tattoo artist! iwaizumi hajime x nail artist! reader
oh no! you own the nail salon next to iwaizumi's tattoo shop.
what do we do? him!
my masterlist
warnings // reader is female im so sorry it just flowed out of me, swearing, mentions of drunk men, smoking, kys jokes, a gun, mentioned AI once but u need to understand i will never use it
miyako's notes // i shat this out bc i couldn't stop thinking about tattoo artist! iwaizumi but i couldn't sit and outline a whole story for it IM SORRY
shoutoutz to @dumdogs and @lilylilylilylilysstuff for enabling me
tattoo artist! iwaizumi hajime x nail artist! reader
oh no! you own the nail salon next to iwaizumi's tattoo shop.
what do we do? him!
my masterlist
warnings // reader is female im so sorry it just flowed out of me, swearing, mentions of drunk men, smoking, kys jokes, a gun, mentioned AI once but u need to understand i will never use it
miyako's notes // i shat this out bc i couldn't stop thinking about tattoo artist! iwaizumi but i couldn't sit and outline a whole story for it IM SORRY
shoutoutz to @dumdogs and @lilylilylilylilysstuff for enabling me
summary: you gotten everything you've ever wished for.
pairing: soapgaz x reader, (past) ghostprice x reader.
warnings: hurt/comfort, mildly suggestive, GhostPrice (they're their own warning at this point).
notes: i made a slight amendment to reader's backstory, yes because i didn't want her completely alone.
part of the [rotten work] series.
John sees it.
the growing itch in Simon’s hands. the need for him to go to your apartment. the longing glance cast upon that knitted white sweater. nowadays, Simon can’t stray too far from it.
the man hasn’t been quite himself lately. and it worries John to no end.
and not that John is any better. not with the way he’s always checking if he’d been unblocked from all the ways they used to contact you. he detests the gnawing ache sitting at the pit of his stomach whenever he recalls that fact.
none of his messages have been returned. his calls won’t go through. he can’t find you on any social media and he’s got too much pride to resort to using burner accounts just to see what you’re up to.
then he starts to wonder if he and Simon read things the wrong way on your end.
because they know you. the sign you gave when you sent back John’s beanie was clear enough, wasn’t it? they left the door open for you to come back and you should have by now.
yet, you didn’t.
you’ve been radio silent since then. not a word from you. not another forgotten garment sent back. not even a letter. nothing.
and you’re hardly even at your place anymore. they can’t time the right moment to sit down and have a proper conversation with you because you’re scarcely available now.
John hates that the thought is starting to sink in.
that maybe you’re finally cutting ties with them.
“it suits you, dear.”
you were timid to wear it on this particular day, with a pink sundress and sandals. the necklace glimmers under the summer’s light as it rests comfortably on your neck.
you smiled. “thanks, grandpa.”
if only he knew the story behind it.
you’d rather not give your grandparents a heart attack with that tidbit so you keep it to yourself.
the three of you sit at the patio under the cool shade. the wooden couches lined with blue cushions were an added comfort among the lush green trees and flowers. you pour tea for your grandfather and grandmother as you talk to them while you have yourself a tall glass of lemonade.
it’s not often you come to visit them. your maternal grandparents were pretty much ostracized from the rest of the family years ago back for reasons you have yet to uncover. your paternal grandparents always spoke ill of them. for years, you’ve had the misfortune of being forced to spend time with your paternal grandparents and enduring the same treatment from them as the rest of your immediate family.
and for years, you’ve had the misfortune of not seeing your maternal grandparents for that time until you were much older and upon realizing that they don’t hate you as much as the rest of your family, you’ve come to mourn the time you’ve missed with them.
they won’t tell you why they don’t talk to their daughter anymore. quite frankly, considering how much of a bitch she is, you don’t doubt it’s her fault but you’ll leave that up for speculation until you hear the full story.
it’s nice coming to visit them every so often. you can’t believe you forgot how treasured you felt in their presence. the isolation caused by your immediate family must’ve gotten to your head, must’ve clouded your mind from remembering that these two people were the only ones who’s love never faltered on being unconditional.
you’re glad you came here. you’re glad you still have them. making plans to visit them more often becomes your new objective because you’re going to spend as much time as possible you have while you still can.
“so…” grandfather clears his throat. “there’s two of em’, you say?”
“yes.” you slowly say, watching him.
the wrinkles around his eyes become more pronounced as his eyes narrow. he’s always been the more protective one. given that he’s seen a lot in his lifetime, you can understand why. your grandmother, however, despite seeing as much as he has, tends to be more optimistic.
“oh, my! you never told me that.” your grandmother swats her husband’s arm indignantly. “sweetheart–”
“they’re both in a relationship.” you cut her off, your tone low and nearly trembling. “and they want me to be with them.”
“so they’re gay?”
“technically, they’re both bisexual.” you paused, glancing between the two of them. “is that bad?”
is it going to be a problem? are you going to have to make another hard choice here too? you don’t want to. you’d never want to have to choose between the two pairs of people who are dearest to you. ever.
and thankfully, you won’t have to.
“no, of course not!” the dark cloud over your head dissipates when your grandmother chimes in. “two men vying for your affection? you, my little dove, are blessed. i mean, that’s to be expected when you’ve got your looks from me.”
your grandfather groans as he leans forward to reach for another cookie. he takes a small bite of it. “so when are we meeting the bastards?”
“grandpa!” you huffed, laughing.
“what?” he said. “i wanna know the faces of the two boys who are taking out my favourite granddaughter. is that a crime?”
“it is if you’re going to be so hostile.” his wife mumbles, rolling her eyes.
his mustache wiggles as he grumbles something under his breath. it’s always been such a comical little thing about him that he likes to do because it made you giggle so much when you were a child. you’ve always been fond of it.
it seems your worries are a non-issue.
it’s not that your relationship is a bit out of the ordinary. not one but two men who are actively pursuing you. your grandfather couldn’t care if it’s a bit weird and beyond what he’s probably used to. he’s just going to be the typical overprotective father he’s always been no matter who you bring to see them.
and that’s fine. you don’t mind a little hostility from him since it’s mostly harmless and it comes from a good place.
“soon, granddad.” you finally said. “you’ll meet them soon. i promise.”
“good, good–” he nods more to himself.
you spent the afternoon answering more questions from your curious grandmother, who was more thrilled to meet your boys than her husband was.
Johnny and Kyle crafted their speech and delivered it perfectly.
they needed this time off. just a little bit to themselves to sort things out, to make preparations. after the necklace incident, they didn’t have much time to do all that before they had to report back to work and that didn’t sit right with them.
leaving you high and dry after such emotional turmoil. it wasn’t right.
and, fuck, they missed you so much too. unfathomably so. every second they were away from you was agony.
their Captain and Lieutenant were quiet as they listened and deliberated among themselves. the silence was palpable as the Sergeants were being scrutinized.
it was a long while before Price leans back and slipped the cigar out from between his lips, billowing out a puff of smoke. Simon stood sentinel behind him with arms folded.
“so when are we meeting the bird?” asked the Lieutenant.
“soon, i think.” Kyle replies first. “she’s a bit shy so give her some space to adjust.”
“bit shy’s a severe understatement.” Johnny grumbles under his breath.
Simon grunts with a nod. “noted.”
“got a picture of her?” the Captain suddenly asks.
the Sergeants glance at each other, both unsure, both unsteady on how to proceed. it’s Johnny who takes the initiative, fishing his phone from his right pocket.
“no.” Kyle grabs the device and switches it off. Simon and John stare at him with raised eyebrows. “you can run background checks on her after you’ve met.”
this is you they were talking about and if things were to get serious, John and Simon had to approve. otherwise there was going to be a whole mess of things. they were so close, too fucking close to ruin things now.
John gave him a hard stare. almost scathing. hot to the touch. he’s not often denied things concerning the safety and well-being of his people. but if both Gaz and Soap are in agreement of something then it would be wiser to trust them than go against it.
“alright.” he concedes. “whatever you say, Sergeant.”
“and do not pick her apart once she sets foot in yer house.”
the warning goes to both of them. Johnny’s glare is directed at the man standing behind his Captain.
“i mean it, Simon.” he adds, his tone firm and direct. “we’ve worked too hard tae keep her grounded. she’s no’ running off because ye said somethin’ foul. keep yer thoughts tae yerself till after she’s left.”
Simon and John glance at each other, almost in disbelief. their Sergeants have never been this committed to anyone other than themselves until now and it was a shocker to see this new change. whoever this bird is must be pretty damn special.
Kyle places a hand on his partner’s shoulder in agreement, quietly reinforcing their need to protect you from anything and anyone.
even their most trusted friends. their superiors.
“two weeks.” finally said John. “get your affairs in order and then we meet her.”
you’ve been taking steady breaths. slow and heavy, sometimes mellowing out into a normal pace. but your heart leaps into your throat when you play it over and over again.
your boyfriends (yes, boyfriends) came back far sooner than expected. you were shocked when they explained to you that they asked for this time off. a couple of weeks. to make sure that you’re still on solid ground with them, to make sure that you weren’t planning on taking off while they were absent.
the thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. it didn’t even occur to you that they were even worried about the prospect of that happening.
“hold still, hen.” Johnny’s fingers fiddle with the clasp of your heel. you hold onto his shoulder to keep your balance while he helps you put on the shoes he and Kyle got for you. “now the other one.”
Kyle leaned on the door frame, watching. waiting as he puts on his cufflinks. they’re both in crisp white shirts and dark dress pants. both prepared for this date and helping you get dressed too.
your first real date with them.
you’ve been on a few outings with them, sure. but those were casual. no pressure involved, no full expectation of anything groundbreaking. they weren’t this.
a fancy dinner. getting all dolled up in a pretty dress. gathering the courage to wear the stunning diamond necklace they got for you.
(the very necklace that nearly ended it all).
your stomach fluctuates between hurling breakfast and fluttering butterflies depending on how much you’re trying not to spiral into your thoughts. all the while Johnny stands behind you and clasps the last piece of jewelry, letting it rest on your skin.
“the owner of the restaurant is a good friend of ours and he knows about you.” said Kyle. “so don’t you worry about some muppet saying anything rude, alright?”
“okay.” you catch his gaze in the mirror and nod with a smile. “i understand.”
they went to such great lengths for this. you can tell. it’s all such a dream, it doesn’t seem real that you’ve gotten this far with Johnny and Kyle. it doesn’t seem real that anyone has gotten this far with you when almost everyone else has abandoned you.
your hands clench when they start to tremble. you heave in one deep breath and let go.
it’s just the first date. one step at a time. they promised not to rush things because you’re so new to this. to loving someone who feels the same way.
you never thought this would be so overwhelming. not having to beg for affection, not having to be grateful for mere crumbs, you didn’t realize how heavy the cup weigh once it overflows.
“hey.” Johnny grasps your arms. his lips press against your cheek. “we love ye. remember that when ye get too deep in yer head. let tha’ put ye at ease, alright?”
you smile upon hearing it again and turn around to lace your arms around his neck to kiss him.
“i love you too.” you whisper into his mouth.
you’re not surprised when he doesn’t immediately pull away. the warmth he pours into you melts all of your jitters away and you sink right into him.
nothing will ever compare to this.
“Johnny…” you giggle into his mouth when his hands start to wander and grope. he groans into your mouth.
“no fucking against the mirror or we’re going to be late.” Kyle reminds the two of you as he approaches. you stifle a laugh when Johnny pouts at him. “first date, remember? we can’t miss this.”
he cups your cheek and leans in to press his lips on yours. a kiss that is softly returned. the dazed look he casts upon you when he pulls away makes you all too flustered.
first date. implying that there will be a second and third and many more to come. suddenly, there doesn’t seem to be an end to a future with them. you don’t feel the weight of a time limit in their presence.
Johnny sighs dramatically, rolling his eyes. “fine. alright. no fuckin’ against the mirror.”
“we can do that after the date.” you offered, “you won’t even have to take off my dress.”
both of them brightened upon hearing that and were all too eager to leave the house. you and Kyle wait while Johnny was pulling the car out of the driveway.
your fingers lace with Kyle’s as you whispered to him, “love you.”
he retaliates by pecking your cheek three times, a bright smile flashing across his lips before he embraces you tightly in his arms, drawing a delighted laughter from you.
you were only falling in love.
and they were right there waiting to catch you with open arms.
i almost feel bad for setting reader up for failure...
Staring at that stick, your hands are trembling, gasping and dropping it as you look right at those two tell-tale lines, of the one and only time you and your best friend had sex. A terrible night where you were both broken up with, where you all had agreed just once, to take care of each other, to feel better.
Where the best friend you've had your entire life had rutted his cock into your needy cunt, and pressed your face down into the plush of your mattress. Where you'd arched up and he'd sucked in a breath when that damn condom broke, cursing as he pulled back.
The night you all didn't have another and you told him - fuck me, just fuck me and pull out, please?
The night he did just that - you know he had pulled out, especially when you had felt those sticky ropes of cum up your skin, painting your back with white. You had already been squirting right before, so sensitive, he'd rubbed his tip up and down your slit to get you to do it again, and again, before cleaning you up.
The night you had lost yourself, both of you tipsy, giggling and fumbling until he hit you with those mean fucking strokes, the ones that had you breathless. The night that plays over and over in your head on repeat, and won't stop, but you'd gone back to normal - stayed best friends, kept that agreement.
Until you felt sick two months later, dizzy from one little drink, your nipples aching.
And now...
The phone rings and you jump, looking and seeing his name, fingers trembling as you look from the phone to the stick, over and over.
How do you tell your best friend that he knocked you up!?
ahem...
who would you like this oneshot for? Imma have it out next wknd for hitting a milestone, hehe <333
i miss you 2012 avengers. i miss you the avengers tower. i miss you irondad and spiderson. i miss you meme lord shuri and peter. i miss you loki lingering in the tower for no other reason than that he's the main love interest. i miss you poptart-eating thor. i miss you grumpy bucky barnes. i miss you old man, chronically offline steve rogers. i miss you clint in the vents. i miss you girls night with wanda and natasha. i miss you resurrected, shamelessly flirty pietro. i miss you clueless, socially inept vision. i miss you the rare bruce banner feature. i miss you sassy sam wilson. i miss you cheeky reader who always called fury by his first name. i miss you christmas avengers blurbs in the middle of the fanfiction written by an autistic 14 year old. i miss you 😔😔😔
summary: you're convinced your betrothed, damian wayne, despises or at most—tolerates you for the sake of his duty. it takes only one moron to try and steal your hand to prove that damian takes the promise of being your future husband as a role he will never let anyone else fulfill.
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
content: arranged marriage, protective and jealous damian!
"There you are, Beloved."
A trying suitor's expression falters at the sight of Damian, tall and imposing, wrapping his arm around your waist as if it had always belonged there.
"I was worried I had lost you." Damian murmurs aloud, though his gaze never leaves the suitor, sharpened into a knowing taunt.
It doesn't take long, it never does. Like a scurrying rat, he was gone in the blink of an eye.
"There's no need to call me that." Your plastered smile doesn't falter when your hand graces Damian's arm, leaning into his ear. To the other guests, it merely seems as if you were a fiancée whispering sweet nothings to your lover. "Your patronizing tone is more than enough to send them running away."
Damian's lips finally form its familiar, scathing smirk. "Would you rather I say it outright that you are to be my wife? I assume you'll find that more displeasing."
He is right. It infuriated you that he knew where to push your buttons.
"To-be." You remind him. "I wouldn't get so comfortable with addressing me as your wife so soon."
"Ah." He drawls. "Shame. I was ecstatic at the thought of rifling the crowd."
Rifling was an understatement. Despite his cold demeanour, Damian was a fan of dramatics. After all, the first time you had met your betrothed, he nearly ended your life.
You still remember your first glance of his forest green eyes, when he had pinned you down with a blade to the throat, believing you were an outsider to his territory. If the apprehending voice of Damian's grandfather had been a second later, he wouldn't have had a fiancée and you wouldn't have lived to see your seventh birthday.
His gaze when he had looked down at you all those years ago clings like an aching, never healing wound. Disappointment. He must've expected someone greater, who rivalled him in his physical prowess and intelligence. Instead, he had you pinned to the ground, shame colouring your features that silently screamed burden.
The worst part was that it was the complete opposite for you— because you admired him greatly. It didn't matter which version of him. Damian Al Ghul, who sharpened himself into a living weapon—a cold-blooded ruler, before he became the Bat's new protege. Damian Wayne, who somehow eased his way into less begrudging smiles, who fails to notice his pets' fur still clinging to the cuffs of his sleeves, who makes ill-timed jokes from his catalogue stolen from his older siblings.
That rare warmth he found here in Gotham hasn't and never will be extended to you. Still, you refuse to remain a burden, not to him.
You play your part as a useful shield in the one arena Damian still struggles to conquer—the social world. Despite his striking looks and quick wit, Damian's always held a shared disinterest in the politics of social snakes who mingled solely for their own selfish gains.
Maybe it was a guilty pleasure. For one single night, Damian was your betrothed, and you were his. Even if his fake smiles were plastered on too tight, or the brush of his fingers over yours set the scene of young lovers much too convincingly, you could let your mind rest and rely on his presence just this once.
His hand extends, placed at the small of your back as he leads you through the room to somewhere less crowded. Unconsciously, he occasionally rubs his thumb in comforting circles, sending goosebumps down your skin. It's easy to smile and exchange repetitive niceties while Damian's gaze remains locked ahead of his path. The polite act engraved into your bones, functions as your greatest defence for the both of you, slithering your way through.
You had already memorised the layout of the room before even entering it, and you know he knows that. So, Damian's decision to keep his skin in contact with yours, guiding you, must be purely performative. Skin-ship to lure the wolves into falling for the bait, as you eye many envious onlookers distancing themselves from Damian at the unseemly sight of his arm wrapped around your frame.
"Have you chosen a city for your further education?" Damian murmurs into your ear.
You have. Though you could never predict his line of thinking that could’ve possessed him to show vague interest in your decision. This wasn’t the first time his impulsive questions took you off guard from the routine you’re used to.
Your gaze narrows on him, trying to find his reasoning. "How I take my coffee in the morning wasn't enthralling enough for you?"
"Is Gotham one of your options?" He asks briskly.
Ah. Your gaze drops to the swallow in his throat, the tension in his question. He must be hoping you'd say no. Lesser the chances to be stuck in a suffocating room with you, performing duties for a faceless audience.
"If I say it is?" You test.
His gaze flickers, surprise adorning his features. It wipes itself away as quickly as it comes, and he gives a brief, imperceptible nod. "There are adequate institutions in the city. I can provide recommendations."
You raise a brow. "Of course, a future doctor already providing unneeded advice."
His expression thickens. “You think my chosen field does not suit me."
It blurts out before you can stop it. "No, I think it does."
He pauses. You wince.
"You do?" He asks, almost disbelieving.
"Is it that hard to believe?" You mutter, eyes fleeting around for a much-needed drink.
"I only wish to understand your sudden agreement." He pushes, unsatisfied with your vague answer.
"Damian." You sigh. "Of course you'll be an amazing doctor."
He watches you, trying to detect any deceit. His immediate suspicion triggers your nerves. You may not be able to stand him, but that didn't mean you were blind to his abilities or the empathy he tries to hide behind his permanent frown.
If he hadn't held a semblance of a heart, he wouldn't be here plastering on a fake mask much to his displeasure so you wouldn't bear the night alone.
He wouldn't be out at ungodly hours, working himself to the bone to ensure that there was always a protector in the night, to save someone's life so they could make it home.
He wouldn't have signed up for the most brutal course at Gotham's top medical university despite already having an inhuman schedule.
"If I thought you lacked the heart to save others, I would've laughed at your decision to remain with your father in Gotham." You don't know why you feel this need to explain yourself. It hardly mattered if you understood his decision. He wasn't someone who needed the approval of others before making his own.
"Gotham has changed you." You answer. "For the better. If I had to put my bets on anyone to be the best doctor in this entire city, it'd be you."
If it had been anyone else other than you, maybe they wouldn't have caught the parting of his lips, the rare astonishment in his eyes. It's brief, but enough to tell you that you have spouted enough nonsense for it to feel as if you ripped open a gaping wound for him to spit at.
"I need a drink." You mutter. "I'll be right back."
Your quick escape seems to have finally sent the message for a much-needed break from his presence. Compared to other occasions, he was—you wouldn't use the word 'clingy', but he was certainly acting as a guard dog around you tonight. Then again, there were newcomers at this ball who seem to be unaware that you're Damian's betrothed, opting to try for your hand whenever he was separated from you for too long. It should be a relief that he bothered to protect you—but it distracted your senses, being around him for too long.
It still stings that even after all these years, your complete belief in him hasn't faded at all. Or maybe it was the fact that he didn't even try to consider the possibility of you having faith in him.
Your glued frown finally serves a purpose, contrary to your mother's nagging, as it scatters the fidgety chickens around you to distance themselves, along with their prodding questions. Downing a glass of wine, it doesn't do its mandatory job of easing the vulnerability still pattering around in your chest.
"If it isn't the future Mrs. Wayne!"
It seems one wolf in particular has blinded senses of walking into the wrong territory.
Joaquin Reanes. A filthy, money-laundering jerk who pawns off his father's money from an instable empire that takes advantage of its many debtors to use as animals for unpaid labour.
"Reanes." You greet shortly, not even bothering to turn your body fully to grace him with your attention.
"I'm not surprised Damian's left you all alone, miserable at the bar." He sneers. "He's never been good company."
Your brow lifts slightly. "And what gave you the impression that you could talk down on my fiancé in front of me?"
"Admit it." He mocks coldly. "He's never going to go through with the engagement. Your finger will remain bare for as long as he desires, and from the looks of it, he doesn't seem so keen on having you as his."
Your grip on your glass tightens. A flash of his corroded hair, dead from extensive bleach, drowned in wine, appears in your mind. You swirl your glass once, considering.
"I, on the other hand—" His teeth gleams with predatory intent. "—wouldn't mind taking second-hand scrapes. How would you like to be a Mrs. Reanes?"
Your laughter, cold and piercing, echoes through the air. His smug expression falters.
"Over my dead body." You hiss, slamming down your glass to push your palm roughly into his chest, sending him stumbling back. "Even if Damian hadn't been my betrothed, I would rather die alone than end up with the miserable likes of you."
His mask drops, revealing an ugly wrath that matched his true colours. His hand swipes a free glass from the bar on instinct, as if he's done it many times before.
In a blink, a cold sensation drenches your shoulders. Your gaze drops down, unable to hide your disgusted shock. The bastard purposely spilled wine on you.
Your expression darkens, meeting his narrowed eyes that were filled with wicked intent.
"Oh, my apologies." His act doesn't even come close to the twisted excitement in his gaze. "My hand slipped."
To cause this display in a Wayne charity ball is declaring war. You didn't wait for any passersby to notice—no, you're fully prepared to start this alone. You can already imagine his rotten, bleached head smashed with glass and wine to match the stain on your shoulder, ruining his gleeful expression—only for a firm hand to wrap around your waist, brushing your drenched shoulder against a broad chest.
"Reanes." Damian's greeting barely registers past the goosebumps that spread along your exposed skin when you dare a glimpse of his expression. His eyes, swallowed by his darkened pupils and narrowed into sharpened blades, is filled with such loathing that even you're rendered speechless.
"Wayne." The slimy git greets, carefully manoeuvring his glass to hide his mocking smirk. "I was just having a lovely talk with your wife."
"Oh, wait." His pretence is an awful act. "My mistake. She is merely your fiancée. Has been for awhile according to the papers."
Damian's grip unconsciously tightens around you, puling you back discretely, his shoulder shielding you from the creep's intentional gaze.
"Having doubts, Wayne?" He taunts. "I've made my own concerns clear, though she seems to have mistaken my empathy. I was only conveying that if you take any longer to put a ring on her, it might suggest to others that she's easy to snatch away."
The atmosphere freezes. To say you're astounded at his audacity, his utter foolishness to not be terrified of Damian's wrath isn't enough. You're sure this moron has a death wish.
"Your confidence in your lacklustre charm is worth applause, Reanes." Damian's tone is so unbearably cold that it even makes you flinch. "Let's see if your will to survive is stronger than your pride."
"Is that a threat?" Reanes muses, but you detect his hesitation. "As the next Wayne heir, I doubt your decision to threaten me, a useful business partner, is particularly clever."
"You mean your tycoon built off your father's buried scandals and contributions to corruption with the previous Minister?" Damian announces casually.
Several figures within hearing distance have shifted their heads towards Reanes at the sound of Damian's accusation. Finally, sweat has begun to pool at the rat's brows.
"How did—" Reanes's attempt at recovery is poor, his face seizing into an awful mess in realisation of his mistake of trying to find Damian's weakness. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Yes, of course." Damian's glare has narrowed into what could only be his hunting eyes. "Hypothetically, let's say you were to ever come near my betrothed again. I will have every piece of evidence—invoices, letters, emails, phone calls—all prepared into a file sent to the GCPD by tomorrow morning. How long do you think your family has before they come knocking down the doors?"
Reanes's face has lost all its colour.
"You're bluffing." He stammers.
It was satisfying to see all of his obnoxious confidence shrink into oblivion.
"You made an advance on my wife. You made a pathetic attempt of a threat against me." Damian hisses. "I haven't thought of all the possible ways to make you suffer just yet, Reanes. Stripping you of your stolen power is only the start."
"Unlike your father and his poor disguise of power as his empire collapses on itself." Damian taunts. "I protect what is mine."
Dread fills Reanes's expression. "Wayne, I misspoke. I won't so much as look at her."
Damian doesn't look close to satisfied. There's a want in his gaze, to torment him further. "Apologise to her."
Reanes grits his teeth, shame flooding his vile features. Forcing himself to look at your feet—not daring to meet your eyes, he spits it out. "I'm sorry."
"You are to never show yourself in front of us again." Damian declares. "Consider your offered partnership declined."
Reanes's entire expression sours, but one flick of Damian's brow has him scurrying off into the crowd, not even bothering with apologies when dirty looks are casted on him for pushing his way out to escape.
Damian's glare is still pinned into the crowd, and you sense his restrained bloodlust, something you haven't felt to this degree in years. The boy you once knew, who harnessed the blade better than anyone in its ability to end a beating pulse, has sprung out with his fangs and claws.
You unconsciously place one hand onto his chest in an attempt to soothe him, guide his attention back to his own body. He flinches, as if he had forgotten he was in the very room.
His nearly feral expression finds its way to the state of your ruined dress, the stain on your shoulder. He lets out a short breath, rationality kicking the gears in his mind. "We need to get you cleaned up."
You nod discreetly, at a loss for words as his hand comes up to grab yours, intertwining your fingers together and leading you away to a desolate hallway.
His fingers, covered in rough scars from countless battles, are caressing yours more gently than you could ever imagine. He's still refusing to look at you, gaze pinned straight ahead to the nearest bathroom.
Pushing open a door with a sudden force, you're dragged in with such a swift movement, that you barely have time to scout the room before your vision is blocked by his gaze pinning you down.
The barely visible green in his eyes are swarmed by his dilated pupils, filled with bitter rage and conflict. You've never seen him this—unguarded. The events that unfolded earlier seems to have affected him more than you expected.
His lips part to say something, but his eyes flicker down to your drenched shoulder, covered in red. His eyes narrow into a vicious glare, and he lifts himself off the door, pulling something out of his pocket.
A napkin. He must've snatched it on the way without you noticing.
There's not enough shock generated in your veins to truly comprehend what just happened. Damian just called you his wife. It still rings in your ears like some prank that's been orchestrated to throw you off your beliefs on everything you were convinced he's thought about you.
"Damian."
He's turned towards the sink, running the napkin over running water, but his entire posture is off. Tense. Coiled into restraint that's bound to burst.
"I am fine." Even as the uncomfortable feeling of dried wine lingers on your skin, there's something about Damian's change in demeanour that pushes you to reassure him. You're not used to being unable to read him. "There’s no point of putting on an act here. I am perfectly capable of cleaning up after myself."
"Is that what you think this is?" He spits out, still refusing to look at you.
You freeze. His tone, which has always carried the Al Ghul's familiar patronisation, has descended into a cold rage that's never been directed on you before.
He exhales slowly, his mask slipping back into place as he turns around, cloth in hand as he approaches you slowly. Stopping in front of you, his eyes are narrowed—and the light in them has nearly extinguished. Leaving behind a darker shade of green that consumes you whole.
"He was looking at you like you were a piece of meat to consume." His voice has dropped several octaves, and his gaze is unfocused—still trapped in his wrath. "As if you weren't mine."
Your eyes widen, steps instinctively moving backward but his arm wraps around your waist before you can retreat any further.
He doesn't make a single sound as his fingers wrapped around the napkin comes to touch your shoulder, stained with dried wine. His touch is frighteningly gentle as he wipes your stained skin, his lip curled in displeasure.
It's horrifyingly intimate, and the sound of your own quickened breathing is mortifying on your senses—knowing he could hear the effects of his strange, impulsive behaviour on you so clearly.
"I can do it myself." It sounds weak coming out from your mouth, even to your ears.
"Yes, you would like that, wouldn't you?" He mutters, sounding desolate. "Never letting yourself depend on me."
You scowl. "Why would I depend on you?"
"As much as you would like to pretend it doesn't matter." He grits. "I will be your husband. I will be the one who will lay down my promises and swear my life to yours. Now and even in death."
Leaning in, you feel his breath tingle against your skin as he whispers into your ear. "Do you think I am someone who takes my promises lightly?"
You resist a shudder, your lashes fluttering involuntarily. "No."
He scoffs. "Yet, you question my choice to defend you."
His breath lingers over your skin, right over the spot he's just cleansed free of wine, still cool to the touch from the dampness of the cloth. The tension is thick, making it difficult to think clearly when he's all but crowded the remaining space between the two of you.
He's only irritated that he's been indirectly insulted when Reanes pulled that ploy on you. You know how this will go. He'll wake from his delirious temper, fold back into the cold statue you know to be your betrothed, and remember the line that has been established.
He won't cross it. The boundary that's been drawn by you from the very beginning, in respect for whatever remaining autonomy the two of you had left in this arrangement. You're sure of your predictions... till you spot his expression. It seems that only now—the lack of distance has kicked in for him. The sudden stillness of his frame reveals something you never thought you'd see in your betrothed. Hesitation.
Nothing could've prepared you for what comes next. Damian's entire body leans in, caging you against the door. Tentatively, he places a soft, almost imperceptible kiss on your shoulder.
The oxygen in your lungs vanishes. Speechless, you can do nothing but stare at him with widened eyes, unable to comprehend what he just did. What it means.
"If you still have doubts about my loyalty." He mutters, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze, an unfamiliar intensity sealed in his. "Consider that my mark of a promise, which I intend to fulfil for the rest of my life. It was my mistake to make it seem as if you were easy to steal—because that will be impossible starting today."
This up close, you can count the freckles dotted under his eyes. He's always been dangerously tempting, but now, after he's defended your honour and stands before you looking the most wrecked you've ever seen him—you want to do something foolish.
Something you might regret but have been wanting to do from the moment he marked you as his.
It's instinctive, almost natural when your lips press against his. It's brief, slotted at the wrong angle from his height that automatically has you wincing. You're quick to pull away, unprepared and desperately trying to come up with some excuse to forget the ordeal ever happened, when you see it.
The crack in his mask, over the single action of your lips pressed against his, unravels a devotion you've never seen before. Laying right in front of you, bared in the open. That is not the look of a man who despises you. If anything, he looks as if his restraints have finally snapped.
That brief glimpse is all you see before he pulls you in. His arms cage your body, drawing you towards him until your bodies press together. With no sense of hesitation from earlier when he had marked your shoulder, he presses you back against the door, and kisses you.
No, how could you have hallucinated his hesitation? The way he kissed you now, mapping your lips with devout intention, it's as if he's been wanting—waiting to do it for ages.
You didn't realise it either—how starved you've been for him till this very moment. You had been so focused on how trapped you felt under the expectations of your family, the firm belief that he felt the same way, that you buried the attraction that ran deep in your veins.
You hated it, that this kiss was the admission of how he was your weakness in the first place. That he knew exactly how to unravel you, turn your world upside down with his decisive behaviour that commanded the entire room. That the match between the two of you pleased you more than it should, driving you to push him away because... only he could invoke such insanity from your shattered composure.
"A few minutes ago, you couldn't even stand me." You manage out against a brief pause for breath, pushing your palm against his chest.
He pulls away just enough to cast you a look of frustration.
"What I couldn't stand was my betrothed always attempting to push me away." He reveals. "Do you understand the frustration you've caused me?"
His gaze flickers between your bitten lips and your half-lidded gaze, hunger bleeding through his eyes. "You see all of me. Without even trying to, it was as if you were placed in my life to be my one, singular weakness. You already had me wrapped around your finger, drawing all of my attention—making it impossible to forget you even for a moment."
"My wife." He says it slowly, as if savouring it. "It is only because of you, that it feels as if I've been waiting my whole life to say those words. So, forgive me, for finding it difficult to restrain my displeasure when the woman of my devotion acts as if she would rather be paired with any other man than me."
Your brows furrow together at his words. "Why would I want to be paired with anyone else?"
His gaze locked onto you, narrows. "You claimed our match was a disaster waiting to happen."
"Yes." Averting your gaze, your admission comes out frail. "...Because I was compromised from the beginning. Even before our families put us together, I admired you. When my personal feelings got involved, the arrangement felt like a punishment."
"To be paired with someone for life that wasn't of my choosing was one thing, but for that person to be someone that actually mattered?" You swallow. "I pushed you away, because it hurt less if I made the decision to do so, rather than having to see your disappointment. Instead of being left to wonder that if you ever had the choice, would you even glance twice in my direction?"
He stares at you incredulously. "You believed that I did not want you?"
You pause at his tone. You didn't know what to believe, not with his actions just mere minutes ago contradicting everything in your system. You had been so focused on keeping your walls high, that you never thought to truly look into his gaze and search for what he saw in you instead.
"There isn't anyone else in the world that I would've sworn my life to." He declares abruptly. "If I had been given the choice in the first place, I would still be here before you. Yours."
"If you want my decision, I'll state it outright." He says, fingers coming up to grasp your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes. "I choose you. I had long erased myself of the expectations of what others want from me. My life is led by what I envision for myself, and you are in it. You always have been."
“I don’t believe that the choices of others define us.” He answers. “Even if this marriage hadn’t been arranged, I would have chosen you. I would’ve come back for you over and over—and asked for your hand. If you had other suitors, I would’ve rid your mind of all possibilities but me, because there is no one for me but you.”
"So, tell me." He says, and there's a vulnerability you never thought possible in him, echoed in the softening of his tone. "If you will choose me too."
Had he always looked at you this way, in such a soft, yet unyielding manner, as if his gaze had already been attuned to you in habit?
“If you feel unsure, I won’t force you to decide.” He offers, but his crestfallen expression pleads otherwise. “I won’t let you be bound by the obligations of our families. I want you to choose me—willingly—just as I have chosen you."
Has that ever been a question for you? Even in your denial, your fear of being rejected by the one person you were meant to spend the rest of your life with, you never doubted that the side of your heart had already engraved his name in secrecy.
You had always been his, even when you weren't sure if he was yours.
"I choose you, Damian." Your answer feels akin to offering your beating heart, only to reveal that it had always known the very same truth uttered through your lips. "That's never been a question. It's always been you, from the start."
His expression, tightened in exact preparation of being wounded, finally softens. He lets out an unsteady breath, his forehead dropping to rest on yours. In the quiet of this moment, you realise Damian looks devastatingly beautiful like this. Soft, vulnerable, and completely yours.
"I would very much like to kiss you again." He admits. "May I?"
You finally break out your own smile, and you sense the tension in his shoulders drop at the sight. "Only because you asked nicely."
His fingers still caressing your chin gently lifts your lips to his. This kiss is different from the first. It wasn't an explosion, a burst of restrained emotions over years of pining. No, it was softer. Gentle, in a true attempt to memorise your lips against his, shaping into a quiet whisper of a promise that this won't be the last.
When he parts, there's a soft quirk in his lips, as if he can't help himself from feeling that warmth in his chest.
"I still can't believe you called me your wife." You mutter, still unable to wrap your mind around it. Lifting your empty hand, you can't help but tease. "You're going to start a rumour on how a Wayne can't afford to gift his own wife a ring."
"You are right." He mutters in displeasure, and you suspect his mind has already wracked on another situation steps ahead just from your words alone.
"I suppose we'll have to arrange a marriage ceremony soon." Damian decides casually. "The last thing we need is more wolves thinking they have even a chance of your hand."
You think he's joking. You certainly were.
Yet, looking at his gaze which has now flickered to your ring finger, already analysing the measurement, you think there's a miscalculated understatement about your soon-to-be husband's proactiveness.
"What's going to happen to Reanes?"
Damian's merciful act earlier did nothing to fool you. He wasn't the type to leave loose ends.
His gaze darkens immediately, but his expression doesn't so much as shift when he says. "He'll be dealt with."
"The Al Ghul way?" You lift a brow. "Or the Wayne way?"
His lips quirk up imperceptibly. "I'm sure my siblings have creative interrogation methods they've been meaning to find an outlet for."
Pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, he mutters. "...I'll just have a leading hand for tonight's patrol when we infiltrate Reanes's warehouse."
"So, the worst of both worlds."
A dark smirk crosses his lips. "Only what he deserves, Beloved."
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
summary: damian's short-term amnesia from a concussion causes complications when he refuses to believe the break-up ever happened—and his missing memories dissolves all defenses and unravels the true depths of his undying devotion for you.
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
content: fluff+angst+hea, yearner damian who even without his memories, refuses to part from you ever again.
“Beloved.” Damian Wayne, your ex-boyfriend, is chained to the hospital bed in the most literal sense. Strapped down by physical restraints, he looks at you as if he's found his solace. “You’re here.”
He hasn’t called you that in months.
Dick, who barely made sense over the phone other than needing you to come over immediately for 'an emergency', approaches you with the same precaution to a frightened lamb. “He's had a concussion.”
You know that—it was the first thing you registered over the phone, but it didn’t solve the puzzle for why Damian wanted your presence.
“A minor concussion.” Damian scoffs. “Nothing worth the fuss of being chained to a hospital bed.”
“I wouldn’t call amnesia minor.” Dick says sternly.
..Amnesia?
“The doctor is over-exaggerating.” Damian argues. “There are no important events that I have forgotten.”
The pieces are clicking together, the missing fragments for why Damian's gaze doesn't grow cold when he sees you. Your shocked gaze meets Dick’s, who only nods subtly.
He doesn’t remember the break-up.
There are too many questions, none that can be addressed in this room when Damian is staring at you like he used to, completely unguarded and softened into a blurred memory of someone who used to hold your heart delicately.
“Damian.” You mutter briskly, even when the notion of addressing him weakens you. “I need to have a talk with Dick. Outside.”
Damian’s brows furrow. “Why did you call me that?”
Your steps that are halfway turned towards the door falter. “Your name?”
“Yes. You only call me that when you are angry.” He states, trying to lift himself from the bed. The restraints tighten, marking angry red lines over his wrists, but he doesn’t even flinch as he tries to reach for you.
Dick is quick to stop him, pushing him down by the shoulders. “The doctor says no movement.”
“I have given my opinion on the doctor’s expertise repeatedly.” Damian scoffs, irritated—but his gaze is distracted, trying to meet yours past Dick's shoulders. “Beloved, if you’re mad that I endangered myself, I assure you I am in perfect health.”
“That’s not—” You swallow, feeling an awful sink in the pit of your stomach and harshly avert your gaze. “Dick, outside. Now.”
Damian calls out your name, but you’re out the door before he—or whatever version of him was waiting for you in that room, can twist your emotions further.
You hear the door close gently behind you and sense the lingering guilt that hovers in the air.
You stare blankly at the chipped paint of the hospital walls. “You shouldn’t have called me here.”
“I know.” Dick sighs, and only now can you truly hear his distress. “You should’ve seen him. He was convinced you were in danger—that we were hiding something when you didn’t show after the first hour of his consciousness.”
“I can’t—” Your voice breaks. “I can’t go back in there pretending everything’s fine.”
Dick hesitates. There's a reason you were called over—which he purposely excluded in the call. “The doctor said we have to keep his stress to a minimum. We’re worried his condition will be unstable if you’re.. not around.”
You whip your gaze to meet his, but he's looking back at the door, where his youngest brother laid—unaware of the turmoil that was happening outside. You suck in a breath. “It’s not my job to be his keeper.”
“I know. That’s why I’m asking you… as a friend." He pleads, looking back at you. "He’s my brother, and I know something happened between the two of you—and that he’s been stupid, which is why he ended up getting a concussion in the first place.”
His suggestion is loud in the silence, that the possibility of Damian's impulsivity which led to his injury is because of you. It couldn't be true. Not when he made it so evidently clear that you mattered the least to him out of everything in his life's priorities.
“He doesn’t want to admit it.” Dick tries. “He never does when it comes to his emotions, but he needs you. I know you won't believe me, not when he’s the one that should’ve told you, but you saw that look on his face. It’s like he finally allowed himself to breathe when he saw you.”
“So—" Your hands flail, desperate to release some tension. "What do you expect me to do?”
“Just.. be around him, the same way it was before, till he gets his memories back.” He sighs again, running a hand through the mess of his hair, knowing how unfair it sounds. "If anything, it may help speed up his recovery. You won't have to deal with him for long."
Your fingers run over the crescent moons your nails have indented into your palms. The silence drags, and you know there's already a conclusion being made without your consent. “...This is insane.”
—
“Something's wrong.” Damian comments, watching you shuffle around his apartment, well, you had to get used to it being your shared apartment again—when he straight up refused on staying over at his family's manor.
Something doesn't quite cut it. “Nothing's wrong.” Your voice is stiff even to your own ears and as you pull out the kitchen drawers. Your heart squeezes at the sight of your mugs still kept inside, unchanged since you moved out.
It wasn’t just the mugs, but almost everything inside the apartment—as if time has frozen within these walls, because he didn’t throw any of your leftover belongings away.
“I can feel it. There is something you’re hiding.” He pushes.
"Since when were you the empath?" Taking out a dusty mug, you rinse it over the open tap, focusing heavily on the task to avoid his prying stare. “Dick said not to tell you.”
“It doesn’t matter what Grayson said.” Despite obvious instructions from the doctor, Damian disregards them and moves abruptly from the couch, hand still clutching an icepack to the back of his head. “You can tell me anything.”
You slam down the mug with more force than necessary, causing a loud screech through the air. It freezes the atmosphere in the apartment, and you make the mistake of glancing over to see his reaction. Taken aback, the rarest hurt displays itself across his face, forcing you to look back down at the counter. This is going to be impossible.
"Damian, please sit down." You plead, refusing to look at him. "You're not meant to be moving."
His frustration ticks. You can feel it in the barest hunch of his shoulders, because the curse of reading his habits still comes so easily. He rounds the counter, stopping right in front of you. His free hand comes to lift your chin with the intention of forcing you to meet his gaze, but you grab his clothed wrist before he can even come close to contacting your skin.
Shock doesn't come close to describing the parting of his lips, the widening of his pupils. "You are angry." He states, but it comes out in a huff of disbelief.
"Damian." Your voice comes out as a warning. "You should be resting."
"No."
"Why?" You snap.
"The woman I am in love with is clearly upset with me, and I have no recollection of why." He answers briskly. "You’re calling me by my birth name which I have never hated more to hear, because it means I have disappointed you. Forgive me, if I am concerned."
The word 'love' sets off the wrong trigger.
“Love? It didn’t seem like it when you broke up with me.” It spills out before you can stop it. You suck in a breath, already regretting it. There goes your promise to Dick.
You expect his expression to fall into the one you’re familiar with, cold—cutting, but as the seconds pass, the hit doesn’t come like you expect it to. His brows knit together in complete bafflement. “Why would I do such a thing?”
You shrug, an aloof act that fools not even you. You’re the last person who can answer a question that’s been haunting you since he did it. “Beats me.”
“I would never—ever leave you, Beloved.” His voice is strained, as if the mere thought confounds him with disbelief. "If this is your punishment for me going on that mission without your permission, I am sorry. Just—"
His lips purse together, and his hand still caught in yours loosens itself from your grip to grab hold of your fingers, tentatively interlacing them together. "Don't ever say those words again."
Your lips part and close, confusion etched in your features. The Damian in front of you—doesn't coincide with the one in the last memories you have with him at all.
He struggled when you weren't there. Dick's voice rings in your ears, having said that right when you were signing the papers for Damian’s discharge, listing your name to be put as his emergency contact to provide updates on his condition.
"Right, fine." You dismiss, even when you can see how your short response stings him. "If you don't want me to be pissed, please go back to the couch. I will call the hospital on you if you don't listen."
His expression stiffens at the thought of being trapped in that stuffy room flooded with fluorescent lights, of the pushy nurse who demanded he’d get bed rest for at least forty-eight hours as he exited the doors. In restrained obedience, his expression flickers in contemplation. "Then you’ll come with me."
Your lips part to argue, but he's already pulling you along, his hand still intertwined with yours, dragging you along to the couch. He sits, forcing you right into his lap.
"You are to remain here till I am well." He states, his free arm coming to rest on your thighs, trapping you in his hold.
"That is—" You splutter. "I didn't agree to this."
"Call it compromise." He remarks, his scarred fingers squeezing yours. "I will not feel better till you are no longer mad."
You stare at him in disbelief. Had he ever been this clingy before? Your brain has trained so hard on forgetting the details that it's hard to make sense of what's real and what isn't.
"You're unbelievable." You mutter.
"And you're mine still." He responds easily.
It stills your heart, so sudden in tearing open the wreckage that lays hidden that you have to settle on staring at the windows instead, at the row of your wilted plants that he's struggled in keeping alive.
He sets the ice pack on the end table, his freezing hand coming up to caress your chin, sending a shiver down your spine at the cool temperature. "Will you truly not tell me what has displeased you?"
You had. Quite abruptly too with all your honesty. It still shocks you that he rejected the possibility of a break-up so quickly.
"Patients shouldn't speak so much." You mutter, knowing his stubbornness will get you nowhere closer to convincing him.
His lips quirk up into the faintest smile. "You worry."
"Of course, I am worried." When Dick had called you, Damian and emergency room was enough to toss your senses to the wind. Nothing of the past even made its way into consideration when you had rushed over, barring Gotham's traffic laws and all.
"For someone who prides himself on the least concussions among his siblings, you're not doing a very good job in living up to your word."
“But I have lived up to my word.” He answers.
You shift your gaze to him, confused.
“My promises to you mean more than some tally.” He declares. “I gave you my word that I will always make it back home to you, alive.”
His promises mean nothing. They shouldn’t—but the way he looks at you, filled with utter devotion, makes you wonder when he decided this version of him didn’t belong to you anymore.
It’s like you’re tossed into a time loop, forced to experience what you’ve lost over and over with every reminder.
“I should make dinner.” You announce abruptly, desperate to be out of his arms.
He stares at you in surprise, blinking slowly. “Alright, I shall accompany you.”
“What happened to staying on the couch?”
He shrugs. “That was the doctor’s orders, and I don’t recall making any promises to that loon.”
—
Dinner settles as a silent staring competition, tension running thick through the air with only him as the singular active participant, his eyes staring unblinkingly, digging a hole into your very bones as you poke at your plate, long after the meal has finished.
Just when sleep finally arrives, and you think you’re free from your nightmarish duties, caught between torn memories and thin lies, do you realise your mistake. Sleeping arrangements.
Damian pulls at the sheets, clearly expecting you to sleep by his side. Your mind scrambles for an excuse to sleep elsewhere but there is only one bedroom, and sleeping on the couch will only reinforce his suspicions of you being upset.
Just act like normal. Dick had suggested, like it’s that easy to resume being the girlfriend to your ex who doesn’t remember that he is one.
"Beloved?” He calls, snapping you out of your stupor.
You’re truly in for it. Your foolish decision to play pretend has reached its limits, and you’re to bear the consequences.
“Coming.” You respond weakly, making your way over to the bed.
You settle at the very edge, laying down stiffly as you pull the sheets over you. Seconds pass in silence and you think you’ve done it, completed your task without complications, when you hear a sudden displeased grunt.
Large hands wrap around your waist, and tugs you into a broad chest. Your eyes snap open wide, completely frozen as Damian tucks his nose into the crook of your shoulder.
“It is cruel even of you to be so far when I am injured, habibti.” He whispers against your ear.
You can barely breathe, scared he’ll feel the palpitations of your heart hammering against your ribs, right above his hold. He only calls you that when he is desperate, when a single language can’t capture what he wishes to convey.
“You told me yourself.” He grumbles. “Even if it carries to the next morning, we must never go to sleep angry at one another.”
Your lip quivers, and you force your eyes shut. “I am not angry.”
He’s silent, but his grip tightens ever so slightly, as if afraid you’ll drift further away if he doesn’t. “...I choose to believe you.”
—
Desperation is a rare look on Damian, but you think even this is cutting close to your given patience.
“I am unable to feed myself.” He shrugs, hands crossed over in obvious pretence.
“Damian—”
His gaze sharpens.
You resist a sigh. “Dami. I have to head to work, and you’re not starving yourself.”
“Five minutes.” He rebuts. “That is my usual speed for breakfast. You can spare that.”
He is right. You usually get to the office early anyway, but that doesn’t make his weaponised incompetence any easier to swallow—even for five minutes.
“Last I recall, concussions don’t erase your ability to use a spoon.” You retort, grabbing the utensil with more force than necessary. “And you were eating perfectly fine last night.”
“I suppose the doctor is right.” He remarks. “I require bed rest—and last night, I did not sleep well. A certain someone was desperate to escape my hold.”
“Petty.” You mutter, scooping the porridge and blowing on it. He watches you intently, seemingly very pleased with himself.
You lift the spoon to his lips, your lips pursed in impatience. With a deliberate slowness, he leans in, his fingers sneakingly wrapping around your wrist. He brings the spoon to his lips, but his eyes are trained on you.
He takes a bite, and hums. He lets his fingers drum softly against your wrist for a few more seconds before he comments. “My appetite is satiated.”
You scoff, but you can’t help the smile that quirks up involuntarily. “Liar.”
He shakes his head, feigning ignorance. “I suppose for my survival, you will have to feed me every morning."
"Since you clearly need to be babied, why don't I call Dick over to spoon-feed you then?"
His expression sours comically. "That is a horrible suggestion."
"Then, figure out how to use your hands." You mock, forcing the spoon into his fingers. "I'm heading off to work, don't do anything stupid."
"That's reserved for my siblings." He mutters, and his gaze traces over you, searching. Whatever he wants to find, it's not there, hidden by the mask you've put on, and his shoulders droop.
Crossing his arms, he looks at you with a thick expression. "I'll wait for you."
Grabbing your bag, you give him the barest nod as a response and you’re halfway to the door when his throat clears. You resist a sigh, and force yourself to look back at him. "Yes?"
“Aren’t you forgetting something important?” He mutters briskly.
Your brows furrow, thinking. He’s on his prescribed meds, has attempted at breakfast, and is on house arrest till he recovers, barred from all patrols till he’s able to function without an ice pack to his scalp.
His expression contorts briefly in disappointment, before he mutters something incoherently. Walking over to you, he stares at you with a narrowed expression before he leans in—and presses a kiss to your forehead.
You blink rapidly, growing flustered.
“For good luck.” He murmurs. “Since you’re the one leaving earlier this time, I’ll forgive you for forgetting.”
Right, you used to always give him a kiss before you left, till it became a ceremonious habit. He always seemed so undeterred to them, that you assumed he was merely tolerating your teasing by standing as still as a statue.
You never thought he actually waited for them.
Staring at him speechlessly, you find your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. For someone who’s lost his memories, he was strangely hyper-aware of all your previous habits.
“Have a good day, beloved.” He wishes, eyes softening in a cruel, dangerous form of lowering your defences.
Blinking harshly and regaining your senses, you mutter a quick goodbye and leave as quickly as you can. You wish you could tear out the beating organ in your chest that refuses to calm down at his affections.
He is not your Damian and hasn’t been for months. You refuse to fall for him again, not when it meant having your heart broken twice when he wakes from this feverish nightmare and remembers… that he doesn’t love you anymore.
—
Twilight has long settled among the darkened dusky clouds, and your back aches from hunching over your desk for the last couple of hours.
It was a reprieve to be away from Damian, to be sucked into a part of your life where it was constant with your past and present. So much so, you over-did yourself on your workload, starting on more tasks than you were supposed to.
Checking the clock, you wince. Eight p.m.
You were supposed to be home three hours ago. Checking your phone, you’re surprised to find no notifications, asking for updates on your location or the time you’ll reach home. Only to remember you blocked him eight months ago.
You curse, quickly unblocking him. You can only imagine his reaction—of you not coming back home at your usual hour and being unreachable?
Quickly packing your bag, you grab for your coat, stumbling as you tug it on and exit through the revolving doors. One hand haphazardly scrolls through your phone, pressing on his contact, and you’re busy thinking of some flimsy excuse that didn’t involve avoiding his entire existence. Too busy to notice someone approaching you at alarming speed.
The harsh yell of your name, echoed in a deep timbre that could only belong to him, snaps you out of your daze.
You wince, readying yourself before you turn. You expect him to be angry, disappointed. A mirror of the perfect statue you remember in your memories, cold and detached.
You didn’t expect to see him panting, hands on his thighs, hair sticking in all directions, and his eyes—filled with an uncharacteristic panic. Damian Wayne, the epitome of a man carved into a sharpened blade, stands before you as a complete mess.
"You didn't come home." He states, voice barely constrained to be levelled.
"Damian."
"Whatever I have done, forgive me." He exhales, sweat pooling at his forehead, cheeks reddened from running as he lifts himself back up, towering over you. Yet, he has never looked so vulnerable. "I just needed to make sure you were okay."
Damian Wayne never begs, not even when you walked out the door eight months ago.
Yet here he was, one hand coming up to clutch his head, gritting his teeth and trying to conceal his pain. Whatever pretence you held, the cold front you’ve desperately tried to upkeep to distance yourself—completely vanishes as you rush towards him.
“Damian, you’re not supposed to strain your head. Much less run all the way here.” Your stern expression falls short, replaced with worry as your eyes rapidly look him up and down. “It could lead to complications.”
“It felt wrong.”
The crease between your brows deepen. “What felt wrong?”
“Letting you walk away.” He grits. “Seeing you close the door on me. My body exhibited strange symptoms—palpitations, nerves—and somehow, I was convinced if I let you go, you’ll never come back. My head’s been hurting since and I waited. I truly tried.”
"I found notes." He says through the clenching of his jaw. "From the last few months in my phone."
You freeze.
"It contained your routine of how often you water your plants, your favourite recipes, and half-written texts I've never sent." He lists out. "As if I'm afraid I'll forget. Like you weren't there to remind me."
"Just stop. You're hurting yourself." It's hard to see him like this—so unguarded, filled with pain. It's hard to hear his efforts, when neither of you can understand what went through his mind, lost in his scattered memories. "I'll go home with you."
"I can't remember what I've done." Abruptly removing his hand from the back of his head, his fingers come up to caress your cheek. Even distressed, his touch is so soft, so gentle. His eyes search yours, trying to find the answer he seeks. "I don't know if I deserve to ask you to go home. Not when I haven't made it up to you."
"No matter how angry I am, I will never want to see you in pain." You plead. Grabbing onto his fingers, you interlock them with yours and tug him along back to the apartment. "We’re going home."
—
The kitchen counter is filled with your favourite flowers, even when you know he can’t stand the smell of them wilting two days later. An uneaten plate has grown cold on the dining table, evidence of a meal he’s cooked for you.
It's unbearable, because the guilt that drowns your chest, deepens into a painful tug at every controlled breath, pulling at the thought of him waiting for you alone. You drop your bag on the sofa, but the pretense is holding on by a thin thread and when you turn—he's standing there and watching, his gaze locked onto you as if he could look at nothing else.
You haven’t even noticed the tears streaming down your face, but you’re just so tired. Of fighting this obvious battle you were never meant to win.
You still love him. Even if he’s forgotten the fight, and the words he said that tore you apart.
Maybe it's the sight of your tears. He hated it whenever you cried, no matter how bad a fight’s ever gotten—but the distance he maintained out of respect for you vanishes as he moves in an instant, arms wrapping around you. He mutters into your hair, begging. “I’m sorry, hayati. Do not cry because of me.”
“I missed you.” Your voice cracks. “So much. It killed me to be away—but it was what you wanted.”
"Never." His voice lowers, desperate to make you believe, pulling away with his hands still wrapped around you, lowering his head to force you to meet his eyes. "I will never wish for your absence.”
He leans in, forehead pressed against yours. "You are all I could ever want. You're the reason I fought tooth and nail to make it back from that mission. You're what makes sense when everything else crashes. The idiot I was, I rebuke all his decisions because I want you. Now. Forever."
"I don't know if you'll mean it." Your voice comes out hoarse, broken. "When you remember the reason that you pulled away."
"I may have lost my memories." He says sternly. "But I know who I am. That has never changed. Not before, and certainly not now. You’re the only one who’s ever been the keeper to my heart, and it’ll be you till my last breath.”
You want to believe him. So desperately, you want to love him again and not fear that he'll drift away, with the fear of disappointing his father, or letting his never-ending mission break the two of you apart again.
"If losing my memories is what it takes to get you back, I will do it again and more." He says with absolute conviction. "I have never been more sure. This is what I want. You are all I need. So, stay. We'll figure this out together. Even when my memories return."
"Just—don’t leave me." His voice softens, his gaze pooled with a deep-set fear that his body seems to remember, even when his mind is frayed. "I can’t bear it.”
—
His plea follows you into your dreams. This version of him is still hard for your mind to wrap around, that when you wake from a shuffle of movement, it takes you a moment to readjust and recognise your surroundings. Or rather, the arms pulling away from your waist. You force your eyes open, blinking blearily before turning around to face him.
"Dami?" You murmur.
He doesn't answer. Instead, he's looking at you with a sober, dreaded realisation, like—he's woken up from a dream.
It strikes you immediately, the fog in his gaze that has lifted, and you're quick to pull away fully to your side of the bed, the sheets dragging along your legs. "You remember."
"Beloved." His hand reaches out, disbelieving—but it freezes mid-air and pulls back, a quiet guilt filling his gaze. "You're here."
You swallow, pulling your knees under your elbows. "Are you going to kick me out?"
His expression cracks—revealing a cold rage taking over his expression, but it wasn't directed at you. It was for himself.
"No." He answers shortly, disgust creased into the tension between his brows. "I should be the one to leave. I have hurt you, deeply. I took advantage of your kindness while I was unable to recover my memories, and trapped you into being here with me."
His jaw clenches, and he averts his gaze. "I understand if you want to be done with me. Permanently. I will have it all sorted by the morning."
No. That is not what you want. You want him—honest and bearing his heart to you, the way he did earlier. You didn't want kindness, or polite pity, because you still see the man you love under the mask that he's desperately trying to upkeep.
"No." Your voice echoes against the walls, and his gaze snaps to you. "I do not want you to go. I want you to tell me everything. What you were thinking, what you did while I was gone, and what you want from me. I'm not letting you let me go this time, Damian. So, talk."
He inhales, and even as his fists dig into the sheets, there is a quiet, trembling hope you find when his eyes soften, tracing over your features like he's finally able to breathe with you in his vision.
"I lost sight." He speaks, his voice weaker than you've ever heard it. "Of what truly mattered. The mission, the fights with Father—it consumed me as a never-ending battle to prove myself. With every failure, it escaped as a lash, a punishment that slowly began to trick my mind into thinking that I did not deserve life's blessings. That I did not deserve you."
"I thought you were better off without a partner who always came back needing stitches, bleeding across the floorboards." His gaze darkens, and somewhere in him, he sounds as if he still believes it. "That you deserved someone who was stable, warm, kind. Who knew how to use his words instead of wielding them like a dagger. Who could hold your heart without being so afraid of breaking it."
"I was so sure of it." He mocks, a cold dagger dragging over the open wound of his regret. "I made the decision for us without asking."
"I regretted it." He says quickly, gaze flickering with a sudden intensity. "Immediately. On the first sleepless night, when I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the side you always occupied. When the plants started to wilt as if they couldn't bear anyone's hands but yours. When I made two coffees in the morning and had to drain it in the sink."
"I had reserved a space in each part of my life unknowingly, for you." He admits. "When I lost you, I felt it—this unbearable loss—and I knew I’ve made it impossible to live without you.”
"But you did." You mutter. "For eight months."
"Living?" He smiles wryly, and not a hint of it reaches his soulless gaze. "I knew that I had hurt you, and I would’ve been an even more selfish bastard if I asked you to forgive me. But I was not living.”
“I carried on in the only way I knew how before meeting you. By surviving—barely. I grew reckless. Impulsive. Threw myself into mission after mission. By the time I realised how far gone I was, I was bleeding out in an alleyway and Dick was dragging me to the hospital."
You could only let silence answer for you. His honesty, which was all you ever wished for, was simultaneously so much to bear.
"Did you mean what you said earlier?” You ask quietly.
"Every single word." His fingers twitch, a slight tremor he tries to hide by digging deeper into the sheets. "You are all I want. There wasn't a day since you left that I haven't regretted letting you go. I may have survived, but the clock on my life stopped till you came back into it."
A lock that's been trapped in that hollow cavity in your chest, weighing you down since the first time you saw him in the hospital, and maybe even before then—finally breaks. Your hands come up to shield the pain you’ve desperately tried to hide, tears running down to no avail.
Whatever semblance of dignity he was trying to uphold, it completely shatters as he reaches for you, pulling you into his arms. He lets out a deep exhale, hands rubbing against your back, comforting and warm.
"I am sorry I hurt you." He mutters into the crown of your head. "I am sorry I've been a fool. No apologies can make up for what I've done to us—only that I regret every moment I wasted, and that it took me this long to tell you what you deserved to hear."
"I don't want you to go away, Damian." It’s the most genuine plea you’ve ever asked of him, bearing your heart so deeply that it terrifies you of its vulnerability. "Don't disappear on me again. Don’t shut me out. I hated not being able to read you, and feeling like I was isolated in what was meant to be a partnership between the two of us."
He shakes his head wordlessly, pulling away slightly to lower his gaze, meeting yours and there’s a raw desperation in the green of his eyes. “I will never leave. Not as long as you’ll have me—I will spend the rest of my life forging myself to be the man you deserve. I will communicate. I will apologise. I will do anything you want, hayati.”
“You have a lot to make up for.” You remind him.
“As long as you’ll give me the time.” He answers. “I will not waste a moment more.”
“I want grovelling.” You go on. “Like—on your knees grovelling.”
“I can do it now.” His response is quicker than sound, and he’s already ready to obey your every command.
“I want you to tell me when you feel something is wrong. When you feel you’re not enough, you have to say it.” You demand.
“Yes, my love.” He answers, a soft nod brushing against your forehead.
“I want you to call the hospital now, because we need to get a scan to make sure everything’s okay.”
His expression falters—a brief hesitation at the thought of the pushy doctor and his accompanying nurse.
“Damian.”
He flinches at the sound of his birth name, stressed in that particular tone that signals you're not joking about your conditions if he wanted to be with you again. Not even his hatred for hospitals will risk him even the slightest chance of losing you.
With or without his memories, he had always known that you're the peace in his life that he thought he didn't deserve, but cherished so deeply that he finds no meaning in the word if it weren't for you.
“I will call the hospital immediately, Beloved.”
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