lovely fxngxrl

I'm a hufflepuff

[paper-wounds]

[what-even-is-thiss]

It’s so annoying when I say I have an irrational fear or a phobia and people try to logic me out of it. I just told you that it’s irrational.

[blueforwellsy]

have you ever tried this one..

[iceyngi]

I've Got You (#2)

☄︎ Warnings: Angst, Heartbreak, Slow burn, Reader being oblivious, Sad thoughts / Unhealthy thought patterns ☄︎ Pairing: f!Reader x John Logan, f!Reader x Dean Di Laurentis ☄︎ Rating: PG ☄︎ Words: 4611 ☄︎ AN: Thank you so soooo much for the response to the first part. It's inspired a series. I hope this is what you all had in mind when I said slow burn cause I'm thinking agonisingly slow 🧍🏽‍♀️

Waking up most mornings was hard, but waking up in the mornings after your break up with Logan feels next to impossible.

Every morning, you wake up aching. It’s a pain that infiltrates your dreams and has you waking up feeling like a weight has been placed on your chest. Your body reacts before your mind is even fully awake. When the grogginess fades, you feel like you go through every emotion on the spectrum but also, somehow, no emotion. Just hollowness.

Your dorm is too quiet; you were used to waking up to the sounds of hockey boys who didn’t know the meaning of inside voice. Now, the only sounds you hear are the sobs that tumble through your lips when you’re trying to cry silently.

Your room smells too clean; you were used to waking up to Tucker’s cooking or burnt toast when Logan got there first. Now, you wake up smelling the new room diffuser you brought, it wasn’t even a scent that you liked. It just had to be different. Familiar scents made you think of Logan. And cry.

Your body is too cold; you were used to waking up with arms wrapped around you. Now, you wake up clinging to a pillow, desperately trying to recreate the warmth you once felt.

You suppose you’ll have to learn to live like this. It’s been two days. You haven’t woken up to find that this was all one big nightmare. This is your reality now, even if your mind and body were trying to fight against it.

You flinch when your phone buzzes with another notification. It could be Logan, texting to try and explain the unexplainable. Your stomach flips violently, a sensation you’ve become all too accustomed to these days.

With two deep sighs, you force yourself up to sit. Your eyes are swollen, and a dull, familiar throbbing instantly starts behind your left eye. You look over to the nightstand and see the ice-pack and painkillers that Dean had pressed into your hands the other night when he dropped you back at your dorm. “It’s for the headaches,” he had told you, voice soft and deliberate. “Make sure you don’t take these on an empty stomach.” He was firm then.  

In the last 48 hours, you had cried so much that your throat was raw. Sometimes no tears would come out, no sound would come out, your body just convulsing in the loneliness of your room. The headaches were always the worst then, and you find yourself grateful for Dean’s forward thinking.

Today won’t be like yesterday, you promise yourself. Today, you’ll do more than just cry the day away.

You rise slowly and walk over to your bathroom. The only benefit to the tears is the wonders it does for your skin, you think as you look in the mirror. You brush your teeth and have a quick breakfast, speed running basic tasks to get the over with.

Sitting down at your desk, you open your laptop. You have assignments to do, a future to build. You refuse to let a boy that didn’t know how to be a man to be the reason why you fail.

You don’t get up from your laptop until the sun sets outside. You didn’t expect you’d get lost in your assignments the way you had, but you’re not complaining. The closer to the end of the day it gets, the closer to the time where you can claim you hadn’t cried in an entire day. That’s progress.

Deciding to take a shower, you put a shower cap on and drag your feet into the bathroom. The moment the hot spray hits your back, the tension in your muscles seems to melt away. The water feels like a caress on your skin, wrapping around you and spreading warmth. The first warmth you’ve felt in days.

Still wrapped in your towel, you sit on the edge of your bed. Dressing always feels like such a chore.

Your phone vibrates again. The feeling in your stomach flips less violently this time. With all you’ve accomplished today, the crushing weight of the last couple of days feels like it’s lifting, if only slightly. You’re left craving connection. Not with Logan, you’re sure of that, but you do want to talk to someone.

Picking your phone up with shaky hands, you unlock it and immediately feel a wave of nausea hit you. You look at the phone app icon… 20 missed calls. You look at the messaging app icon… over 100 unread texts.

You scroll down your contact list until your thumb hovers over Dean’s name. He had told you to text him when you were ready and he wasn’t the kind of guy to say something he didn’t mean. Your fingers shake as you type the most vulnerable messages you ever have.

You (20:46): hey :) You (20:46): i'm sorry to bother you but i could really use somebody rn. You (20:47): could i come over? but like, secretly?

Dean’s reply is instant.

Dean (20:47): Come through my window. Dean (20:47): Use the fire escape.

25 minutes later, you’re at the hockey house, standing in front of the fire escape leading to Dean’s room. The cool breeze of the night helps to calm your nerves. You had read back your message whilst getting dressed. “I could really use somebody rn” playing in your mind on repeat. You made this sound like a booty call.

You know you’re spiralling, panicking that your words have been misinterpreted, but you can’t stop your mind from racing. Does he think you’re coming here for that? Is that why he responded so quickly? Does this make you like Logan now, using people to heal your aching heart?

You consider turning back but your body feels frozen into place. You can’t go back to your dorm, that would be defeat, but you can’t bring yourself to face Dean with these thoughts in your head.

“Get a grip,” you mutter into the dimly lit path.

The sound of rustling startles you out of your thoughts. ‘Just a tree,’ you think to yourself. It’s followed by the sound of the back door opening. It’s definitely not a tree. If whoever it is comes around the corner, you’ll be spotted. You make a split-second decision, frantically climbing up the ladder.

The window is open as you climb up. Dean’s waiting for you, sat against the table under the window sill. You awkwardly fumble over the table as he guides you in.

He puts you gently on your feet and immediately steps back, dropping his hands from where they were around your waist.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey.” The word comes out strained, like you’ve forgotten how to speak. It’s probably the first word you’ve spoken in two days, you realise.

As you look around his room, an undeniable feeling of tranquillity falls over you. The only light in the room is an orange-y lamp in the corner; it makes the room feel like a sunset. His room has personality, clearly lived in, but clean and organised. What kind of hockey boy kept a clean room?

It makes your mind immediately start to spiral again. Was this all for you because he thought he would be getting some? “Sorry.” Blurts out of your mouth before you can stop it.

Soft blue eyes turn to you and you look away immediately. “Hm?” Dean questions.

Your eyes fixate on his very interesting bookshelf. “I… I read back my message and think I might have led you on.”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Dean’s voice remains soft. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see he’s still watching you. You feel overwhelmed.

“Just… I meant I need somebody to talk to. Not I need somebody. That’s a… different.” Rebound is the word you want to say but can’t, you don’t want to speak that idea into existence, to give him the chance to reject you.

A short laugh escapes him. He says your name with such a patience that it stirs something within you. “I know you. I know what you meant. I want to be- no, I will be here for you in whatever capacity you need. I know you need a friend, and a friend wouldn’t let you make any rash decisions fuelled by heartbreak.”

Rejection it is.

Dean doesn’t wait for you to respond, he goes to sit cross-legged on the floor, leaning back against the mattress of his bed. He pats the space next to him. You walk over and plop down next to him. Once sat, he shifts his body weight, leaning slightly into you, shoulders brushing.

Instead of leaning away, like your mind is telling you to, you lean into him. Head resting on his shoulder and his head resting on yours. Dean doesn’t pressure you to speak and a comfortable silence falls over you both.

It’s weird. Silence before had felt so heavy and turbulent. Silence now, in Dean’s presence, feels so stable. Even your mind, which is still racing, was being nicer.

Dean’s the first one to speak, his voice low and steady, “I still don’t know the details, and it’s okay if you never want to tell me, but I want you to know that you did nothing wrong. Nothing to deserve this.”

“I know,” you whisper, it really is something you know, but it doesn’t change how it makes your heart squeeze to just think about it. “It just… hurts. Knowing he looked at me and wished I was someone else the entire time that we were together. How do you even… how could I-.”

Your bottom lip quivers, you’re determined to hold in your tears but a few stray ones betray you. You wipe them with your sleeve.

“That’s because he’s an idiot,” he whispers back, voice thick with raw emotion, “I don’t understand how anyone can have you and still ask for more. You’re…” Dean cuts himself off before he says too much. He thinks about how vulnerable you are and reminds himself that you’re only clinging to him now because you need him.  

Silence falls over you both again. The tears stop flowing eventually & the world melts away in the little protective bubble you’ve created; surrounded by the smell of Dean. In here, nothing can get to you.

He’s so close that you can feel the heat radiating from him. You imagine from this position, it would be so easy to tilt your head back and press a kiss to his jaw… you jerk your head away, you shouldn’t be encouraging your delusions.

Dean looks at you, head tilted to the side in question. In that moment, you look at him fully for the first time since you entered his room. His dyed blonde hair that usually framed his face is slicked back. His piercing blue eyes are soft as they track your eye movements over his face. His nose is perfect and his lips are… swollen… and bruised. He sees your eyes squint as you focus on his lips.

“I got into a fight at the rink,” Dean confesses quietly. His eyes drift to his hands.

“At the rink?” You repeat slowly, trying to process why he sounds this guilty about a fight. To you, hockey players fought all the time on the ice, and you not-so-secretly find it hot as hell.

“Mhm,” Dean murmurs.

Then it dawns on you, “but there’s been no game since I last saw you… who did you fight with?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Logan.”

Your breath catches and you blink a few times at him, as if that will help you process what you’ve just heard. For the life of you, you cannot understand why he’d be fighting his teammate. “Dean… you… What? Why?”

“Cause he was an ass to you.” There’s no hint of regret or shame in his voice. It must be nice to be so confident.

“Oh.” You’re silent for a moment. You can’t remember the last time someone defended you like this, took a punch in your honour.

“Are you mad?” Dean asks, he’s smiling now, looking very proud of himself.

You look at his split lip, then up into his eyes. “That depends… did you at least get a good hit in?”

Dean’s grin is full and cocky as he turns to you. “Oh, yeah.”

Eye contact with Dean always feels electric. His eyes always soften as they take you in and a small smile pulls at his lips. You always find yourself smiling right back, unable to tear your gaze away.

Even before Logan broke your heart, it has been a while since you last felt anything like this. But then, you remind yourself, you’ve seen this look on Dean a thousand times directed at a thousand different women. He’s magnetic… and just helping a friend in need.

You look away, eyes roaming over the pictures lining his walls and on his dresser. “No way, is that-.”

Dean follows your line of sight; you’re looking at a picture taken earlier in the year. You remember parts of night vividly, other parts clouded by how wasted you were; it was the first hockey party you had ever attended. You had met Dean that day in class. He was going on and on about a costume party, and your friends had convinced you to go. In the picture, Garrett, Logan, and other hockey guys you don’t recognise are in the foreground posing for the picture. In the background… you and Dean are there… doing body shots. Your tongue is shoved into his belly button.

“Oh my God, how mortifying!”

“You’re going to love this,” he jokes as he jumps to his feet and eagerly runs to the drawers. He slides the top one open, rummages through a pile of what you can only assume to be junk, and pulls out the tiara made of tinsel that you were wearing in the picture.

“Oh my god,” you groan, face falling into your hands as a flush of heat hits your cheeks. “I looked for that for ages, why do you have it!”

“I seem to recall a song that you liked came on, you wanted to dance, and I was threatened into keeping watch of it.” Memories flash into your mind. “I was told I could lose a thing between my legs that I’m very precious of, if I didn’t hold on to this for you until you asked for it back.”

Dean looks at you, you look at Dean. You do remember this. In fact, you remember having spent most of that night attached to the hip. The only time you weren’t with him laughing, drinking, or dancing, was the five minutes you spent in the bathroom.

His eyes drop to look at the tinsel tiara in his hands, then back up at you. You can practically see the gears turning in his head, contemplating what he says next. He’s trying to push your just far enough away from the negative thoughts that he can bring about a smile, but he doesn’t want to overstep. He wouldn’t take that chance now.

“You left me with a tiara and no princess.” He looks at you, measuring your reaction. It’s partly true, you and Logan had started dating shortly after that night.

You let out a breathless laugh, the pain from earlier quickly being replaced with something much lighter. “Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis,” you say, deliberately drawing out every syllable of his name. “You’ve always had my number; you could have returned my tiara at any time.”

The corner of Dean’s mouth rises into that effortless, devastatingly handsome smirk he gives when he wants to have someone wrapped around his finger. “Pretty sure Logan wouldn’t have liked me showing up at your dorm to play dress-up.”

You roll your eyes; a real laugh escapes your lips. “Oh, please, since when do you care what other guys think?” This feels… fun and what’s a bit of harmless fun between friends?

“Fair point,” Dean concedes smoothly, he has a playful glint in his eyes, “but I do care what you think and you gave me very clear instructions. I’m nothing if not a rule follower.”  

“Oh, are you?” You challenge, crossing your arms and arching an eyebrow.

“Mhm, a real do as you’re told kind of guy.” Even as he says this, he raises the crooked tinselled tiara above his head. Dean holds your gaze before slowly lowering the tinselled tiara down onto his hair. He’s challenging you right back.

Your eyes widen in fake shock. “Isn’t that like treason? Pretty sure I could have you arrested for that.”

“Well, are you going to come and arrest me then?” He challenges.

You shake your head and wag your finger at him. There’s harmless, then there’s that.

“Fine.” Dean rests the tiara on his head. There’s something so funny to you about it. He is wearing a tight tank top, his shoulder muscles and biceps bulging as he dramatically twirls around with the tiara on his head.  

“You look ridiculous,” you say between laughs. You haven’t laughed this hard in a while, it feels like you’re doing an ab workout.

“Yes, but I’m also really hot, so it cancels out.”

That makes you laugh harder. You’re trying to keep quiet; the walls aren’t that thick. But the fact that you haven’t laughed in so long is making everything 10x funnier.

Dean watches you laugh with a soft expression. His cocky grin gone. He’s missed the sound of your laugh. Looking down at you, shaking with laughter, he feels a wave of clarity hit him. He wants to tell you. He wants you to know that he’ll do anything to make you laugh and keep you laughing. If that means he needs to twirl in a sparkly tiara, he’ll do that until his feet burn.

“I need some evidence of how you stole-.”

“-Guarded.”

“Stole my tiara.”

You reach into your pocket; grabbing your phone and aiming the camera at him. He immediately goes into a body builder pose, lifting one arm above the other. He pouts and raises an eyebrow, doing his best to smoulder. You take a few snaps as he throws out a few more poses.

“The fans will love a versatile king,” he says, shaking his hair as if he was trying to sweep it out of his face, “post it.”

Dean walks back over and slides back down on the floor next to you, taking his place at your side.  

“You want me to post you?” You question, laughter still tickling you. “Look at this mess.”

You lean the phone over to him, scrolling through the pictures you took when a notification banner pops up across the top of the screen.

It’s Logan.

You don’t read the message, quickly locking the screen and slamming the phone down face-first on the floor. The mood dies immediately. Beside you, Dean’s mood changes too, he takes off the tiara and places it beside him.

It’s like you can physically feel the weight of Dean’s swallow; his jaw is tight, his mouth pressing into a tight line. “You haven’t blocked him?”

“I- no.” You have no further explanation beyond that. As your cheeks burn with embarrassment, you desperately wish you had. Dean must be thinking how pathetic you are to be holding out hope of reconciliation.

But you know, you believe, that that isn’t the reason you haven’t blocked him. You know you could never take him back after this. But a fragile part of you doesn’t want to let this go.

Deep down, you think it’s because maybe Logan will message to tell you that it was all a big, cruel, practical joke. At least then you’d get your dignity back and stop feeling so unworthy.   

Deeper down, in a place you are too scared to face, you think it’s because blocking him will bring the end to this chapter, the chapter where Briar hockey boys have a place in your life. You’re scared to burn the only bridge that connects you to them. To all of them, but especially to Dean.

“Do you want to block him?” Dean’s voice cuts through the suffocating silence. Your eyes drift over to him and you’re surprised to see no hint of judgement in him. He’s genuinely just asking.

You nod your head. You can’t speak; your tongue feels heavy in your mouth.

“Let me help you.” He reaches his hand out for your phone; you unlock it and give it to him. Closing your eyes, your head falls back against the mattress. This is exhausting. You want to pretend like this isn’t happening.

“Done,” Dean calls gently, “and I didn’t mean to snoop, but I think you should respond to your friends. Hannah, Allie, Tucker… they care about you.”

Your eyes snap open, your head lifts from the mattress, your exhaustion being replaced by sheer panic. “Tucker… Tucker messaged me? Does he know?”

Dean gives you a small, reassuring nod, handing your phone back to you. “Logan’s been scowling for days. You haven’t been around. He’s perceptive. I think he just wants to know that you’re okay and that you’re eating. None of us know the details, so don’t worry about that.”

The negative emotions within you are pushed out again, replaced by a wave of an emotion that you couldn’t place. While Logan had spent months making you feel invisible, you had a group of people behind you noticing that you weren’t around. Maybe blocking Logan wouldn’t mean burning that bridge.  

“They’re going to ask questions though,” you murmur. Your eyes seek his, looking for the sense of comfort you feel when lost in Dean’s eyes. “And I can’t- I don’t have the energy to explain.”

“Then don’t,” he says simply, eyes locked onto yours. “Tell them you’re okay, you’re with me, and you’ll talk to them tomorrow. They won’t push.”

You snort and roll your eyes. “Really? You think neither Allie or Tucker would push if I tell them I’m with you when it’s almost midnight and haven’t spoken to anyone in days?”

A low rumbling laugh comes from Dean. “Okay. Fair. They’ll probably both accuse me of kidnapping you… but you know what let them. I’m not scared of Tucker. And Allie…” He pauses, a genuine hesitation, “Okay, I’m a little scared of her but whatever. Tell them.”

Dean shrugs it off but you know for a fact he’s a least a little intimidated by Allie. Everyone is.

“Why do you want them to know we’re together so bad?”

“Because… it will help them sleep better knowing you’re okay. Knowing you’re safe.”

“True,” you respond.

A small ache forms in your chest, leaving you feeling a little defeated. Your silly little heart is trying to find romance where it isn’t. He’s being a good friend. That’s all this is.  

You shoot off two quick texts, one to your group chat with the girls and the other to Tucker. It’s the same to both: i’m okay, w Dean, talk tomorrow. Love u

“There, sent. Better now?” You say, turning off your phone and setting it down on the floor.

“I’m proud of you, I know that wasn’t easy.” You know there’s a serious, protective, side to Dean, but it always catches you off guard when he stops being the easy-going pretty boy.  

The door swings open seconds later without a curtsey knock; you jump and throw yourself against Dean’s side, hiding your face from whatever intruder it is. They can’t know you’re here.

Dean’s arm instantly comes up, half-shielding your frame.

“Tucker, close the damn door,” Dean whisper shouts, Tucker’s just standing in the doorway, chest heaving as if he’s just run up the stairs.

You look up in time to see Tucker slide in and close the door behind him with a soft click. “No, you get out and close the damn door.”

Tucker completely ignores Dean, running over and pulling you into a fierce hug, he squeezes so hard you feel breathless. “It’s really good to hear from you.” He pulls back to look at you, “Logan’s in my bad books right now, so if you want me to ‘accidentally’ check him into the boards at practice tomorrow, I absolutely can.”

A faint laugh bubbles up your throat; you would actually love to see that but you’re committed to remaining mature. “Oh, no, that’s so sweet of you but it’s ok.”

“It’s really no problem; I was planning on doing it anyway,” Tucker replies easily, flashing you a toothy smile. He pats your shoulder before standing up and walking back toward the door. “You have a lovely night, okay? And you,” he says, pointing at Dean, “behave.”

“What did I do?” Dean exclaims, raising his hands in protest, but Tucker’s already gone.

The energy Tucker brought into the room is gone now. It’s just you and Dean again, having gone through the rollercoaster of emotions you had. You lean your head back against the mattress again, your eyes slowly closing. Today has been a lot for you, an entire mountain to climb. Not all of it was bad, a faint smile ghosts your lips when you think of Dean twirling in the tiara, but the sheer weight of your emotional exhaustion has manifested into bone-deep physical exhaustion. You hope he doesn’t kick you out, the idea of falling asleep inside this house again is lulling you to sleep easily. You don’t think you could fall asleep this easily back at your dorm.  

Beside you, Dean gets up and walks over to his dresser. He quietly pulls open a drawer. When he turns back to you, he’s holding a worn-in Briar baggy shirt and some shorts. “You take the bed,” he murmurs.

Even if you wanted to argue with him, you simply don’t have the energy to. Without waiting for a response, he turns his back to you and begins pulling out a spare pillow and blanket from his closet. He remains with his back turned, so you change quickly and slide beneath his heavy duvet. The sheets smell of something so distinctly Dean and you smile as you breathe it in.

“Can I turn?” You realise you’ve just been watching his back.

“Oh! Yes, sorry.”

He places the blanket and pillow on the floor, and goes to settle down. “Absolutely not,” you say, causing him to freeze on his way down to the floor. “You’re not sleeping on the floor. We can share the bed, we’re adults.”

Dean looks up at you. Even in the dim light of the room, his eyes look like they shine. The corner of his mouth twitches, “are you sure you can keep it in your pants?”

You roll your eyes, a sleepy twitch of your lips, “are you?”

He turns off the lamp and lays down on the bed next to you, keeping a respectful distance away from you. He stays above the duvet, using the blanket to keep himself warm. You recall a good night being whispered and you’re sure you respond.  

When you next open your eyes, the room is being lit by the sun shining through the window. Dean is already awake when you wake up. He’s on his back, one arm bent behind his head, looking up at the ceiling. Sensing your movement, he turns his head to look at you.

“How’d you sleep?” he asks, voice raspy and heavy with morning.

For the first time in two days, you’re able to say you slept well.

⋆꙳⛸❅*‧⛸‧*❆₊⛸⋆❆⋆꙳⛸❅*‧⛸‧*❆₊⛸⋆❆⋆꙳⛸❅*‧⛸‧*❆₊⛸⋆❆*❅‧⛸

Series Masterlist

Series Taglist:

@adrienneleclerc @littlepippilongstocking @calums-betch @b1u3c10ud @aggiespam @kmc1989 @redbag55

(I'm so sorry if I've missed you, I've taken this from the comments on Pt1. You can send me an ask if you want to be removed / added)

AN: comments, thoughts, suggestions, feedback, everything is greatly appreciated.

[mafer1606]

[viccyzsasz]

🌆 “the sound of chains”

jason todd (red hood) x reader

Interrogation Gone Wrong | Rage | Protective Instincts | Moral Lines | Hurt/Comfort | Lingering Trauma

setting: Arkham Asylum was never supposed to be anything more than a quick visit—get in, get answers, get out. But when the Joker refuses to cooperate and starts digging into old wounds, the situation spirals. One punch turns into something far more dangerous, and suddenly it’s not about the case anymore—it’s about rage, love, and the line you swore you’d never cross.

⸻

Arkham Asylum always feels colder than Gotham.

Not physically cold — the air is regulated, sterile, almost clinical — but something in the walls presses inward. Like the building remembers every scream ever swallowed inside it.

You hate coming here.

The gates close behind you with a metallic groan that echoes down the corridor, sealing you and Jason inside. Guards walk ahead, indifferent, used to masked vigilantes requesting private interviews with monsters.

Jason walks beside you, helmet tucked under his arm, shoulders tight beneath his jacket. He hasn’t said much since agreeing to this plan.

Neither have you.

Because neither of you wanted this.

But the case demanded it.

A bombing pattern. Chemical signatures. A joke hidden in the chaos only one person in Gotham would recognize.

And unfortunately — the only person who could decode it sat waiting behind reinforced glass.

One final door unlocks.

The guard hesitates before opening it.

“He’s restrained,” the man says carefully. “But keep it short.”

Jason nods once.

The door slides open.

And there he is.

The Joker sits chained to a steel table, wrists locked in heavy restraints bolted to the surface. Ankles secured. Straightjacket replaced by reinforced cuffs — special accommodations for special criminals.

He looks relaxed.

Comfortable.

Like he’s been expecting guests.

Green eyes brighten the moment they land on Jason.

“Well, well,” Joker hums. “Look who crawled out of the grave again.”

You feel Jason go still beside you.

Not fear.

Not weakness.

Just control tightening like armor.

You step forward first.

You refuse to let Joker set the tone.

“We’re not here for your commentary,” you say sharply. “There’s been a series of bombings in Burnside. Chemical compounds match your old formulas.”

Joker tilts his head, intrigued.

“Oh? Copycats already? I am influential.”

Jason sets his helmet on the table with a dull thud.

“We need the pattern,” he says flatly. “You designed the sequence years ago. Someone’s replicating it.”

Joker ignores him.

His gaze slides back to you instead.

“…You’re new.”

“I’m not.”

“Oh, but you are to me. And that’s what matters.”

You keep your expression neutral.

Professional.

Focused.

“We’re running out of time. People are going to die.”

Joker leans forward as far as his chains allow, metal clinking softly.

“People always die.”

Silence stretches.

Jason’s patience thins visibly.

“Where would the next target be?”

Joker smiles wider.

“You came all this way just to ask nicely?”

His eyes flick to Jason again.

“You know, I missed you, Bird Boy. Death really suited you.”

Your jaw tightens.

Jason doesn’t react.

He’s learned not to.

But you haven’t.

Not when it comes to him.

“Answer the question.”

“Ohhh,” Joker sighs dramatically. “She’s protective.”

He studies you like an insect pinned under glass.

“Does she know how loud you screamed?”

The room shrinks.

Your pulse spikes.

Jason’s voice cuts in, calm but sharp.

“Drop it.”

Joker laughs.

“No, no, this is therapy! We’re bonding!”

He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially toward you.

“I beat him with a crowbar, you know. Took hours. He kept trying to stand back up. Very rude of him.”

Your vision flashes white.

You don’t remember deciding to move.

Your fist connects with his face hard enough to snap his head sideways.

The crack echoes off concrete walls.

Guards shift outside the glass, but Jason lifts a hand without looking away.

He allows it.

Joker spits blood — and laughs.

Wild. Delighted.

“Oh, I like you—”

You grab him.

Your hand fists into his collar, dragging him forward despite the chains restraining him. Metal rattles violently as the chair screeches across the floor.

“You don’t get to talk about him,” you hiss.

Your other hand finds his throat.

Pressure builds beneath your palm.

Not a threat.

A promise.

For one terrifying second, you mean it.

You could end it.

Right here.

No jokes anymore. No victims. No graves.

Jason moves instantly.

His hand wraps around your wrist — firm, grounding, unmistakably Jason.

“Hey.”

Low.

Steady.

Not angry.

You don’t release Joker.

Your breathing turns sharp, uneven.

Jason steps closer, voice quieter.

“He’s restrained.”

The words hit deeper than any command.

Because he knows you.

You never strike someone who cannot fight back.

That rule matters to you more than vengeance ever could.

Your grip trembles.

Then loosens.

Joker collapses back into the chair, wheezing laughter spilling out between breaths.

You step away fast, chest heaving, disgust flooding in — at him, at Arkham, at yourself.

At how close you came.

Joker grins through blood.

“Oh, you two are adorable. Trauma really brings couples together.”

Jason grabs his helmet.

“We’re done.”

Joker calls after you both as the door shuts.

“You still scream, Jason! I remember!”

His laughter follows you down the hallway.

It echoes long after the door seals behind you.

⸻

Later — The Apartment

Gotham rain taps against the windows when you get home.

You don’t take off your jacket.

You pace instead.

Back and forth across the living room, adrenaline still clawing beneath your skin.

Jason watches from the doorway, silent as always when he’s thinking.

Finally—

“What was that about?”

His tone isn’t accusatory.

Just… careful.

You stop moving.

“He pisses me off.”

Jason raises an eyebrow.

“That wasn’t just pissed off.”

You laugh bitterly.

“No? What gave it away?”

He doesn’t smile.

“You almost killed him.”

You turn sharply.

“And?”

Jason studies you — not judging, not angry. Just searching.

“You don’t do that,” he says quietly. “Not when someone’s restrained.”

The words land harder than expected.

Because he’s right.

You look away.

“I hate him.”

Your voice cracks despite your effort to stay composed.

“I hate everything about him. I think the world would genuinely be better if he were dead.”

Jason nods slightly.

“I don’t disagree.”

You stare at him.

“Then why did you stop me?”

He steps closer.

“Because it wasn’t justice.”

Silence thickens.

Your chest tightens.

“He killed you,” you whisper. “He tortured you. He took you away from everyone who loved you.”

Your voice rises, emotion finally breaking through.

“And you’re still defending him!”

Jason’s expression shifts immediately.

“I’m not defending him.”

The words are firm now.

Controlled.

“I remember everything he did to me,” he continues quietly. “Every second.”

You falter.

His voice softens.

“But you weren’t trying to stop Joker back there.”

He meets your eyes.

“You were trying to protect me.”

Your breath catches.

“And I don’t want you carrying that kind of rage for me.”

The anger drains, leaving exhaustion behind.

Jason reaches for your hand.

Warm.

Steady.

“You have lines,” he says. “You don’t cross them. That’s one of the reasons I trust you.”

A small, sad smile touches his mouth.

“I already lost myself once to him.”

His thumb brushes your knuckles.

“I’m not losing you too.”

Your eyes sting.

The fight leaves your body all at once, and you step into him, pressing your forehead against his chest.

Jason wraps his arms around you immediately.

Solid.

Alive.

Real.

Outside, rain continues to fall over Gotham — washing nothing clean, but softening the noise.

“He doesn’t get to take more from us,” Jason murmurs into your hair.

You nod against him.

And for the first time since Arkham—

you finally feel the anger loosen its grip.

⸻

dc masterlist

[butterflypeaflowertea]

ever since i was a little girl i knew i was doomed to take things too seriously and think about them forever

[fancy-possum]

𝐡𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐲 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐣𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐜𝐨𝐚𝐜𝐡’𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫

You were not supposed to fall for Jason Todd.

He was the star defenseman for the Gotham University Knights , all broad shoulders, sharp jaw, scarred knuckles that told stories of fights both on and off the ice. He played dirty when he needed to, smiled like sin when he scored, and had a reputation for leaving girls breathless in the stands and heartbroken in the parking lot.

You were the coach’s daughter. Team manager. The one who kept the roster organized, made sure the equipment was ready, and spent far too many late nights in the rink office doing paperwork while the rest of campus partied.

Publicly, you and Jason were oil and water.

He’d smirk at you during practice, calling you “princess” loud enough for the whole team to hear. You’d fire back with a clipboard smack to his shoulder and a sweet “Try not to break your face again, Todd. Dad’s tired of replacing visors.”

The team loved the banter. Coach tolerated it with a long-suffering sigh. No one suspected that behind the sharp words and eye-rolls, something entirely different was simmering.

It started with small things.

Jason always made sure your travel mug was filled with fresh coffee before morning skates. You always left extra protein bars in his locker after he took particularly brutal hits. He’d walk you to your car after late games when the parking lot felt too dark. You’d patch up his split lip in the trainer’s room with gentle hands and softer words than you ever let anyone else hear.

The tension built slowly, like ice forming over a lake; thin at first, then thicker, until one wrong step could send everything crashing through.

Tonight was the championship game.

The Knights had won in overtime, Jason scoring the game-winner with a slapshot that left the entire arena roaring. The celebration in the locker room was loud and chaotic - helmets flying, music blasting, half-naked hockey players shouting and spraying each other with water bottles.

You stayed in the hallway outside, clipboard in hand, trying to pretend you weren’t waiting for him.

The door banged open and there he was - hair damp from the shower, wearing only grey sweatpants and his team hoodie slightly unzipped over a bare chest. Water droplets still clung to his collarbones. He looked like every bad decision you’d ever wanted to make.

His eyes found you immediately. The cocky grin he wore for the cameras softened into something warmer, more private.

“Waiting for me, princess?” he drawled, voice low enough that only you could hear.

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed. “Someone has to make sure you don’t forget your gear again. Last time you left your lucky socks in the visiting locker room and sulked for three days.”

He stepped closer, crowding you gently against the wall without actually touching you. The scent of his body wash - something clean and woodsy - wrapped around you.

“I only sulk when you’re not around to yell at me,” he murmured. His gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second before flicking back up. “You coming to the victory party at the house?”

You hesitated. The hockey house parties were legendary - loud, chaotic, full of puck bunnies and too much cheap beer. As the coach’s kid, you usually avoided them.

Jason noticed your pause. His expression shifted, that protective softness creeping in. “I’ll keep the idiots away from you. Promise. Just… come. For a little while. I want you there.”

The way he said it — quiet, almost vulnerable — made your stomach flutter.

“Fine,” you said, trying to sound annoyed and failing. “But if anyone spills beer on my notes, I’m blaming you.”

He grinned, bright and boyish. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The party was exactly what you expected: loud music, crowded rooms, the sharp smell of spilled alcohol and victory sweat. Jason stayed close the whole time, one big hand occasionally resting on the small of your back as he guided you through the chaos. Every time someone got too rowdy near you, he’d level them with a single look that sent them scurrying.

You ended up in the quieter back sunroom, away from the worst of the noise. Jason had somehow procured a bottle of decent whiskey and two plastic cups. He poured a small amount for each of you and handed you one.

“To not breaking my face tonight,” he toasted, clinking his cup against yours.

You laughed softly. “To not having to fill out another injury report because you decided to check someone into the boards like a wrecking ball.”

He leaned against the wall beside you, shoulders brushing. The contact sent warmth spreading through your arm.

“You know,” he said after a moment, voice lower, “I play better when you’re watching. Always have. Even when you’re yelling at me from the bench about my penalty minutes.”

Your heart stuttered. You took a sip of whiskey to steady yourself. “You’re imagining things, Todd.”

“Am I?” He turned toward you fully, green eyes dark in the low light. “Because every time I look up during warm-ups and see you in that cute little manager hoodie with my number on the back - yeah, I notice. Makes me want to show off. Makes me want to win so you’ll smile at me like I hung the moon.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. You set your cup down before you dropped it. “Jason…”

He stepped closer, backing you gently against the wall. Not trapping you, you could move if you wanted, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body.

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you,” he said quietly, voice rough. “Tired of the whole ‘coach’s daughter, can’t touch her’ bullshit. I know you feel it too. The way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention. The way your breath catches when I get too close after games.”

Your hands came up to rest on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath warm skin and hard muscle. “My dad would kill you.”

“Let him try.” Jason’s hand lifted, knuckles brushing your cheek with surprising gentleness. “I’d take the suspension. Hell, I’d take the benching. Worth it if I get to do this.”

He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to stop him.

You didn’t.

The kiss started soft - almost careful - like he was still afraid you’d pull away. Then you made a small sound against his mouth and he groaned, deepening the kiss as one hand slid to your waist, pulling you flush against him. His other hand cupped the back of your neck, thumb stroking gently.

He tasted like whiskey and victory and something that was purely Jason - warm, a little dangerous, and entirely addictive.

When you finally broke apart, both of you breathing harder, he rested his forehead against yours.

“Been wanting to do that since the first time you yelled at me for leaving my tape on the bus,” he admitted, voice husky.

You laughed breathlessly, fingers curling into the open edges of his hoodie. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but I’m your impossible.” He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the sensitive spot just below your ear that made your knees weak. “Tell me to stop and I will. But if you want this… if you want me… I’m all in. No more pretending in public. No more acting like I don’t lose my mind every time you walk into the rink wearing my number.”

Your heart felt too big for your chest. You tilted your head, giving him better access as he pressed another slow kiss to your neck.

“I want you,” you whispered. “Even when you’re being an arrogant pain in the ass on the ice. Even when my dad glares at you like he wants to bench you for life. I want this.”

Jason made a low, relieved sound and kissed you again - slower this time, deeper, like he was savoring every second. His hands stayed respectful but possessive, one on your waist, the other tangled in your hair. The kiss grew heated, suggestive tension crackling between you as his thigh pressed gently between yours, not pushing, just offering pressure that made heat pool low in your belly.

He pulled back just enough to speak against your lips. “Not here. Not with half the team downstairs. When I finally get you alone, I want to take my time. Want to hear every little sound you make when I touch you. Want to show you exactly how long I’ve been thinking about this.”

Your breath hitched. The promise in his voice sent a shiver down your spine.

“Tomorrow?” you asked, voice barely steady.

“Tomorrow,” he agreed, pressing one last soft kiss to your forehead. “After practice. My place. I’ll cook you dinner first. Then…” His thumb brushed your swollen bottom lip. “Then I’ll show you how good it can be when I’m not pretending I don’t want you more than anything.”

You smiled, leaning up to kiss him once more — quick and sweet this time. “Deal. But if you burn the dinner, I’m making you run suicides.”

He laughed, bright and warm, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. “Worth every sprint if it ends with you in my arms.”

The party continued raging downstairs, but up here in the quiet sunroom it felt like the rest of the world had faded away. Jason held you close, arms wrapped around you like he never wanted to let go, chin resting on top of your head.

For the first time, the line between enemies and pure want didn’t feel like a lie.

It felt like the start of something real.

And as Jason’s hand stroked slowly up and down your back, warm and steady, you let yourself believe that maybe - just maybe - the arrogant hockey player with the sharp tongue and softer heart was exactly who you’d been waiting for all along.

a/n : just a drabble while I work on some other things :) follow for more hehe

[fawnindawn]

beg you to stay.

summary: you had always adored damian… till you overheard his complaints to his brothers on your clinginess. so why was it that when you decide to give him what he desires, he is the one trying to close the gap he desperately wanted?

pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader

content: hurt-comfort, angst+fluff, hea, grovelling+yearning, desperate damian who bites his own words that make him go through it, reader with boundaries

“She’s clingy.”

Damian’s voice is unmistakable. Cut-throat, swift in its delivering blow. Even with his back turned to you, you could recognise it in a heartbeat.

“C'mon, Dames.” Dick teases. “You enjoy her company.”

A cold, scathing scoff echoes. “Her smothering can barely be considered company. Consuming my entire week—then coming along to the gala just to torment me further? You're mistaken.”

Pressing the gap of the door shut, your numb fingers dig into the wood. His bitter admission parted from his lips so easily. His harshly thrown words didn’t just shatter your heart physically into pieces—no, there isn't a harsher tidal wave crashing over you than the realisation that whatever bond you shared with Damian was a complete, utter lie.

Damian, who was prone to being harsh with his words, but had never gone out of his way to hurt you on purpose. You had even considered it a charm of his, because there had always been something tender laced within his actions, that always spoke louder than his words.

When he quietly swapped his plate with yours, a quiet consideration without ever once looking up, having memorised your allergies without you realising.

When he subtly placed his hand behind your back in galas, chasing off vultures who aimed for your status, with a silent glare that places you under his direct protection.

When he carried you all the way to his bedroom after a bad sprain on your ankle from a bad fall down the stairs in his manor, with biting remarks and a tender caress over your swollen skin as he applied an ice-pack, worry creased into his brow.

Was it all a ruse?

The wound is only inflicting on itself with every memory torn apart and searched for any evidence, any signs for his dislike. You trusted Damian, which is why it hurt so much to hear him talk about you this way. As if those small moments were all mere inconveniences for him, that burdened him. You had assumed he at least reciprocated your friendship, but now… if only he had faced you instead, with an honest willingness to express how uncomfortable he was.

If it was space Damian wanted, he should have communicated it with you. Instead of mouthing it to his brothers behind your back, without allowing for your voice of input to clarify on the boundaries he wanted.

You don’t notice time passing, standing in the corner of the hallway, your heels digging into the soles of your feet—till you felt a heavy hand on your shoulder. You flinch, brushing the sudden grip off only to find Damian in your swarmed vision. Concern flickers in the green flecks of his eyes… or was it annoyance? The ability to read through his mask, it feels as if it’s been an illusion all along.

“Spaced out?” Damian taunts, one brow cocked at your strange behaviour. "I told you not to come."

I told you not to come. You’re not sure what is the appropriate response, not when you feel a clog in the back of your throat. You never had to think twice on your words before, not in front of him.

“Tired.” You admit, because at the very least, that word carried a semblance of truth. You’ve never felt more exhausted in your life, and the culprit was standing in front of you, completely unfazed. “I think I should head home.”

His eyes widen imperceptibly, not expecting you to take his words so literally. You were never one to skip out on a dance before a gala has ended, no matter how boring the event was. Often, you’d drag him by the arm as your partner, only because the look on his face was easily the best memory of the night. At least, it should’ve been.

His lips part, ready to form his signature 'I told you so', but your ghastly expression makes him hesitate. He clears his throat, offering his hand and slotting himself by your side. “Very well. I’ll escort you.”

“No.” It blurts out quick, desperate.

His surprise slips through his impassive expression. His hand still outstretched—freezes, doubt etched into the crease of his mouth.

“You should be with your family.” You reply, straining a smile. “I won’t take up more of your time.”

It was meant to sound considerate, but the quickness of your tongue made it sound like a solemn promise.

His eyes narrow in puzzlement but you’ve already turned, moving out of his reach towards the exit. He doesn’t make an attempt to stop you, and it hurts that maybe, part of you still hoped he would. To prove his statement wrong, that you mattered more than being a nuisance.

You’ll give him what he wants. Space. Maybe you needed it too, to understand the emotions weighing on you. This hurt—betrayal—shock, you needed time to process it. To reevaluate what Damian Wayne really means to you.

Damian hasn’t heard from you in two days. In the past forty-eight hours, he has tracked your location to ensure you weren’t kidnapped, or lost your phone. Both suspicions were refuted, and the only anomaly that remains is your uncharacteristic silence ever since that night at the gala.

His gaze flickers back to the opened message channel, where his text ‘Have you arrived?’ remains unread. Running a hand through his locks, this may be Damian's first—for his conclusions to come up empty. His text was a mere front, an opening to ask about your wellbeing. His confidence in your reply was absolute, and he never once considered ending up in this standstill. Despite being apart from your constant presence, he finds that you’re somehow occupying more of his mental capacity.

He should’ve went after you the moment he saw that strange, desolate expression on your face when he found you, hidden alone in the corner. Your solemn attitude rang caution bells, concern—which is why he offered to bring you back. It was instinctive, natural. He never expected your rejection. The sting caught him off-guard, words of concern trapped in his throat. He didn’t master the skill of comfort as easily as you did, with sweet, honey words easily coming to your forefront.

He’s overthinking the situation, analysing it till the details have gone runny in his hands—blurry aside from the clear vision of your back turned towards him. Still, there was something about your goodbye… that left him strangely unsettled.

"There you go again." He hears your teasing voice, already memorised in his mind—a poke of your finger against his cheek. "Overanalysing the situation. Just ask me, Dami."

He shakes his head, trying to dissuade the many possibilities that ended in zero conclusions. It’s not a big matter. Today was one of the rare occurrences where his biology classes coincided with yours, leaving a lunch break where he could demand for answers. He’s sure that once he sees your usual, brightened expression—the discomfort in his chest will disappear.

Damian waits with strained patience outside your lecture hall. Various eyes are casted onto him—a rare, Gotham Times worthy sight of a lone Wayne waiting for some mysterious figure, but the attention is none of his concern. His eyes are locked on you instead, watching you pack your bag through the open gap of the door, the AC blasting a cold breeze against his nose bridge.

You’re laughing at some unheard joke from this distance, and it should soothe his worries—to see you refreshed compared to your exhaustion two days ago. He understands better than anyone how exhausting those galas are, which is why he tried to dissuade you from attending in the first place. Still, you had insisted on accompanying him, much to his chagrin. He at least hoped you didn't flunk your midterms today by overexerting yourself, despite his previous warnings, or else he really wouldn't be able to restrain himself from saying I told you so.

All fleeting thoughts of teasing you are discarded at the sight of an unknown blond male, chatting you up and making you laugh as hard as you did. His foot taps in a repeating manner, discomfort swarming in his chest the longer he watched, before catching his own fretting and forcing himself to stay still. This unknown variable is not a problem. Once you spot him, you'll come to his side instead—naturally.

This reassurance paces his impatience, waiting for you to notice him as you made it towards the door. His chest rises, anticipation creeping in as your head raises—and meets his gaze.

You smile, like you always do, and it has the same application of a soothing balm over the minor migraine he's formed from over-checking your coordinates. Waiting for you to come to him, his lips part with a ready excuse for why he came to find you instead of meeting at your usual lunch spot.

Only for you to walk right past him.

He blinks, unable to process what just happened. Impossibly in a single moment, he became invisible to your eye. His mind works in overdrive, unable to piece the facts together that you just walked past him. The probabilities calculated don't align with reality, but his body reacts faster. His hand reaches out, grabbing onto your wrist impulsively—right as you made your turn towards the hallway.

You stumble, gaze flickering down to his grip in surprise. “...Damian?” You blink as if stunned, like you hadn’t just walked past him like he was a ghost.

“You haven’t responded to my messages.” He blurts out with almost immediate regret. Now, his position comes off as a confrontation, and that blond is staring at him with vague amusement. Pathetic, he feels shame burn in the back of his throat. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

You stare at him unblinkingly, before your mouth parts in acknowledgment. “Ah, that. Tim should've updated you, did he not?”

Tim. A heated frustration arises in his chest, but he can’t figure out what exactly is stoking the fire. The realisation that you prioritised Tim's messages over his, or your strange nonchalance to his concern. “You’ve been conversing with Drake?”

“I needed his help with finding a new collection—he’s also a fan of the series.” You shrug. "With the midterms and his constant updates about the shipment from Japan, I must’ve missed yours."

“Your business with Drake isn’t my concern.” He spits out, harsher than intended. An uncomfortable slither of emotions is writhing in his chest, and the thought that you and Tim have been conversing in secret all along these past two days, bonding to something he wasn’t privy to... it was irritating.

Why had you gone to Tim instead? If you had asked him, he could've easily gotten you the collection.

“What is our relationship then?” You implore casually, eyeing his reaction. “If your concern is so situational."

Whatever he was expecting, he didn’t expect that. His lashes flutter, his composure all but ruined as his mind tries and fails to merge the you he knows, and the you in front of him. You don't seem angry. So, why was he beginning to feel a sense of dread?

“Weren’t you the one who always decided the labels for us?” He asks after a moment, his voice rough against the unexpected impact of your question.

Your expression finally flickers, disappointment slipping through the cracks of your smile. His response has displeased you, even he could read into that.

“I’ll let you answer for us this time.” You reply, and it’s distant—cold. Unlike you. “You can choose whichever you deem fit.”

“Wait.” His rushed voice sounds desperate even to his own ears. The sight of your back turned towards him is something he never wanted to see again. His gaze flickers between you and the blond, questioning. “Are we not supposed to have lunch together?”

You turn back, staring at him with an unreadable expression. Your smile reappears, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’m having lunch with Lawrence, so it’s okay. You don’t need to accompany me.”

Damian views the world akin to a battlefield. There are allies, enemies, changes in fronts and positions. He has fought hard to feel deserving of every position in his life, whether it had been his grandfather's heir, his father's blood son, or Robin. Right now, he feels as if his position beside you has been ripped out of his hands. Accompany? Is that how you saw it, like some sort of duty imposed on him that you could dismiss him of whenever you pleased?

"See you around, Dami." Even his nickname given by you comes off flat from your tongue. As if you were going through the motions, interacting with him from behind a wall that's suddenly been constructed without his notice.

You weren't completely ignoring him like he suspected, but this distance... feels much worse.

There was something, very obviously wrong.

You aren’t sitting beside him. In the seat reserved for you, that’s meant for you.

It had been set from the very start, maybe initially because the two of you were the only children ever-present during family business dinners... and later, with your constant chattering that the adults found had an amusing effect on him.

He's gotten used to exchanging cuts of his meals with yours, or swapping his glass if his had more ice cubes in them, because you liked your beverages freezing cold. Used to you whispering unrelated stories and jokes into his ear when his father talks business with your father, and he has to resist a quirk up his lips because it would mean that you won in your little game to crack his exterior. Now, it's as if an entire routine has been disrupted, and Damian was a man of routine.

He watches you, eyes like a hawk over your every movement, trying to detect any pause in this unreachable mask of yours. You slice your steak without fault, placing your cut between your lips as you nod along to your father's words, seated at his right hand. You don't blink an eye in his direction, and he's tempted to walk right over and drag you out of that very chair.

To corner you in a space without prying eyes, and... what? He swallows dryly, forcing himself to look back down at his untouched meal. What could he say without sounding like a lunatic?

That he suspects that he's done something wrong merely because you've switched seats today? Or that you've been skipping out on lunches with him. Or all the way back to that cursed gala, when you had refused his hand to escort you back home.

Another troubled ‘Tt’ slips past his gritted teeth, and that finally reaches your ears.

When he meets your curious gaze, a silly gust of hope appears so quickly in his chest at the luck that he's finally caught your attention. He raises a brow, a silent question, gesturing to head to a private room with the tilt of his head. You've always understood his silent words better than anyone else did.

Which is why it shocks him when you merely cast your gaze back to your father, leaving his question unanswered. He wasn't deluding himself in this occasion. You're clearly rejecting his gesture, pretending as if you never saw it.

His grip tightens, crumpling into the table cloth, shame colouring his features. He has to put an end to this. Regardless of your coy act, he knows you. Maybe you had a bet with one of his brothers—who knows what schemes they've configured after their constant interrogations during the gala, successfully running a fuse on his temper.

Or maybe, he’s displeased you with an inadequate response. You had mentioned it before, the term 'labels'. Honestly, he never once considered trapping you in something so jarringly concrete. Bonds, human connections—they were always needlessly complicated.

What you meant to him, it expanded beyond the limitations of languages. You, who saw past his sharp exterior and pushed him beyond his limits, and him, who found himself staying despite every rational thought pleading him not to expose his weakness so easily out in the open.

It was simply natural from the moment he met you, instinctive to remain by your side just as you always found a place to slot beside his. Terrifyingly easy, that he refused to let anyone see the softness you evoked out of him. It was meant for you, and only you. Now, the strike of your absence, despite being only a few feet away from him, is running a deeper cut into his conscience, tracing back to the questions that's been bombarded on him by his siblings.

But—what does she mean to you, Dames?

What would your life look like without her?

In a desperate attempt to brush off questions that aroused a panic he had never felt before, he came up with quick, venom-filled words to dissuade his brothers. Oddly enough, he never wished to reveal what you meant to him, not aloud.

It made it feel too real, too vulnerable. As if the world could swallow you whole if he admitted just how irreplaceable you were, that he couldn't envision a life without you by his side. His grandfather had made it so—that any weaknesses should be removed from its roots.

He did not want to remove you from his life, so you are not his weakness.

He's tempted to curse his brothers to oblivion. If only they hadn't sprung such obnoxious questions, then these thoughts wouldn't be invading him, and the universe wouldn't have punished him for it.

He had already felt the brimming inevitability of something bound to go wrong the moment he was faced with vulnerability. If it had been anyone else, he would have retreated in a similar manner as he always had. To not show weakness, to prove that he was above silly affections and attachments to others—but it's you.

He has to fix this. Whatever it is that's wrong. If only you would look at him, then maybe you'd see his desperation too and let him in.

Damian doesn't receive an opening till the next gala. A cruel twist of fate the universe has decided to play on him, as if openly mocking his distress, to end up right back where the entire fiasco started.

He's barely kept himself sane. In these past two weeks, you've only responded to his messages—horrible attempts of reconnection, with mere one word replies, and visited the manor to hang out with his other siblings. When he had caught you lounging on Tim's bed, ranting about the new series you both were so invested in, he nearly tore the door straight off its hinges.

He craves for your silly rants during lunches. Your presence dipping the corner of his bed as you sketched doodles of his family in their vigilante costumes. Your warm laughter that soothes a long night of patrol.

He misses you... terribly.

It doesn't help that you're a vision tonight, only worsening the trembling ache in his chest. Dressed in your favourite colour that make you so strikingly vivid, already seared into his mind as he stares unblinkingly, he doesn't realise he's been holding his breath till your heels click with an ever-increasing volume towards him. Your nearing approach is what finally snaps him out of his daze, and his hand immediately shifts. Out of mere habit, for you to hold onto his arm as always.

Your hand doesn't lift to meet his, remaining stuck to your side. It pushes him off balance, and he has to force himself to respond when you greet him.

"You...look beautiful." He admits, his voice a weakened imitation of itself. He hates this, and you look—you are beautiful. So much so that it hurts. Even if he tried to reach his hand out for you, he has the suspicions that you’ll only back away from his touch.

"Thank you." You smile politely, and the tone of your voice, practiced and composed, stings.

His lips part, ready to pull you aside and ask what he has done wrong. He is ready to do whatever you ask, to plead for forgiveness so long as that look in your eyes finally fades, anything to get you back. The real you, not hidden behind cruel distance and polite masks.

A familiar, dreadful face cuts in before he can. Damian’s gaze hardens, trained on the blond that's been trailing after you since two weeks ago, who currently has his hand outstretched for you. His scowl falters, panic swarming his instincts—when your own hand reaches out to take the stranger's invitation.

He utters your name, a weak pulse forming a lump in his throat.

You turn back, casting him a quick glance like his existence was an after-thought. "Lawrence offered to dance with me earlier. We'll catch up later, Dami."

His chest seizes completely. He doesn't process the alteration of his own steps, only finding your wrist captured between his fingers, his shoe stepped in between the gap of you and your dancing partner, functioning as an opposing barrier.

“I’m afraid—” His voice cuts in, deadly calm. “—she already has a partner for tonight.”

Your head whips around, unable to hide your shock. His jaw clenches, eyes narrowed at the suitor who's dared to try for your hand. Perhaps it's his building paranoia stemming from your continued absence, but the sight of someone taking you away by your willing hand is truly driving him mad.

It doesn't take long before Lawrence registers the message Damian sends with a single, warning glare. Hands off.

Finally able to breathe once the bastard's been chased off, he turns back to meet your gaze and is surprised to find the barely concealed anger in your eyes. You've never looked at him this way before.

That same discomfort that's plagued him constantly for the past two weeks builds in his chest at the thought that you even entertained the possibility of dancing with Lawrence. Damian had always been your dancing partner, no matter how much he claimed to dislike partaking in galas like these. If anyone was going to deal with sore feet from the accidental missteps of your heels, it will always be him.

“Is that the label you’ve decided on?” You ask, the first words uttered without that strange, distant tone you've used before. “Partners?”

“Does it displease you?” He presses, trying to gauge your reaction. “I will change it to whatever you prefer.”

You purse your lips, conflict arising in your gaze. “I don’t understand you.”

He exhales lowly. “I should say the same for you. You are the one who’s—” His jaw twitches, desperation slipping past his façade. “—drifting away.” From me, why are you acting as if I don’t matter—as if this doesn’t matter?

He shouldn't have drank all that wine from earlier.

Alcohol doesn’t affect him, not with its supposed dizzying sensation and loss of control when recklessly consumed, but it did make him bolder, his tongue sharper. Yet, seeing you trying to evade him—out of his reach, he found himself doing something he sworn to never do—being impulsive.

At the lack of your response, his hand still wrapped around your wrist tugs gently, a quiet plea for you to say something. He feels useless, small—and you're the only thing he desperately needs. To help him make sense of the chaos that's consumed his every waking thought, that's plunged and follow him into his dreams.

Eventually, you sigh. "We should talk."

A small hope reignites at this chance you've given him. It's automatic, already mapped out in his head as he guides you to an empty room on the second floor. You don't rip away from his hold at the very least, but from your strained steps, you're not ecstatic to be with him either.

Shielded from prying eyes once he shuts the door, you're quick to pull your hand out of his hold. His own mask fractures at the loss of your warmth—but when he forces his gaze away from your disconnected hands, he finally sees you shed your own to reveal your honest expression. You look tired, a mirrored reflection of the agony that’s been inflicted on him these past two weeks.

You settle at the loveseat, head resting on your palm as if the very weight of your unreadable thoughts have consumed you, leaving you exhausted. If only he could reach in and unravel them himself, to understand the change in you.

“Drifting away?” Your voice muses at his words, and it lands like a punch. Do you truly not understand what you've done to him? “You’ve seen me the entire week.”

He shakes his head adamantly, coming to stand before you, neck craned down to face your averting gaze. “I won't be easily fooled. You’re avoiding me. Standing in places you’re not supposed to be.”

It sounds childish. God, he was being driven insane the longer you stood there, finally in his sights and he just couldn’t stop drinking you in.

“Opting for the furthest seat. Skipping lunch breaks. Accepting another dance partner. Ignoring my messages. Not being by my side.” It pours out without stopping, even as he feels warmth burn at the back of his neck, reaching his ears. “Your behaviour has changed. Even when you're close, you’re out of reach.”

“And you say I’m the clingy one?” Your expression flickers, a mix of hurt and solemn amusement.

His brow creases. “When have I ever—”

His own voice echoes in his mind, in a taunting afterthought. “She’s clingy.”

The gala. The interrogations. Your sudden change in behaviour. You overheard his callous comment. His reckless mistake.

He calls out your name weakly. The gravity of his mistake—it feels as if the entire universe is collapsing onto him.

You let out a sigh, and the acceptance in it terrifies him. As if you’ve already prepared yourself in these past two weeks, to fully be out of his life.

“I overheard you at the charity gala.” Your admission coincides with his guess, and your unwavering gaze leaves him stripped of all his defenses.

It's dawning on him in quickening alarm, with how each passing day, you must've lost hope in him. That his careless words must've wounded you deeply, leaving you to rightfully pull away. That he is a complete and utter idiot, who has hurt the one person he swore to protect.

"Do you feel less smothered? After all, wasn’t space what you wanted?” You ask, and there is no anger in your voice—only apathy. "It was what I needed."

The admission silences him. His heart is thudding so hard that he hears the rush of blood in his eardrums.

No. It wasn’t what he wanted. Your absence has ruined him, and it wasn’t the faults of his brothers, or revealing his vulnerability. It was all on him.

“Isn’t it better for us both, if we kept our distance?” You propose. “Since we’ve gone past the line of hurting each other. It’ll be convenient for the both of us, and less burdensome for you.”

Your calm demeanour is a bigger slap to his face than you shouting at him, demanding for him to apologise or to make things right. In the face of your acceptance, it’s as if you expected that this was the outcome he wanted.

He has a paralysing realisation, that if he doesn't beg for your forgiveness, you'll never come and seek for his repentance ever again. With every passing second, he feels time running out of his hands as your expression closes at the lack of his response, ready to abandon the room. Abandon him.

Desperation strips Damian bare of his pride when his knees hit the ground, landing harshly before you in the lowest form of begging. He doesn't give you time to process what he’s done before his fingers gently wrap around yours, caressing them with a firm grip.

“Damian!" Your expression warps in shock, meeting the intensity seared in gaze. "What are you doing? Get up—"

“I was wrong.” He admits without hesitation. “All the words I said, not a single one of them holds the truth.”

Your shock dampens, and he sees the barest hurt displayed on your expression. It pushes him to strain past his walls, to keep speaking if it meant not seeing your back turned towards him.

“You asked me to define us once, by labels.” He recalls. “I am not good with words. It has always been—difficult. To understand when to push further and when to fall back. To not act as if every situation is a death sentence if I bared my vulnerabilities out in the open, but—I know that my faults are not an excuse for my actions."

"I have broken your trust and left you feeling unsure of your position in my life, and I must correct it. You are not clingy, or a burden. You are the most important person in my life."

“The lies were nothing more than a cover... my brothers had caught onto my attachment and wouldn't give up on their interrogations.” He admits through the grit of his teeth. “They were always more observant of what I tried to push down, and my behaviour around you—it was obvious that you had an effect on me. It's as if you are the center that I gravitate towards, pulling me in towards your every whim and desire.”

“They tried to help me make sense of it, and I panicked. Selfishly, I wanted to keep my weakness a secret only known to the promises I've made for you in my mind. My fondness for you felt like a curse if I revealed it.” He whispers. “I had always assumed that what you held closest to your heart is what you should guard the most."

“I uttered those foolish words because I had assumed that if only I knew the extent of my devotion towards you, you would be safe. That we could continue as we always had, without declaring a target on your back, so that the world wouldn’t rip you away so easily.”

“I was a coward.” He murmurs, pleading in earnest. “I have mistreated you and taken you for granted. I tried to convince myself that lies were better than revealing the truth, which is that I have always coveted to by your side."

"I am deeply sorry. For ever making you feel that you're anything less than.” He breaks. "That couldn't be further from the extent to which I adore you. To which I need you. I can’t imagine a life without you, so—"

"Please—" He's never been taught to beg, but he can't lose you. Even if it takes him years, decades to regain your trust, it doesn't matter. "—it is selfish of me to beg for your forgiveness, but I will do anything. I will explain the full truth to my family. I will take on any punishment but—I can’t lose you. These past two weeks have been torture, and... I miss you."

Finally, after his chest is heaving with the burn of his confessions and a lack of oxygen, does he quiet. In the face of your coming judgement, he has never been more nervous in his life.

"Damian." You mutter. "I have not forgiven you."

His breath hitches, and despite all he's done to expect this outcome, he couldn't have been more unprepared for the impact of the blow. His hands falter around yours, and his knees have gone weak.

"W—What do you want me to change?" He can barely hear his own voice over his rapturing heartbeat. "Is it something I said? My behaviour, my actions—I can improve. I can fix this."

You give him a look that signals that you're not done. He forces himself to quiet, lips pursed as he slowly—painfully waits.

"In these past two weeks..." You admit. "I really tried to reevaluate what you mean to me."

"I understand you, more than anyone else has because you've let me in." You answer. "But just because I see you—and I know that's a vulnerability you don't easily show to people—doesn't mean that you get an easier way out."

"You did hurt me. I'm acknowledging that, and because I care about you, it hurts even worse." You reveal. "It wasn’t fair that you brought up such harsh words to describe me behind my back, and it’s not going to be something I can brush over easily, no matter the reason. I don't think we can fully go back to how it was before, not without moments where I will feel doubt. That's a trust you have to rebuild, not just with one big apology, but through your words and actions, every single day."

He nods, hanging onto every word you're willing to give him, even as your vocal admission of him hurting you feels like a vicious whip.

"But I am willing to give you that chance—to heal the hurt you've caused me, to prove that you won't pull away when you're scared I'm getting too close." You declare. "I'm giving you a chance to fix your mistake, because I know you, Dami. I know you'll keep your promises, and that you have a heart. One that's willing to change."

He lets out a shaking breath, and he finds your fingers caressing over his in a gentle touch. Not forgiving him completely, but reassuring in its warmth.

"I—" Left bare after pouring his heart out, the adrenaline rush that came from his full vulnerability has finally left his chaos-ensued mind blank.

From the very moment you had entered his life, it was an undeniable fact he had only grown to understand, to not fear—and it was that he loved you. The same distant concept he once viewed through the multiple perspectives of others, now existing right there in his beating heart. Yet, it didn't feel right in this moment. Not when you were giving him this chance to rebuild the trust he has broken. He will wait, for as long as you'll let him, he will cherish anything you'll give him.

"I know." You whisper, silently reading what he’s trying to convey through a single glance. "We'll figure us out together."

He sighs, head falling against your lap, lips brushing over your intertwined fingers—a soft, imperceptible kiss to your knuckles. It's natural, instinctive, everything he could ever want. To rest in your presence that’s finally allowed him to breathe again, surrounded by your warmth and voice.

"I thought you hated dancing." You muse.

"Not when it's with you." He admits quietly. "I haven't trained myself to bear the crushing of your heels, just for someone to take my place."

"I can't believe you called me the clingy one." Your amusement doesn't displease him, not in the slightest.

"Perhaps I shall reinstate our relationship to my brothers then." He murmurs. "I'm sure they'll have a field day once I admit that I'm the one who can't bear to be without you."

Finally, he hears the familiarity of your laugh. He has missed that.

"I'd like to see that."

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

damian taglist: @supercheesygarlicbread @bloomfaery @enmzgn @jxybirdiv @vanillakirstein @celestills @katzenia @chikenuggetrat @mrrayjay @arabellas-barbarella-swimsuit12 @amandjslpz @mossmydarling @batslilwhore @dclover567 @gojoswaterbottle @annabelleleefrench @neonsquad303 @strawberryfire17 @treebranch23 @vampiranne @tofudubicho @roszszs @vaderuby @revesephemeres @moon-cakei @manachiichan @caterppillar @hoshi-no-koinu @living-that-chronic-life (to be added, check masterlist)

[kfa-343]

again😭😭I’m sobbing again😭😭 the confession😭😭 the vulnerability😭😭

This kind of writing is why my standards are too high when it comes to dating. I have yet to meet a man who would literally fall to his knees and beg for my forgiveness😔😔 but I can live vicariously through your writing so thank you for your service

[chapter56]

[astrovvitches]

again and again and again

[unremarkable-gods]

bruce wayne is a man who has had his worse fears happen to him in real life multiple times and somehow hasn’t thrown himself off the top of his fuckass manor yet and that is why he’s sexy to me. i like my men tormented, disturbed, and selfless to the point of self sacrifice please and thank you.

[fantasticfourthwingimagines]

heyyy!! i LOVE your fourth wing stories ❤️ was wondering if you might be open to doing a request of a garrick tavisxtauri!reader with a littleee complication haha... where she's in the same year as garrick (who's been secretly in love with her for ages) and they have mated dragons, BUT she and xaden have been together since first year until xaden starts drifting to violet and she notices. when she confronts him he admits he loves violet in a way he never has with her and they break up, garrick stands by her and slowly she falls for him and she's terrified of being hurt again but when garrick is poisoned and almost dies in onyx storm she freaks tf out and can't help but confess her love for him while taking care of him afterward :)) would love to read your writing for this, but if it's not your cup of tea no worries, much love anyways!! ❤️

Anon, I am so, so glad you sent me this request, but am so sorry for how long it took. I just hope that the wait has been worth it, and here is 20k for your troubles. Thank you for requesting! I hope you enjoy! Warnings: Canon typical violence and language

You had known that it wasn’t going to last, but you hoped it would. 

Unfortunately, most things that started with death didn’t have a happy ending. 

Something changed that day at Threshing. You hadn’t planned on heroics. Your goal was simple: bond a dragon, get out, and stay as far away from Alic as possible. 

But then you saw him, barely conscious, bloodied, moments from death, and Alic standing over him, ready to strike. 

You didn’t think. Maybe it was the years of swallowing your screams. Maybe it was the countless times you’d turned your back, told yourself it wasn’t your place. Maybe it was the fact that it had once been you, bloody and unconscious laying in front of your brother. Maybe something inside you finally shattered. 

All you knew was that one second, you were watching. The next, your blade was in Alic’s shoulder. 

The look he gave you, that fury, that disbelief, you’d never forget it. You had no doubt in your mind that he would have killed you right then if not for two things happening. 

First, the man you’d just saved, moving faster than you expected, wrapping an arm around your waist and yanking you sideways into his body. 

Turns out, he wasn’t unconscious. 

The second thing, the thing that truly shattered everything, was Xaden Riorson appearing out of nowhere, bloodied and bruised, and slicing your brother’s throat right in front of you. So close the spray of blood hit your face. 

Xaden Riorson . . . Fen Riorson’s son. If - If he was here, who was Xaden saving because it sure as hell wasn’t - 

You turned your head, breath caught in your chest, and found yourself staring into the eyes of the man still holding you. 

Garrick Tavis.

The realization hit like cold steel. 

Marked ones. You had just helped marked ones kill your brother. 

Oh gods, were they going to kill you now? If they didn’t - Halden was going to. Or your father would and make it look like an accident. Then Cam, the only brother you had worth a damn, was going to be alone, and -

Garrick seemed to sense your rising panic. His arm tightened around your waist, and his voice brushed your ear as he murmured, “We’re not going to hurt you.” 

You shivered. 

“Garrick-” Xaden started, his tone edged with warning.

“She just stabbed her godsdamn brother for me, Xaden. I’m not fucking hurting her.” Garrick snapped.

Xaden turned to you then, like he was really seeing you for the first time. His eyes softened, barely, and he held out his hand. 

You stared at it like there was a blade hidden beneath his palm. 

“Though you clearly have good instincts not trusting me.” Xaden bit his lip, and you thought he might’ve been hiding a smirk. “You saved my best friend, Tauri. I’m not hurting you either.” 

How were you supposed to take the hand of the man who had only ever looked at you like he wished you’d drop dead? 

Garrick’s hold on you tightened. Not threatening, but steady. Reassuring. “I’d help you up, but your asshole brother wrecked my ankle.” 

You looked at the hand in front of you. The hand of someone you were raised to hate. The hand that represented everything you’d been taught to fear and despise. 

And you took it.

Roars cracked through the forest. The ground shuddered beneath your feet as Xaden hauled you upright, and your breath caught as two enormous, terrifying dragons stepped out from between the trees. 

Your eyes were immediately drawn to the one on the left. 

It was a stunning shade of emerald, its scales catching the light like polished stone. Its eyes were locked onto you, piercing, intelligent, assessing. You couldn’t look away. Almost without your brain’s permission, your feet began to move, carrying you toward it like something in you recognized it before you understood why. 

It didn’t flinch. Instead, it gave a huff of impatience, like you weren’t walking fast enough. 

“You are the Princess?” 

You startled. The voice wasn’t spoken, but it rang clearly through your head, imperious and resonant, echoing with command. 

She was speaking in your mind. 

You hesitated. Were you supposed to answer out loud? In your thoughts? 

She snorted, amused. “It does not matter. I can hear either.”

“Yes,” you said aloud, stopping in front of her. Speaking in your head just felt . . . too strange. 

She stared at you for another moment, then lowered her head to yours. For one terrifying second you thought she was going to burn you alive, but instead a gust of hot steam from her nostrils blew your hair back. “You are mine now.”

Your eyes widened. Did she mean what you thought she did? 

“Are you sure this is the one you chose?” Another voice echoed in your mind, this one very clearly male, but more melodic, almost musical in its tone. 

You blinked, turning toward the second dragon. The brown one. He was watching you just as intently. 

But - dragons didn’t talk to other humans, only their chosen ones. 

How could you hear both of them? 

“At least my human is still standing.” She snapped at him, but there wasn’t any malice behind it. It almost felt . . . playful? 

The other dragon made a growling noise, his eyes moving past you to Garrick. “He will rise. He is strong.” 

You turned just in time to see Garrick shove off Xaden’s offered hand. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself upright, favoring one leg but steady on the other. Then his eyes landed on the brown dragon, and they went wide with disbelief. 

“As I said. Strong.” The dragon’s voice rumbled with pride. “Come here, Garrick Tavis.” 

Garrick didn’t hesitate. 

It took him a few moments, but he limped over to join the three of you, stopping once he stood beside you. He shot you a bewildered look, but you had no idea what to say. What could you say?

“We have chosen you two as our Riders.” Your dragon said, her voice like steel wrapped in fire. “You will not disappoint us.” 

Garrick inhaled sharply and glanced toward her. The realization hit you at the same time it seemed to hit him. He could hear her too. Just like you could hear his. 

“Beathas is my mate,” Garrick’s dragon growled, his tone low and unmistakably threatening. “It means you will protect her rider like she has already done for you.” 

Mates. Oh Gods, your dragon and Garrick’s dragon were mates. That meant - 

Your dragon, Beathas you now knew, turned her great emerald head toward you. “Yes, Princess. You two are now bound, and you must continue to protect him as you already have.” 

Your eyes snapped to Garrick’s He was already looking at you, shock written across his face. 

In that moment, the truth settled over you both like a shroud. 

You were tethered now. Bound by your dragons. Linked until death pulled you apart. 

A princess and a marked one. 

—-----------------

For weeks, every day after that felt like waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

You kept bracing for someone to strike, convinced that word would leak out about your involvement in Alic’s death, but . . . nothing happened. Of course everyone found out about you and Garrick’s dragons, but other than that, there wasn’t a word. It seemed that Xaden had taken the fall willingly. Publicly, he claimed responsibility for the kill and made no attempt to hide it. 

Why? Why protect you when he could have made you the number one target in the quadrant? You had no idea. 

But slowly, days passed, and you started to breathe easier than you had in years. 

You learned that you and Garrick were able to talk to each other in your minds as well as your dragons, and he turned out to be a welcome presence. The more you got to know him, the more thankful you were that your dragons were bonded. He eased your anxiety. He made you smile, even laugh, something you felt like you hadn’t done in so long it felt foreign. The two of you started spending more time together, even more so when a training exercise gone wrong killed half your squad, and you got reassigned to his and Xaden’s squad. 

Getting to know Garrick however meant you got to know the rest of them, and while there was obviously some trepidation, Garrick brought you into the fold like you were any other rider and not the Princess of Navarre. 

Then there was Xaden Riorson. 

Somehow, saving Garrick’s life had earned his respect. He didn’t look at you like he wanted you dead anymore. Now his eyes watched, measured, and gods help you, teased.

You might even call him a friend. 

Then Reunification Day arrived. 

You were a mess of nerves and tension, and you were terrified the smallest thing was going to make you snap. You didn’t want to go. It was the first time you’d be setting your eyes on not only your other brother, but your father, in months. You’d been informed by the General earlier that he’d be coming. You knew they’d have questions, and they weren’t ones you were ready to answer. You also didn’t know if they knew about your and Garrick’s dragons, and you definitely didn’t want to have that conversation. 

It didn’t help that Garrick and Xaden had been uncharacteristically silent over the past couple of days. 

You missed them. 

“There is an easy way to fix that problem.” Beathas’s voice echoed down your bond, warm and amused. 

“I don’t think I can fix that problem.” You told her, smoothing down your rider issued skirt with shaking hands. “Not when it was my family that caused it.” 

You could almost see her tilting her head at you, even across the bond. “Do you truly believe after these past few months they hold you responsible for what happened to their parents?” 

They should. You deserved every bit of their anger. Of their silence. 

You heard her scoff. “Do you need Chradh to reassure you of his rider’s feelings towards you?” There was a knowing edge to her voice, a lilt that sounded suspiciously close to a smirk. 

“I don’t have time for this right now. Promise you won’t mourn too long if my father or Halden kills me?” The joke tasted bitter, even to you. 

Her growl rumbled through your mind, her voice downright menacing this time. “They will never get the chance.” 

Something in her voice settled the knot in your chest just a little. 

And, gods help you . . . you believed her. 

You took one last look in the mirror, and headed out of your door to meet your fate. 

There were people everywhere. You couldn’t walk a few steps forward without bumping into someone’s shoulders and apologizing. Which of course made their eyes widen and then profusely apologize to their “princess”. You fought the urge to roll your eyes every time. 

Finally, you managed to find a small alcove, faintly lit by the mage lights. It wasn’t private by any means, but it gave you enough space to breathe and enjoy the drink in your hands. For the first time in days, you let your mind drift to that garden where all your bonds were housed. The emerald one with Beathas, the dark brown one that connected you to Chradh, and the gold one, lined with amber, that was Garrick’s. It was strong, so you knew he was near, and you found yourself looking in the crowd for him even though you were sure you were the last person he wanted to see. 

“Well, if it isn’t my sister.” 

The voice sent a trail of ice down your spine, along with the fingers he dug hard into your shoulders with familiar cruelty. You didn’t turn to face him though, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. 

“I’m surprised you showed your face honestly.” Halden continued, voice low and venomous. “After you let our brother die.” He hissed the next words in your ears. 

Shivers crawled down your back, and you felt yourself shrinking, curling inward. The strong, steady woman you had become since threshing began to fade beneath the weight of old patterns. Halden’s grip would leave bruises. His anger always did. 

“That is not who you are anymore.” Beathas’s voice snapped through the fog, sharp and wild and blazing with fire. “You are brave, and you are strong. Stronger than him. If you do not like his hands on you, make him let you go.” 

Her power surged in your chest, steady and warm, like standing beside a living bonfire. She was right. Halden may be in the infantry, might be more physically strong and a better fighter, but now, you had something he would never have. 

A dragon. 

You opened that door to Beathas’s power, barely an inch, just enough to let your shoulders heat, not harming you, but enough for him to feel it. 

Halden yelped and jerked his hands away, swearing under his breath. 

You turned in your chair, heat blazing in your eyes as you glared at him. “Remember that the next time you think about putting your hands on me, Halden. Or Cam for that matter.” You told him, your voice calm but deadly. 

Pride roared down the bond. 

His eyes were dark, full of a familiar fury that normally would have made you cringe away, but with Beathas’s silent support, not anymore. “I know you had something to do with Alic. Riorson might take the credit, but I know you played a part.” He hissed the next words, “and I’ll never forgive you for it.” 

You crossed your arms over your chest, and startled slightly as something smooth brushed against your ankle. You glanced down, and the softest smile formed on your lips as you glimpsed a shadow wrapping around your calf, a silent show of support from a man hidden in the crowd. You looked back up at Halden, feeling stronger than you ever had in your life. “I can live with that.” You told him.

Before Halden could respond, a new voice rang out, rich and booming. 

“Ah, my children found each other!” 

You swallowed, but you refused to let the fear creep in as your father approached. Xaden’s shadow tightened protectively around your leg, and you took a subtle breath, letting it ground you. You plastered a smile on your face as he approached. “Hey, dad.” 

You had expected him to take one look at you and give you the same disappointed look he always had. Your father had never had any problem expressing his displeasure at the few choices you’d been allowed to make. 

Instead, your mouth almost dropped as he gave you a blinding smile, leaning forward to press an affectionate kiss against your cheek. “You look lovely, darling. Strong.”

Your stomach twisted. Who was this man and what had he done with your father? 

You forced a smile, slightly unsure. “Thank you.” You said, ignoring the way Halden was practically burning a hole in your side with his glare. 

Your father studied you, head tilting slightly. The smile still sat on his lips, but now his gaze was sharp and calculating. “I never would have thought you had it in you, you know?” 

You blinked, your smile faltering. “Had what in me?” 

Your father’s smile widened. “It was a smart move, but how did you manage to make a specific dragon bond with you?” 

Fury exploded down the bond, and you felt Beathas’s growl almost vibrating in your skull at the implication. She was outraged, and so were you. He knew better. Anyone with half a brain did. “I didn’t. She chose me.” You said, offended. 

He frowned for a heartbeat before the pleasant mask slid back into place. “Just luck then. Well, I can’t think of a better way for you to keep an eye on those marked ones than by having a dragon mated to one of theirs.” 

You froze. 

The shadow wrapped around your leg vanished in a heartbeat, slipping away before you could even take a breath. You followed it, and your heart leapt into your throat as your eyes caught on the two last people you wanted to hear that. 

Garrick’s expression made something in your chest crack. Not confusion, not even anger. It was betrayal. He took a step back. Then another. You wanted to shout after him. He knew you. He had to know that you would never - 

But did he? 

He tore his gaze away and snuck off into the night, and when you went to his arch in the garden of your mind, you found a wall of gold, blocking you out. Your hand stroked it, soft and gentle, but it did not give. 

“I will speak with him.” Chradh’s warm voice spoke in your mind. “Beathas and I know where your loyalties lie.”

You swallowed, turning your gaze over to Xaden as your thoughts drifted. When did your loyalties change? Was it the moment you stepped between Garrick and Alic? When the marked ones looked at you with wary kindness instead of open hatred? Or had it been earlier still? When you overheard your father discussing the wyvern and decided you couldn’t sit by another moment without doing something about it? When you had decided you couldn’t let the rest of the continent feel as helpless as you did trapped in that castle? 

Xaden’s eyes widened, almost as if he could hear your thoughts, and he vanished into the darkness after Garrick. 

Your father hadn’t seemed to notice your distraction, but Halden’s gaze was knowing . . . too knowing. 

“I’m proud of your cunning, daughter.” He pressed another kiss to the top of your head. “Keep us informed.” 

He left you then, Halden following with a smirk. 

Little did they know that was the last thing you would ever do. 

At that moment, you decided you didn’t want to wait anymore for Chradh to talk to Garrick. You needed to find him, explain to him that you had no loyalty to your family. Your loyalty was to him, to Xaden . . . to the people who’d helped you become someone you could finally be proud of. 

You took off in the direction you had seen them disappear, but you’d barely made it around the building when a strong arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you into the shadows. “You need to give him space to calm down.” Xaden’s voice whispered in your ear. 

Your breath caught. 

You turned to face him, braced for the cold fury you remembered from your first months in Basgaith. The piercing look like you were something rotten under his boot. What you found there instead was softness and concern. You still had to say it. You needed to say it. “Xaden I swear, I haven’t said a word. I never will. I’m done with my family, no matter what my father seems to think.” The words tumbled out too fast, breathless, afraid he wouldn’t let you finish. 

But he didn’t interrupt. 

When you stopped, he simply held your gaze.

“I know.” 

You froze for a second, thinking you must have misheard him, but after a couple of moments you realized you hadn’t. “You believe me?” You asked, your eyes wide in disbelief. 

A smirk curved his lips, so familiar, but gentler than it used to be. “I do. You’ve never given me a reason not to.” His arm, that you had forgotten was wrapped around you, gave you a little squeeze. “You’ve made your intentions pretty clear.” 

You didn’t know what to say. You had expected Xaden to be the hardest one to convince, but he hadn’t. He’d just . . . believed you. 

“Give Garrick an hour,” he said gently. “He’ll realize he’s not thinking straight.” 

You nodded, trying to keep your emotions from leaking through, even as a shiver ran down your spine. His arm slid off your waist, his hand dragging slow and deliberate across your back . . . pausing at your hip, a whisper of pressure before it dropped away. 

“I’m going to check on the others. Everyone’s on edge.” 

You watched him turn to leave, your thoughts a mess of confusion and something else you didn’t want to name. 

Then he turned around, and you were even more shocked to see an actual smile on his face. “By the way, good job putting your brother in his place. It’s nice to see a little fire in you.” 

A laugh slipped from your lips, unbidden, because you knew he intended that double meaning. 

His smile widened like he’d meant for that to happen. Then he vanished into the shadows, leaving you standing in the dark, unsure of what to feel . . . 

It was about thirty minutes later when the gold warmth of Garrick’s bond wrapped around your mind again, gentle as a hand reaching out in the dark. 

“Will it make you feel better if I call myself an idiot or if I let you do it?” His voice was sheepish and familiar and utterly him. 

You couldn’t help but smile. “Neither, but a hug would help.” You told him. 

There was an immediate knock at your door. 

You barely even had the chance to open it. Garrick stepped forward at once and wrapped his arms around you in a hug so tight you struggled to catch a breath. 

You wouldn’t change it for the world.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair. 

You wrapped your arms tighter around him, something inside you finally loosening. His apology was everything you needed. 

And in that moment, with your heart steady against his, you weren’t thinking about what came next. 

You knew you were exactly where you needed to be. 

—-----------------

 Okay, so you might be a little drunk. 

To be fair, when Garrick had handed you the bottle he did warn you that it was strong. 

You just hadn’t listened. You had never had more than a couple of glasses of wine at dinner before, and you had every right to celebrate right now. 

You survived. You’d made it through your first year of Basgaith with only minimal scarring and just a little major trauma. Part of you had wondered from the beginning if you were going to make it this far, and you could now say that you did. 

You were proud of yourself. 

You leaned your head back against the wall, letting the warm buzz settle through your limbs. The stars above looked a little blurry, but that only made them prettier. 

You glanced at Garrick, still lounging beside you, laughing at something someone across the fire had said. Gods, you were grateful for him. Every time he’d made you laugh when you thought you were about to cry. Every shoulder he gave when you did. Every time he reminded you that you weren’t just surviving, you were fighting. As terrifying and haunting the memory of your brother’s death was, you couldn’t find it in yourself to regret it. 

It led you here.

“Well, look who it is.” Garrick said with his signature smile as a large shadow loomed over you. 

You glanced up and your smile turned into a full grin as Xaden settled down next to you. “Thought you didn’t do parties, squad leader?” You teased, nudging his shoulder. 

He shrugged his shoulders. “I was bored,” he said, accepting the drink Garrick handed him, but his eyes never left yours. “You clearly are not.” 

“This is my first time being drunk.” You told him with a pout, leaning back on your hands. “Let me live.” 

A ghost of his smile curved his mouth, gone as fast as it came. “Far be it from me to deny you an adult experience, Princess.” 

You rolled your eyes at the nickname, but a smile tugged at your lips anyway. Then you felt it, that familiar brush. 

His shadow curled slowly around your thigh, like it was testing your skin for warmth. 

You inhaled, suddenly aware of just how close he was sitting. 

“I’m going to go get another drink.” Garrick said, rising to his feet. He smiled at you, but there was something too polished about it. “You’re cut off.” 

You scowled. “Buzzkill. You just want to go hit on Natalie.” 

An emotion passed through his face, but it was so quick your brain didn’t have the chance to interpret it. “Hey, kill two birds with one stone.” Garrick said, giving a tight shrug. “We’ve got the next few days off. Might as well find someone to enjoy it with.” He turned before you could respond, disappearing into the dark. 

That stung more than it should have. 

Instead of focusing on it, you turned your attention back to Xaden. “I don’t suppose I could sweet talk you into getting me another drink?” 

Xaden shook his head, “If Garrick’s cutting you off, it’s for a good reason.” 

Yeah, they were probably right. Didn’t mean you had to like it though. 

You looked down, distracted as Xaden’s shadow tightened around your thigh, like a hand that didn’t want to let go. “Why do you always do that?” You asked, voice quiet. “With your shadows?” 

He didn’t answer at first. Just watched you with that unreadable stare you were still learning to translate. Xaden Riorson didn’t offer information freely. But this time, he surprised you. “I thought the flirting was obvious.” 

You blinked. 

Wait. What? 

You must have misheard him. “You’ve been flirting?” 

He gave a small nod, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in that frustratingly smug way. 

“With me?” You repeated, more incredulous than before. 

“You’re really making me question my flirting skills right now, Princess.” Xaden shifted to face you fully, amusement dancing behind those dark eyes. 

Heat flooded your cheeks. Xaden could be sharp, even cruel, but he wasn’t that cruel. If he said he’d been flirting . . . he meant it. 

You fumbled for something to say. “You should. You’re terrible at it. I still think you hate me at least half the time.” 

“Half?” His voice dipped lower, and your breath caught as he leaned the slightest bit closer to you. “Your percentage is off.” 

Were you leaning closer to? You definitely were, but who could blame you? Xaden’s eyes could draw in the tides from the moon. “Oh? Is it seventy-five percent?” You murmured. 

Xaden’s nose brushed yours and you forgot how to breathe all together. “More like twenty-five.” 

Then, Xaden Riorson closed the distance between the two of you, and kissed you. 

He tasted like mint and something darker underneath. His hand cupped your jaw with the kind of confidence you’d only ever associated with a man who knew exactly what he wanted, and that was you. 

You hadn’t expected it. Not really. Not from him. 

But what shocked you more was that you didn’t pull away. You let yourself lean in. Let yourself feel it. 

And gods could he kiss. 

Not in the earth-shattering, lose your mind way you might’ve imagined your first real kiss at Basgaith might feel, but it was firm. Heated. Certain. Like this wasn’t new for him, and like he wanted it to be something new for you. 

By the time he pulled away, you were breathless and maybe just a little obsessed with the taste of him. Your hands were fisted in his shirt, and you didn’t even remember moving them. 

“So, does my kissing make up for my terrible flirting skills?” He asked, his voice low and a little smug. 

You shook your head, fighting a grin as you gave him a light shove. “Maybe twenty-five percent of it.” 

Xaden didn’t go far. He tugged you back against him until you were nestled against his side. “Guess you’ll just have to help me practice that then.” He murmured near your ear, one of his hands sliding around your back to hold you close. 

It was . . . nice. 

You couldn’t remember the last time someone had held you like this. Like they wanted you close. Like they weren’t afraid to be seen doing it. 

And Xaden, gods, he was warm, solid. Safe in a way you hadn’t realized you’d been craving. 

You rested your head on his shoulder, placing your own hand on his knee and giving it a squeeze. “I think that can be arranged.” You whispered, heat flooding your cheeks as you felt him press a sweet kiss to the top of your head. 

Your eyes flickered back across the circle to collide with Garrick’s. 

His jaw was tense. Eyes unreadable. 

But as soon as he saw you watching, his expression shifted. Softened. The tightness eased from his shoulders. He didn’t look away. A breath later, his presence wrapped gently around your mind. “You want this, sweetheart?” His voice, quiet and steady, echoed in your thoughts. 

Xaden’s hand continued its slow path along your spine. You curled closer without meaning to. 

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice smaller in your own head. “I think I do.”

You watched as Garrick’s shoulders dropped with the weight of your words. A small smile curved his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I can’t think of a better person for you.” 

And for a moment, you hated how much it sounded like a goodbye. 

—-----------------

You were surprised how easy it was. How naturally you slipped into a relationship with Xaden Riorson like the two of you had been in one all along. There wasn’t much of a shift between friendship and something more. There was just an ache of awareness. You started looking for him in every room, waiting for the whisper of his shadows to brush against your skin, craving his kisses like a secret. 

Yet, even in that closeness, a space started to grow, small at first. Easy to ignore until you couldn’t anymore. 

You started to realize how often Xaden Riorson disappeared. 

As second years, you now had weekends off. It was a perk that you’d been looking forward to, along with finally being able to write Cam, and something that you thought you’d be enjoying with Xaden. Except almost every weekend, you’d never been able to find him. When you asked him about it, he shrugged you off and suggested you hadn’t been looking for him in the right places. 

At first, you didn’t let it bother you. After all, whenever the two of you made official plans, he was always there, occasionally late, but there. You told yourself not to be suspicious. You had no real reason to be, but your mind kept turning, piecing together moments you hadn’t thought twice about before. They left gaps. 

Then something else clicked. Garrick was always gone around the same time Xaden was. You’d never tracked his whereabouts before, something you could easily do with your bond, but now you realized he vanished almost exactly when Xaden did. 

You’d bet all the money in the Tauri vault that they were doing something together, and it was so far away you couldn’t feel him when they were gone. The silence unsettled you. When the bond went dark, it felt like someone had ripped a vital thread from inside you. You hated how empty it made you feel, how vulnerable.

You were determined to figure out why. 

It was a weekend now, and the bond had lit up again, informing you of Garrick’s return without a word from your dragon. You let it guide you towards him, something your dragons had taught you how to do, citing that it would be an advantage in battle. You had to admit it was helpful now as you traveled down the steps of your dorm, following the path of gold. 

Until two infantry cadets stepped in your way, blocking you from moving further. 

Your heart leapt into your throat. There was only one reason infantry cadets would be in the Rider’s Quadrant, and your suspicions were confirmed when Halden made his appearance, jaw clenched and eyes cold. 

“You know, I always knew you were weak, but I never realized how easily you’d spread your legs for a traitor.” He said, but you noticed he didn’t take a step towards you, to touch you. 

While his presence had your heart racing, you knew you couldn’t show an ounce of fear or anger. He’d just use it to his advantage. “At least I didn’t have to sleep my way to a passing mark. Please tell me Violet Sorrengail kicked you in the balls when she caught you.” 

Yeah, maybe he heard about you and Xaden, but you’d heard about him too. 

His jaw tensed, and you could see the battle in his eyes to keep calm. Something he’d never been good at, but it seemed your warning from last time held. “Do you really think the traitor’s son sees you as anything more than a way to get close to this family?” He finally took a step forward, but you refused to yield any ground. “As soon as he has what he needs, he’s tossing you to the wolves, and our father will have your head.” 

It took everything in you not to flinch, not to show Halden how many times you’d actually considered that possibility only to be told by Beathas that it would never happen. 

“And my answer remains the same,” her voice spoke in your mind, always watching, always providing support. “He’s testing your armor, brave one. Searching for a crack. Do not give him one.” 

She was right. 

Instead of answering his question, you raised your eyebrows at him. “And what is it he wants to know, Halden?” You let your finger drag over one of the handles of the dagger strapped to your chest. It was a special dagger that your father had given you as a parting present before you left for Basgaith. 

You knew what it did. 

Just like you knew Halden had a matching one strapped to his chest. 

His smirk was vicious. A viper waiting to strike. “This is a warning, sister.” He hissed. “I won’t let you jeopardize my crown with your pathetic attachments.” He spat the last word like poison. “I’ll end them, if I have to.” 

“Because that worked out so well for Alic.” You snapped. 

You hadn’t meant to say it, but it slipped out before you could stop it. Halden’s answering smirk made your stomach twist. 

“The difference is, I always get what I want.” 

Beathas’s growl echoed in your mind as Halden walked away, nodding for the cadets to follow him. 

You stood there for a moment, trying to calm your heart even as panic threatened your mind. “Did he just imply that he would destroy Garrick and Xaden?” You asked Beathas, making sure you hadn’t been the only one to hear the veiled threat. 

“If I ever see your brother I will flay him alive.” The rage in her voice coiled around you, hot and unforgiving.

You took that as a yes. 

You had to find Garrick and Xaden, now, before Halden made good on his threat.

It didn’t take long for the gold thread of your bond to pull you across the courtyard and down a narrow corridor - 

Right to the weapons inventory?

“You have to tell her. I hate lying to her.” Garrick snapped, his voice sharper than you’d ever heard it. 

“Do you think I like it either? Fuck Garrick this isn’t just black and white” From the exasperation in Xaden’s voice, you had the feeling this wasn’t the first time they’d had this argument. 

“It is. She’s your fucking girlfriend man. She deserves to know where you are. Where we are.” 

You. They were talking about you. 

“Do you trust her?” 

Your breath caught. Did he?

“Of course I trust her, or I wouldn’t be in a relationship with her.” Xaden hissed back at him. 

Your heartbeat settled a little. 

“Then you better tell her, or I will.” Garrick said, and your heart stuttered again at his words. You never would have thought he cared for you enough to go up against his best friend from pretty much birth. 

“He cares for you deeply, Princess. More than you know.” Beathas’s voice curled softly down the bond. 

“I don’t think you’ll have to, considering she’s on the stairs eavesdropping on this whole conversation.” Xaden interrupted your thoughts. 

What? How the hell did he . . . Your eyes followed a shadow, gliding across the last few stairs and slipping around the corner like a wisp of smoke. You followed it to find Garrick and Xaden staring at you. Xaden’s face was carefully composed into a blank mask, meanwhile Garrick couldn’t hide the guilt in his. “Is it still eavesdropping when the conversation is about you?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest. 

“What are you doing here?” Garrick asked, but the second your brows lifted, realization dawned across his face. “You followed the bond.” 

“I was coming to find you, and then I got accosted by my brother -”

Xaden stepped closer, his face turning concerned, “Halden? Did he touch you?” but you put a hand up to stop him from getting any closer. 

“No. He threatened the two of you. Implied that he was going to end both of you if he had to, so of course I came to find you immediately.” Your eyes flicked to Garrick, sharp as a blade. “Because I don’t keep secrets from the people I care about.” 

Guilt darkened Garrick’s expression, and for a moment, you hated the way your heart twisted for him. He hadn’t deserved the jab. He was the one trying to pull Xaden toward honesty.

But hurt didn’t care about fairness. 

Then you looked over at Xaden. His face was a wall, every trace of concern wiped clean, replaced by that infuriating, unreadable mask. “Good to know that you trust me enough to sleep in my bed at night, but not enough to trust me with your whereabouts.” When his face didn’t change, and he didn’t move a muscle, you let out a scoff deciding that you had more than enough. 

You turned on your heel, anger burning in your chest, but you didn’t make it far. A band of shadow slid around your waist, velvet soft and unmistakably firm. You froze. 

“Xaden Riorson,” you growled, not bothering to hide the fire in your voice. “I swear -”

“Garrick, give us a minute.” Xaden said, stepping towards you. 

“I think I’ll stay,” Garrick said quietly, but firmly. “Unless she tells me to go.”  

Xaden’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t take his eyes off of you. “Apparently my best friend needs to hear it from you, Princess.” His voice was low. Controlled. But his shadows were already coiling tighter. 

You let yourself sink into the bond for a moment, speaking to him where Xaden couldn’t hear. “It’s fine, Gar. You might want to go check and make sure none of Halden’s guards followed me anyway.” 

“Are you sure?” He asked, and you glanced over at him to find him looking at you, his shoulders set stubbornly. He would stay, you realized. Even if Xaden told him to go, he would stay for you if you wanted. That simple truth sent a warmth blooming in your chest, steadying you.

“I’m sure,” You said, even though it was a lie. 

When he was gone, you turned your attention back to Xaden, and he dropped his shadow from you. You held his gaze, but his eyes dropped to the dagger at your chest. The one your father had given you. He tapped it with his finger once, then looked back up at you. “Do you know why that dagger is different from your others?” 

You swallowed, but nodded. You knew what that dagger did, and what it killed. 

Did Xaden? 

“We’re making more of them,” he said, pulling out a dagger from his own belt, one made of the same alloy. “And giving them to Poromiel.” 

The words hit like a blow to the chest. Your heartbeat stuttered, then pounded so violently it was all you could hear. 

They weren’t just flying under the radar. They were smuggling classified weapons. 

They were committing treason. 

Gods what the hell were they thinking? If they got themselves caught, there wasn’t even anything you could do to help them. Xaden would be killed. Garrick would follow. 

You wanted to scream at him. For being reckless. For dragging Garrick into this. For making you care so godsdamned much about someone who clearly didn’t care about his own life. But yelling wouldn’t change him. You knew that. You’d always known that. The only thing that could possibly protect them from getting caught was . . . 

You. 

You knew exactly what your brother would watch for. You’d grown up learning your father’s tactics. How he hunted, how he punished. If they started to close in, maybe you could misdirect them. Maybe you could draw their gaze somewhere else. If you couldn’t save Xaden and Garrick after they got caught . . . maybe you could stop it from happening at all. 

“You have to let me help.” 

Xaden’s eyes flashed dangerously. “No.” 

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Do you have any idea how much help I could be for this? I know all the ways they could possibly catch you-”

“And your brother is clearly out to get you,” Xaden interrupted. “Which makes you a target.” 

“So what, I’m supposed to hide while you and Garrick get yourselves killed?” You shot back.

He didn’t flinch, but his eyes darkened.

. . . You hated that he had a point. 

Crossing your arms over your chest, you didn’t take your eyes off him. “I can handle my brother. I think I’ve proved that several times now.” 

Xaden’s face softened the slightest bit, and you couldn’t help but melt a little yourself as he cupped your cheek. “I know you can, but you know what he has access to. He can have you followed all the time. It’s easy for Garrick and I to slip away. Not you.” 

Once again, you hated that he was right. With Xaden’s shadows and Garrick’s second signet . . . they could disappear in moments. You didn’t have that luxury. All you’d wanted since the moment you stepped into the Rider’s Quadrant was to matter. To help. And here was the opportunity, right in front of you. A way to do something that counted. Yet, you were helpless. 

Again.

Left out of the decision making from the two people you had learned to trust most in the world. Your boyfriend. Your best friend. 

You took a step back from him, shaking your head. “You still should have told me.” 

“I should have, or Garrick should have?” Xaden asked, raising his eyebrows. 

You had to fight back the urge to roll your eyes. “My boyfriend,” You shoved him lightly in the chest. “Who trusts me should have. Don’t try to blame other people for your mistakes, Xaden Riorson. It’s beneath you.” 

A flash of regret crossed his face before it was back to the stoic expression you knew. 

“And don’t bother coming to my room tonight.” You stepped back. “Wouldn’t want Halden catching you in the act of caring.” You said, and then turned on your heel, leaving him behind in the dark room. 

You’d barely made it outside when a large form came out from the shadows, startling you for a moment before you realized who it was. “I wanted to tell you.” 

You let out a sigh, but kept walking. “I know you did. I heard that part. Doesn’t mean I can’t be pissed at you.” 

Garrick fell into step beside you, putting his hands in his pockets. “You can be pissed at me, but Xaden . . . he was trying to protect you in his own fucked up way.” 

A laugh left your lips, but there was no humor in it. “You’re right, it was fucked up, and I’m not in the mood to listen to you defend him right now.” 

Garrick didn’t say anything for a moment, but kept pace with you all the way to your room. Once you put your hand on the door knob, you felt his presence wrap around your mind. “I’m sorry. I should have told you about this a long time ago. Before you and Xaden even became a thing.” 

Funny, how Garrick always managed to find the words. Even when it hurt. Even when Xaden didn’t. 

You turned back to face him after opening your door. “Listen, I’m pissed off. I get why you didn’t tell me. Doesn’t mean I’m okay with it.” You took a step inside your room. “So just give me that time to be pissed off, and leave me alone until I can stop being hurt about it.” 

Garrick looked stricken once more at your words. “I swear I wasn’t trying to hurt -”

“Please, Garrick. I need time.” Your voice was soft, pleading, despite the anger still sizzling in your veins.

After a heartbeat he nodded, even though it seemed like the last thing he wanted to do. 

You shut the door on him, but couldn’t bring yourself to block him out completely with the bond. Instead, you turned to your dragon’s emerald bond. Beathas had been uncharacteristically quiet during that whole interaction, and it didn’t take a scribe to know why. “That goes for you too. I know you can’t tell me your mate’s secrets, but I don’t like being kept in the dark.” 

Beathas’s voice was warm when she responded, not judging your anger at all. “I understand, Princess, but know this. If Chradh, his rider, or I had any choice in the matter, you would have been told long before now.”  

You believed her.

But the ache didn’t go anywhere. 

—-----------------

Your feet hurt, your stomach growled, and you were sweating like you’d just gone five rounds on the sparring mat. 

At five a.m., someone had dragged you out of bed and tossed a bag over your head. Next thing you know you were in the middle of a grassy field with Garrick and two infantry cadets for company. There Professor Grady had told you that your squad had been split up into three parts, and your job was to find each other. 

In the middle of the forest. With nothing but a map. 

You were miserable, but honestly it wasn't different from most days lately.

It had just become harder to tell whether it was the training or everything else making you feel this way. 

Glancing over the map again, your eyes kept drifting to Garrick. Gods, you missed him. You hadn’t shut the bond. Not once, but he’d never tried to talk to you through it either. You couldn’t blame him for that. After all, he was only giving you what you asked for. 

You’d never realized how woven into your life he was, until he wasn’t anymore. 

“Why do you constantly avoid all the easy ways to fix your problems?” 

Yeah, your silent treatment with Beathas had lasted a grand total of about six hours. 

“I’m still mad at him. At both of them.” Even if that anger had dulled into something more like disappointment. Or loneliness. Or maybe just stubborn pride. 

You hadn’t spoken to Xaden either. He wasn’t one to show his emotions, so you weren’t surprised that he hadn’t done anything to show that he missed you. You had caught him glancing at you on more than one occasion though. Not to mention the stray shadow you’d seen lingering a little closer than natural. You didn’t know what was worse. That he was still watching, or that you wanted him to. 

“It’s been two weeks. Would you please just put my rider out of his misery? The amount of ridiculous plans I’ve had to listen to about getting you to forgive him-”

“Chradh!” Beathas chided her mate. 

Chradh didn’t often speak to you, but it was almost always a pleasure when he did. 

As if Garrick could sense you were talking about him, those hazel eyes shifted to you, and he gave you a tentative smile when he caught you looking. 

You returned it, but quickly turned your eyes back to your map. 

You could’ve sworn you heard Chradh groan, long suffering and dramatic. Dragon patience only went so far. 

You tried to refocus on the map, but land navigation had never been your strong suit. Translating paper to terrain was a special kind of hell. 

It would help if the infantry cadets would do anything besides sneaking glances at you and whispering to each other. It was almost like they were waiting for something. 

“You’re holding the map upside down.” 

You looked up. Garrick stood in front of you, that tentative smile tugging at his lips as he gently reached out and rotated the map. Your fingers brushed, and you pulled your hand back, ignoring the warmth that followed. “I knew it was supposed to be like that.” You muttered, even though the heat rising in your face betrayed you. 

He raised his eyebrows, but one of those dimples threatened to appear with his smile. “So you were just trying to get us lost for fun?” 

You shrugged, “Someone should enjoy this. Amari knows they’re not.” You said, nodding your head over to the other cadets who were now glaring at you. 

He hesitated. Then, like sunlight through clouds, you felt the amber warmth of him wrap around your mind. It almost made you sigh in relief. Finally, he was here.  “I miss you.” 

You couldn’t lie to him. Not when he was looking at you like that. Like he’d give anything to earn your forgiveness. “I miss you too.” You whispered down the bond. “Both of you.” 

Garrick swallowed hard, his smile dimming at your words, but he didn’t pull away. “Xaden’s been irritatingly grumpy while you’ve been ignoring us too.” 

You raised your brow at him. “How is that any different than normal?” Your tone was teasing, but you couldn’t help but be a little relieved to learn that Xaden wasn’t as fine with your fight as he appeared. 

“If you’re not willing to forgive me yet, at least talk to him? For my sake?” Garrick pleaded. 

It struck you again, Garrick’s quiet, infuriating compassion. Even now, when you hadn’t spoken in weeks, he wanted you to talk to Xaden. Even if it meant you still ignored him. 

You really hoped that Xaden realized what an amazing best friend he had. 

“I’ll consider it.” You answered softly down the bond, reaching out to squeeze his forearm. 

He didn’t say anything. He just smiled, and it almost made you want to forgive him on the spot. 

“So that’s it?” one of the cadets snapped, yanking you and Garrick out of the quiet bubble you’d slipped into. “You got us lost?” 

You opened your mouth to respond, pissed that you were getting blamed, when Garrick spoke before you could. 

“It’s not her fault. We’re supposed to be working together, and all you’ve done is stand there, stare at her, and whisper like cowards. What’s your problem?” 

So you weren’t the only one who noticed their staring either. 

But they didn’t flinch. Didn’t back down. If anything, they looked relieved. Like this was the moment they’d been waiting for. 

You watched with wide eyes, as the two started pulling out their weapons from their sheaths, the one on the left pulling out two small daggers while the one on the right pulled out a longsword. “Oh, we don’t have a problem,” the one with the longsword said, voice like ice. “We have a mission.” 

Your stomach dropped. 

Oh gods. Halden. What the hell had he done?

The one on the left bared his teeth. “This is for Alic.” His eyes burned with nothing but fury and hate. 

Then they lunged. 

You didn’t think. You moved. Training took over. You were just close enough to Beathas to speak to her, but not close enough to draw power. You were sure it was the same for Garrick. You knew this would have to be a combat situation. You drew your daggers in a single heartbeat, dropped into a roll beneath his swing, and slashed at his ankles.

He jumped before you could make contact, turning around and charging towards you again. 

It took everything in you not to glance toward Garrick. Not to check if he was bleeding, breathing, still standing. But the bond between you pulsed, steady and alive. That had to be enough. You knew how good of a fighter he was. He could handle this. 

You could handle this too. 

You shut out everything, even Beathas shouting down your bond that she and Chradh were on their way, and focused entirely on your attacker. You studied the angle of his swings, the way he moved. He was stronger, but slower. His swings were wild, more strength than skill. 

You could work with that. 

You stayed close. Low. Fast. You let him do all the work, knowing that as time passed, he’d only get more frustrated and slower. That’s when you could strike. 

Just like Xaden had taught you. 

Gods you hoped you lived long enough to tell him thank you. 

A grunt of pain cracked through your focus. Garrick’s. 

You looked. His sword was gone, flung to the dirt. His attacker had cornered him. 

Panic seized you. 

Not Garrick. Please, not him. Anyone but Garrick. 

You didn’t have time to come up with a plan, to go through all the options. Your opponent was stumbling towards you after you’d made a painful cut across his calf, but Garrick was more important. “GARRICK!” You threw down the bond. 

He turned just in time to catch the dagger you flung his way.

You had a single heartbeat of relief. 

Then pain exploded. 

Your other dagger went flying as your hand bent the wrong way under the force of a brutal kick. 

You were pretty sure something snapped. 

You didn’t scream. Couldn’t. Pain could wait. Survival couldn’t. 

You dropped fast, clawing for the dagger with your good hand. Your fingers grazed cold metal - 

Then he was on you. 

His weight crushed you. Your hand was pinned between your bodies, and pain burst down your arm as he grabbed your hair and slammed your head toward the dirt. 

White light invaded behind your eyes. Everything blurred, until you saw the dagger glinting above you, catching the sunlight. Your attacker raised it overhead, both hands gripping the hilt. “Goodbye, marked fucker.” He spat. 

Beathas roared. 

Garrick screamed your name. 

But you moved first. 

The silver dagger was already in your hand, and you drove it into his side. 

He stared at the wound like he couldn’t believe it. You yanked the blade free and drove it in again. 

And again. 

And again. 

You didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Even as tears blurred your vision. Even as he dropped the knife and collapsed on top of you, dead. 

Your mind still screamed: danger! 

You didn’t even hear Garrick’s repeated yell of your name until he tore the cadet’s body off of you and pulled you into his arms. 

The knife fell from your hand the second his arms wrapped around you. 

You grabbed his shirt instead, bloody and torn, and held on like it was the only thing keeping you from drowning.  

In a way, it was. 

A moment ago, your mind was screaming, danger. Now, it whispered something else. 

Safe. 

 You shattered. 

Every moment of terror you shoved aside came crashing down. Garrick cornered. The horror, the rage, the disbelief that your brother had set you both up to die. Sobs tore through you as you buried your face in his chest, repeating how sorry you were over and over. This was your fault. Once again, Garrick had almost been killed due to the actions from someone in your family. 

How many more would it take before he abandoned you? 

The thought made you cling harder, as if holding tight enough could keep him here. As if you could anchor him with just your hands. 

Garrick didn’t let go. Not for a second. He shushed you softly, and you could feel his heart pounding against your ear. His breath was shaky as he pressed his face into your hair. He rocked you gently, arms so tight around you that you knew you’d have bruises. 

You didn’t care. 

“I thought he had you.” Garrick whispered, his voice raw. “Gods I thought he had you.” He choked.

“I thought he had you too,” you cried, clutching at him with your good hand. If you could have pressed yourself entirely into him, you would have. Just to feel, to know that he was still breathing. When he’d been cornered, you’d let yourself imagine it. A world without Garrick. 

Empty. 

Garrick leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, using one of his hands to brush your tears away, and then he cupped your cheek.

You leaned to his touch without thinking, drawn to him like gravity. His hazel eyes held yours. You couldn’t look away. You didn’t want to.

He said your name so softly, so gently, as if he spoke it too loudly it would startle the trees. “I can’t -”

A frantic yell broke through the trees behind you. Wild, panicked, shattered. 

Xaden. 

Oh gods. What if they’d gone after him too?

“Xaden!” You screamed, tearing yourself from Garrick’s arms and sprinting toward the sound of his voice right as he broke through the trees. 

His shadows caught you first, slipping around you in that silken way you’d come to love. A breath later, his arms wrapped around you, trembling. The tears came again, sharper this time, as he pressed his lips to your head and slid a hand into your hair, holding you tight against his chest. “It’s okay,” he whispered into your hair. “I’ve got you.” 

You let him hold you, closed your eyes, and breathed him in until the sobs finally faded. Then, slowly, you turned your head, finding him in an instant. 

Garrick. 

The look on his face, so raw, so wrecked, tore something deep inside you open. 

—-----------------

When they arrived at the weapons inventory, you were already there, waiting. 

Xaden dropped his empty bag at the door with a dull thud and barely looked at you before turning to Garrick. “I assume this is your doing.” 

Garrick didn’t flinch. “I told you. I’m done keeping this from her.” He told him, not an ounce of regret in his tone. 

“Thank you,” you whispered softly down your bond with him. Then you turned to your boyfriend, your voice firm. “We have to talk.” 

Garrick gave your shoulder a final squeeze before slipping out, the silence he left behind louder than the storm in your chest. 

“Guess it’s too much to hope for a, ‘glad you’re still alive kiss’?” Xaden asked, voice light, but eyes still watching you too closely. 

Until that day in the woods, that might’ve been what would have happened. You would have eventually forgiven Xaden for keeping this from you. The two of you would have gone back to normal. You would have given him a bright smile, thrown your arms around his neck and let him kiss you and fuck you until you couldn’t think. 

Then your brother tried to kill you. 

Now all you could think about was fighting back. 

“I can’t just sit here and do nothing, Xaden. There has to be something I can do.” Your voice cracked, half plea, half defiance. 

He was shaking his head before you could even finish. “You can’t.” 

“Yes I can!” You protested. “I want to help! I want to feel like I’m doing something!” 

“Do you want to help?” Xaden stepped forward, towering over you. “Or do you want revenge?” 

The words struck like a slap. You flinched before you could stop yourself. 

You felt his cool shadows against your skin, tilting your chin up so you had to look into his dark eyes. “I don’t hold it against you. I’m not sure I won’t kill him outright after what he did to you and Garrick if I ever see him.” 

He was partially right. You knew that. There was a small, dark, part of you that craved revenge for your sake and Garrick’s against your brother. 

But it wasn’t everything. It wasn’t the most important part. 

“This is why I joined the Rider’s Quadrant, Xaden.” You tried to reason with him. “I wanted to get out of that prison of a castle and help the helpless. You can help me do that. It’s all I wanted -”

“You’re being selfish.” 

Of all the things that you had expected him to say, that hadn’t even crossed your mind. 

“There’s more at play other than what you want.” Xaden said, his voice hard, final. “You don’t even realize what you’re asking when you say you want to help.” 

You stiffened. “Do you really think I don’t get what’s at stake?” 

“No, you don’t.” He interrupted sharply. “There are still things you don’t know about that are more important than either one of us -”  

“So tell me!” You didn’t care if you were begging anymore. He had to see it. You know he did. The way his secrets were ripping the two of you apart. “Stop being so self sacrificial and let me help you -!”

Xaden grabbed your shoulders, startling you. “You’ve seen the scars on my back.” He said, quieter now. “Every one stands for a marked one.” 

Your eyes widened at the revelation. You had known they were a product of his father’s rebellion, but you hadn’t known what they were for. “Xaden . . .” You said softly. 

“If I let you into this, it’s not just me. It’s not just Garrick. If you’re caught, if your brother, or father drags you into interrogation, it won’t stop with you. You’ll die, yes, but so will every single marked one I’ve fought to protect.” He let that hang between you. “Is that a weight you really want to carry?” 

His words didn’t just land. They cut. Deep. You’d been dating Xaden for almost a year now, and you had no idea the responsibility that was on his shoulders. Tears started heating your eyes, and you swallowed to try and keep them at bay as he leaned in to rest his forehead against yours. 

His voice softened, shadows coiling faintly as his arms came around you again, like the moment could still be salvaged if he just held you tightly enough. “I care about you so fucking much, but I won’t risk all of them for you.” 

Those words? They were the ones that hurt the most. 

Because you couldn’t even be angry. Not when he was right.

—-----------------

It was cold. Colder than it should’ve been for October, and you cursed yourself for not bringing your jacket. You hadn’t been thinking about it, or anything at all really. In the moment, all you were concerned with was getting out. 

Today, your cracked relationship with Xaden Riorson split wide open when his dragon’s mate bonded with none other than your brother’s ex-girlfriend. 

Violet Sorrengail. 

It wouldn’t have hurt so bad if you hadn’t already seen the chemistry building. The way their eyes lit when they looked at each other. The way she loved fighting with him, verbal or physical. The way he gave it right back to her like it was giving him life. The little sparring match they had on the mat the other day confirmed it. There were sparks. Sparks that you and Xaden hadn’t felt in a long time. 

Maybe not ever. 

You shivered, wrapping your arms tighter around yourself as you leaned against the stone wall, closing your eyes, doing everything you could not to let the tears fall. 

“It doesn’t have to mean anything.” 

You weren’t even surprised Garrick had found you. He always knew when you were hurting. “I feel like it does.” Your voice was barely louder than the wind. 

He sat down beside you, and next thing you knew, your flight jacket was wrapped around your shoulders. 

He had gotten it for you. Without even being asked. 

“Our dragons are mated.” He said, as he settled in beside you, so close that the warmth from his side began to cut through the chill. “That didn’t stop you from falling for Xaden. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean he’s falling for Sorrengail.” 

You glanced at him, tugging your jacket tighter around yourself like it could shield you from more than just the cold. “Garrick, you can’t pretend you haven’t noticed the tension. Everyone in the damn wing has. Newhall has been giving me pitying looks for weeks.” You murmured. 

When you shivered again, Garrick wrapped his arm around your shoulder, holding you close to his side. “Well, first off, fuck her, and second of all, fuck all of them.” 

You couldn’t help but smile a little at the utter conviction with which he spoke. 

“Yeah, maybe him and Sorrengail have some tension, but it’s the, ‘I want to kill you’ kind, not the ‘I want to kiss you’ kind.” He reassured you, as his hand started stroking up and down your arm. “And they don’t have what you two have. History, years of knowing each other. It would take a hell of a lot to undo that.” 

A single, traitorous tear slipped down your cheek. “I don’t think it would. A year ago, maybe. Now? It feels like one little storm could rip us apart.” You leaned over, resting your head on Garrick’s shoulder, soaking up his warmth like a balm. “I hate it.” 

“You two are stronger than you think.” He whispered, resting his head on top of yours, pulling you even closer to his side. 

You both sat in silence, just breathing, sinking into each other’s presence like it could hold the pieces of you together. You wished you could borrow Garrick’s optimism, but it felt like you were drunk on the parapet, swaying, already bracing for the inevitable fall. Once it occurred, you wouldn’t have a relationship with him anymore. You weren’t even sure what you could be anymore. He and Garrick had become such huge parts of your life - 

The thought rang throughout your head like two swords clashing together for the first time, and your heart immediately went into overdrive. 

“If I lose Xaden . . .” You hesitated, swallowed. “Do I lose you too?” 

You couldn’t keep the words inside. You had to know. You and Xaden’s relationship ending would be a devastating blow, but Garrick? Your dragons were mated. He was your best friend. Garrick could read you and know what you need in moments without saying a word. He was one of the best parts of your life. 

Him leaving would be like snuffing out the sun. You’d be nothing but a cold, desolate land. 

Garrick didn’t hesitate. He didn’t have to think about it. He answered almost as soon as the words left your lips. “Are you kidding?” Garrick pulled back just enough so that he could look into your eyes. “You’re never getting rid of me, sweetheart. I’d rather chop my own arms off than lose you. And you know I’d do it too.” He said, giving your arm an extra squeeze. 

The warmth in his voice, the steady affection in his eyes, made your heart stutter unevenly. You’d never deserve this man. No matter how much good you did in the world, it would never be enough to earn Garrick in your life. 

Gods help you if you ever lost him. 

You leaned into him, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. This time you were unable to stop the tears as they fell. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Garrick.” You murmured against his skin. “Please . . . don’t ever leave me.” You whispered. 

Garrick kissed the top of your head, his hand slow and steady as it traced up and down your back. “Never.” He replied, his voice thick with emotion. 

You closed your eyes, holding him tighter. Even if the world fell apart tomorrow, even if Xaden walked away, you’d still have this moment. 

You’d still have Garrick. 

—-----------------

You had known it wasn’t going to last, but gods . . . that didn’t make it hurt any less. 

From the moment that Xaden had pulled you aside, you’d known. Maybe it was intuition. Maybe it was the way his eyes wouldn’t quite meet yours, the sadness coiled tight behind them. Maybe it was the way his shadows retreated from your presence. Maybe it was the quiet way he said your name, soft, like it might be the last time.

Or maybe you’d always been waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Xaden Riorson was never meant to be yours forever. 

And now he wasn’t yours at all. 

Still, he’d been decent, even kind. He hadn’t looked smug or relieved to be free of you, to finally be with her. 

Instead, his regret had been real. His sadness had nearly undone you. 

But his words shattered something inside of you.

“It’s Violet isn’t it?” 

He didn’t deny it. “Yes.” 

You hated how collected he was. How gently he said it. “Do you love her?” 

Xaden’s onyx eyes pierced you, but when he finally answered, his voice was soft. “You don’t want me to answer that question.” 

You gave him a bitter smile, even as your world collapsed around you. “You already did.” 

You knew Xaden. He would have admitted it if he didn’t love her. 

In a matter of months, Violet Sorrengail had done what you hadn’t in a year and a half.

She made Xaden Riorson fall in love with her. 

And you never could. 

Gods, what was wrong with you? 

“There is nothing wrong with you, Princess.” Beathas’s voice, more gentle than you’d ever heard, whispered down the bond. 

“I don’t want to talk right now.” You snapped back, more harsh than you wanted to be when she was trying to help you, but she was wrong. There was some part of you that was broken. Something that clearly couldn’t measure up to Violet. 

“That is not true -”

You slammed a wall down on your bond before she could say another word. 

She could break through it if she really wanted to, but you knew that she would respect your privacy. 

For now. 

You had managed to find a quiet spot outside since it was well past curfew, and pressed your back against the wall. You didn’t care if the cool stone chilled your skin as you slid down it. Any sensation other than pain would be welcome at this point. 

You didn’t want to be that person. The one that sobbed uncontrollably when her boyfriend broke up with her. The one that questioned every moment, every fight, that might’ve caused the implosion. 

The one that wondered what she did wrong. 

So much of your life you’d been considered weak, helpless. You couldn’t let Xaden Riorson reduce you to that again. 

But Gods, did it hurt so bad you felt like you couldn’t breathe. 

Your sobs started coming faster, and your hand clutched at your chest, pulling the fabric into your fist as you closed your eyes and tried to control your breathing, but you couldn’t. All you could concentrate on was the hurt, the ripping of your heart to shreds as you walked away from him, and the hurt made breathing harder. 

You were hyperventilating by the time you felt warm hands clasping your cheeks, thumbs brushing lightly under your eyes as if he could erase the tears before they fell. 

“Please . . . go . . . away.” You said, trying to take a gasping breath between each word. You refused to open your eyes. You didn’t need to anyway. You knew who it was, and you didn’t want him to see you like this. 

“No.” Garrick said, his voice soft and oh so tender, a little unsteady. Like seeing you hurt like this hurt him too. 

“Please,” you whispered again, shaking your head to try and dislodge his hands, but his fingers stayed, warm and steady against your skin, as though letting go wasn’t an option. 

He leaned in until his forehead was pressing against yours, and you shivered at the contact. “I’m not leaving you like this.” He opened his mouth like he was about to say something else, but closed it again, his jaw tightening. 

“Xaden-” Gods, even just saying his name felt like talons scraping down your vocal chords. 

“I don’t give a fuck about Xaden right now.” While his words were harsh, his voice was not. “He’s not the one crying.” 

Garrick was right. Xaden wasn’t crying over you like you were him. Why would he? He had Violet. He had gotten everything that he wanted. 

And you were here crying to his best friend, scrambling to hold together the pieces of your shattered heart. “Why?” You finally opened your eyes to look at him, even though he was blurry through your tears. “Why wasn’t I good enough for him?” 

His thumb brushed the tear track on your cheek, slow, deliberate, like he could wipe away the hurt itself. “I don’t know what’s going through his head right now, but I know one thing.” Garrick made sure you were still looking at him before he spoke. “You were good enough for him.” He said, the words firm, but there was a break in his voice he didn’t bother to hide. “More than good enough for him and anyone else you decide to love.” 

The fragile grip you had on the remaining pieces of your heart loosened, and you threw yourself into Garrick’s arms. You sobbed into his shoulder as he wrapped his arms tightly around you, almost as if he could bring back the shattered pieces of your heart if he held you close enough. 

You wished it was possible. 

—-----------------

Your back hit the wall, and your head followed, the thud a dull echo in the quiet hall. You dragged in a slow breath, though it felt like it scraped your lungs raw. The last day had been nothing short of a nightmare. You had fought venin and wyvern, two people died, and watched your ex boyfriend unravel when he almost lost his current girlfriend. 

Oh, and your father had disowned you and, for good measure, tried to have you killed.

You let out another sigh and opened your eyes. You couldn’t stop yourself from looking through the narrow crack in the door. Inside, Xaden sat vigil at Violet’s bedside, shoulders hunched, jaw set, eyes locked on her as if sheer will might bring her back. 

You’d never seen him like that. So out of control. So . . . scared. Even when you and Garrick had almost been killed in the woods, he hadn’t reacted like that. This wasn’t the sharp, controlled Xaden you knew. This was a man terrified. Like losing her would tear something essential from his very soul. 

It hurt. But not in the same way it would have months ago.

No, the sharper ache was seeing the man who used to be your friend, someone you’d once loved, look so utterly lost. 

Before you could second guess yourself, you eased the door open and stepped inside. 

Xaden didn’t look up. 

“Is she going to be okay?” You asked quietly. 

A short nod. 

“Good,” you said, biting your bottom lip, wrapping your arms around yourself. “I just thought I’d check-”

“Why are you here?” His voice was low, but when his eyes finally found yours, the question landed like a blow. 

You didn’t think you’d know how to answer, but surprisingly the words came to your lips without much thought. When it came to feelings, you and Xaden had been honest with each other through all of it. There was no reason it had to be different now. 

“You were my friend first, Xaden.” You said softly. “Before you broke my heart.” You glanced at Violet for a moment, then back at him. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.” 

He stared at you in that familiar, unblinking way, like he was digging through your mind to try and figure out if you were sincere or not. Then his shoulders sagged, and you swore he aged ten years in the space of a breath. “I won’t be okay until she wakes up.” 

You nodded. You could understand that. “Is there anything I can do?” 

Xaden glanced over at Violet, then back at you. “Can you go check on Garrick? He was . . . He was close to Liam too. We all were.” 

Garrick. 

You let your mind slip down that mental pathway, the one neither of you ever bothered to block. The wave hit instantly. Raw grief, jagged and suffocating. It caught in your throat like smoke. 

“I’ll go stay with him.” You promised, stepping toward the door. 

You were nearly in the hall when Xaden’s voice stopped you. “Thank you.” 

You just dipped your head in reply, too many words lodged behind your teeth. 

It didn’t take long to track Garrick down. The bond pulled you unerringly, each step tightening the ache in your chest until you rounded a corner and found him pacing outside the room you’d claimed for yourself. 

“Garrick?” 

His head snapped toward you. Relief, sharp and unmistakable, flashed across his face, softening the hard line of his jaw. 

The healers had tended him, but faint cuts and deep bruises still marked his skin. None of it compared to the exhaustion in his eyes. 

And yet, when he looked at you, something else flickered there too. Something warm. 

He drew in a breath, and the bond pulsed with it, raw, aching, and unguarded. 

“I need you.” 

You didn’t think. Your body reacted before you could overanalyze. Stepping forward, you cupped his bruised cheek, your thumb brushing over the rough stubble there. “I’ve got you.” You whispered. 

Garrick leaned into your hand without hesitation, the movement instinctive, like a man reaching for warmth in the cold. His lashes lowered, his breath hitching against your palm. 

A single tear slid down his cheek. Through the bond, grief pressed against you, heavy and unrelenting, yet beneath it, something else flickered, quick and warm, gone before you could name it. 

You guided him into your room, locking the door behind you as if to keep the rest of the world out. He let you steer him to the bed, silent, pliant, watching you like you were the only thing keeping him steady. With the most gentle touch you could, you helped him out of his boots, and then the straps with all his weapons attached, laying them carefully on the wooden table by your bed. 

After brushing a curl from his forehead, you let your hand rest on his shoulder. “Do you want anything else?” 

He shook his head, but the look he gave you . . . Gods, he was looking at you with so much. It was heavy with things you couldn’t quite read, things that made your chest tighten. Like you were his anchor in a storm he couldn’t see the end of. 

You didn’t flinch from the weight of it. “Okay,” You murmured with a soft smile, before taking a step back.

But his hand shot out, gripping yours, calloused fingers trembling slightly. His eyes, shining, pleading, told you more than words ever could.  

You placed your free hand on top of his, “I’m just going to get out of my leathers. I’ll be right back.” 

Garrick hesitated, then let go, slowly, reluctantly, his fingertips skimming yours until they had no choice but to part. 

You didn’t think you’d ever changed faster in your life, not wanting to leave him alone when hurt still bled through the golden path of his bond. In seconds, you were back, finding Garrick still sitting and waiting for you. 

Giving him another soft smile, you climbed into bed, pulling back the blankets and patting the spot next to you. “Come on,” you said softly. “You don’t need an invitation.” 

For the first time since you’d seen him, Garrick gave you a tiny smile in return. He needed no more convincing, and settled down under the sheets with you. 

You thought it might be weird, being in bed with him. You’d known each other for a long time now, and part of that, you’d been dating his best friend, but you and Garrick’s relationship had always transpassed awkwardness. 

It seemed like the easiest thing in the world to reach for his bicep and tug him over to you because he was already halfway there. His large arms wrapped around your waist, and he buried his face in the spot where your neck and shoulder met, his breath warm against your skin. 

One of your hands drifted to his back, tracing lines and circles on his spine with your fingertips. The other buried in his soft curls like it was second nature, twisting the soft strands around your fingers and massaging the back of his scalp. 

You felt any lingering tension in his body melt away as he tightened his grip around you, and the two of you just laid there like that for several moments, listening to the sound of each other’s breaths. His had become so even, you thought he had fallen asleep. 

But then, his head lifted, and your whole body froze when you felt the softest brush of his lips against your jaw. 

It was barely there, and you weren’t even sure if he’d done it on purpose, but it sent a ripple through you all the same. Heat bloomed under your skin, chasing down your spine. Your leg moved before you could think, hooking around his to keep him close, your fingers tightening in his hair. 

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice low and raw. 

The sincerity in his tone, and the gratitude you felt pouring down the bond, almost knocked the breath from your lungs. You’d never felt someone need you this much. 

“Any time you need me, Garrick Tavis.” You whispered, back. Your words steady even as your heart pounded against his chest. “Any time you need me, I’ll be there.” 

He didn’t answer. But you felt it, the faintest tremor in his arms before his grip on you tightened, like he didn’t quite believe you, but desperately wanted to. 

—-----------------

“Fuck, this tastes horrible.” You coughed, forcing the ale down. “How can you drink this?” 

Garrick was all dimples when he responded, “Not all of us grow up on the finest wines on the continent, Princess.” He took another sip, but even you could spot the slight wince as he did. 

You gasped in outrage, pointing your drink at him accusingly, “You liar! You can’t stand it either!” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He took another sip, and winced even harder. 

You let your back rest against the cold stone wall, a smirk on your lips as you reached out to poke his stomach with your toes. “Your pants should be on fire for that, Garrick Tavis.” 

“There’s a few ladies I know that will tell you my pants are on fire, but not because of that.” Garrick made a show of brushing his hair back from his face slowly, sending you a flirty wink. 

A very unlady-like, drunken snort left your lips. “Sounds like something you should get checked out. Not bragging about it.” 

He shook his head, easing his own back against the wall he was resting against. “I can always count on you keeping me humble, sweetheart.” 

You let the cold from the stone wall sink into your skin, a more genuine smile tugging at your lips as you watched him. His cheeks were flushed from the ale, his hair a wild mess from the wind, and his smile . . . gods, it had been too long since you’d seen that smile. One that wasn’t weighed down by grief or duty. 

It made something warm flicker in your chest. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” 

His tone was teasing, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. For a heartbeat, the easy grin faltered, softened into something quieter. 

You shrugged, the alcohol making honesty feel easy. “I like seeing you so at ease. Haven’t seen it in a while.” 

He continued to look at you, that unreadable look that made it a little harder for you to breathe still in his eyes. “Haven’t seen you like this in a while either.” 

As the memories of the past few months flooded your mind, you looked away, trying not to let them drown you. So much had changed, and you still felt like you were treading water in a storm that refused to calm. 

Xaden had fallen in love with someone else. 

Then you had basically forced Xaden to take you on a mission that ended with you fighting venin and wyvern. A mission that ended not only with you discovering the truth about Aretia, but also death. 

Only to discover that part of that mission had been an attempt by your family to have you killed for not giving them information about what the marked ones had been up to. 

You had known there would be consequences for all the false information and avoided confrontations you had done, you just hadn’t expected them to be that extreme. 

You should have known better. 

But you’d never forget the look on your father’s face when you appeared beside Garrick. Right before your name was called on the death roll. 

Garrick was quiet for a long moment, rolling his mug between his palms. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, rougher. “I think I owe you an apology.” 

Garrick’s voice startled you out of your memories, and you give him a confused look. “For what? Sneaking us this horrible ale?” 

He shook his head, the smile fading from his lips. “For . . .  gods I don't even know. Everything?” 

You still didn’t understand. “Everything?” 

“With your family. For having to kill your brother because of me. That you now have to keep this huge secret.” He paused, like he didn’t want to say the next words, “If you’d never had to save me, Beathas might not have chosen you. Then everything wouldn’t have happened with Xaden, and you wouldn’t be stuck here forced to watch while he falls in love with some other girl.” 

The sight of Xaden and Violet together still hurt, it probably always would, but it didn’t have the power to hollow you out anymore. 

“If you hadn’t saved me that day . . . maybe your life would’ve been easier.” He huffed out a humorless laugh. “No Garrick Tavis dragging you into rebellions and heartbreak.” 

You couldn’t help but blink at him, sure that you’d misheard. Garrick Tavis, doubting himself? The bond pulsed with guilt and uncertainty, so thick it made your chest ache. 

“Garrick Tavis,” You paused, trying to find the right words. “Do you seriously think that I’ve ever thought for one second that my life would have been better without you in it?” 

He shrugged, dropping his gaze to his hands that he was running up and down his thighs. “Wouldn’t it?” 

It wasn’t often that this side of Garrick showed himself. He was generally confident and sure in everything he did. It was one of the things you admired most about him, knowing you could never be that brave. 

Seeing him like this? So unsure? And knowing that you were inadvertently part of it? 

You hated it, and needed to clear it up immediately. 

“No,” You said quietly. “Actually, my life really fucking sucked before you came along.” 

Those words made him meet your gaze, the smallest spark in his eyes. 

“You’ve shown me friendship. Loyalty.” You hesitated, feeling your heartbeat pick up. “Love.” 

HIs gaze caught yours at that, something unreadable flicking in his eyes. The word hung between you, warm and dangerous. 

“I never really had any of that before, other than with Cam. And I’d do it all again. Over and over. Even though it led to all this.” 

You gestured around you to the cold, filthy walls of Samara. 

“I’d rather be sitting here, drinking shitty ale with you than trapped in that palace with the finest wines and silk sheets any day.” You admitted, something other than the alcohol making your cheeks flush. “Here with you, it’s real.” 

He stared at you for so long you wanted to turn away, but you couldn’t, caught in his gaze like a moth to the flame. “You promise?” Garrick asked at last, his voice low enough to almost disappear between you. 

You gave him a smile, holding your pinky finger out. “I don’t just promise. I swear.” 

Garrick leaned forward, wrapping his much larger, warmer, finger around yours. “I swear to not make you ever regret it.” 

Before you could argue that you never would, no matter what happened, he stole all the breath from your lungs. 

Because Garrick Tavis eased his head down, and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, closing his eyes with reverence as if you were Loial yourself, and he was a pilgrim come to worship. 

Your eyes widened. 

Your stomach flipped, dizzy with butterflies. 

You were almost certain your heart forgot how to beat. 

Gods . . . his lips were soft. 

It wasn’t like before, when he’d kissed your jaw so gently that you weren’t sure if he’d meant to do it at all. No. This was deliberate. 

And left you wonderstruck. 

He opened his eyes, the green a sudden startling contrast against the brown as he looked at you. “Okay?” He asked, his thumb brushing over the spot his lips had just been. 

You nodded before you could think, before you could breathe. 

Because gods help you . . . 

You were very much not okay. 

—-----------------

Either sweat or blood dripped down your forehead. You didn’t have the strength to check. Your skin was burned, inside and out. Around you, the fire you’d raised for protection collapsed into smoke and ash; the ground at your feet bleached to gray. 

The venin advanced with slow, satisfied steps, studying you like a specimen. “I’ll say this for you,” she purred, eyes roaming, “You fight better than the pampered princess I was expecting.” 

“Not a Princess.” You forced the words out, each breath a rasp. Your hand found the hilt at your thigh and shook as you drew the dagger. “I’m a rider.” 

She tsked, and the gray earth crawled closer. “Too bad you’ll be a dead one soon.” 

Images flashed in your mind. Beathas’s gold eyes and appraising expression as you stand in front of your dead brother. Xaden’s reluctant, dangerous grin, illuminated by a fire. Aaric’s tight hug, and the relief you felt when you realized you had at least one family member left that still loved you. 

Garrick. His hazel eyes, and the way his lips had pressed to your knuckles like a benediction. 

Your drew the knife back, ready to throw it with everything you had left, but - 

You never got the chance. 

The warmth that flooded your mind wasn’t fire this time. It was steadier, quieter, amber instead of red, and it sank deep into your bones. You didn’t need to see him to know. You felt him. You fell back against his chest,and his arm wrapped around you, helping to support your exhausted body. 

At that moment, you knew you were safe. 

Your dagger slid from your hand to Garrick’s in one smooth motion. The next heartbeat, it was thrown with not only deadly speed, but accuracy. 

You didn’t have to look to know that it met its mark. 

You turned your head, gazing up into those gorgeous hazel eyes, looking down at you with the same relief that shone in yours. “You didn’t even let me throw it,” you rasped.

His fingers, now free from their weapon, slipped into yours. “You were taking too long.” 

“So sorry. Next time I’ll try to be faster.” You shot back. 

Your breath caught as he turned you around and leaned down, his forehead resting gently against yours. His breath was uneven against your lips, and the world went quiet. The smell of smoke clung to him, but beneath it was that comforting smell you’d recognize anywhere. A scent that was purely him. “I’d really appreciate it.” He held your hand against his chest where you could feel his pounding heart against your fingers. “I’d hate for Beathas to burn me alive for letting her rider die.” 

You shouldn’t have asked. You were terrified of the answer, but you couldn’t stop yourself. “Is that the only reason?” You had to know. Were you overreacting? Were you imagining the looks, the touches - the kisses? 

Did he . . . feel something more for you? 

He hesitated for so long that you thought he wasn’t going to answer. His emotions were so strong you felt them radiating down your bond. The leftover panic, the relief of being reunited safely, but then - there was something else. Something warm and sweet. It wrapped around you like a blanket, soft and comforting. 

“No,” he whispered, his hand flexing on your hip as if he was debating whether to pull you closer or not. “It’s not the only reason.” 

Your heart lurched. Your stomach twisted in knots, and your fingers clenched so tightly around his that your knuckles turned white. While he had been close before, he was suddenly much closer, and your eyes couldn’t help but drift down to his lips. You could still feel the way that they had felt against your skin, and for a moment, just one moment, you wondered how they would feel pressed against yours. 

His breath brushed your lips, close enough that your next exhale mingled with his. The world had gone silent. Everything seemed to hold its breath. One more inch. That’s all it would take. One more inch and you would know. 

Then a dragon’s roar tore through the night. 

It split the air, a sound so fierce it rattled through your bones. You flinched, the spell between you breaking as the ground itself seemed to tremble. 

You didn’t need Beathas to tell you it was Sgaeyl. 

His hand tightened around you, not to pull you closer, but to steady you. For a breath, neither of you moved, the weight of what almost happened hanging between you like smoke. 

“Something’s wrong with Xaden,” he said, and this time the panic in his voice wasn’t for you. 

You nodded, forcing your body to move even as your heart refused to. Because a part of you still felt the ghost of his breath on your lips, even as the night filled with dragons’ cries. 

____________________

Everyone knew that you took early morning runs. It was the one routine you’d never given up, and just because you were at Basgaith helping teach a combat course didn’t mean that was going to stop. 

What you didn’t expect though was to find Violet Sorrengail waiting at the end of the trail. She looked out of place in the dawn mist, nervous, but still holding that quiet determination that always reminded you she’d never really belonged to anyone’s shadow. 

You came to a stop, breathing hard from the run, and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you wasn’t hostile exactly. Just thick with everything that hadn’t been said. Finally, you raised your waterskin, took a long sip, and said evenly. “Can I help you, Sorrengail?” 

Her fingers twisted around the strap of her satchel. “You can actually.” 

You raised your eyebrows. You weren’t sure what surprised you more, that Violet Sorrengail had the nerve to ask you for help, or that you said you’d hear her out. 

Twenty minutes later, you found yourself sitting across from her over breakfast, your mind spinning with all the new information she’d just told you about their last brief mission. “I can’t say I’m surprised by the fact that Halden almost got you all killed.” You said with a shrug. “You know his temper as well as I do.” You looked down at your plate, moving some of the food absentmindedly. 

She nodded, and even though you could feel her eyes on you, you didn’t look up. “He’s going to get himself killed, or us if he keeps going on these missions.” She said, but there was an undercurrent to her voice that had your awareness sparking. 

“Probably,” You admitted, biting your lip, “but you have to have a royal representative right?” You asked, still fiddling with your food even as your anxiety rose. 

It was several heartbeats before she spoke again. “Yes, but . . . it doesn’t have to be him.” 

You froze. 

She couldn’t possibly be thinking of you - 

“If you’re implying what I think you are.” You placed your fork down. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.” 

“You think I want to ask you?” She leaned forward and whispered the words so no one else could hear. “I know how awkward it is. But Xaden still listens to you. Even if he won’t admit it. And I know you’re probably the smartest out of all the Tauri children. You’re not going to trigger Xaden like he will.” 

You swallowed thickly as a wave of grief washed over you. Knowing how much Xaden had put at risk for everyone still made you feel sick to your stomach. 

“I understand that you don’t want to be around us, but you’re still our best option -”

Your eyes flashed to hers, irritation flickering in your mind. “Do you really think I’m that shallow?” You snapped at her. “All I’ve cared about for a long time is Xaden’s happiness. Gods, I’ve seen enough of him to know that he deserves it.” 

Violet nodded like the two of you had come to some sort of agreement. “Then you’ll step in as the royal representative?” 

You shook your head in disbelief. “You’re more like Mira every day, do you realize that?” You crossed your arms over your chest. “It’s a terrible idea. My family is already pissed at me. Both my father and Halden have tried to have me killed. Do you really think they won’t try again? Maybe it’ll even be easier if I’m outside the wards?” The words stung your chest, but you knew they were true. “And what if the rest of you are caught in the crossfire?” 

“We’re going to be in it either way.” Violet said, her tone calm, but her eyes pleading. “The question is whether you’ll be at our side or sitting on the sidelines watching and hoping Aaric and Garrick come back unscathed.” 

Her words made your heart plummet right to your chest. Aaric and Garrick? They couldn’t possibly be . . . 

Almost as if she could read your mind, Violet spoke again. “Aaric is determined to go if you don’t, and you know as well as I do that none of us are able to stop him if that’s what he wants.” 

Gods, she was right. 

“And Garrick . . . I need someone there to help keep an eye on Xaden.” 

Your hands started to shake on the table. You should have assumed this was coming. There was a limited number of people who knew about Xaden’s . . . condition, and you should have known someone else that knew would have to go to help keep him in check. “How long?” Your voice was barely audible, even to your own ears. 

But Violet heard you anyway. “At least a month.” 

A month. 

A whole month without knowing if your brother, your last true remaining family member was still alive. 

A month without Garrick at your side. 

You wanted to say no. You almost did. 

But your chest felt like it was caving in, ribs tightening until every breath scraped raw. Going that long without knowing . . . It would be like trying to survive without lungs to breathe in any air. 

You couldn’t do it. 

“When do we leave?” 

____________________

You didn’t like this place. No matter how beautiful the beaches were. 

For one, not being able to talk to Beathas left a giant void in your chest, and it was only made worse by not being able to sense Garrick as well. He was a quiet, constant awareness you hadn’t realized you’d come to depend on until it was gone. You found yourself looking for him and reaching for his touch as if you needed to be reminded that he was there. 

Thankfully, he seemed happy to oblige, reassuring you with a hand on the small of your back or a brush of his fingers against yours. It eased your mind, but not enough. 

This place reminded you too much of home. Beautiful, but hollow beneath the surface. Everything was monochrome, and nothing but the ocean stood out. It made you uneasy, and eager to get out of here. 

Finding out Xaden’s mother was here only made it worse. 

There were similarities in their appearances, but as you looked at her, you couldn’t help the flash of anger that burned through you, sharp and protective on Xaden’s behalf, pissed off that he had to find out his mother had a whole other family this way. A family that she seemed to have happily left him for. 

Even though you couldn’t speak to him down your bond, you could sense Garrick’s anger as well. It wasn’t possessive, not territorial, but directed squarely at the injustice of it all.

You stayed quiet mostly, observing the interactions among everyone and trying to rid yourself of the feeling of wanting to crawl out of your skin. 

“We’re ignoring an obvious answer here. After all, we have a Princess of Navarre, and from what I’ve heard, they already had a . . . working relationship.” 

Your eyes shot to Xaden’s across the table, startled that they seemed to know your history.

“It would show great wisdom and dedication to their respective titles were they to contract for three . . . say four years?” Faris said, looking at the other members of the triumvirate. 

“Long enough to secure an heir for Tyrrendor and Navarre.” 

Two years ago, the thought would have steadied you instead of stealing the breath from your lungs. You had loved that man sitting across from you and would have done anything for him. 

Now the thought of being married to him made your stomach turn. 

Garrick, sitting beside you, huffed a sarcastic laugh. “If bloodlines equaled allegiance, we wouldn’t be sitting here under interrogation.” Garrick’s hand slid to your knee under the table, giving it a sharp squeeze, grounding, possessive, a silent don’t panic. “He is your son, right?” He asked, glancing at Xaden’s mother. 

“A contract marriage would be most wise,” Nairi agreed with a nod, ignoring Garrick. “We could have the legalities performed in the morning at the temple, and then hear what will, no doubt, be a plea for our assistance in their war tomorrow afternoon.” 

Panic rose in your chest at what they were suggesting, and your hand reached for Garrick’s on top of your knee. “Except we are both clearly involved with other people.” 

The silence that followed was heavy enough to press against your ribs. You could feel Garrick’s gaze burning into the side of your face, but you didn’t look at him, instead you kept your eyes on Xaden. For the briefest moment, you could have sworn that his lip tilted up in the smallest, knowing smirk. 

“Draw up the papers.” Xaden said, gripping the back of Violet’s chair. 

Um . . . what? 

Everyone was staring at him now. Mira gawking and Violet looking like she was moments from spewing her dinner across the table. 

“Ah, there we go!” Faris claps twice. “What an excellent decision. Shall we go with three or four years?” 

“Lifetime. Anything less is unacceptable.” 

“Xaden!” You finally spared a glance for Garrick who looked about three seconds away from launching himself over the table and attacking his best friend. “There’s no way -”

The man didn’t seem at all bothered though. Instead, he seemed more amused. “And her full name for the papers is Violet Sorrengail. Two R’s.” 

You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath until it left you in a rush. You settled back against your chair, some of the tension melting out of the room. 

Xaden looked back at Violet, and you couldn’t help but smile just a little at the affection in his eyes. “My last name is tied to the title, but we could take yours?” He offered. 

“You could hyphenate,” Garrick suggested lightly, though his thumb traced steady circles against your knee. “Or combine? Riorgail? Sorrenson?” 

“That is not what they meant.” Violet whispered at Xaden. 

“I don’t give a fuck what they meant,” he responded at full volume as he faced the triumvirate. “You may question our knowledge, test our honor or dedication as riders and fliers. Serve up riddles, fake scenarios, chess games for all I care. But if you think I’m going to leave the only woman I’ve ever loved to contract marriage with another woman, even one I consider one of my closest friends, then the lack of wisdom is yours, not mine.” 

A wave of affection, fond, uncomplicated, and entirely free of old hurt moved through you, much more relaxed than you had been moments ago. “Agreed,” you added, leaning the slightest bit closer to Garrick. It was almost like you couldn’t help it. Whenever tension crept in, your body sought him out before your mind even realized why.  

Right now was no exception. The tension at the table had you missing your bond with Garrick every second, wishing you could just speak to him to help calm your nerves. 

Somehow, he seemed to understand though. As the rest of the conversation continued around you, he kept his hand on your knee, calming you with his touch until dessert arrived. 

You didn’t think you’d ever seen someone so happy to eat chocolate cake. He was devouring it even as Cat dropped her silverware, and it rattled on the plate. 

Until Violet yelled at him to stop. 

Then something changed. 

Garrick’s smile faltered. 

His hand slipped from your knee as he wobbled in his chair. “I feel . . . I feel -” 

His eyes fluttered shut, and he collapsed, falling toward the table. 

You moved before the thought existed, catching his head inches before it struck the table. 

Voices erupted around you. Chairs scraped. Someone shouted his name, maybe Xaden, but the sound reached you warped and distant, like you were underwater. 

Your free hand fumbled for his pulse, searching, slipping, pressing harder until . . . 

Nothing.

Panic clawed up your throat. 

Then - 

There. 

Yes. There it was. Sluggish, but there. 

He wasn’t dead. 

Not yet. 

Your eyes swung frantically to Xaden’s, the only person in this room who looked as terrified as you felt. “He’s got a pulse, but - but I don’t think he’s breathing.” You said, trying to keep the panic from swallowing you whole. 

Xaden nodded, and hooked his arms under Garrick’s shoulders, hauling him from the chair and laying him out on the floor to kneel beside him. “You need to get him breathing.” Xaden told you. His voice was calm, controlled but his eyes . . . they were anything but.

Turning around quickly, your eyes found Dain’s. “Get Trager!” You ordered him. 

Dain didn’t argue. He ran. 

Without wasting another second, you pinched Garrick’s nose and sealed your mouth over his, forcing air into his lungs. 

His lips were cold. 

Wrong. 

Completely wrong. 

But his chest rose under your palm. 

Gods, you’d never wished for your bonds more in your life. The silence where your bonds should have been felt like missing limbs. You needed Beathas’s reassuring words, Chradh’s teasing voice - 

Garrick’s warm and safe presence - 

What if - What if you never heard his laugh again - 

No. 

You shoved the thought away before it could finish forming. You were not about to lose him. You’d saved his life before. You’d do it again. 

Because whether your dragons had bonded the two of you or not, there was no world, none, where Garrick Tavis wasn’t beside you. 

Malek wasn’t taking him. Not today. Not when there was still so much you hadn’t had the chance to say.

Not before you told him - 

“Keep breathing for him.” Trager arrived then, placing his hand on Garrick’s sternum, forcing all his weight down. 

You didn’t hesitate. You drew in another breath and gave it to him. 

Again. 

And again. 

You would keep breathing for him as long as it took. 

Stay with me. 

Even though it was dark, you screamed it down the silent bond. 

Please don’t leave me. 

Hands closed around your shoulders, dragging you back before you even realized someone was touching you. You fought it for half a second, panic clawing up your throat, until you heard Xaden’s voice close to your ear. 

“It’s shallow, but he’s breathing.” Xaden whispered in your ear even though he still sounded miles away. “Violet’s got it figured out.” 

Violet? You hadn’t even realized she’d left the room. 

“I’ve got to make him drink this, okay?” It had been so long since Xaden had spoken so gently to you. You weren’t sure if that made you more afraid or calmer. “I’m going to put him on his side, and you hold his head.” 

That, you could do. You nodded, and as soon as Xaden got him rolled over, you cradled his head in your lap, your fingers curling into his hair, smoothing it back from his face. The same absent gesture you’d made a hundred times when he teased you for worrying too much. Your free hand found his wrist, your thumb pressing on his pulse point. Reassuring yourself that he was still alive while Xaden and Dain forced the mixture down his throat. 

Your thumb pressed harder against his pulse, counting every uneven beat. 

You couldn’t lose him. 

Not Garrick. Not the person who felt like home even when nothing else did. 

The truth hovered just out of reach, terrifying and undeniable - 

Garrick sputtered, spitting some of the mixture out, but his eyes flashed open. They were unfocused at first, frantic, until they landed on you. 

His brow burrowed faintly, like he was trying to understand why you looked so terrified. 

“Oh Gods,” You breathed, the words breaking apart as relief hit so hard your hands started shaking. 

Xaden yelled at Garrick to wake the fuck up and drink it. It took Garrick four big swallows, but then the cup was drained and his head fell back into your lap. His eyes found yours for a single, unfocused second, recognition flickering there, before they slid closed again, his head falling back into your lap. 

You glanced up at Violet, panic turning your stomach sour, but she gave you a reassuring look. “Give it time,” she said gently. “We’re under the hour mark. He’ll be all right.” 

You nodded automatically, even though your body refused to believe her. It took everything in you to hold back the sob that desperately wanted to escape your throat. Instead, you leaned down before you even realized what you were doing, pressing your forehead against Garrick’s as your fingers tightened around his hand. “Come on, Gar. I need you to wake back up.” You whispered against his forehead, leaving a soft kiss against his skin. You needed to see those eyes again. 

Because the thought of a world without them, without him, felt unbearably wrong. 

Time dragged. 

Every second his eyes stayed closed tightened something in your chest. Even though Violet told you he would be fine, every passing moment his eyes weren’t open your anxiety rose. 

But they had to open. He had to - 

A low groan broke the silence. 

Your head snapped up. 

“This is my least favorite isle.” 

Tears spilled over before you could stop them, relief hitting so hard it almost hurt. 

Gods, there were so many things you wanted to say. Needed to say. But all that came out of your mouth was, “don’t ever do that again.” 

Garrick’s smile was weak, but it deepened slightly when he realized whose lap his head was in. “Don’t worry. No plans for that.” He groaned again as Xaden and Trager helped you sit him up. 

Xaden stepped back, watching the two of you for a long, assessing moment before turning away, relief softening the tension in his shoulders. 

“You didn’t win,” Faris snapped. 

“You’re dying. I think that qualifies you as the loser.” Violet said, sliding off the table she was perched on. 

The words shattered the fragile calm settling over you. 

Heat flooded your veins, not fear this time, but fury. Your hands turned into clenched fists, nails digging into your palms so hard you might be bleeding. 

They had almost taken him from you. 

For sport. 

For a lesson. 

As if Xaden came to the realization at the same time as you, he jumped to his feet and shoved Faris against the wall, fist cracking against Faris’s jaw. “You poisoned him?” Xaden slammed him into the wall again. “You tried to poison her?” He nodded back toward Violet, as he pulled a blade from his thigh and set it at Faris’s neck. 

You didn’t remember drawing your dagger. 

You only knew it was suddenly buried in the wall beside Faris’s head, slicing the edge of his ear. You joined Xaden’s side, a second knife poking Faris’s side. “I could have you executed for that. Poisoning the princess of Navarre.” 

Faris gave a humorless laugh. “You’re disowned.” 

You pressed the dagger harder into his skin. “Maybe, but my father loves resources more than pride. And he loves teaching a lesson more than either.” You pressed the blade harder into his side. “You gambled with his life?” You nodded toward Garrick, still pale but watching. Your blade pierced Faris’s side just enough to nick the skin. “What if I gamble with yours?” 

Faris tried to look unimpressed, but his throat bobbed beneath Xaden’s blade. Xaden, standing beside you, saw the sign of fear as well. “Seems reasonable.” He added, his blade shining in the light against Faris’s neck. 

“Whoa, whoa.” Ridoc’s voice broke through your haze of anger. “We can’t kill potential allies, even if they suck.” 

Xaden turned his head slowly toward Ridoc. 

There was no heat in his expression. No fury. 

Just calculation.

Violet stepped in at the same time as a hand slid around your waist, warm, steady, and real. Garrick’s tired, pale face looked at you from behind your shoulder, giving a faint shake of his head. All of the fight seemed to leave your body as you let him tug you into his chest. 

“As much as I appreciate the effort,” Garrick’s hoarse voice murmured in your ear. “I can’t let you start a war for me.” 

You swallowed.

 Because the terrifying part wasn’t that he was wrong. 

It was that he wasn’t. 

You would have done it. 

Without hesitation. 

Because you - 

“You two go outside and get your shit together.” Violet said to you and Xaden before turning her attention all on him. “Come back to me when you’re you.” 

Xaden held Violet’s gaze for a long, unreadable second, but then he pushed away from Faris, lowering his blade, and stormed past everyone outside. 

You followed him, hands trembling. 

The truth was no longer distant or deniable. 

You had almost lost him. Again. 

The thought of that had broken something open inside of you.

Something so all consuming that you’d never be able to hide it. 

Your legs gave out halfway across the sand, dropping you to your knees. You buried your face in your hands, overwhelmed with your emotions. 

“Have you realized it yet?” 

Xaden’s voice made you look up, and his expression, ice cold moments ago, had softened, knowing now as he watched you. 

You swallowed, and even though you had the feeling you already knew the answer, you asked the question anyway. “Realized what?” 

There it was again, the corner of his mouth lifted slightly, like he already knew the answer too. 

“How much you love him.” 

He said it so casually. Like it wasn’t a life altering moment, merely a simple observation. 

Like your world hadn’t just shifted on its axis because Garrick Tavis almost died. 

“I can’t think of a better person for you.” He said quietly. “And I can’t think of anyone who deserves you more.” 

Sometimes it was easy to forget that someone else knew you almost as well as Garrick did. Someone you’d spent years beside, someone who not only knew your history, but was a part of it. 

Someone you once believed you were in love with. 

You’d never thought that you’d care if Xaden approved of you being in a new relationship, but now that he had voiced he did . . . 

It meant more than you’d expected it to. 

You swallowed the emotions down again, not wanting him to see the tears threatening to spill down your cheeks, as you made yourself ask the question you were now desperate for the answer for. “Do you . . . do you think he loves me too?” 

Before he could answer though, something behind you caught his attention. “You’re going to have to ask him that yourself.” 

Xaden helped you to your feet, and you turned - 

Garrick, being helped by Trager, was walking toward you.

This time, you didn’t pretend you didn’t feel it - 

The way your heart raced. 

The way your body pulled toward him. 

The way you wanted to kiss him.

The right way this time. 

You closed the distance between you before you could second guess it, hurriedly slipping an arm around his waist to help support his weight. “You shouldn’t be walking.” You chided him, even though some of the tension in your chest loosened as he wrapped an arm around your shoulder. 

“I’m fine, and I’m ready to get the hell out of here.” He grumbled, his voice still rough from the poison. 

Letting out a sigh, you glanced back over at Trager. “I’ll wait with him until Chradh gets here. Do you care to go get our stuff?” 

“On it,” Trager said, giving Garrick a pat on his shoulder. “Glad you’re okay man.” 

Garrick nodded, and Xaden approached then. “I’m going back in there with Violet. You two need to talk.” He said, giving you a meaningful look that made your heart jump as anxiety coiled in your chest. 

Garrick’s brow furrowed at Xaden’s words, and then he turned back to you, studying your expression. He frowned. “Those aren’t for me, are they?” He murmured, brushing his thumb under your eye.

You hadn’t even realized you were crying until he swept the tears away. 

You lifted a hand to swat at his chest, but your fingers curled into his shirt instead, dragging him closer as you faced him. “You almost died. Of course they’re for you.” 

He cupped your cheek, and you leaned into the touch without thinking, nuzzling into the warmth of his palm. “I’m okay,” he said softly, his gaze searching yours. 

“But you almost weren’t.” Your voice broke on the words, your fingers curling into fists. “If - if Violet hadn’t figured out what the poison was-”

“She did-”

“But what if she hadn’t?!” Your voice cracked, staring into his eyes like it might be the last time you saw them. 

The thought of losing him had been unbearable. 

Because he wasn’t just your friend. 

He was - 

“Garrick, if you died-” 

“I’ve almost died dozens of times before.” Garrick shook his head, clearly not understanding your distress. “What makes this time so different?”

“Because I didn’t know I was in love with you then!” 

The words burst out of you without thought, without hesitation, and they left you with a strange mixture of relief and fear. 

Relief that you’d said them. That you didn’t have to keep pushing the truth down anymore.

But fear that he didn’t feel the same. 

That fear only deepened as Garrick stared at you, his eyes wide, lips parting slightly like the air had been knocked from his lungs. 

“You . . . what?” 

For a heartbeat, you considered taking it back. Pretending the words had never left your mouth. Pretending you hadn’t just handed him the power to break your heart. 

But you couldn’t hide it. Not anymore. 

You don’t want to. 

“I’m in love with you.” You whispered, but Garrick was already shaking his head. 

“You don’t have to say this just because I almost died -”

“I’m not!” You insisted. You had to make him understand. Now that you’d said the hardest thing, the rest came spilling out. “Gods, Garrick when I saw you lying there -” You took a shuddering breath. “It was like my soul had been - had been ripped out of my body. It felt like that before too, but I - I didn’t know why..” 

He opened his mouth to argue again, but you didn’t give him the chance. 

“And it’s not because of the bond. I can’t feel it right now, and you know that.” You pressed your hand over his chest, right on his pounding heart. “I felt it here. I was so fucking scared.” Your voice broke. “I don’t - I don’t want to live in a world where you’re not beside me. None of this would matter. None of this would be worth it if I couldn’t love you -”

For a moment, the world seemed to stop moving.

Because after what felt like an eternity, Garrick’s hand slid into your hair - 

and he kissed you. 

It was like a comet. 

His lips consumed every part of you and left only longing in their wake. Longing for him to be closer, for his hands and lips to explore every part of you.. 

For him to never stop kissing you. 

His grip tightened slightly in your hair while the other slid to the small of your back, pressing you against him until there wasn’t an inch of space between you. Like he was afraid if he let go, you might disappear. Like he wanted the distance gone just as badly as you did. 

But you didn’t think that was possible. 

Your lips moved together in perfect harmony, like they’d been meant to do this all along. There was no awkward fumbling or clumsy missteps. Only instinct.

And something deeper. 

A quiet sort of rightness in the way the two of you fit together. 

This is what you had dreamed about. This was the kind of kiss that you thought only existed in dreams. 

You hadn’t realized kissing could actually be like this. 

When he pulled away, you chased his lips, not wanting the moment to end. He let them brush yours once more before resting his forehead against yours.

His eyes, darker than you’d ever seen them, searched your face as if he were looking for something. 

“You love me?” He asked again, his fingers tightening against your back. 

Your hands slid up his chest to cup his cheeks, and you nodded. “I really do.” There was no hesitation in your voice now. The words felt solid. Certain. 

You loved Garrick Tavis. 

His eyes closed, and one of his dimpled smiles appeared. “You have no idea -” His nose brushed gently against yours. “How badly I’ve wanted to hear you say that.” 

You couldn’t help but smile back, your fingers now slipping into his soft hair. “Probably as badly as I want to hear you say it.” 

Garrick opened his eyes again, and you practically melted at the affection you saw there. 

“I love you too.” His thumb brushed away another tear from your cheek. “Fuck, sweetheart. Every day I wake up grateful you saved my life back at threshing . . . if only because it brought you to me.” 

“Me too,” you whispered, tears slipping down your face again, but this time for a completely different reason. 

Because even here, on this awful island, after almost losing him - 

You were happy. 

Garrick loved you. 

You didn’t deserve it. You didn’t deserve him. Maybe you never would.

But Gods, you would spend the rest of your life trying to be worthy of him.

Because somewhere along the way, saving his life had turned into loving him.

The world around you faded, the crashing waves, the distant voices, the chaos of the island.

This time, you were the one who pulled him back down into another kiss. 

A kiss that promised you weren’t ever going to let him go.

[cheerpunkqt]

Misdirected Anger

Character: Garrick Tavis

Type: Angst... Little fluff

Summary: Garrick's been distant. Stressed. You try to figure out why. He snaps, and distance has been created.

For almost a week, things have been off. Garrick hasn’t been in his room when I visit at night. It looks like he’s hardly been sleeping. In the morning, when he’d usually make time for us, he’s taken up to training some first years. It’s confusing. Questions keep circling my mind; Did I do something wrong? Did I say something? Did someone else say something? Is he stressed? Is he hurt? Does he not like me anymore and he just isn’t saying so? I stand anxiously, eyes trained on the door. Liam and some other cadets are sparring. Hell, Garrick hasn’t even eaten lunch. Yesterday, I brought him dinner. He wasn’t in his room. I left it there. Three days ago, during flight maneuvers, I tried to track him down. But it’s like he disappeared. He was there one second, went up into the clouds, and then the next he was gone. He evaded me somehow. 

“You’re thinking too much.” Ridoc drawls. I glance over. He’s standing with sweat coated skin and ruffled brown hair. He’s staring like I’ve gone batshit crazy. “I’m not. Something is wrong and I intend to figure out what.” Because Garrick hasn’t talked with me in days. I miss him. His touch. His voice. The teasing. The moments where it seems too much for both of us. The good and bad days. My eyes flick to the door as they open. Xaden walks in, eyes narrowing on Sorrengail. Garrick stands beside him, hands fisted at his side and jaw clenched. He looks annoyed. There’s deep bags beneath his eyes, and his hair is ruffled like he’s been clawing his fingers through it every few minutes. Concern flicks in my chest. I move. It doesn’t take long to stand in front of him, and it takes less time to grab his arm so he can’t pull away like he’s been doing. 

“Garrick, talk to me. I can’t help if you don’t tell me what it is.” I whisper, softly, coaxingly, trying to get him to simply talk. It’s like a switch. Air sweeps me back, slamming me into the damn wall. The breath is knocked out of me, momentarily, and my eyes blow wide. “You aren’t the biggest fucking problem right now.” He doesn’t yell, but somehow, this is worse than if he had. Because Garrick, despite years of training with each other, has never used his quirk or his fists out of anger. “I don’t need you asking every damn minute if something's wrong! If there was, I’d fucking tell you!” This time, his voice sharpens. And it’s not the voice he uses with me. Problem… He said I wasn’t the biggest problem. It’s clear that I pushed him over the edge. Tears gloss over my eyes, but I refuse to let them drop. Have I been too clingy? He’s acting like I’m nothing more than a burden. Some more weight on his shoulders. His hazel eyes switch from the dark stormy swirl of emotions to a softer, guilt ridden gaze. Perhaps I’ve been too much. Maybe he simply needs space. 

I nod slowly, embarrassment and shame heating my face. It makes the need to cry all the more visible but I swallow the pain. The wall of air moves away, and I slink to the back of the class, staring at the ground to avoid his eyes and everyone else's. He just needs time… Ridoc moves forward, placing a hand on my shoulder. He bends down, trying to look at my face. The first tear falls, and his jaw clenches. 

“You don’t have to be a fucking asshole.” He calls, dragging me toward his group to train. The rest of the day moved entirely too slow. His eyes were trained on mine the entire day. He needed space, and so I’m giving it. It’s the only thing I can do as I sit in my room, changing the damn runes so no one can come in and see me crying like a fucking child. So Garrick doesn’t come in and feel like there’s more weight on his shoulders. Each tear drops faster and faster. I sniffle, trying to wipe them away. The entire day, people have been whispering. The entire day, Ridoc has kept me firmly by his side. 

After the runes are set, I curl into the bed and let it all out. Silent sob after silent sob. Until finally exhaustion takes over, and sleep prevails. 

The next two days are hell. Not because anyone's been rude or anything, but because of the mental boundaries I’ve set in my own mind as to not push Garrick past his breaking point again. No talking first. No touching him. Give him space. Don’t even look his way unless he says something. It’s easy at first, because of the embarrassment and guilt of believing I’m just another weight on his shoulders. He’s talked to me. Hell, he sits beside me now, his eyes piercing my skin as I write down notes. He hasn’t been paying attention. At all. Not to the class, not to his friends, not to really anyone. Aside from Xaden but that’s because they have some freaky loyalty thing. 

“You’re quiet.” His statement almost sounds… hesitant. As though he’s testing something. I shrug, forcing a small smile. “I’m taking notes for a class both of us should be paying attention to.” It’s a soft reminder of what this school is, and a way to show that I’m not mad at him. Because I’m not. I’m hurt. Not upset, not angry, not frustrated. Just hurt. He waits, as though expecting something else. I don’t glance his way. I simply listen. 

Vito has been quiet. Not because he’s grumpy or upset but because he’s been waiting on his mate to wake up. We fly, both distracted by lovers in our life. Vito banks to the left a little too hard and quick. I haven’t been paying attention to his signals. We’re both mentally fucked right now. And I pay the price for a moment. The air rushes around me, and my stomach flies to my stomach. My dumbass fell off my dragon. 

Little Flame. Vito growls, annoyed before his claws wrap around my frame and he pulls us back up. My body jolts, pain radiating. My torso will be bruised, but it’s nothing bad. It could be worse. I could be dead, at the bottom of the valley. I glance down, a shiver rolling over me. 

Sorry, got distracted. I apologize softly. We move down to the ground, and he’s careful not to crush me. As soon as my feet touch the earth, a warm hand cups my face while a strong arm wraps around my waist. “What the fuck were you doing?” Garrick breathes, panic evident in his eyes as he tilts my head, searching for any wounds. I blink, thrown off by how worried he seems. I didn’t even know he was watching us. 

“Um… flying.” I whisper, trying not to let the hurt well back up. I haven’t touched him in three days. Today is the first day he’s touched me, and it’s obvious he cares. Still, I do not touch him. I keep my hands firmly at my side, and offer a small, comforting smile. “It was an accident, Garrick.” It’s barely a whisper, because it’s obvious he’s seen. He blows out a breath, his jaw clenching as he searches my eyes. Nodding, he steps away and resumes his role as the section leader. 

By the end of the night, I’m dead tired on my feet. Rhiannon and Violet asked for some tips of training, and after that Ridoc asked for help with dinner duty. So I helped. My room is just around the corner and I can’t fucking wait to crawl into bed. My feet come to a slow stop at the sight before me. Garrick’s fists pound into the door, his frame leaning over the door. He looks like he’s two seconds away from either crumbling or tearing the damn thing down. But he can’t. Because of the runes… The runes that I changed. He used to have full access to my room. He could enter whenever he wanted… I guess I forgot to change it back. 

“Please.” He pleads, pounding on the door. His chest is rising and falling way too fast. “Garrick.” I call, tilting my head. His head whips around, his hazel eyes panicked and red-rimmed. In seconds, he’s crosses the distance to cup my face in his warm, calloused hands. “Where- Why… I couldn’t get in.” He states, his calm demeanor long gone. He looks like he’s panicking. Hardcore panicking. I offer a comforting smile, but don’t touch him. 

“I had to change them the other night. I just forgot to put them back to normal.” It’s a whispered response. He searches my eyes, seemingly trying to calm himself without being able to. “I thought-” His voice is rough, low. He blinks, clenching his jaw. His eyes flick down to my hands that twitch. Because I want to comfort him. I want to wrap my arms around him and tell him that I’d never leave him, especially in such a cruel way. But his words echo through my mind, and my shoulders drop. Not the biggest problem. If something is wrong, he’ll tell me. 

“Come on.” I whisper, stepping out of his arms to make it to the room. He comes in, and we settle into our usual. I sit on the bed, studying with what little energy I have left. He sits at the desk, running a hand through his hair. I don’t miss the way he glances at me. Several times. At some point, I slip into sleep. 

It’s been a week since Garrick has been allowed in my room again. And every night, he comes by, looking more worried and stressed each time. It’s always so late too. I pretend not to notice, trusting what he told me. Most nights, I’m asleep and the only reason I knew he was there in the morning was one of his daggers sitting at the desk. He keeps forgetting it. Usually, I’d bring it to him. Tell him where he left it. But I haven’t. 

The challenges have started back up. Imogen takes on a cadet to humble them. I watch, taking in the steps. The doors crash open. I turn, heart pounding. Whoever just walked in must have had a shit-... It’s Garrick. And he’s making his way to me. 

“Tell me how to fix it.” He orders, his jaw clenched hard while his eyes desperately search mine. I reel back, brows furrowing. “Wha-” 

“Tell me how to fix it. Do you want me to beg? Grovel? Do you want coffee every morning or for me to get my ass handed to me?” He asks, his voice bordering on frantic. I go to speak, but he isn’t done. “You haven’t touched me in almost two weeks. I haven’t-” His voice strains, and his hand rises to rub his chest. “You haven’t looked at me unless I’ve said something. Haven’t talked to me unless I start the conversations.” His breathing only grows faster, like he’s panicking. Genuinely panicking. “I was locked out of your room. You- Fuck, you were in the infirmary yesterday and you didn’t even tell me. Tell me how to fix it. Please.” Gods, he’s having an attack. 

“I’m losing you- and I-” His voice breaks, his face twisting in grief and agony like it’s genuinely tearing him apart. “I can’t-” Everything is thrown aside. All the thoughts of being a burden, all the thoughts of being too clingy, the hurt, all of it. Because a new hurt and guilt is rising. He’s shattering in front of a room full of people who look up to and respect him. My arms wrap around his shoulders, bringing his head down. Almost immediately, his arms lock so tight around my frame that it hurts. I swallow, blinking back tears while soothingly running my fingers through his hair. 

“You’re not losing me.” It’s a strong statement stated in a low, soft tone. “Do you hear me, Garrick Tavis? You are not losing me.” That’s the first order of business. His breathing is still shallow, rugged, barely helping him. He buries his head between my neck and shoulder, his breath shaking and too fast. His arms tighten. 

“Baby.” I breathe softer, trying to pull back to grab his face. He doesn't give me the option. “I’m not leaving.” I whisper, rubbing his back with my other hand. “I’ll let Xaden kick my ass-” He manages, voice too strained. “I’ll take on twenty riders, I-I’ll play with your hair and-” Sushing him softly, I move back. He makes a sound, half panic, half growl. Both of my hands find his face, placing a soft, tender kiss to his lips before he pulls me back again. A kiss can stop panic attacks. I know from experience. Is this is anxiety? Well, I don’t know if it’ll work then but if this is panic, and I think it is, it should work. He leans in, his hand moving to cup the back of my head and pull me closer. He only pulls back to draw in a deep breath, his eyes searching mine. 

“Hi. Welcome back to reality.” I whisper softly, teasingly, a concerned but loving smile forming. “I’m not leaving. You hear me? I was hurt by what you said. I thought I was being too much so I wanted to give you space. That’s all. Okay?” There’s guilt in his eyes, but the panick has slowly died down. Without another word, he throws me over his shoulder. I gasp. 

“Garrick!” I call, gently smacking his back. He doesn’t answer. “Where are you going!?” Rhiannon calls, throwing her arms out. I was supposed to help her and Violet. I brace myself on his back, pushing up to make eye contact. I shake my head, an I-don’t-know-but-I-don’t-care look across my face. Laughing softly, I poke his back. We’re in the hall now, making our way through. He tenses when I laugh, and in seconds he moves me so I’m pinned between the wall and him, my legs wrapped around his waist. 

“Do it again.” He breathes, his eyes falling down to my lips. My face scrunches in confusion, a slow smile forming. “Do what?” 

“Laugh. I haven’t heard that beautiful laugh in weeks.” He swallows, and I can tell he’s still hurting, still panicking, even if it isn’t full blown now. My smile softens, a blush rising. “Garrick, I can’t just laugh on command.” It’s a soft whisper. His eyes narrow, as though offended but he shakes his head. “Later then. When we’re alone, I’m drawing that gorgeous sound out again. Even if I have to hang myself by my toes to get it.” He growls, before moving the both of us away from the wall to continue walking. My brows lift and a small, quiet laugh escapes me. His eyes immediately dart down, narrowing playfully. 

“I love you.” I hum, and it’s like I shoved a full breeze of fresh air down his chest. He groans, dropping his head against mine. “Say it again.” He orders, still walking, with a quicker pace. My smile only grows. “I. Love. You.”

[stcrgazerlily]

━━━━━━━ 𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐒 𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐄

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: bruce wayne x wife!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: it’s not surprising that you, bruce wayne’s fiancée, are constantly on the TV and the news. this brings you some unwanted attention.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: stalking, obsessive behaviour, angst, angst with a happy ending, dick is there too, bruce and reader are very in love, mild violence, emo bruce, (wrong use of punctuation on purpose?), 3.4k words, not edited :p

THE heater had been broken for two weeks when his obsession finally took shape. The apartment was only lit by the fake glow of the crappy TV in front, the grease from the pizza rubbing between his digits and the paper thin walls that did little to conceal the screaming from the neighbours.

It was cold in Gotham, more so that the heater was broken and he knew the mice would eventually come if he didn’t start cleaning the leftovers that dirtied the planked floor. This was a fact, he’d grown and lived in this same neighbourhood for years.

But all this is secondary, because his obsession has finally taken shape.

You’re on screen.

You’re wearing a white cardigan on top of a little lace dress, the dress acting as a skirt, brushing just to your knees, your hands are moving animatedly as you tell a story and it’s noticeable by him– a true Gothamite– that you’re not from around there because when you get to the climax of the story you drawl a little more your a’s but he likes that, he likes that you weren’t born to the dirt hole Gotham is not like him, you’re his little sunshine.

(He can’t believe he ever called you Bruce Wayne’s newest whore. But that was maybe two years ago when he didn’t know you yet. Things change, and you’re kind and forgiving. He now knows who you really are now).

Bruce Wayne is beside you.

He keeps his eyes trained on you but can’t ignore the way your leg brushes Wayne’s, he has an arm around your waist and is looking at you with what is no doubt something fake or— or— wrong. His stomach churns and the grease is thick between his tightened fingers.

“So!” The interviewer, a perky blonde woman interrupts, “talk to us about the wedding.” She shoots the camera a cheeky look. “We all want to know.”

It’s all everyone talks about lately; the news, the papers, the TV, the giggling hostesses at his usual lunch place, the people in cues, the neighbours, even the boys at the warehouse mentioned it. Bruce Wayne this, future Mrs. Wayne that. (Mrs. Wayne, even the thought of it sounds wrong).

You turn your head away from Bruce Wayne, and look at him. “It’s all very hush-hush for now,” a soft smile graces your lips.

Bruce Wayne laughs, it reminds him of the way Marty– the guy who owns the warehouse laughs— thick and even. “You’ll just have to wait and see.” 

You’re slowly clipping your pearl earrings in front of your vanity when a strange feeling makes you halt– it’s not even a second, but it’s not fast enough for your brain not to not register it.

Bruce is already wearing his tailored Armani suit, looking at you from behind. You meet his gaze from the reflection of the mirror. The look on his face definitely makes you stop. 

His expression is unguarded, all of his masks tucked away until the moment you step out of the car. His eyes… his eyes… they make your heart flutter and feel light in all the good ways. Whenever he looks at you like this, your entire body is touched to the bone with the same feeling, love. (You didn’t really believe it was real– as much as you wanted it to happen to you– but with Bruce, you cannot deny the existence of it. How could you not? When it feels as if your heart and his live in the same ribcage).

You can’t believe you’re going to marry this man in just a few months' time.

Or at least the first ceremony is happening in a couple months; in a small, private, venue, far away from Gotham and its noise. With your closest friends and Dick and Alfred. The second will be special too— because well, you’re marrying him— but it’ll be more about the glitz and glamour Gotham expects.

“Bruce?”

He hums, still looking at you in the same way.

“I have a weird feeling about tonight’s gala— I don’t know.”

Bruce slowly comes behind you, grabbing the small diamond necklace that rests on the polished wood of the vanity. He brushes your hair behind your neck, his warm touch making you shiver. The necklace  should feel cold against the fabric of your dress, but Bruce drowns all other feelings away.

“Do you want to stay home?” His fingers stay on your skin, you’re beginning to think the necklace was just an excuse to touch you. “I know Dick wants to watch that action movie that just came out.”

You turn your neck towards him, leaning into his touch. “No, it 's fine. I’m probably being paranoid.” You take your appearance in the mirror one last time. “We’ll watch Dick’s movie tomorrow.”

Half an hour later and the car’s door is being opened by Bruce, you thank him and take his hand as all the paparazzi start screaming and directing their flashes at you. Dick hops off behind you, and you gently grab his hand and guide him in front of you and Bruce’s body.

You’ve learnt to fade out the screaming and demands, just focussing on not tripping in your ridiculously expensive heels and herding Dick to the entrance safely. You shouldn’t worry about him though, he’s as charismatic as they come— the press adore him and his cheeky smiles.

“Miss, a picture please!”

You turn towards one of the cameras, and find the source of the voice. A young man– much younger than the other paps– awkwardly holding a camera and trying to be heard amongst the noise.

You give him a radiant smile— or hope it turns out that way.

“Thank you miss!”

You laugh. “Anytime.”

Bruce chuckles beside you. “You hate the paparazzi but always stop for the nice ones.”

The three finally get to the entrance, shrugging your coat away and hand it to the person in charge. “Kindness goes a long way.”

The place is beautiful; the high wooden walls are decorated with moldings and columns, the ceiling intricately designed with a large painting– a tribute to old Gotham. At the end of the room there’s the stage, where the band is playing a thick and jazz-y song. Scattered around the room are clothed tables and well-dressed people moving around and casting its warm glow on the room, two massive chandeliers.

The first to approach you are the Crowne’s; Bruce gives Nicholas a firm handshake while Serena gushes over your ring. 

“It’ so vintage!”

You smile, your hand straining from being in the same position for long. “It was Martha’s.”

Serena questions you about the wedding, trying to get details (where will it be? Do you have bridesmaids yet? Where will the honeymoon be?) while Bruce and Nicholas talk. 

Dick disappears at one point, searching for the waiter with the tiny burgers— which look too fancy, but hey, a burger is a burger.

Bruce never once removes his hand from your back, shaking the oncoming people with his free hand. And when you’re not greeting people, you lean a little into him.

You two excuse yourself and move around the room, but people still try to strike up conversation. Which is expected, since it’s a gala after all— most of the people there don’t care about the project itself, just flaunting their wealth or making (or tearing) connections. At first you used to hate the whispers and stares, the way the women picked you apart before you even finished your drink and the men saw you as nothing more than a pretty piece of meat with nice curves, the empty compliments and thinly veiled attempts of flattery. Most of all you hated how… shallow, most of them were. Not caring about the charities or the city or the people who didn’t have the same exuberant amount of money. But you slowly understood, they had been raised to be that way since they were luxury nappies, they didn’t know life outside of their golden bubble and most didn’t bother with amending that. When you have that amount of money, it stops being a currency, and instead they deal with power. And most times, it ended with sad marriages and an heir on the way who would repeat the cycle. 

It doesn’t make it right, but at least now you understand.

With Bruce here, things are much easier, and galas aren’t as dreaded anymore. 

Dick brings back three tiny burgers, but has another half-chewed in his mouth.

You sigh. “What did Alfred say about eating while running?”

Dick opens his mouth but you give him a pointed stare, he closes his mouth while he chews more slowly. “Not to?”

Bruce laughs. “Said the same thing to me when I was younger but I never listened.”

A young woman, dressed in a crisp suit unlike the other ladies with the dresses, approaches you three. You notice she’s wearing a comm and has her phone barely tucked into her pocket. She must be the event coordinator.

“I hope everything is to your liking,” she starts, “the speech is scheduled to start in ten minutes so if you and your fiancée could follow me to the stage.” She looks at Dick, who’s eating the tiny burger he brought for Bruce. “He can come too of course.”

You follow the coordinator towards where the backstage is, near the kitchens and the bathroom. She and another man quickly check the microphone and stereo. You peak through the thick curtain, the band isn’t there anymore and the guests are slowly drifting towards the stage.

You lean down and press a kiss on Dick’s forehead. “You’ll be good?”

He grins. “I always am.”

You slightly ruffle his hair, not as slick as he had forced it to be for the event. “I love you.”

He quickly wraps his arms around you. “I love you too, mom.”

Your heart swells.

As Dick goes to join the crowd and Bruce gives you one last passionate kiss away from prying eyes, the feeling that something is off invades you again.

You’re on stage with him. It was supposed to be just Bruce Wayne there.

How could he miscalculate, he asks himself? He's been planning this for weeks now. This is the perfect chance, this is when he’s supposed to kill Bruce Wayne and finally free you so you can be together.

The gun is heavy on his hand, and out of the corner of his eye he can see the annoying lady with the comm knocked out on the floor. The hallway is empty, he’s already checked the bathrooms and even the people in the kitchens have wormed their way out to see and hear the speech.

He peeks from his place, the curtain half covering his body. You’re talking— not like in the interview– not once does your accent slip or your gestures turn energetic. Bruce Wayne and his rich friends are draining out your essence.

“​​Tonight, all of us will leave this gala, step into the cold, turn up the heat in our cars or our homes, and barely think twice about winter. But for thousands of people in Gotham, winter isn’t an inconvenience. It’s a threat.” Your voice fades out as he hides fully. He weighs the gun on his outstretched hand and stares at the lady’s body.

He has to do this.

Blood is rushing in his ears, flushed and loud, he can feel his heartbeat more than his arms but then the world quiets when he hears your voice again.

Winter doesn’t care how young you are. Cold concrete feels the same at sixteen as it does at sixty. And frostbite, hunger, and fear do not wait for adulthood.

He cocks the gun.

You don’t know how it happens, one second you’re giving your speech and the next Bruce is shielding you behind his body.

Emerging from the curtain at the end of the stage is a man, he has a gun. His pulse flutters for a second as he raises his arm, pointing the gun directly to Bruce and you.

He moistens his lips and pins his eyes on you. A shiver goes down your spine and your heartbeat is frenzied inside your chest, you press tighter against Bruce who is tensed like a coil.

“Move.”

Nothing happens; the crowd is quiet, bleeding into the background. And you can only hear the hurried thump in your chest.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he wags the gun, “move away from Bruce Wayne.”

Your eyes meet Bruce’s, and even if he tries to shield you better, you slowly move away. Standing in front of him, just inches away.

“What do you want?” Bruce asks calmly, voice even and just low enough to not make the man jump.

The gun flutters in his hand and he turns his beady eyes on you. “Save you,” he points the gun a little straighter at Bruce, “and to do that, you have to go.”

Your heart is beating so fast you can feel it in your throat, and your eyes are locked in with the gun’s mouth. You blink quickly and look at the man.

“Please, put the gun down. We’ll do whatever you ask, just put it down.”

“He has you in his hold,” he says quietly and then so you can hear it, “I love the woman trapped in a gilded cage. I’ve come to set you free.”

“I’ll do whatever you ask, just please don’t hurt anyone.” Your voice spikes towards the end.

What if Bruce is not enough? What if he wants to hurt Dick too? You don’t dare move your eyes away from the man. Every nerve in your body is coiled and raw, paralyzed in fear but waiting for an order.

He moistens his lips again, and you notice they’re cracked and practically bleeding. “We’ll be happy soon.”

He points the gun straighter and shoots.

Martha, Bruce, behind me.

A gunshot.

Two.

The ricocheting sound of pearls hitting the asphalt. 

One second you’re in front of Bruce and the next you crumple onto the floor. The man widens his eyes, and before he knows it, Bruce has jumped— his body purely moving on autopilot. He knocks the man out, kicking the gun somewhere far.

His mind can only focus on you, you on the ground.

He rushes and drops on his knees, clutching your head in his palms. 

“Where?” He manages out. 

You cast your eyes downward, and through the fabric of your dress, a red puddle is forming.

The rest doesn't feel real, it doesn’t even feel like everything happened in the same night. One second you were giving the speech and the net you’re bleeding on the stage.

He calls for a doctor. Maybe screams it. He can't remember now.

Someone climbs up the stage and looks at him sadly.

Bruce doesn’t want pity, he wants action. He presses his blazer against the wound, creating pressure and just lifting it for the doctor to inspect.

By this point the people are finally moving; three different guests call the police, most move towards the exit and the rest stay near the stage– gorily hypnotised by the bloody spectacle you’ve become. Dick hoped on stage the second the man was out, and he clutches your hand tightly– trying his best not to cry.

Mom? Dad? 

No, Bruce refuses to lose anyone else. Anyone but you.

He picks you up himself towards the exit, and it’s agonisingly slow until an ambulance arrives but feels far too fast for him to do anything.

Dick is still clutching your hand and now he is crying, you mumble something but only a muffled noise comes out. Your eyes droop.

The world lacks light; everything is muted and the manor— a place that felt like home— is now a mausoleum. (Just like then).

The thing about grief, it never really fades. But with you, all of Bruce’s ghosts seemed to dwindle away, waiting patiently until they could come out.

You’re the sun to Bruce, and without you the world is just a gloomy plain he has to exist in.

But you aren’t dead; Bruce repeats that like a prayer. Praying to every single high being there is, that you wake up. He isn’t religious, but he’s willing to drop on his knees and beseech just to have you open your eyes.

The surgery was long and harrowing; him and Dick spent the entire night cramped into a tiny chair, quiet and waiting. The seconds stretched themselves into what felt like minutes, and the hours seemed like days. They were both caught in the limbo, between you living or dying. In those hours, the balance tipped from one side to the other until it reached a conclusion.

You’re alive.

But there was damage, enough to have you in a comma. The doctors— the best he could find, of course— reassured him that you would be fine. But nothing would be fine until you were back.

Bruce stopped going to the office, he just goes out to drive Dick to school and then he helps him with homework– like you did. The rest of the time is spent in your room, sitting beside you and working on his computer. Working working working. Case after case. Bruce pours himself into anything he can find.

He has it under control, he tells himself. He breaks down what he feels, and neatly stores it in boxes. But one night, he’s on patrol with Dick and things change.

A man grabbing a woman while she’s trying to get back home, he punches the man so hard he hits the floor. Robin helps the woman, makes sure she gets home safely. But something in him makes him take another hit against the thug, it’s only when he sees the distorted reflection himself on the blood that he stops.

This is not who he is. 

(That man— who is now behind bars— shot you. It 's Bruce’s fault. He knows. He should’ve been more aware of things, he underestimated the media, the letters that arrived at Wayne Industries. He has his own share of fan mail, but it never gets too far, he just throws them away. He should’ve noticed the recurring name and address.

Wear white the next time you do an interview.

I went to the Gotham Museum to try and see you, you weren’t there.

I finally found you; in that downtown coffee shop with a friend of yours. You were disguised. But I can tell you apart anywhere.

Bruce has failed to protect you. And it’s something he’ll forever carry).

The sun is peeking into the room, long thin rays hit your eyes and bathe the king sized bed in a golden sheer.

Your throat feels dry and you struggle to even compose thoughts, everything feels heavy and far away.

But somewhere, you notice it. A warm calloused palm, enveloped around yours. Your index finger twitches.

Your lips crack open and emit a sound, it's throaty and barely there. But it's all it takes for Bruce to snap his eyes on you.

"Hey, handsome." You attempt a smile, but it comes out as an awkward mouth contortion.

He stares for a second longer, clutching your hand like a lifeline.

"I thought I'd lost you." He whispers.

You try to pat the bed, but your limbs aren't ready to answer to you yet. Nonetheless, Bruce understands and more gently than humanly possible, moves you just enough to make space for him on the bed.

He wraps his arms around you, presses a kiss against your pulse. "Never again." It comes out muffled. "Never again." This time its clearer and he's eyes are directly on yours.

"I'll let you take the next bullet."

He doesn't laugh.

Not even fifteen minutes later; Dick sprints into the room, followed behind by Alfred. Bruce insists they leave you some space, you've just woken up. But you differ, you need your family close.

You fall asleep shortly after, but this time Bruce's body is curled with yours, chest against your back and a protective arm around your waist. Dick gently sleeping beside you, clutching your shirt as he slobbers over it.

Bruce doesn’t sleep just yet. He rests his fingers on your pulse, presses one last kiss on your hair, and only then allows himself, after a month, to rest.

an: can you tell I was falling asleep towards the end?

[fawnindawn]

knocking on love’s door!

summary: damian wayne is at a total loss in the matters of love and winning over your heart, so much so that he dreadfully ends up on each brother’s doorstep seeking love advice.

pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader (featuring dick, tim & jason)

content: flufff, absolute chaos and only one bat brother comes out on top in teaching damian the ways of yearning, not that he needed help for that in the first place.

28, 1013 Parkthorne Avenue (Grayson’s Blüdhaven Residence)

“You—” Dick’s grin is barely repressed, chest puffed in pride of being the first confidant Damian thought of. “—seek dating advice?”

Damian makes a non-committal shrug. “I admit that I may harbour feelings towards her that differ from my usual disdain to the average person.”

Dick’s laugh escapes his lips, but quickly conceals itself into an overly serious nod when Damian’s glare pierces through him.

“And you… travelled all the way to Blüdhaven to ask me for help?”

Damian would much rather be stabbed with a jagged-edged blade than admit that. There was always a price to pay for relying on others, especially when it came to his tooth-grinning brothers.

“Would you like to tell her.. about these feelings?” Dick tries again, settling for a more emphatic approach.

Damian winces, averting his gaze—trying to displace the sudden lodge in his throat. “I assumed there were more steps that entail to a courtship. You’re clearly well-versed in them.”

Dick clears his throat. “It isn’t like a routined dance, Damian.” At Damian’s furrowed brow, he continues. “Falling in love—dating, it comes naturally between two people. It’s the million little moments, built upon each other that no practiced motion can recreate. It happens regardless of choices, and that’s the beauty of it.”

“Naturally.” Damian tests the word on his tongue, but like he suspected, it ran off with a bitter taste. While he has been deemed a prodigy, a perfect weapon—being a normal human was not something trained into his veins, but rather suppressed.

“Maybe it is for you, Grayson—but where I was raised, details of courtship and emotional connection with another person were never discussed. My body is not programmed to have these natural decisions come forth to my mind, and I-”

It feels like swallowing glass when he mutters. “I require your assistance to explain it to me.”

Dick’s gaze softens in pity, which weighs heavier, worse than his laughter earlier. “Hey, we actually started off on the same boat. If anything, at least you didn’t have to experience Bruce’s attempt at explaining it. He’s more an expert than any of us when it comes to emotional suppression.”

“Love..” Dick ponders. “It hits you when you least expect it, but spending time together does test if the feeling is reciprocated.”

“I suppose there are some steps that you could follow.” Dick murmurs, thumb trailing his chin in thought. “Alright, here’s the plan.”

Gotham Outdoor Ice Rink, Bristol, Gotham. (Grayson's Brilliant Plan)

Damian may not be well-versed in the matters of courtship. However, standing stiffly in competition with the street lamp beside him, his nose buried into his green scarf more so to hide his shame rather than from the winter cold, his regret grows tenfold with every passing minute for even agreeing to this.

You're bound to arrive at any moment, and he'd rather suffer in his regrets than leave you stranded on a date his brother suggested. Not that he used that term, he could barely handle deeming it a hang out.

In his earpiece, Dick’s voice echoes with irritating amusement.

“Damian, you need to relax. You look like an assassin waiting for your target to appear.”

“Train to be one from the moment you were born with a family legacy on your shoulders and see how that affects your posture.” Damian grumbles.

“It’s okay if you’re nervous. I’ll guide you if you freeze, remember?”

“I’m not nervous—”

His peripheral vision recognises your silhouette before he can even finish his retort. All sound seems to fade past the stuttering in his chest, including his brother’s teasing, and maybe time slows too—he wouldn’t put you below that possibility. You’re busy with your scarf that’s loosened enough to reveal your lips, and you don’t even notice that you’re speed-walking right towards him.

It’s instinctive, not at all pleasing when his hands reach out just in time to grab onto your shoulders before you slam face-first into his coat.

Your eyes widen comically, but it doesn’t appease the thundering of his pulse, not especially when you smile at him like that, bashful and sweet. “Damian! Fancy bumping into you here." You tease.

“Perfect meet-cute.” Dick whispers to himself. “Tell her it’s fine—that you actually think it’s cute.”

“What?” He snaps, feeling ashamed at the mere suggestion.

You blink twice at his sudden reaction. He needs to recover quickly, say something.

“Watch where you’re going.” He slips out.

He can hear the sound of Dick slapping his own forehead, echoing in his eardrums.

Thankfully, you don’t seem deterred by his slow-witted response, grin still in-tact. “Apologies for almost ruining your luxurious scarf. Though I’ll must say, green looks really good on you.”

He tenses. This is the moment, he must say something right this time.

“Brings out the colour of my eyes.” Dick offers through a sigh.

Perfect. Something witty, and completely appropriate for the situation.

“Brings out the colour of my eyes.” Damian’s delivery is completely robotic, unlike the one he heard in his ears, carrying none of the light-hearted tone that made it sound right.

Miraculously, it only cracks a laugh out of you.

“She’s an angel.” Dick groans, almost pitifully.

He winces, letting you go before offering his hand. “The snow’s slippery.” His excuse is well-rehearsed, recovering back into the steps Dick gave him.

Your expression brightens, taking ahold of his hand. It’s a perfect fit, your glove in his and a warm glow is forming behind his ribs—an unsteady, pleasant feeling, almost enough to forget the mistake he made.

“Smooth recovery.” Dick comments in approval. “Bring her to the next location.”

If Damian could, he’d mute Dick's channel immediately if he was going to be reminding him every second. It was distracting and nerve wracking to be multi-tasking two tasks at once, especially when you easily compelled him to lose all train of thought.

The skating rink is crowded, more than he’d like, but he wasn’t up for improvisation after his earlier attempt. It’ll have to do, and he’s sure his withering glare can clear enough space for the two of you.

“I’ve always wanted to try ice skating.” You’re brimming with glee with your gaze glued to the ice, and his eyes trail over your excitement with a tender patience. He’d like to sketch it out when he was back home, but even the thought of ending this moment was incomprehensible, so he settles on bending down to tie your skating shoes.

”Just to warn you—” Your joyful glimmer falters into a rare bundle of nerves. “I’ve never skated—like ever. You’ll need to teach me the ropes.”

His lips quirk the slightest lift. “You have the best teacher in all of Gotham.”

“Really?” You tease, leaning down slightly that he feels the warmth of your breath over his nose, sending goosebumps down his arms. “That’s a bold claim.”

“I was raised on snow mountains since I was an infant. A skating rink in Gotham is a small feat for me, and it shall be for you.”

“Less bragging, more swooning.” Dick’s voice echoes in his eardrums.

Damian’s expression clamps shut as he leads you towards the ice. He takes the first step and balances himself perfectly on the naturally formed ice. You enter immediately on the wrong angle, and slip. He doesn’t think, his free hand wrapping around your waist before you fall.

He freezes, and you do too. Caught at the entrance of the rink in the corner where no one is watching, you’re wrapped so closely in his embrace—his body instinctively shielding and protecting you. He feels his entire face burning up from the lack of distance.

“Maybe ice and me are less compatible than you think.” You whisper, as if the ice would crack and swallow you whole if it heard you.

It’s enough to kick him back into his senses, and he quickly lifts you back up to your feet. Gently letting go of your waist, he ignores the jittering in his fingers by taking hold of your hands instead.

“Hasn’t been proven yet.” He answers, looking down at your feet. “Mirror my stance.”

Your own gaze shifts down, and you adjust the blades of your shoes into the same V position. You’re shuffling less, which is already a sign of improvement.

“Alright, now one step forward, and the other leg lifts like a kick.” Damian instructs.

You try, but your feet wobble at your first kick, making you fall into his arms again. Not that he minds.

“You’re lifting too early.” He notes. “You’ll have to glide with your other foot first.”

Your brows furrow together, an adorable concentration creased in the centre as you try again. You manage it the second time, and he finds it despite himself, vulnerable to smiling when you let out a huff of joyous laughter as you glide with him, his hands still holding onto you.

“I guess you proved yourself right.” Your focus is still on your feet, but when you lift your gaze, you’re leaning close to him just like before when he had caught you—with such pure, content bliss that the word ‘beautiful’ fails to describe your features. “You are a good teacher.”

Dick’s muttering something in his ear, but the erratic signals shooting through his brain fries all comprehension of what he’s supposed to do next other than stare at you speechless like a bumbling fool.

He messes up his next step, and before he knows it, he’s tumbling down to the ice, and you fall down with him through your connected limbs. His body shields you from the freezing ice, but nothing protects him from the shame that drowns his entire conscience—of falling onto the ice which he has never done in his lifetime, and dragging you down with him.

He hears Dick clearly now, laughing so hard that it stings his eardrums from the high frequency.

“Damian!” You call out, and your gaze is half worry, half shock. “Are you okay?”

His ears flush with blood at your question, most likely reddened as if there wasn’t enough to mope about.

“I would very much like for the ice to swallow me whole.” He mutters dryly. “Other than that, I am uninjured.”

“I so have that captured.” Dick howls through the earpiece. “I’m calling it, this is going to be the topic of discussion for our next family dinner.”

Damian discreetly rips his ear-piece out and shoves it into his coat’s pocket when your gaze averts to an elderly couple stopping by the two of you like his fall is some tourist attraction, asking if he needed any help to get back to the entrance.

He is never asking Grayson for help ever again.

The Bat-Cave, Wayne Manor (Drake’s Secondary Home)

“You sure you have the right person?” Tim guffaws, his expression a mixture of horror and fascination. “Haven’t you tried—”

“Grayson, yes. He has failed.” His scowl has dug deeper if possible, the faint memory of Dick’s laughter still penetrates his eardrums when he isn’t preoccupied with his responsibilities.

Pointing an intrusive finger to his new prey, he speaks. “You are to prove yourself more worthy than he is, as the next best in line for successful courtships.”

Tim raises a brow. “Didn’t know you kept track.”

Damian scowls. “Your methods are unconventional, but there are no other better alternatives.” Imposing and distracting with his crossed arms, casting a shadow over the littered papers, his presence eventually forces Tim to detach from the case he was working on.

“Alright, what’s her name?” Tim sighs, his fingers switching to a new tab where the identity search bar flickers.

Damian stiffens, defensive. “Why would you require her name?”

“To search for her, genius.” Tim comments as if it’s obvious that an illegal identity search is the best course of action. “I can have her interests, dislikes, and her entire profile mapped out in less than five minutes.”

“That’s dishonourable.”

“It’s efficient.” Tim fires back. “Or else we’ll be here all day. Why waste time on the uncertainties when you can already mould everything to go perfectly?”

“My respect for you shrinks by the second, Drake.”

Tim snorts. “As if you had any in the first place. Don’t act like you haven’t done your own illegal searches. Suddenly, it’s your crush and I’m not allowed to look into it?”

The back of Damian’s neck grows hot at the mere use of the word ‘crush’, dumbing his feelings down to something so.. pathetic. “Fine, I’ll do it myself. You’re not allowed to so much as glance at her.”

Tim’s hands raise in mock surrender. “I would never.”

As Damian settles into the seat, given the privacy as Tim launches himself into the spare chair, spinning it backward with his back facing the Bat-computer, he can feel the latter brewing with something to say.

“Spit it out.” Damian huffs.

“I just—” Tim starts. “Never thought I’d live to see the day of you softening up for someone. I mean—it’s even made you come all the way for my assistance.”

“I did not come for assistance.”

“Advice is practically the same thing.” Tim remarks. “You may have called it dishonourable, but can you truly claim you love a person if you don’t know them fully? I think falling in love means having a curiosity so strong for someone that you would like to know them as deeply as they know themselves. Isn’t that what it means to love?”

Damian’s gaze flickers to Tim who yawns widely, tucking his head into his elbows over a long drought from sleep after staying up for two days straight. It… resonated with him, his never-ending greed to learn the intricacies of your emotions and actions, to know the depths behind each story you held in your mind.

He’s spent long, treacherous months avoiding even the mention of your name anywhere outside the confinements of his mind, aside from the occasional scribble and tear of his paper, and his hunger has become an obstacle that even he can’t tackle any longer. With a mental push, the mere action of typing your name numbs his fingers from the anticipation.

Your social media accounts pop up—one is public with your name listed, and another is a photography account. There’s not many photos, but there’s enough that it feels like he’s peeking into something intimate, a catalogue of your life that has his heart quickening.

He remembers vividly of you asking to exchange social media accounts when you had first met, before he quickly shut it down, commenting that he refused to have such useless applications.

Yet, here he was—frozen, mesmerised at the sight of your smile captured on your digital camera, unable to scroll further past your most recent post. It didn’t capture the true essence of your joy like he remembered so clearly from that failed date, but it still struck him all the same.

Even his denial falls silent when he’s looking at you, because he’d be a fool to pretend away the quick pattering of his heart, or the small smile etched into his lips caused by you. His mind has formed a despicable habit—a quiet, dreadful longing whenever he envisions even a frame of you in his mind.

He has fallen for you quietly—strongly, and even as he scrolls further, to the latest bookstores you’ve frequented, or your blurred snapshots of sunsets along the Gotham horizon, he’s not satisfied. What is the use of seeing these images if he wasn’t there to witness it or hear from you in person?

He wants to be in your life, not just a mere bystander, but he doesn’t know how to say it.

“You’ve been deathly silent for ten minutes.” Tim comments. “It’s kind of making me curious—”

“I will gouge out your eyes myself, Drake.”

There’s only one person he has left to ask, and as he pierces a coffin-burying glare into Tim’s prying gaze, he wasn’t sure if he’d get the answer he needed.

89, Skirley Apartments, Park Row (Crime Alley) (Todd’s Rebellious Man-Cave)

Jason whistles, leaning against the door to his mess of an apartment. “You must be desperate if you’ve come to see me.”

The disgruntlement in Damian’s expression comes mostly from embarrassment and partly from the state of disarray he finds from one single swipe past the gap of Jason’s shoulder and the door frame. Motorcycle gear is splayed out over the scratched floorboards, signaling another random side project.

Barely lived in, and somehow a complete mess that would have Alfred over in a snap with his emergency cleaning set.

“Grayson’s overly optimistic and Drake’s downright creepy.” Damian huffs.

“And that leaves me..?” Jason’s brow raises, a taunting smirk on his lips.

“As the last option.” Damian grits.

Jason steps back, his back pushing against the wood to allow Damian into his less-than-adequate living quarters.

“Well, sorry to break it to you, kid—” Jason plops down onto the couch, and the pillow-seat sinks under his weight. “But my understanding of love is barely any better than yours.”

“You’re still the second oldest.” Call it desperation, Damian isn’t sure if he’s above that anymore after the failure of his two other brothers. “You must’ve had some experience.”

“Now, age matters?” Jason mocks. “Well—if you want my two cents, I suppose I can give it.”

“There’s no point beating around the bush.” Jason states. “If you really like her, you just have to say it. Even if it hurts, especially if you’re scared it’ll hurt. That means there’s something worth to lose, and to never ask, it’s always gonna hurt worse than knowing.”

“That’s the whole point of love. It takes being brave, and realising the possibility of something real right in front of you—and fighting for it. You only have so few chances in the world to experience it, and you’re going to waste something like that over fear of what—rejection?”

“Have a heart-to-heart. That’ll always mean more than some hidden message, hoping she’ll notice and give in first.” Leaning back, Jason eyes Damian with a rare look he doesn’t recognise, because there is no possibility in the world that wisdom could exist in that big-head of his. “If she doesn’t return how you feel, that sucks. You’ll live barely, then it’ll heal and you move on. If you never answer the question? It’s gonna haunt you for life. The one that got away.”

The thought of losing you to cowardice, of being a permanent outsider to your life, nearly ruins him. Damian can’t afford that, not when there’s never been a person he desired for more than you. This week has made sure of that.

Even more of a horrifying realisation is that of all people, Jason Todd was the one that got through to him. His trained eyes scan the perimeter for any signs of a secret partner, a reason for this sudden shift in his usual, thick-headed sibling. “Where did you obtain such knowledge?”

Jason’s lips quirk up. “Jane Austen, you should try her sometime.”

135, Kane Street, Otisburg (Damian's Last Resort)

Damian has only felt the urge to puke on two occasions this past year. Firstly, when he discovered old photos of Dick’s first Nightwing costume in an old album, and had to wash his hands twice with anti-bacterial soap. Secondly, when a rare poison seeped into his bloodstream that he had not already trained to be immune to.

Never had the nauseating feeling of nerves scale till the point of trembling fingers and stiff legs. He just needed to tell the truth, so why did the matter seem so petrifying?

He’s been standing outside your door, letting the winter frost bite at his exposed skin—like a pathetic loser for the past fifteen minutes and if he stood there any longer, he might as well brand himself as one. His hand comes up to knock in three measured beats, and he waits with the patience of Dick’s pit-bull for a belly rub.

The door unlocks, and your tousled hair greets him first. His heart tugs at the sight of you in your home attire, with your loosened shirt and pajama pants dragging against the floor. You’re utterly beautiful, even as you’re slapping your cheeks lightly to coerce yourself awake. It takes a few seconds for the realisation to hit your half-asleep features before your eyes nearly pop out.

“Damian? It’s five in the morning! What are you doing here?”

“I have romantic feelings for you.” He blurts with the subtlety of a ramming gun.

“If you reciprocate, I would like to..” He pauses, his thoughts competing with the rapid pace of his heartbeat. “Wait, I didn’t think this through.”

You blink slowly, shock blasted over your face, before a soft, warm smile creeps over your lips. “No-no, go on.”

He wants it to be perfect, but his words were too direct, too harsh. He wasn’t like Dick, who was naturally charismatic with others, or Tim who thought two steps ahead for every interaction, or Jason who bulldozed through without a care in the world. He doesn’t want to risk losing you over his own incompetence. “No, I feel like I’ve started it all wrong.”

“It’s five in the morning, even Damian Wayne is human enough to mess up his words at this hour.” You tease. His shoulders sag in relief at the sound of your comforting voice, which he suspects is the purpose of your teasing. To calm him, tell him it’s okay.

“Right.” He mutters. “May I start over?”

“I’m all ears.” You grin.

He cracks a soft smile in return. It is difficult for him to be human, to feel his faults bubble to the surface, but in front of you, he is willing to try. “I am unfathomably, undoubtably.. and completely in love with you. Romantic feelings don’t even come close to describing the knowing in my heart that it has chosen you from the very moment you entered my life.”

“When I am around you, it’s as if the world disappears, and all I envision is you.” He admits. “From the moment you approached me with your maddening smile and charming wit, I don’t believe I could have ever fought against it, against you.”

“Your laughter brings joy to me, your sadness distracts me of all my senses, and your very existence is a gift in my life that I cherish deeply and.. I’m terrified at the idea of losing that, losing you.”

“Love..” He hesitates. “..is a difficult concept for me to understand, because it has never been shown to me outright. So when I felt this desire—this constant want to be in your presence, I sought for understanding.”

“I see now—that love can’t be explained in just mere words. It is the shared moments between us that I replay in my mind, the small details I find myself noticing of you and cherishing deeply, and the fear of losing that privilege of knowing you. I realised.. that I can’t fathom continuing my life without you in it.”

“I don’t know if I deserve to be by your side, but I would like to try.” His gaze finds yours, and he hopes. So desperately, he hopes. “Would you have me, even if I am a fool who doesn’t know the right things to say?” His plea is quiet against the silent rustle of the trees, the dark twilight sky that watches over them.

Your eyes soften, filled with warmth and that same, brimming happiness he has memorised from the time spent on the ice. “You’re only an idiot if you think you didn’t say all the right things, Damian.”

His chest, tight till the point of rupturing, feels like it’s finally able to breathe.

Leaning in slowly, right across the barrier of the doorstep that separates you from him, you gift him with a soft kiss pressed against his lips and his entire world falls apart, not that it ever truly existed before you.

He takes you into his arms, lifting your feet off the doorstep as his boots crunch against the melted snow when he kisses you back. He has never kissed anyone before, but the feeling of wanting you so close to his soul only feels natural when you’re here in his arms.

It’s sweet, clumsy—and out of all the moments he’s spent with you, he truly wished he could replay this over and over.

When you break the kiss, he has to remind himself to not follow after you when you whisper softly against his lips. “You never finished. What did you want to do if I reciprocated?”

Visions, blurred and incoherent, flash through his mind but it’s nothing compared to the real thing right in front of him. “Everything. As long as you’re mine, the possibilities are endless.”

“Of course I’m yours, Damian.” Your eyes crinkle into that puddle of warmth that melts through all his defences. “No one has ever come to my doorstep, at five in a winter morning, professing their love before.”

His brows furrow, lips nearing to a pout. “Has anyone ever tried professing their love in other ways?”

You laugh, and he can get used to that. Making you smile and laugh as if it’s his one purpose on this planet. “No—I think my heart was too busy being taken by the person in front of me, who just conveyed what love is so perfectly that I can never think of anyone else.”

He relaxes at that, feeling his own smile deepen at the relief of finally having you in his arms, and in the comfort of the warmth shared under the dim streetlights, he thinks he’ll have to temporarily bump Jason to the number one spot in his long line of siblings.

Not that he’d ever tell him that—but he supposes if a limited edition of Jane Austen's collection ends up at Jason's doorstep tomorrow, it would have simply been the universe's divine gift.

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

[edawgz]

# MY ROLE MODEL

⤿ BRUCE WAYNE has had experience being a father, and he knows he made mistakes. So, with your youngest son, he refuses to let his life as Batman shadow the boy's childhood. Little does he know, Batman is his son's favorite person.

!! fluff. wife!reader. established relationship. this is sooo cutie. softie dad bruce. the kid's name is henry bc why not. alfred cameos. batmom!reader. henry is like 6ish. ENJOY.

You first learned about role model day from a crumpled flyer that fell out of Henry’s backpack while you were unpacking his lunchbox, the paper creased in multiple places and decorated with a collection of uneven crayon stars that made it clear your six-year-old had been both enthusiastic and impatient while handling it. The moment you smoothed it across the kitchen counter, you noticed his name scribbled across the top in thick pencil, followed by the assignment instructions asking students to present their personal hero and explain why they admired them.

Henry hovered nearby while you read, rocking slightly on his heels as if he were trying to physically hold in a secret too large for his small frame. You pretended not to notice his anticipation at first, scanning the page carefully while he inched closer, his dinosaur socks sliding against the tile in short, restless shuffles.

“So,” you murmured casually, folding the paper once before glancing down at him, “have you picked your role model yet?”

His entire face brightened with immediate relief, like he had been waiting hours for you to ask, and he nodded so quickly you worried he might give himself whiplash.

“Yeah,” he announced proudly, puffing his chest in a way that mirrored Bruce so perfectly it made your heart squeeze. “It’s Batman.”

You paused mid-movement, your fingers tightening slightly around the flyer as you absorbed the answer, your gaze drifting toward the hallway where Bruce’s office door stood closed, hiding secrets your son was far too young to carry. You and Bruce had always agreed that Henry deserved a childhood as normal and unburdened as possible, shielded from the weight of capes and crime and the impossible expectations that followed the cowl, but the thought of your son idolizing the very man who tucked him in every night still warmed something deep and tender inside your chest.

“Batman, huh?” you asked, keeping your tone light while you leaned against the counter, studying him with gentle curiosity. “What makes him your hero?”

Henry climbed onto one of the stools with exaggerated determination, his small hands gripping the edge of the counter as he considered the question with the serious focus of someone delivering a very important speech.

“He helps people even when he’s tired,” Henry explained carefully, his brow furrowing as he searched for the right words, his sincerity settling heavily into the space between you. “And he doesn’t need powers to be brave. He just… decides to be.”

You swallowed, blinking back the sudden sting behind your eyes while pride and heartbreak tangled together in a complicated knot, because he was describing Bruce perfectly without realizing it, unknowingly sketching a portrait of his father through admiration for a masked legend.

“That’s a really good reason,” you murmured softly, reaching across the counter to brush a curl from his forehead, grounding yourself in the warmth of his presence. “Are you planning to make a poster? Maybe draw him?”

Henry hesitated, chewing lightly on his bottom lip while excitement flickered across his expression in a way that immediately set off your maternal radar.

“…I was thinking,” he began slowly, leaning closer like he was about to reveal state secrets, “maybe I could dress up as him instead.”

Your breath caught, and you turned slightly to hide your smile, because the mental image alone threatened to dismantle your composure entirely.

“That sounds like a pretty big project,” you replied carefully, watching his face for any hint of uncertainty you might need to reassure.

“I can do it,” he insisted quickly, his fingers curling into determined little fists. “But… I don’t wanna tell Dad. I wanna surprise him.”

That was when your resolve crumbled completely.

You nodded, lowering your voice like you were sealing a pact. “Then we better make it the best surprise ever.”

The following week turned into a covert operation that felt suspiciously like planning a heist, except your accomplice was six years old and extremely prone to accidentally humming the Batman theme song while attempting stealth. You worked together in the craft room during the afternoons, carefully assembling a scaled-down version of Bruce’s suit using fabric scraps, foam padding, and an alarming amount of hot glue that left both of you with at least two minor burns and several bursts of uncontrollable laughter.

Henry approached the project with fierce dedication, studying reference photos from news articles and carefully adjusting every piece to match his understanding of the hero he admired. He insisted the cape needed to “swish correctly,” which resulted in several dramatic test runs down the hallway while Alfred pretended not to monitor the proceedings with quiet fondness from the doorway.

“You must promise me, Miss, that Master Bruce is not aware of this endeavor,” Alfred remarked one afternoon while handing Henry a perfectly cut strip of black fabric.

You placed a finger over your lips with a conspiratorial grin. “Not a clue.”

Alfred’s expression softened in a way that suggested he suspected the outcome would be worth every ounce of secrecy.

Bruce remained completely oblivious, though you occasionally caught him studying the faint glue smudges on your hands or the way Henry vanished into the craft room with suspicious frequency. He never pressed for answers, trusting you both with a patience that made the upcoming reveal feel even more precious.

Role model day arrived wrapped in crisp autumn sunlight, the school auditorium buzzing with parents and teachers settling into folding chairs while colorful posters lined the walls, each decorated with heroes ranging from firefighters to grandparents to cartoon astronauts. You crouched beside Henry near the entrance, adjusting the cowl carefully around his face while he bounced slightly on the balls of his feet, vibrating with nervous excitement that radiated through the small costume you had worked so hard to perfect.

“You ready?” you asked gently, smoothing the cape across his shoulders while he nodded with exaggerated seriousness, his tiny gloved hands resting against his hips in a stance that mirrored Bruce so flawlessly it nearly knocked the air from your lungs.

“Is Dad here yet?” he whispered, his voice muffled slightly beneath the mask.

“He’s parking,” you assured him, pressing a kiss against his temple before straightening. “Remember, you go up when they call your name, okay?”

He nodded again, his confidence wobbling slightly as his gaze flickered toward the stage where another child enthusiastically described their veterinarian mother as “the bravest person alive.”

Bruce slipped into the auditorium moments later, scanning the room instinctively until his eyes found you, his expression softening with immediate warmth as he crossed the aisle and settled beside you. He leaned close enough that you caught the familiar scent of his cologne, grounding and steady as ever.

“You didn’t tell me what Henry chose for today,” he murmured, his voice low while he rested his forearms against his knees, watching the stage with quiet curiosity.

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” you replied, clasping your hands together in your lap to hide your growing excitement, because you could already picture the exact moment his carefully maintained composure would shatter.

He tilted his head slightly, suspicion flickering across his features, though he didn’t press further. Instead, he watched each presentation attentively, applauding politely while occasionally glancing toward the hallway where students waited for their turn.

“Henry Wayne,” the teacher announced brightly.

Bruce straightened slightly, his attention sharpening immediately while he scanned the stage entrance, clearly expecting construction paper or maybe a diorama. The moment Henry stepped into view, clad in miniature black armor with a slightly oversized cape trailing behind him, Bruce froze completely.

Henry walked carefully toward the microphone, his small boots thudding softly against the stage floor while he adjusted the cowl nervously before gripping the stand with both hands. He cleared his throat in a gesture he had unconsciously borrowed from Bruce, and you watched your husband’s entire expression shift as recognition and emotion collided behind his eyes.

“My hero is Batman,” Henry began, his voice steady despite the way he shifted his weight slightly from foot to foot. “I like him because he helps people even when it’s scary and because he makes Gotham safer for kids like me.”

Bruce’s hand found yours without looking, his fingers curling tightly around yours as his thumb pressed into your palm in a silent, overwhelmed gesture that spoke louder than anything he could have voiced in that moment. You glanced toward him, catching the faint sheen in his eyes as he watched his son continue speaking with earnest admiration, completely unaware that the man he idolized sat in the front row fighting to maintain composure.

“He works really hard,” Henry continued, his voice growing more confident as he straightened his shoulders, the cape fluttering slightly behind him. “And I think he probably gets tired sometimes, but he still shows up, and that makes him really brave.”

Bruce exhaled slowly beside you, the breath trembling almost imperceptibly while his gaze remained locked on the stage, drinking in every word like they were oxygen. His jaw tightened briefly as he swallowed, his thumb brushing absently across your knuckles in a grounding motion that revealed more vulnerability than he would ever allow anyone else to witness.

Henry finished his presentation with a dramatic cape swirl that earned laughter and applause from the audience, and Bruce clapped harder than anyone, his pride radiating in quiet waves that made your chest ache with affection.

After the presentations concluded, Henry raced toward you both, the cape tangling slightly around his legs while he barreled directly into Bruce’s arms with unrestrained enthusiasm. Bruce caught him effortlessly, lifting him off the ground while his expression softened into something achingly open, the edges of the billionaire persona dissolving completely beneath fatherhood.

“That was incredible,” Bruce murmured, his voice rougher than usual while he adjusted Henry’s cowl gently, his fingers lingering against the fabric like he was memorizing the moment. “You did an exceptional job.”

Henry beamed, wrapping his arms around Bruce’s neck while pride radiated from every inch of him. “Did you like it?”

“I loved it,” Bruce answered quietly, pressing a kiss against Henry’s temple while he held him closer, his eyes briefly meeting yours over your son’s shoulder, gratitude and emotion shimmering beneath his usual restraint.

Henry wriggled slightly, suddenly remembering the final component of his surprise. “Mom helped me make it,” he revealed eagerly, gesturing toward the carefully crafted armor while Bruce glanced toward you again, his gaze softening further.

“You kept this from me,” he murmured later as you walked beside him through the parking lot, Henry trotting ahead while dramatically narrating imaginary crime-fighting scenarios to himself.

“I thought you deserved to experience it fresh,” you admitted, linking your arm through his while the afternoon sunlight stretched long shadows across the pavement.

Bruce paused beside the car, watching Henry spin in circles while his cape fluttered behind him like a flag of childhood innocence he had fought so fiercely to protect.

“I spend every night trying to be worthy of that symbol,” he confessed quietly, his voice low and thoughtful as he rested a hand against the roof of the car. “Hearing him admire it without fear… it means more than I can properly articulate.”

You leaned your head gently against his shoulder, your hand sliding into his as warmth settled between you both, steady and grounding.

“You’re already his hero,” you murmured softly, watching Henry continue his imaginary patrol across the parking lot, completely unaware of the truth standing a few feet behind him.

Bruce’s fingers tightened around yours, his gaze never leaving your son while pride and love softened every line of his face.

“I think,” he began after a moment, his voice quieter now, steadier but filled with emotion he allowed only in moments like this, “that being his father might be the greatest responsibility I will ever have.”

Henry sprinted back toward you both then, breathless and laughing, and Bruce crouched to catch him again, pulling him into another warm embrace while the cape bunched between them. You watched them together, your heart swelling with the quiet certainty that Bruce Wayne might be Gotham’s protector, but here, in the golden spill of afternoon light with his son clutched against his chest, he was simply a man learning how to be someone’s entire world.

And judging by the way Henry clung to him without hesitation, he was doing a remarkable job.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2026.

taglist form!! @lailqll @tamyyyy2005 @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @velvetxthunder @fmejenson @sleepilysworld @angelpvps @secretpaperflower @vanillakirstein @foquest @ainandra @cassiecasluciluce @love4lando @grapejuicedays @uselessnewt @snoopylover1304 @unclearblur @k1ttyfried @oh-buttercup @piatosniathenie @lemoncandiedlesbian @hoshhhiiiii @thecutestholly @snowynightsbytheoceansbreeze @lyuuu88 @st4rrrship @arvlr @lulasagna @solflor33 @b3oo @valiantpenguincherryblossom @stilestotherescue @bonecrushingfeng @newangelle @youraggedybitch @stormyskiez @asteriia-png @nancy-ethel @xsehion @galactict3a @serenityrjd @mistbornwithawritingproblem @gglouise23