “It is beautiful,” you murmur, cheeks warming under his steady gaze.
“I thought of you when I saw it,” he answers simply. “Quiet, but bright in the dark.”
Your friends giggle behind you, but Tarsem does not look away. His ears flick once—nervous, you realize later—but his expression stays calm.
That is how it begins: quietly, steadily.
He finds reasons to be near you without crowding.
During hunts, he brings back the choicest cuts of yerik and leaves them at your family’s hearth with only a nod.
When you sing with the women at evening gatherings, he sits farther back than the other young males, listening intently, amber eyes reflecting the firelight. Once, after a particularly haunting mourning song, he approaches afterward and says softly, “Your voice carries memory. It is a gift.” No teasing. No bravado. Just truth.
Tarsem courts you the old way—patient and respectful.
He carves you a delicate songcord bead from banshee bone after his first successful tsahìk-guided vision quest, presenting it wrapped in soft leaves.
He teaches you to read the wind currents on ikran flights, steadying you with careful hands when you practice on calmer mounts.
When you twist your ankle on a root during a gathering trip, he carries you back to Hometree without complaint, your weight nothing in his arms, his tail curled protectively around your leg to soothe and keep you steady.
He is never loud about his interest, but the clan notices.
Neytiri teases him gently one day when she catches him watching you weave: “Our quiet hunter has found his song at last.”
Mo’at watches with knowing eyes and later tells your mother, “He has a leader’s heart already. Steady. Kind. He will choose well.”
And you feel it growing—the pull toward him.
His rare smiles are for you, and his quiet presence becomes your calm in crowded gatherings.
When other young males flirt or boast to catch your attention, you find your eyes seeking him instead, finding comfort in his calm observance.
One night, under the Tree of Voices, he finally speaks what has been unspoken for moons.
You sit together on a low root, atokirina drifting lazily around you. He reaches for your hand—slowly, giving you time to pull away—and when you don’t, he threads his fingers through yours.
“I wish to court you truly,” he says, voice soft but certain. “Not in secret glances or quiet gifts. Openly. With honor. If you would have me.”
Your heart stutters. You turn to him, searching his face—strong, kind, already carrying the weight of responsibility even before the mantle is his.
“I would have you,” you whisper.
He smiles then—slow, genuine, lighting his whole face—and leans in to press his forehead to yours.
“I see you,” he murmurs.
“I see you,” you answer.
Years later, when Jake places the ceremonial mantle on his shoulders and names him Olo’eyktan, you stand proudly at his side—already promised, already bonded in the eyes of the clan.
But you will always remember the time before: when Tarsem was simply the quiet hunter who brought you night-glow orchids and looked at you like you were the brightest thing in the forest.
The courting that began long before he ever became leader.
The love that grew steady and deep, just like him.
