welcome to my blog! you can call me nara, as in yoshimoto nara (my pfp). i am twenty years old and reviving my passion for writing. this will be a writing blog for all things fiction!
some of the fandoms i will be writing for is anime characters, marvel universe, dc universe (mainly batfam), and any other things that pique my interest.
i only write SFW pieces and will NOT be writing NSFW unless stated otherwise (i will not write full smut). my forte is mainly angst. as of right now, i will only be writing about male characters and all of my work will be in fem or gn format. i also want to stray away from using y/n unless the story calls for it. there will be disclaimers (if needed) if youâre uncomfortable/unsure about reading! i want to stay as physically neutral as possible.
i will write upon requests so please don't be afraid to request something! if i am uncomfortable writing about a specific thing that was asked, i will be public about my feelings for writing that specific piece.
thank you all for spending the time to read my about me! if you have any questions or want to talk i am all ears! i hope to interact with you soon! xoxo nara <3
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ê° ćȘèĄć»»æŠ ê± âș satoruâs not a morning person sfw.
gojĆ x fem! reader. set in canon!! bittersweet fluff.
satoru is not a morning person. never has been. never will be. he hates waking up for missions at ungodly hours; he hates ijichi for punctually picking him up for them, and he especially hates the higher-ups for scheduling them in the first place. but most of all, he abhors mornings because he has to part from you.
predawn light filters through the blinds, painting stripes across the tangled sheets and the curve of your shoulder. he lies perfectly still, counting the seconds between your soft exhales, despite knowing that itâs time for him to rise like the sun and begin his day.Â
it takes a great deal of strength for him to commence the agonizing process of pulling himself from your grasp. he eases his arm from beneath your neck â the limb having gone numb ages ago, but heâd let his entire arm fall off if it meant you got to have ten more minutes of uninterrupted sleep. your arm tightens around his waist and a sleepy sound of protest falls from your lips, muffled against his skin. he freezes, entire body coiled with tension, and listens to the rhythm of your breathing. a wave of relief washes over him when you remain sound asleep. Â
satoru leans down, lips brushing against the baby hairs at your temple, and presses a kiss to your forehead. a silent apology, a promise he knows he canât keep, a final taste of heaven before heâs dragged back to hell. and then, he resumes the truly arduous process of untangling his body, heart, and soul from yours.
heâs almost free, about to shift further towards his side of the bed, when your hand touches his bicep. your fingers ghost over his skin, sending a shiver through him. at times like these he wishes those fossils would send literally anyone else. heâs not built for this.
âgo back to sleep,â you murmur, cadence thick with sleep as you stifle a yawn. and gods, does he want to. he wants to call the higher-ups and tell them to fuck all the way off because the strongest sorcerer of the modern era is taking an âi want to stay wrapped up in bed with my girlfriendâ day. he wants to bury his face in the crook of your neck and forget the jujutsu world exists. but he canât.
âiâd love to but duty calls, sweetheart,â he says softly, catching your hand as you reach for his cheek, and pressing a kiss to your pulse
you hum discontentedly as your eyes flutter open properly. though theyâre still hazy with dreams, they still manage to find the outline of him in the gloom, âmmh what time is it ?â
he shifts, trying to block your view of the nightstand with his body. but his efforts are futile. youâre already propping yourself up on your elbow, the sheets pooling around your waist, and glancing over his silhouette. the crimson numbers on your alarm clock blink: 6:34 a.m. it wouldnât bother you so much if satoru hadnât stumbled into your bed at half past four. your frown deepens, lines forming between your brows that he so desperately wants to smooth away.
âyou only got two hours of sleep, âtoru,â you sigh. the discontent look on your face makes him want to kill every single one of the higher-ups with his bare hands. slowly. he wants to feel their bones break beneath his fingers, just to see you smile properly again. they already think his technique is limitless, no pun intended, but they truly have no idea. they have no concept of the lengths heâll go to, the atrocities heâd commit, just to erase that expression from your face.
âaww, look at you worryinâ about me,â he coos, ârelax, ijichi drives like a grandma, iâll take a nap in the carâ he tries so, so hard to mask the exhaustion that clings to him like a second skin. but you see right through him. you always do. you see the tell-tale twitch in his jaw, the faint shadows beneath his eyes. the strain in the curve of his smile.
âour bedâs a lot more comfortable than a leather seat,â you frown as you sink back into the mattress âyour âdutiesâ can wait for an hour.â
for a moment, he wavers. he imagines settling against his pillow, pulling you back into his arms, and letting the jujutsu world wait for sixty minutes. he can see the desperate hope that heâll choose you â just this once â flickering in your eyes, and it kills him that he canât.
âas tempting as that sounds. . .yâknow i canât,â he murmurs, rolling over to lay on his stomach, shoulders bowed with regret he so rarely allows himself to feel. he leans over, resting his forehead against yours and closing his eyes. wallowing in your warmth for a while.
âyou can actually, tell yaga youâre sick or something,â you plead, your hand coming up to cup the back of his neck, fingers brushing over his undercut. âtoru, please.â ( youâre not just asking for an extra hour of sleep. youâre asking for normalcy, a life he can never give you. )
âahh but i already used that excuse last weekâ he sighs, pressing one last kiss to your forehead. he finally untangles his body from yours and forces himself to turn his back to you. he doesnât turn around again. he canât. because he knows that the moment he looks at you, his heart and soul will tell him to stay and let the jujutsu world fend for itself. heaven knows heâd love to. he might. heâs a very weak man when it comes to you. but heâs also, unfortunately, the strongest
â IZUKU COMING HOME TO HIS SLEEPING WIFE AND SON
notes: i hope this injects some dopamine directly into your brain cells. loves, reblogs, and soft screams in the inbox are appreciated!! đ„°
warnings: absolutely none. zero. pure unadulterated tooth-rotting fluff. local hero is devastatingly in love with his family, more at 11. casual mentions of paperwork and exhaustion but thatâs literally it.
The key turned in the lock with a soft, metallic click that sounded way too loud in the quiet of the apartment.
Izuku slipped inside, shoulders dropping the absolute second the door closed behind him. It had been a long day. The kind of day where your bones feel heavy and your mind is just a blur of paperwork, patrol routes, and trying to explain to a rookie why you can't just smash through a building to catch a petty thief.
He kicked off his boots, sighing as he padded into the hallway in his socks. The apartment was dark, save for the faint, warm amber glow of the kitchen nightlight and a sliver of light escaping from the cracked living room door.
He followed the light. Obviously. Because heâs a moth to the flame when it comes to his family.
Izuku pushed the door open an extra inch, and his heart just⊠melted. Completely liquefied. There was nothing left but mush.
There, sprawled out on the couch under a giant, fluffy All Might throw blanket (a housewarming gift from All Might himself that Izuku will defend with his life), were you and your four-year-old son, Haru.
Haru was completely dead to the world, face pressed right into your side, one chubby little hand gripping the front of your shirt like he was holding on for dear life. He had inherited his dadâs unruly curls, which were currently sticking up in every single direction imaginable. And you were slumped against the arm of the couch, one arm wrapped securely around Haruâs waist, your breathing slow and even. A half-finished book was resting dangerously close to slipping off your lap onto the floor.
Izuku just stood there for a solid minute, a soft, ridiculous smile spreading across his face. He rubbed the back of his neck, his thumb brushing against his collarbone, just taking it in. This is mine, he thought, and the sheer weight of how lucky he was hit him all over again.
He stepped into the room, making sure his footsteps were completely silentâa skill that usually served him well during stealth missions, but was currently being deployed solely to not wake up his sleeping treasures.
He knelt beside the couch, carefully picking up the book from your lap and placing it on the coffee table. Then, he leaned in.
First, a tiny, feather-light kiss to Haruâs forehead, right between his messy curls. Haru let out a tiny, soft sigh, his little nose twitching, but he didnât wake up. He just shuffled closer to you.
Then, Izuku shifted his gaze to you. He reached out, his calloused, scarred fingers being incredibly gentle as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His thumb lingered on your cheekbone, smoothing over your skin.
"Hey," he whispered, so quietly it was barely a breath.
Your eyelashes fluttered, and you blinked sleepily, the ambient light catching the haze in your eyes. It took you a second to register him, but when you did, your lips curved into that soft, sleepy smile that always made Izukuâs chest ache in the best way.
"Mmh⊠'Zuku," you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep. You tried to shift to give him space, but Haru let out a tiny whine, tightening his grip on your shirt.
"Don't move, don't move, it's okay," Izuku quickly whispered, placing a hand on your shoulder to keep you still. "Stay comfortable. I've got you."
He leaned down and kissed you properlyâsoft, slow, and lingering, tasting like home and warmth. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours for a second, just breathing you in. The scent of your laundry detergent and the faint smell of the tea youâd probably had earlier completely washed away the lingering stress of his day.
"You're late," you murmured, your eyes already half-closed again.
"I know. I'm sorry, sweetheart. Reports took longer than expected," he said, his voice a low, soothing rumble. He ran his hand down your arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Go back to sleep."
"Come to bed soon?"
"In a few minutes. I'm just gonna change."
He kissed the tip of your nose, making you huff a little laugh, before he carefully pulled the All Might blanket up a little higher, tucking it securely around both you and Haru.
Izuku stood up, looking down at his wife and his son, completely at peace. He might be the Number One Hero to the rest of the world, but standing in his quiet living room, looking at the two people who held his entire universe in their hands?
synopsis:: you and Bakugo were never close in school. just classmates who ended up in the same friend group by accident and stayed there out of habit. eight years later he's one of the top heroes with a mouth on him and you're the unbothered ex-classmate who somehow still doesn't know he's been in love with you since UA. His friends know. His mom knows. Everyone knows. You do not. This is Bakugo's guideâ written badly on the back of a receipt at 2amâ to finally doing something about it.
yellow and pink divs edited by me. base here if you'd like to make your own ⥠layout inspired by my goat @6x-x9
You were never the loud one in the friend group. That was never your job. Kirishima was loud. Bakugo was louder. You were the one who sat back and watched everyone lose their minds over something small and just â didn't. Calm under pressure. Unshakeable in a way that used to annoy Bakugo in high school and now just makes him feel like he's losing a fight he never agreed to start.
Eight years out of UA and somehow you're still around. Still in the group chat. Still showing up to Kirishima's birthday parties and Sero's terrible karaoke nights. Still completely unaware that Katsuki Bakugo â the number five hero, walking explosion, a man who has never once backed down from anything in his life â has been quietly losing his mind over you since roughly your second year of school.
Everyone else figured it out years ago. Kirishima figured it out first, mostly because Bakugo made the mistake of getting drunk at his own agency's holiday party and saying your name four times in one sentence. Mina figured it out next. Even Todoroki figured it out, which says a lot, because Todoroki barely notices when buildings are on fire.
You did not figure it out. You are, according to every single person in that group chat, the last person on earth who has no idea.
So one night Bakugo sat down with a receipt from a ramen place and a pen that was almost out of ink and wrote himself a list. Not because he needed help â he would tell you he did not need help â but because eight years of doing nothing had clearly not worked and something had to change.
Here's what he came up with.
Rule #1: Don't call her pretty. That's weak. She'll see right through it.
You've been called pretty before. Plenty of times. It rolls off you like water because it means nothing coming from strangers. So the first time Bakugo actually looks at you â really looks, across a table at a group dinner while everyone else is arguing about something stupid â he doesn't say pretty. He says your hair looks stupid pushed back like that and it takes you a full three seconds to realize that's the nicest thing he's said to anyone all night.Kirishima kicks him under the table. Bakugo kicks back harder.
Rule #2: Don't let her see you get soft. Save that for when nobody's watching
You broke your wrist on a mission six months ago and Bakugo showed up at the hospital before your own agency finished the paperwork. He didn't say much. He sat in the corner with his arms crossed and glared at every nurse who walked past like they'd personally wronged him. You thanked him for coming. He said he was in the area. He was not in the area. He is never in your area.
Rule #3: If she teases you don't react. Reacting means she wins.
You have exactly one move against Bakugo and it works every time. You call him Kacchan in that flat unbothered voice of yours, the one that makes it sound like an insult and a joke at once, and he goes red before he can stop it. He tells you to shut up. You don't. He never actually wants you to.
Rule #4: Don't stare. Staring is for losers who can't say what they mean.
He stares anyway. Across bars. Across meeting rooms when your agencies do joint operations. Across the space between his couch and yours when the whole group crashes at his place after a night out and you fall asleep first, curled up small and unbothered like the world isn't currently on fire somewhere. He tells himself he's just checking you're breathing. He checks for a very long time.
Rule #5: If she steals your jacket let her keep it. Don't be a bitch about it.
It was cold outside a bar in October and you didn't bring one. He took his off without being asked and put it around your shoulders before you could even shiver a second time. You tried to give it back at the end of the night. He told you to keep it, said something about not needing two jackets anyway, which made no sense, and walked off before you could argue. You still have it. He knows you still have it. Neither of you has ever mentioned it again.
Rule #6: Don't get jealous. Jealous is for weak men.
A guy from a rival agency spent an entire mixer talking to you last spring and Bakugo spent that same mixer setting three separate small fires with his quirk completely by accident, according to him. Kirishima said it wasn't an accident. Bakugo told Kirishima to shut the hell up in front of everyone, which everyone agreed was extremely on brand and extremely obvious.
Rule #7: If she's tired let her sleep on your shoulder. Don't make it weird.
You fell asleep on the train back from a joint mission once, head tipping slowly toward his shoulder like gravity had made a decision without asking you. He went completely still. Didn't move for forty minutes. Told everyone later he just didn't want to wake you up. That was true. It was also not the whole truth.
Rule #8: Compete with her. Don't let her win just because you like her. That's pathetic.
You beat him at darts once, at a bar, fair and square, and he demanded a rematch on the spot. You beat him again. He demanded a third round. By the fourth round he wasn't even trying to win anymore, just trying to make you laugh at his increasingly unhinged trash talk, and you were laughing too hard to notice you'd stopped keeping score.
Rule #9: Play it cool when she touches you. Don't be obvious.
You have a habit of grabbing his arm when you laugh too hard at something, quick and unthinking, gone in half a second. It means nothing to you. It means everything to him. He has thought about that half-second more times than he'd ever admit under torture.
Rule #10: If she's cold under the table don't offer your legs. That's insane. Nobody does that.
He does it anyway. It's a slow dinner, everyone's talking over each other, and your foot brushes his under the table by accident. You don't move it. Neither does he. What starts as an accident turns into something else entirely â your foot pressed lightly against his shin, his ankle hooked loosely around yours, both of you carrying on two separate conversations with the rest of the table like nothing is happening below it. He nearly chokes on his drink when your foot slides slow up his calf, just once, just to see what he'll do.
He does absolutely nothing. Which is how you know it worked.
Rule #11: Don't ask about her ex. That's weak and clingy behavior.
He asks anyway, once, badly, wrapped inside a completely unrelated sentence about something else entirely so it wouldn't sound like what it was. You answered honestly and briefly and didn't ask why he wanted to know. He spent the rest of that night in a genuinely foul mood that had nothing to do with the mission report he'd claimed was bothering him.
Rule #12: If she gets sick you're not worried. You're just making sure she doesn't die. There's a difference.
You caught something nasty last winter and didn't tell anyone because you hate being fussed over. Bakugo found out from Kirishima and showed up at your apartment within the hour with a bag of groceries he refused to let you see the receipt for. He made soup badly. He stayed anyway sitting stiffly on your couch like he'd rather be anywhere else until you fell asleep on his shoulder for the second time in your life. He didn't move again. This time you were awake enough at the end to notice and you didn't say anything either.
Rule #13: Don't remember small stuff about her. That's obsessive.
He remembers everything. Your coffee order. The exact way you take your eggs. The name of the street you grew up on mentioned once years ago in passing. He tells himself it's just a good memory. Kirishima tells him that's not what a good memory looks like for anyone else in the friend group.
Rule #14: Don't get quiet around her. Quiet means she'll know something's wrong.
He gets quiet anyway sometimes when it's just the two of you left at the end of a group hangout and everyone else has gone home. You've noticed. You've never asked. You've started noticing you kind of like the quiet too.
Rule #15: If she insults your cooking don't take it personal.
You told him once that his katsudon tasted like it was made out of spite. He told you to make it yourself then. You did. It was worse than his. He has never let you live that down and somehow still makes you a plate every single time you come over unasked like it's not a big deal.
Rule #16: Don't let her see the soft stuff. Like the notebook. She can never see the notebook.
There is in fact a notebook. Bakugo would deny this to his last breath. It is not a diary. It is a training log that occasionally accidentally includes things like *she laughed at something dumb I said today* written in the margins in handwriting too small for anyone to notice. Nobody has ever seen it. It stays that way.
Rule #17: Don't dance with her at Mina's stupid parties. Dancing is for saps.
He dances with you exactly once badly at Mina's birthday both of you a little drunk and laughing about how neither of you knows what you're doing. His hand sits low on your waist the entire song. Yours rests flat against his chest close enough to feel his heart going faster than the song's tempo would explain. Neither of you comments on it. Both of you notice.
Rule #18: If she calls you at 2am for no reason answer immediately. Don't overthink it.
You called once at 2am half-asleep just to complain about a case that was bothering you and needed someone to talk it out with. He picked up on the first ring even though he'd been dead asleep three seconds earlier. Talked you through it for forty minutes in a voice rougher than usual low and half-awake until you finally calmed down enough to sleep. Neither of you brought it up the next day. You both remembered it anyway.
Rule #19: Tell her the truth eventually. Stalling makes you look like a coward.
He almost doesn't. Eight years of almost. Eight years of jackets and soup and 2am phone calls and a notebook nobody's supposed to see all adding up to exactly nothing because Katsuki Bakugo â who has never once in his life backed down from a fight â has apparently decided this is the one fight not worth having.
Kirishima finally sits him down and tells him flatly that watching this has become genuinely embarrassing for everyone involved. That you deserve to actually know. That you're not going to figure it out on your own because you're the single most unbothered person either of them has ever met and unbothered people don't go looking for things they've never been told to look for.
Rule #20: Ask her out. Just say it. Stop being a coward about it
He shows up at your apartment on a random Tuesday with no plan and no speech prepared which is unlike him in every possible way. You open the door in an old shirt and no makeup unbothered as always and ask what's wrong like something must be wrong for him to be standing there.
"Nothing's wrong," he says and immediately looks like he regrets starting that way. "I just â " He stops. Starts again. "You're coming to dinner with me Friday. Not the group. Just you and me."
You blink at him. For the first time in eight years something in your carefully composed face actually slips just a fraction just enough for him to see it happen in real time.
"Is this a date Bakugo?"
"Obviously it's a date," he says too loud the way he gets when he's covering for something. "What else would it be. Are you always this slow or is it just with me?"
You don't answer right away. You just look at him for a long moment the unbothered mask cracking wider by the second and something like a smile starts pulling at the corner of your mouth.
"Friday," you say. "Pick me up at seven. And Katsukiâ"
"What."
"Wear the jacket back. I've had it long enough."
He goes red for the second time in eight years. Somewhere across town Kirishima's phone buzzes with a single text that just says *finally* and nothing else and every single person in that group chat already knows exactly what it means before he explains a word of it.
In sickness and in health, Geto Suguru has promised, while tying your lives together. And thus, when death looms over his dearest wife, he's ready to trick it.
ËáŻœ ĘË pairing: ê° Geto Suguru x Reader ê±
ËáŻœ ĘË content & warnings: ê° Inspired by the "Hamnet" movie and this one fuckass scene :: set in 17th century :: marriage :: fluff : HEAVY angst :: devotion :: sacrifice :: character's death :: family :: domestic life ê±
ËáŻœ ĘË words: 3k
ËáŻœ ĘË notes: I do recommend reading it while listening to this song.
Suguru Geto has long forgotten the times when he didn't love you.
As he loved you always.
In the morning and afternoon. Springs, summers, and autumns, when the leaves turned yellow and clung to the cold windows of your cottage.
In the restless winter night, with your body close nuzzled into his, the biting wind seeping through the loose window shells.
He has loved you ever since you poured cold water on his yearning face one summer morning while he waited beneath your cottage. Dressed in his best creamy shirt, holding a bouquet of wildflowers tightly in his hand, with long hair flowing down his straight back.
A poet from a nearby village, seeing you every single day.
Seeing, as if solely from afar, inaccessible, rather wickedly beseeching, as he couldn't even truly touch you. Or talk to you, cherish the flowery scent carried on your skin.
He was neither rich nor poor, yet his heart was swollen with wickedness, cherishing a tenderness that seeped through his marrow. A feeling of the most cursed towards the only woman who hated him dearly.
A teacher, a witch, who'd rather spend her days schooling young birdies in magic and the tricks of nature than seek a husband!
A disgrace, truly, yet what could her poor folks do, since she didn't wish to marry any handsome gentleman from their village? How could they force their dearest daughter to marry any commoner, when none of them was worthy of her beauty?
And yet, Suguru Geto offered himself.
But for a reason that truly baffled everyone, you seemed to detest him. Cursing and turning your back on his kind of flirt whenever he tried to talk to you. Again and again, every single day, only to be met with a bucket of cold water you poured on him from your window or a dirty sponge you shot at him through the door of your classroom.
The kids giggled, seeing their beautiful teacher utterly furious at the handsome poet, who seemed bewitched by the gentle wrinkle that bent her forehead. But the way her eyes rolled and shot daggers as he waited and waited under her classroom, trying to take a single glance at the softness that bent her lips.
"He's just a silly poet. How could I ever take him seriously?" you muttered once during a conversation with your mother.
She glanced out the window of your cottage, seeing his dark locks glisten beneath the sizzling burns of the afternoon sun.
"But his heart seems kind." Her eyes turned back to look at your sweet yet tired face. "You deserve kindness."
"Kindness won't feed us," you muttered quietly, as you raised your gaze for a second.
Only to steal a glimpse of a man who didn't wish to leave you alone. Of his lavender eyes staring somewhere above the rolling hills of your village, fingers idling with a tall glass, bowing beneath the gentle, warm wind. His long hair, tied in a small bun at the top, shining like silk, as if threaded from the richest fabrics you've only read of in tales.
He's been haunting you for weeks now.
From the moment your paths crossed in the village next door, where you walked through the stalls and he sat leisurely in the local tavern, with papers and inks filling his bag. With lavender eyes that somehow caught your gaze, soft, with laughter from the past still twinkling behind your irises, before you quickly turned away.
He'd never packed up quicker, stuffing his bag without a care for his rather expensive things, before leaving the tavern in a hurry. To catch the last glimpse of an angel whose eyes had kissed his cheeks, before she would disappear forever.
He followed you all the way back to your village, eyeing the little footprints your feet left on the sand, the flowery scent clinging to your body and swirling in the air. As if showing him the way to the woman who seemed to bewitch his mind, body and soul with nothing but a single look into the poet's eyes.
And as he arrived beneath your cottage, a muffled, rather angry scoff escaped your lips. Seeing a strange man who seemed to walk behind you, in silence and holding his breath, all this time.
"What are you doing here?" Your brows furrowed, wild hair sticking softly to the warm cheeks. "How dare you follow me like a madman?"
But Suguru⊠Suguru couldn't even catch his breath.
Oh, how damned he already was, upon sensing his heart fall into the agonising clutches of a feeling so wicked!
"Iâ" The words could barely slip past his tightened throat. Almond-shaped eyes, oogling your face, twisted in wrath yet still looking utterly lovely. "I just thought you were beautiful."
You scoffed again, forcing another squeeze of his heart. "Leave. We're done here."
His fists clenched as he saw your body already turning towards the cottage. "Wait! Can you⊠do you wish to go out with me?"
Looking over your shoulder, you eyed his figure. Fingers painted black, a white shirt clinging neatly to his well-built back. Black trousers, rather simple, threaded here and there as if he had seen thread and needle too many times.
A poet.
A man of heavy words yet light pouch.
Someone you shouldn't even look at, even if you were an outcast yourself.
A witch, a weird lady who spent too much time in the woods, talking to trees, grasses, and animals, while teaching apothecary to local children.
Someone whom normal men avoided crossing paths with, as if in fear of even associating with a woman of your sort.
Utterly beautiful, yet of a wicked cheek.
"No," wasn't enough to force him away.
As it seemed, Suguru Geto was foolish enough to even beg and wait for a single glimpse of the softness that beamed from your eyes in the early mornings, just before your gaze caught his figure lingering beneath your windows.
He visited you every day, following you from sunrise until moonlight spilt its kisses on your lovely face. He sat beneath the window of your little classroom, a small house built on a hill, and scribbled his own poems. With a little ink he had brought from home, his forehead beading with sweat as he listened to your classes.
To the lovely voice that carried through the lush plains of the rolling hills, seeping into the creeks that ran past the scattered huts. The peaceful, almost idyllic view stretched before his eyes each day, yet he still seemed utterly lost in the softness of your hands on his skin.
After long weeks of tiresome begging, you've finally agreed.
Catching him once again asleep in the tall grasses by your classroom, a golden spill of sunshine casting a peaceful look on his handsome face.
And so, carried by an unknown, wicked feeling, you squatted next to him, with the edges of your dress brushing his body and your fingers reaching to push away a single raven lock stuck to his forehead.
Lavender eyes slowly opened, as if doubting whether the petal touch was real or just a projection of his lovestruck mind.
"I agree," you said, a soft sigh pushed past your lips. "One meeting."
He nodded, quickly, eagerly, already rising to his feet. "Just one."
"And if I still dislike you, that shall be it."
He didn't nod this time, and so you pinched his cheek gently. "Say it."
He chuckled, nuzzling into your softness. "And if you do not like me, I shall leave you alone."
Yet, as it soon would turn out â hating him was rather impossible.
After a year, you already gave birth to your first child.
Oh well, a woman in love can be quite wicked, but a man? Dear heavens. As soon as you agreed to his pleading to become his wife, Suguru Geto didn't hesitate to ensnare you with his deceitful feelings.
And you, utterly captivated by a foolish poet who sang of his beloved's sweetest smiles, couldn't deny the burning fire deep within you. The sensation of his skin against yours in the most intimate manner stirred your desire. To cherish him and be cherished in whispers, touches, and moans that escaped your lips as you hid atop your cottage roof while your parents were absent.
When he promised you forever, during the wedding vows, you knew he meant it.
Suguru Geto's life began only after meeting you. Everything that happened during the past twenty-five years of his life seemed to be nothing but a bleak, barren nothingness that filled his wretched soul.
Soon after the wedding, you moved to another cottage. Small and lovely, where your first child was born. A girl with the sweetest cheeks and rich, lavender eyes that mirrored the kindness your husband had shown.
His precious little daughter.
"And my precious, beautiful wife," he always added, while kissing both of your foreheads. "The lights of my life."
You would giggle before wrapping your arms around his back and drawing him into a longer kiss. You stood in the middle of your little, simple cottage, with candles scattered across the shelves and his ink-stained fingers smudged on your cheeks.
"Aren't you a flirt?" A sweet laugh spilt from his throat as he stole another kiss.
And another, another, another, which forced you to tumble onto the soft bed. The fog clung to the windows; the candles' warmth cast shadows over his handsome cheeks, hair spilling over his shoulders.
Your breath hitched as his lips wrapped around the sensitive point beneath your neck.
"You play a dangerous game," fell quietly, and he chuckled.
"And why is that, my dearest wife?"
His lavender eyes met yours. Love and fondness merged as he brushed away a few strands of hair that had fallen over your forehead.
"Because I may ask you for another baby."
He raised his eyebrows before curving them into a soft scowl. "You don't have to ask me twice for anything, my love. And especially for this particular thing."
And so, oh well.
Another year had passed, and you gave birth once again.
This time, to the sweetest boy, with the cheekiness of yours bubbling in his eyes and a big heart always yearning for his mother.
The life you had was almost idyllic, as if brought straight from one of the tales you always read to your kids. A life of profound serenity, filled with overwhelming love that spilt past your husband's fingers.
He seemed to carry your whole family, and even though he soon started travelling a lot â for he wished to chase his playwright dreams â there was never a time when you felt anything but taken care of.
Suguru wished it stayed that way.
A picture of you, humming the loveliest melody to your two children, strolling through the long plains of wildflowers as the sun kissed your cheeks. The picture that seemed to be stuck in his mind, the one he repeated over and over again as he went off to the big cities to earn a few more pennies.
Whenever the horse took longer than it should, or the carriage rolled over the bumps and mounds, he thought of you. Of the view that would welcome him home.
Of his children growing up healthy and his wife staying the wicked witch she always had been. Filling their kitchen with herbs of sorts unknown to him, yet carrying a special healing might. He would think of the lavender fragrance filling the kitchen and the mint bubbling on the stove. Of the cinnamon, ginger and cloves that, during the winter, carried all four of you through the freezing bites.
Your hands had healing power, your mind stayed sharp and kind, always aware of what to do in case of a sudden crisis, be it your daughter's sudden cold or your son's scratched knee.
Sometimes it was Suguru himself, lying beneath the heavy pillows and blankets, as if already half on the other side. At times like this, he would, in a rather melodramatic way, recite poems about the approaching end and stretch his hand towards you, as if mimicking death.
The children would always laugh sweetly, seeing their father utterly lost in his need to catch a glimpse of their mother's attention. Because they knew, oh, of course they knew, that love was hidden in their mother's purest smile and in the way their father seemed to live solely to hear her sweet laughter.
They saw the way their father looked into their mother's kind eyes. With affection difficult to describe, they only began to understand its true heaviness after they reached the age of six.
They knew that no one loved their mother as much as he did. No matter how often Suguru kissed their plump cheeks, it was with only half the devotion he showed their mother. He loved them, of course he did! For it was simply impossible for any other child to be loved by their father as much as Suguru loved his.
And yet, both of them knew that whatever it was between their parents felt most sacred.
Thus, when their mother fell heavily sick, it seeped through every soul living beneath their warm roof.
It happened one day, as you collapsed in the garden. Suddenly, falling straight into your slowly growing herbs, before the panicked children called for their father with tears swirling in their eyes.
He brought you back home with trembling hands, quickly lying you down on your bed by the fireplace. To let the flame give a bit of warmth to your cheeks, as he saw the life slowly slipping away, with sweat beading on your forehead.
The doctors said it's a simple cold. Nothing serious.
But the days were passing, and it seemed you were getting worse. Barely able to eat even the lightest food, turning from side to side beneath the heavy covers.
The fever clung to your forehead no matter how many times Suguru tried to fight it. He placed cold compresses on your forehead and kissed your temple. As if it could heal whatever sickness was plaguing your poor body.
He saw you grow weaker day by day. Sometimes, the strength would return to your body, only to leave it completely before you could walk to the front door.
Sometimes you laughed with your children, only to start coughing blood a minute later.
Suguru was slowly losing his mind, spiralling into madness, as he called for every doctor available in the village. Yet no one knew what sickness was holding onto his wife's dearest life.
He would lie by your side every single night, just to listen to your whistling breath. Watch the way your lips fell open and your chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. He would stay all night, just to make sure it wouldn't be the last.
Hand plastered to your cheek, though you could barely register his touch. His voice, soft, almost teary, sounded muffled within your sickness-spiked mind.
He prayed. Long and as never before, clinging to your body, just to feel the warmth of your breath on your skin.
He prayed for death to take him instead, to leave his dearest wife alone, as he was ready to bear all the pain she needed to endure.
He prayed in a pitiful voice that sliced his children's hearts as they saw their father in such a wretched state. And so they gave him time to grieve, alone, watching their mother's soul slowly wither away.
But then⊠then another night came.
Much worse than any other. As Suguru could barely feel your puffs on his fingers. A shallow, almost invisible breath slipped past your lips, and the smell of death swirled in the room. Fogging the windows, seeping with sickness and stealth, as Suguru felt the grim reaper's clutches slowly wrap around your body.
He could see it in the dim corner of the bedroom, staring at your sweat-beaded forehead.
"No," he mumbled, covering you both with a heavy blanket. "I won't let it take you away."
And so he did something foolish.
Beneath the veil of darkness, with material tightly covering your bodies, he changed your positions. Slowly, so death could not notice your body moving to the other side.
A soft cough escaped your throat, and your eyes opened for a moment, seeing your husband's gentle smile.
"Suguru," you muttered. "Iâ"
"Shh," he whispered, brushing your cheek. "It's okay, darling. It won't hurt any more. It's okay."
And because your husband he was â you believed him. Falling back into the light dream, where the world spun around nothing but the gentle, caring voice of your dearest one.
"I give you my life," Suguru whispered, yet it seemed you were long gone. "I give you my life, darling. For I cannot live in a world without your warmth." His thumb brushed the softness of your skin. "For I love our children so much, and yet my wretched heart forbids me to live without you by my side. You are much kinder than I am, darling, and shall take care of them for both of us."
As if losing you would damn him and nothing but the embrace of death itself would ever heal his woeful soul.
It was too dark to see anything, yet beneath the heavy blanket, Suguru could feel a slight warmth returning to your fallen lips. He smiled, sensing a fogginess creeping into his mind. The clutches cold and dreary, seeping through the marrow.
"I give you my life," he repeated, the heaviness pressing on his eyelids. "Be brave. Be kind. And please, don't ever stop laughing. For I'll be watching over you all and make sure none of you joins my side any time soon. I will love you, always, and I shall exist only in a world with two of us."
"For we are of one soul and one heart, thus no hills nor seas and mountains shall ever keep us apart."
And his children, listening to their father's crying whispers, knew that a man in love is truly of a wicked kind.
He was the one who deceived death to grant you a new life.
đ đđ§đ«đ: angst. slight fluff. eventual smut. dark content
đđđ đŹ/đ°đđ«đ§đąđ§đ đŹ: clan head gojo! x reader. heavy nsfw themes. arranged marriage, toxic family/clan dynamics, childhood isolation, misogyny, discussion/implied instances of sexual coercion, reproductive coercion, forced pregnancy themes, abusive relationships, manipulation, physical and emotional abuse, violence/blood, possessiveness, canon-divergent jujutsu society au, gojo isnât a giant pos for once yay, and eventual explicit sexual content.
summary: for my girls who don't know how to accept being spoiled by themselves or others. dick grayson's ur bf who is here to reassure you.
masterlist!!
âhow about this one?â dick grunted behind you. you stop the cart and turn back, seeing him holding a beautiful lamp. a colorful stained glass shade and a gold stand. you stare at him momentarily, how his dimples were more prominent under the light of the plenty of other lamps that filled and lined the aisle youâd been walking down. he looked proud of his find, knowing youâd love it.
his gut was right. you did love it. a stained glass lamp had been a constant in your âapartment inspoâ pinterest board.Â
taking in a deep breath and smoothing the expression of adoration for the lamp, you shake your head and turn back. ânope. i already have a lamp.â
dick looks confused and baffled almost immediately. âthat old thing? babe, it has a massive stain on the shade and every time i plug it into the wall it sparks. that means itâs going to explode soon. explode! doesnât your life matter to you?â he was dramatic but he was also right, youâd had that lamp for years.Â
âit still works. thatâs all that matters, i donât need a new one.â you stand your ground and instead of his shoulders slumping, dickâs shoulders roll back and his chest puffs out in confidence. you wanted that lamp, heâd be damned if he left it there for another boyfriend to buy for his girlfriend! besides, he knew youâd brush it off and say you can come back for it another time but what if it wasnât there another time?
he keeps ahold of the lamp and follows you as you turn into the next aisle. you hear the rattling, stopping to whirl around. a raised eyebrow, âdick. i told you. i donât need another lamp. the one i have is fine. iâll get a new one untilââ
âuntil that one blows up your entire apartment complex into smithereens?â dick finishes your sentence. you were going to say 'until it stops working' but he wouldnât be dick if he didnât take things to another level. âiâm getting it for you. itâs exactly what youâve been wanting.â he continues, moving towards the cart to put the lamp inside.Â
âstop, i said i didnât need itâ dick, seriously, i have a lamp already,â he quickly cuts off your voice with a sharp look he gives you. very rarely do you see him get like this, you go quiet and sigh. already feeling the hints of vulnerability creeping up between you, it still made you anxious.
âwhy do you do that?â
âdo what?â
ânot let me buy you what you want.âÂ
thereâs a silence after his words. swallowing the lump in your throat, suddenly feeling unhealed wounds begin to open. pressing your lips together and looking away to avoid his gaze, you shake your head and shrug. your voice comes out quiet in effort to hold back the tears you knew would soon form. âbecause i donât need this stuff.â
âitâs not about what you need, itâs about what you want.â dickâs volume is gentle but his tone is serious. the one he gives you when he wanted you to just hear him. to understand him and where he was coming from. you owed him that, he always listened to you in ways you never felt so seen.Â
âyou have everything you need. a roof over your head, water, food, and a boyfriend who is here to give you everything you want and more.â he explained, adding the last part for some comedic relief, a smirk tugging at his lips. âitâs okay to want. itâs okay to want to update your decor, to want another pair of shoes, to want to be spoiled. baby, thatâs what i am here for. i want you to be happy, i want you to never worry about price tags or if you have enough space for your new purchase. thatâs for me to worry about and fuck, am i the happiest when i swipe my card and you have nothing but bags full of stuff you couldnât help but get.âÂ
dick cups your cheek, bringing you in as he presses his lips to your forehead. a linger kiss before wrapping his arms around you and making sure you pressed tightly against him. âwhatever you want is on me. itâs always on me, just how i like it.â
Thinking about you and Jason Todd being that one couple that gossips about other couples.
The dinner with some of your coworkers and their significant others had been pleasant enough. The food tasted good, the drinks too, but you couldn't help but pick up a weird vibe from a former couple at the table.
After saying your final farewells, you and Jason walked to your car and after some initial superficial comments about the restaurant and the evening in general, you finally said what you had been thinking all night long.
"So..." you start, trying to sound nonchalant, "was it just me or were Alan and Emily acting weird?"
Momentarily shifting his gaze from the road, Jason looked at you with an excited look on his face.
"They were!" he said, and from his tone, you could tell he had more to add to the conversation. "I mean, did you see the look on her face whenever he would open his mouth? She hates him."
You turned your body in your seat, now fully facing him as he kept driving.
"And I'll tell you more. You know the woman in the green dress on our side of the table?"
He hummed, urging you to continue.
"Rumor has it her and Alan are hooking up," you revealed, earning a look of pure shock from your boyfriend.
"Isn't she engaged as well?" he asked in disbelief.
"That's what I'm saying!"
A moment of silence went by, but the conversation wasn't done yet.
"Do you think she knows? Emily, I mean."
"I don't think she did before tonight. But now she must at least suspect something," you replied.
"I'm telling you, either way, she hates his guts," he said, before adding, "I would hate him too. All he did was talk about his pickleball games."
You laughed at his statement, totally agreeing with him. But at that point you started to feel bad about how judgemental you were being.
"Anyway, that's their life and they can do whatever they want."
"Yeah, no, exactly."
Safe to say that later that night while getting ready for bed, one of you made a comment in passing about the whole situation, and a lot of other observations â how Jason likes to call straight up gossiping â were made.
A/N: What can I say? This man loves Jane Austen after all.
We love pro hero Katsuki's hands. Yes, we. Iâve decided this is a group activity. 1.5k words.
Before meeting Katsuki in person, when he was just another hero you admired through the screens and posts on the internet, you had always wondered if his hands were warm. But at nights when winter felt closer and his body was pressed against yours, you found yourself gravitating towards him.
The bedroom was dark, save for the blue-grey bleed of early morning through the blinds, but you didnât need light to find him. You just had to follow the heat. Sleeping next to Katsuki was like lying beside a furnace that had been left stoking all night.
You shifted, pressing your nose against the crook of his shoulder, inhaling the scent that was entirely, unmistakably him. It was a rich, heavy warm-sugar warmthâlike caramelized butter and a hint of ozoneâthat clung to his skin no matter how many times he scrubbed himself down after a shift. Nitroglycerin. His body produced it like blood, a constant, sweet-scented fuel running just beneath his skin.
His right arm was thrown back across the pillows, heavy and relaxed. You slid your hand along his warm forearm, down to where the skin changed. To the rest of the world, Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight was a creature of terrifying precision and raw violence. They saw the gauntlets, the blasts, the recoil that shattered concrete. But here, in the quiet of your shared house, you felt the reality of what it took to carry that power.
You slipped your palm onto his. God, he was hot.
His palms weren't just warm; they were perpetually radiating a deep, dry heat, as if his internal thermostat was set ten degrees higher than the rest of humanity. It was the bodyâs way of keeping his sweat primed, his metabolic engine forever idling, ready to ignite at a millisecondâs notice. Your fingers traced the texture of his hand. The pads of his fingers were covered in thick, hardened calluses from a lifetime of controlling detonations. Along the edge of his palm and trailing down his wrist, the skin felt differentâtighter, slightly rigid. Faded silver scar tissue from surgeries and ruined muscle fibers, the permanent receipts left behind by the battles he used to find himself in.
As you ran your thumb over the thick muscle beneath his thumb, Katsuki shifted. A low, gravelly grunt vibrated in his chestâa dry, morning sound. Even unconscious, his body reacted. Against your cool skin, his palm twitched, and a tiny, faint tink popped in the air between your hands. A micro-spark, no bigger than a fleck of dust, releasing a puff of warm caramel scent before disappearing into the sheets.
"Stop touching me, 's cold," he mumbled, his voice a deep, rough scrape against the quiet room.
He didn't pull his hand away, though. Instead, his heavy, scarred fingers slowly uncurled, stretched, and then folded completely over yours. His massive, heat-flushed hand swallowed you whole, trapping your cold fingers against the burning expanse of his palm. He pulled your joined hands down to his chest, trapping you against his side. The sheer contrast was ridiculousâhis skin radiating enough heat to cure a chill in seconds, his grip heavy and absolute, but held with the exact micro-gram of pressure needed so as not to squeeze too hard.
"You're like a heating pad," you whispered into his collarbone, smiling softly, eyes half lidded with laziness.
"Shut up," he grunted into the pillow, his thumb making one small, deliberate stroke over the back of your hand before his breathing slowed back into the heavy, rhythmic rise and fall of sleep. "Go back to sleep."
His free hand moved to the back of your head, drawing you closer and tucking you against his chest, where the rhythmic beat of his heart slowly lulled you toward sleep. And you let it. The last thing you registered before drifting off was the warmth of his lips pressing softly against your forehead, a quiet promise that he would keep you safe.
There were days you found Katsuki going about his day, his hands handling each task with restraint he had to learn over the years. In combat, he could create spark-sized detonations to flick away debris or adjust a civilian's position without burning them. After work, you had learned that he's an expert knife handler in the kitchen, cuts vegetables with insane accuracy, and fixes gear by hand. Bakugou's version of gentleness isn't shy or soft-spoken. It's deliberate, because he was aware of how much destruction his hands could cause. So holding something delicateâa civilian's hand during a collapse, an injured animal, or someone he cares aboutârequires absolute, conscious intention.
When Pro Hero Dynamight reached out with a bare hand, he was actively suppressing the very essence of his Quirk. He held them without breaking or burning them. You always considered this his ultimate display of strength.
Then... there were days you'd catch him staring at his own hands.
The late-afternoon heat in the apartment was heavy, but the air coming off his skin was hotter. Katsuki sat on the edge of the low sofa, his forearms resting on his knees, head hung low as the quiet of a rare day off settled into his bones. His right hand was flexed open, fingers splayed over the coarse fabric of his sweatpants. Even at rest, they were broad, heavy things. The skin across the knuckles was thickened into pale, durable callusesâa lifelong trade-off for carrying nitrostarch through his pores. Faded, silvered lines traced the back of his wrists, faint mapped roads from surgeries and forced recoils that only a few people were ever allowed to look at for too long.
He closed his fist slowly, feeling the familiar, dull ache in the deep tissue of his palm. It was a dry, humming warmthâlike holding a stone that had been sitting under a summer sun all afternoon.
Unbidden, a faint, rhythmic tink-tink-tink rattled off his thumb padâmicro-ignitions, harmless as static electricity, smelling faintly of burnt sugar and stale copper. He caught it immediately, his jaw tightening as he reined the spark back in.
Control.
He uncurled his hand again, reaching down to pick up a thin ceramic teacup left on the low table, a tea with dried jasmine you had left for him earlier. His fingersâcalloused, scarred, built entirely for demolitionâwrapped around the brittle porcelain with a precision so quiet it felt almost unnatural. No strain, no heat bleed, not even the whisper of a spark against the glazed rim. He lifted it, took a single swallow, and set it back down without making a sound.
He stared at his palm for a long moment, watching the faint pulse beneath the heat-flushed skin. The world called them weapons. But in the silence of his room, holding the quiet without breaking it, Katsuki knew better. They were just his.
The couch dipped under fresh weight, breaking the quiet. The sleeve of your shirt brushed his arm as you leaned back comfortably. Katsuki didn't turn his head, but his thumb brushed once against his palmâa reflexive checkâbefore his hand dropped back onto his knee.
Your hand slid over his, soft and deliberately slow. The contrast was ridiculous. Where his skin was rough, calloused, and radiating that furnace-like thrum, yours felt cool. "You're burning up," you murmured, thumb tracing the thick, raised line of surgical pale skin that ran along the side of his wrist. "Did you skip the ice bath again after patrol?"
Katsuki let out a low, gravelly click of his tongueâthat familiar, flat tchâbut he didn't pull away. In fact, his fingers twitched open just enough to let you fit your palm squarely against his.
"Didn't skip it," he grunted, his voice dry and raspy from a full day of barking orders on-site. "Takes time for the heat to bleed off. You know how it works."
You didn't answer right away, just pressed a little firmer, your fingers lacing between his scarred knuckles. "They're so heavy," you noted softly, more to yourself than to him. "And loud. Even when you're just sitting here, I can feel the pulse in your thumb."
Katsuki's chest heaved in a silent, slow breath. His crimson red eyes stayed fixed ahead, his jaw working as if he were chewing on the annoyance, but the edge of his shoulder leaned a fraction of an inch into yours. "They're built to blow shit up," he said, his tone deadpan, utterly devoid of his old high-school posturing. It wasn't a brag anymore; it was just a statement of fact.
"I know," you murmured softly. "Which makes it weird how careful you are with them."
That got a reaction. Katsukiâs gaze flicked sideways, eyes sharp and heavy under furrowed brows. He looked at your joined handsâhis massive, scarred, heat-flushed palm cradling yours like a piece of thin glass. A micro-spark popped against the airâa tiny snap no bigger than a matchhead, smelling of sweet burnt sugar. "Don't say stupid shit," he muttered, though his grip didn't loosen an inch.
He turned his wrist, folding his fingers firmly over yours, burying your cool hand completely in his heat. He bowed his head and pressed a tender kiss to your knuckles, his touch lingering even after he lifted his gaze to yours. With a slow, lopsided pull at the corner of his mouth, he added, "I'm not gonna break you. Now shut up and let me drink my tea in peace."
He didn't let go of your hand for the rest of the evening.
yuji being absolutely oblivious to his feelings for you
everyone is 18+ // yuji x fem!reader // just fluff // no use of y/n // gb yuji he's so lost man // drabble // yuji is oblivious // he's a cutie who just has his head in the clouds // he's madly in love w/ reader and just doesn't realize it // megumi and nobara will need some shots after this one lolol yuji put them THROUGH it
part one , part two
notes: had this one in the drafts for a bit and wanted to finish it, bc I thought it was just a cute lil idea <3
"You totally like her," Nobara says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world to everyone but Yuji.
"Definitely not," Yuji shakes his head immediately. "I'm pretty sure I'd know if I liked her like that."
"You sure?" Megumi snorts, and Nobara shoots him a look that alone proves her entire point.
Yuji groans, "Guys, stop⊠she's just like⊠a good friend, that's all."
Megumi rolls his eyes, "A good friend? You're practically clinging to her like a lost puppy."
"Am not."
"Yeah?" Megumi leans forward, really emphasizing his next words. "So if she walked in right now, you wouldn't be glued to her side."
"I only do that because it makes her feel safe," he answers, quickly brushing Megumi off.
Nobara chokes back a laugh, "Her? Please. More like you're so damn whipped you're basically turning into her guard dog."
"I swearrrr," Yuji drags out his words, lip jutting into a pout, looking pitiful as ever.
"Then explain why you're always making excuses to touch her," Megumi cuts in, looking at him like there's no way he can talk his way out of this one.
"What do you mean?" He actually pauses, taking a moment to think it over. "I never do thatâ I mean, yeah, we hug a lot⊠and I pick her up sometimes, maybe spin her around a bit, but like so what? Every guy does that."
They both just stare at him, wide-eyed like this is the moment when it should all dawn on him, that he's madly in love with you.
"... No, they don't??" They both say in unison after a moment, realizing that Yuji is beyond the point of help.
Yuji blinks. "They don't?"
"God," Nobara mutters, her hands rubbing down her face, trying to process how it's even possible to be this oblivious.
"He's worse than we thought," Megumi adds, shaking his head, partly pitying his friend for being so unaware of his own feelings.
"Waitâ you guys have been talking about me?" Yuji looks between them, a little shocked they would do such a thing.
"Only because you're so damn oblivious it's painful," Megumi says flatly.
"I swear I don'tâ"
"Then what do you like about her?" Megumi cuts him off again, not having any of Yuji's excuses.
For a second, Yuji doesn't answerâtoo caught up in trying to figure out where to even start. God, there's too much, too many little things he likes about you, that he can't even begin to narrow it down.
He lets his eyes wander to the ceiling, as if it'll help him find all the right words. "I mean⊠everything? Her smile, her laugh⊠the way her hand fits in mine."
"So you're saying you held her hand, Itadoriâ" Megumi's pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to find a way to get it through his thick head. "You held her goddamn hand."
"Yeah?" Yuji rubs the back of his neck, smiling a little. "Her hands were small too, so perfect in my hands⊠like they were made just for mineâ"
They're still staring at Yuji when it finally hits him.Â
"Holy shit I'm in love with her."Â
ty for any reblogs, comments, and likessss!! love u guys <333
âcause if i loved you at the start then i would love you at the end
THIS has been an ongoing routine. a routine that you werenât sure you could handle anymore. everything has been going perfectlyâ at least in the eyes of bakugou katsuki. you completely understood his hero work and all of the downsides to being a hero, one of the top heroes at that, but somewhere along the way youâd grown so tired. the constant fighting over the health of your loved one, the constant silence that follows the argument. everything about it has gotten so tiring. katsuki loves you, thereâs not doubt about it. but recently things have just spun out of control, more out of control that he could even fathom. and this ultimately lead to the end.
from day one he laid out the details. and from day one you understood them, understood him. you knew what sacrifices the both of you were going to take to make this work out. heâd wanted it to be you. he thinks itâll always be you. but again, life takes its course and youâd grown tired. arguments and insults linger as you look at the man you gave up everything for. selfishly, you wished he did the same.
itâs not like katsuki didnât make time for you, no. a lot of the times he just didnât make enough time for you. and him in all of his dynamite glory put his ego and his responsibilities for japan over his ego and responsibilities for your relationship. could you blame him? of course not, he was a hero. heâs spent his entire life and childhood dreaming of becoming the number one, you werenât going to stop him from doing that. from the moment you met him, heâd been a determined boy grown into man. you were so incredibly proud of him and everything that he did. so when he would explode on you (never brash or harmful), you would keep your mouth shut and try to reason with him. you knew he didnât mean it, but this ended up with you bottling up your feelings, too in your head about your own problems as well as the problems you were starting to see in your relationship. but youâd had enough. every fight and every predicament has built up to this moment. you didnât want to be his punching bag anymore so you did the next best thing for both him and youâ ended things.
but bakugou katsuki was as loyal as a dog. the news shocked him to his core and heâd finally seen the glimpse of himself in the mirror. what had he done?
âi cannot sit here and pretending like everything is okay anymore. i cannot sit here and act like your own personal punching bag. iâve taken enough hits in this relationship, katsuki. i have played my part through and through and iâm just so sick of it. i cannot sit here and just take everything that you throw at me,â you look him in the eye while tears are streaming down your face. âi know you love me. i really do. but i just donât think that i can do this anymore when you just come home to yell and make it seem like everything i do is a problem.â
thereâs a moment of silence and all of a sudden katsuki is planted kneeling on the floor with his head in the same direction. this feels like the moment he lost his life during the last battle. and at the same time it feels so much worse than that.
heâs silently crying, the tears cascading down his cheeks to the hardwood floors. he doesnât know what he did to deserve you. you, who preserved through his fights when he came home patched up our sitting in the hospital bed. you, who helped him climb every step he could to become the top hero. this couldnât be but he knows youâd reached your breaking point. this has been a discussion a plethora of times and each time would end with you pleading him and he just sleeping on the couch instead.
then he thinks back to all of the happier times. one instance, where heâs chasing you down your apartment to give you the sweetest kisses. another, where heâs sitting at the interview table and as all of the fans and paparazzi are asking him questions, all he could see was you smiling brightly in the crowd silently cheering him on. the last, where he finally comes home after a long night of patrol as you cuddle him with no disregard about his sweat or his costume still being on.
bakugou katsuki is as loyal as a dog. and it is his loyalty and his love to keep crawling back to you. it is his loyalty that has let him keep you, even when kirishima made some stupid joke about you before the two of you starting dating and he defended you on your behalf. he fell for you fast. he knew what his feelings for you were and maybe that was what scared him so much. but since day one you had been his. since day one, he had been the dog with the leash and you its owner. but now that youâve let go and walked away, he find himself sitting there, waiting for you to come back because what would he do without you.
he finally looks up. he sees nothing. youâre not there and heâs not even in your apartment anymore. whatâs done is done. but one thing is for sure, his love for you will never change. so if you come back one day, and he so desperately hopes that you do, he will be here waiting patiently. because heâs loved you this long and it will never go away. and even if you donât come back, which he really hopes doesnât happen, there will forever be a part of his heart and his mind that will always have a place for you. because bakugou katsuki loves you, from the start to the end that unfortunately has unraveled.
â
not the best work imo but I needed to get this lyric and this sadness out of my mind. hope you enjoyed <3
đČđ» đđ”đ¶đ°đ” â° a hopelessly lovesick sukuna secretly leaves you handmade paper flowers every single day, until you finally catch him in the act.
âż ââ) ryomen sukuna đ gn!reader
đŹđŒđ»đđČđ»đ fluff, college!au, student council president!reader, sukuna is hopelessly in love, secret admirer!sukuna, daily handmade paper flower, yearning!!!, rambling confession, emotional intimacy, sukuna is basically a gentle giant lol.
the first time ryomen sukuna saw you, he tripped over his own feet and nearly face-planted into a vending machine.
it was freshman orientation, and you were standing at the front of the auditorium, clipboard in hand, expression utterly unreadable, directing a flood of nervous eighteen-year-olds with the calm efficiency of a general commanding troops. your voice was steady, unhurried, every syllable measured, and your posture was impeccable; you looked like you had never made a mistake in your life, like you had never once felt the hot flush of embarrassment creep up your neck, like you were carved from marble and given a student id.
sukuna, meanwhile, was a mess of gangly limbs and too many tattoos for someone who had just turned eighteen.
his pink hair stuck up in wild spikes that no amount of product could tame, and his face was still carrying the last dregs of teenage awkwardness, even if he was already six-foot-two and built like someone who could bench press a small car. his ears were burning, his hands were sweating, and all sukuna could think, as he watched you direct a lost-looking girl toward the science building, was oh no.
itâs been two years since then, and nothing has changed except for the fact that sukunaâs crush has only gotten worse.
the pink haired boy is sitting in the back of the student union right now, nursing a lukewarm coffee that heâs been pretending to drink for the last forty-five minutes, watching you across the room; youâre at your usual table, the one by the window that gets the best morning light, surrounded by a small mountain of paperwork. your pen moves across the page with quick, decisive strokes, and every so often you pause to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.
sukunaâs heart does something really embarrassing in his chest every single time.
heâs aware of how pathetic this is.
heâs aware that he, ryomen sukuna, who has a reputation for being the most terrifying person on campus, who once made a guy cry simply by looking at him, is currently sitting here like a lovesick teenager in a bad rom-com. he knows damn well that if anyone â really, anyone â caught him staring at you like this, his entire carefully constructed image would crumble into dust. but he canât stop; heâs never been able to stop.
youâre just so . . . so you.
composed and unflappable and impossibly graceful, even when youâre stressed out of your mind. sukuna has seen you handle a student council meeting where half the members were at each otherâs throats, he has seen you smooth over a crisis when the spring festival almost got cancelled, he has seen you calmly talk down a furious professor who was threatening to fail an entire class. you donât raise your voice. you never panic, you just . . . handle things, and sukuna thinks thatâs the most attractive thing heâs ever witnessed.
heâs been in love with you since day one, and heâs been too much of a coward to do anything about it.
itâs not that heâs scared of rejection â okay, fine, maybe sukuna is terrified of rejection, but thatâs not the main issue! the main issue is that he has absolutely no idea how to approach you; youâre the student council president, busy and important and constantly surrounded by people. you donât go to parties, you donât hang out in the quad, you donât do anything that would give him a natural opportunity to strike up a conversation. and even if you did, what would he even say? hey, iâm the guy whoâs been pining over you for two years, want to get coffee? no. absolutely not.
so heâs settled for something more subtle; something that, in his mind, is a grand romantic gesture but in reality is just deeply, deeply nerdy.
sukuna has been leaving you paper flowers.
it started last semester, when sukuna found himself in the art building for a general ed class he was barely passing. heâd wandered into the sculpture studio while waiting for his professor, and thereâd been a stack of origami paper sitting on one of the tables. heâd picked up a sheet without thinking, his fingers moving on autopilot, folding and creasing until a small paper rose sat in his palm; it was clumsy and lopsided and missing a petal, but something about it made him think of you, so heâd left it on your usual table in the student union, tucked under the corner of your laptop, and heâd practically sprinted out of the building before you could see him.
the next day, the flower was gone, and sukunaâs heart had nearly stopped on the spot.
heâd stared at the empty spot on the table for a solid minute, wondering if youâd thrown it away, wondering if youâd even noticed it, wondering if he was the biggest idiot on the planet. but then youâd walked in, and there it was â the paper rose, sitting next to your coffee cup, carefully propped up so it wouldnât get crushed. youâd touched it gently when you sat down, a small, soft smile flickering across your face before you turned back to your paperwork.
and sukuna had felt like he was floating.
that was three months ago.
heâs left you a paper flower almost every day since, each one slightly better than the last. sukuna has gotten embarrassingly good at origami, spending hours in his small apartment folding and folding until his fingers ache. heâs made you roses and lilies and tulips, each one carefully crafted from sheets of paper he buys in bulk from the craft store. he never leaves a note â that would be too obvious and too direct â and he always makes sure to leave before you arrive, so he can watch from a distance as you find his little offering and smile that soft, private smile that makes his chest ache.
itâs the closest sukuna has ever gotten to you, and itâs simultaneously the most wonderful and most torturous thing heâs ever experienced.
today, heâs got a new flower in his bag, a delicate paper camellia he spent two hours on last night. his fingers are twitching with the urge to go place it on your table, but youâre already sitting there, which means heâs going to have to wait a little until you leave for your next class. sukuna checks his watch â you usually head to the library around ten, so heâs got about twenty minutes.
twenty minutes of sitting here, pretending to drink his coffee, trying not to stare too obviously.
well . . . sukuna fails miserably.
youâre wearing a sweater today, something soft and cream-colored that makes you look impossibly cozy. your hair is a little messier than usual, like you ran out the door without checking a mirror, and thereâs a tiny smudge of ink on your cheek. sukunaâs fingers itch with the urge to reach out and wipe it away. he wants to touch you so badly itâs almost painful. he wants to know what you feel like, if youâre as warm as you look, if your skin is soft under his calloused fingertips. he wants to hear your voice directed at him, not at some other student or professor, he wants to see those calm, steady eyes looking at him for once.
sukuna is so lost in his thoughts that he almost misses it when you start packing up your things. he jerks upright, nearly knocking over his coffee, and watches as you slip your laptop into your bag and stand up. you pause for a moment, glancing around the room, and sukuna ducks his head so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash.
he can feel his face burning, he can feel the heat creeping down his neck, and he presses his palms against his thighs to stop them from shaking.
when sukuna dares to look up again, youâre gone, and the table is empty.
sukuna moves before he can think about it, crossing the room in a few long strides and finally dropping the paper camellia onto your table. it lands perfectly, right in the spot where your laptop was, and heâs about to turn and flee when he hears a soft voice behind him.
âyou know, iâve been wondering whoâs been leaving these.â
sukuna freezes as his blood turns to ice.
his heart stops, then starts again at double speed, hammering against his ribs like itâs trying to escape. he turns around slowly, painfully, and there you are, standing a few feet away with your bag slung over your shoulder and an expression on your face that he canât quite read.
youâre looking at him. at him. your eyes are steady and calm, just like he always imagined, and theyâre focused entirely on his face. sukunaâs mouth goes dry. he opens it, closes it, opens it again, and absolutely no sound comes out.
you tilt your head slightly, and thereâs a little hint of something â amusement? curiosity? â in your gaze.
âyouâre ryomen sukuna, right? the guy who made a freshman cry last week for stealing his seat in the lecture hall?â
sukuna winces.
âthat wasâhe was being an asshole,â sukuna manages, his voice coming out rough and strained. âhe sat in my seat and then he laughed about it. i justâi looked at him. thatâs it. i didnât even say anything.â
âand yet he cried,â you say, and thereâs definitely amusement in your voice now. a tiny quirk at the corner of your mouth. âyou must have a very intimidating look.â
sukuna is aware that heâs babbling. heâs aware that his ears are probably bright red, that his hands are shaking like crazy, that he looks like a complete and utter idiot. heâs also aware that youâre still looking at him, and you havenât run away screaming, which feels like a minor miracle.
âthatâs not who i am,â he finally manages. âi mean, iâm notâi donât go around making people cry. that was a one-time thing. he justâhe really pissed me off.â
âi believe you,â you say, and sukunaâs poor heart does a triple axel. âso . . . the flowers.â
âthe flowers,â sukuna echoes weakly.
âtheyâre yours, arenât they?â
you step closer, and sukunaâs breath catches in his throat. youâre close enough now that he can smell your shampoo, something floral and warm, and he has to resist the urge to lean in like a complete creep.
âiâve been getting them for a few months now. every time i come to this table, thereâs a new one. i thought it was someone in the art club at first, but they said they didnât know anything about it.â
sukuna is trying very hard not to pass out.
âitâsâyeah. theyâre from me.â
âwhy?â
the question is simple, direct, and utterly devastating.
sukuna opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. his brain is screaming at him to say something smooth, something charming, something that wonât make him look like a complete fool. what comes out instead is;
âi wanted to give you flowers, but i didnât know if you were allergic to real ones, so i made them out of paper. because paper flowers donât cause allergies. and they last forever. so you can keep them as long as you want, and they wonât die, andâand i just thought they might make you smile.â
sukuna is not really sure when exactly he started rambling, but he canât seem to stop. youâre still looking at him with that unreadable expression, and his face is so hot heâs surprised his skin hasnât melted off.
âi didnât want to be too obvious,â sukuna continues, his voice getting higher with every word. âi didnât want to make you uncomfortable. and i didnât know what to say, or how to say it, so i justâi kept making them. i didnât think youâd notice. i mean, i hoped youâd notice, but i didnât think youâdâyouâre always so busy, and youâre the student council president, and you have all these important things to do, and i didnât want to bother you, andââ
âsukuna.â
he stops, his mouth still open mid-sentence.
youâve said his name . . . youâve said his name! the world feels tilted, slightly off-kilter, like heâs standing on a ship in a storm.
âyou donât bother me,â you say, and thereâs something soft in your voice now, something that makes his chest ache. âiâve been looking forward to these flowers every day. i have all of them. i keep them in a box under my bed.â
you reach out and pick up the paper camellia he just placed on the table, turning it over in your fingers. your touch is gentle, almost reverent, and sukuna feels like heâs going to combust.
âtheyâre beautiful. iâve never seen anyone make flowers like this. the detail is incredible.â
âi practice a lot,â sukuna says, and immediately wants to sink into the floor. âi meanâi justâi like making them. for you. i like making them for you.â
you look up at him, and thereâs a smile on your face now, a real one, soft and warm and absolutely devastating. sukuna feels his heart stop for the second time in five minutes.
âdo you want to sit down?â you ask, gesturing to the table. âi have some time before my next class. iâd like to talk to you.â
sukuna is going to die.
heâs absolutely going to die, right here in the student union, and his last thought will be about how pretty your smile is.
âyeah,â he manages, his voice barely above a whisper. âyeah, okay. iâd like that.â
you sit down, and sukuna sits across from you, his long legs folding awkwardly under the table. his heart is pounding so loud heâs sure you can hear it, and his palms are sweating, and heâs pretty sure heâs making the most pathetic expression known to man. but you donât seem to mind. you just look at him, that soft smile still playing on your lips, and sukuna feels like the luckiest person on earth.
âso,â you say, leaning forward slightly. âtell me about yourself, ryomen sukuna. other than your impressive origami skills.â
sukuna swallows.
his throat feels tight, and his huge hands are still trembling, and heâs never been more nervous in his entire existence. but youâre looking at him like you actually want to hear what he has to say, like sukuna is not just some scary-looking guy with a reputation, and that gives him the courage to open his mouth and start talking.
he tells you about his major â history, because he likes the stories â and about his shitty apartment off-campus, and about the stray cat he feeds even though he claims heâs not a cat person. he tells you about his tattoos, the meanings behind them, the way the ink felt on his skin. he tells you about his family, or lack thereof, and the way heâs always felt like he had to be tough to survive.
and you listen.
you actually listen, nodding along, asking questions, offering small hums of acknowledgment. you donât flinch when he talks about the harder parts of his life. you donât look at him like heâs a monster. you just sit there, patient and warm, and sukuna feels something crack open in his chest.
âwhat about you?â sukuna finally asks, when heâs run out of words. âtell me about yourself. the real stuff, not the student council president stuff.â
you blink, and for a moment, your composure wavers. itâs the first time heâs seen you look anything less than perfectly put-together, and it makes his heart squeeze.
âi donât know,â you say, and thereâs a hint of something vulnerable in your voice. âi feel like iâm always the one people come to with their problems. i donât get a lot of chances to just, you know . . . talk.â
âthen talk,â sukuna says, and he sincerely means it. âiâm here. iâm listening.â
you look at him for a long moment, and then you smile, small and shy, and sukunaâs heart melts into a puddle.
you tell him about the pressure you feel, the weight of everyoneâs expectations, the loneliness that comes with being in charge. you tell him about your love for old movies and the way you stay up too late reading, and about the dreams you have that youâre too scared to chase.
and sukuna listens.
he listens like itâs the most important thing heâs ever done, because it is. he watches the way your hands move when you talk, the way your eyes light up when you describe something you love, the way your shoulders relax just a little bit, like youâre finally letting yourself breathe.
âiâm glad youâre the one whoâs been leaving those paper flowers,â you say, and sukunaâs breath catches once again. âi always wondered what kind of person would go to so much effort for a stranger.â
âyouâre not a stranger,â sukuna says, and his voice comes out rough and earnest. âyouâve never been a stranger. iâveâiâve been watching you for two years. not in a creepy way,â he adds quickly, when your eyebrows raise. âi justâi see you. i see how hard you work, how much you care. iâve always wanted to tell you that. i just didnât know how.â
your cheeks flush; itâs a tiny, barely-there pink, but sukuna notices it. he notices everything about you.
âwell,â you say, and your voice is slightly breathless. âyouâre telling me now.â
âyeah,â sukuna says, and heâs smiling, a real smile, one that crinkles the corners of his eyes. âi guess i am.â
the silence between them is comfortable, warm, filled with something that feels a lot like possibility. and when you reach out and touch his hand, just a brief, feather-light brush of your fingers against his, sukuna feels like heâs flying.
âthe camellia,â you say softly, looking down at the paper flower. âdo you know what it means?â
sukuna shakes his head, his throat too tight for words.
âit means gratitude,â you say, and you look up at him, your eyes shining. âthank you for letting me see the real you, sukuna. and thank you for the flowers. i think this is the best gift anyoneâs ever given me.â
sukunaâs heart is so full it feels like itâs going to burst.
he doesnât know what to say, he doesnât know how to express the way heâs feeling, so he just squeezes your hand and deeply hopes you understand.
and when you smile at him, soft and bright, he knows you do.
my ex gave me a paper flower the first time because he wasnât sure if i was allergic to real flowers then it slowly became a habit & he kept making me paper flowers all the time (^^) sigh . . . i lowkey miss my ex now
katsuki bakugo was by no means a gentle man. everything about him was unruly ⯠from his harsh expression to his even rougher persona, he was the complete opposite of gentle. he was not capable of handling something with care, with love.
so, why? why was he so careful when he held your sleeping body in his arms? why did he keep your unconscious frame pressed so closely to his chest? katsuki didnt understand. he was meant to be incapable of being soft, being kind. yet, here he was, voluntarily holding you in his arms, like a man smitten.
but thats exactly what he was ⯠a man smitten. katsuki was so, so grossly, mushy in love with the girl sleeping in his arms. his nose ever so gently pressed against your nose, breathing in your sweet scent, before placing the softest kiss on your skin, as his eyes closed.
katsuki bakugo fell asleep with the love of his life laying in his arms, and he was the happiest man on the planet. of course, katsuki would rather rip out his own eyes than admit that to you, so youll have to go without knowing the full extent of katsuki's admiration for you.
bakugo always had a . . . creative nickname for everyone ( see pinky, shitty hair, and dunce face ), and mina being the detective she is, couldn't help but notice when he started calling you by your name.
so of course she brought attention to this to all the others.
and they noticed the small things.
the way bakugo would hold the door open for you ( bare minimum but he let it shut in everyone else's faces ), how he quieted his voice. the edge dropping, the sharpness dulling.
how his shoulders seemed more relaxed when around you, how the faint start of a smile played at his lips whenever talking to you.
he was just . . . calm. in a way so non-bakugo that it was eerily off putting for everyone else watching.
and he wasn't stupid. he saw their staring, noticed the way mina's eyes flicked in his direction whenever he talked to you.
but he couldn't really bring himself to care. not when you were smiling right in front of him.
summary: when midnight marks the second year anniversary since damian's death, you make one desperate wish in the midst of your grief before falling asleep. when you wake, you find damian waiting in the apartmentâas if he never left.
pairing: damian wayne x reader
content/warnings: angst, hurt-comfort, grief and loss, mentions of previous death, emotional reunion, yearning
Grief is a companion fond of making you dream.
"Beloved."
Damian stands before you in the kitchen, in his most-worn sweater, the one you swore you stuffed in the back of your shared closet when it had lost his scent.
The scent of toast, your favourite kind slathered with jam, lingers in the air and the familiarity of this sightâof him awake at an earlier hour to prepare you a simple breakfast, feels like a faraway dream.
You're struck by his voice, the tone and cadence your memory never managed to capture. You had to be dreaming still. Even when the edges of him are so life-like, not fuzzy like you're used to when you reach for the figment of him in your sleep.
He can't be standing in your kitchen, the one you used to share with him two years ago, because he is dead. Your Damian is dead.
You don't move, not immediately. You watch life breathe in and out of his chest, and feel the long, dragged seconds stretch between the distance, the pads of your fingers pressing into the cold slab of the counter, frozen in place.
He doesnât push. Doesnât corner you, or raise some pointed remark on your distance. He only waits, as if thatâs everything heâs willing to do. Damian has never been good at being patient, but in the wake of his appearance, itâs all he seems to be doing.
You're afraid. To speak, make a sound or move that could shatter the perfect image. You expect to turn your head just slightly off-angle, and find yourself in your sheets once more, and the life-like version of him will be gone. The ache of his absence still clung to you, even more so at the sight of him, like a sore wound you can't resist running over.
Your stomach grumbles lowly at the scent of breakfast, empty from a near sleepless night and a skipped dinner. At that, he finally shifts his gaze, and you find your breath stolen from the way that striking, unwavering green pierces through you.
âYouâre starving.â
The prospect of a dream falls away, and reality strikes you hard when the stature of him remains, words falling out his mouthâsomething your dreams have never achieved. You donât listen, coming up to him like a stormâhands trembling as you raise them to slowly, tenderly cup his face.
He lets you, unmoving as his gaze sinks deep into yours. Your fingers trace over his cheekbones, where that scar should be. The last you had saw of him, unmoving in the hospitalâwhen the mere sight had rendered you immobile, shaking uncontrollably till someone had to drag you out the room. Your hands trail down his jawline, over his neckâyour touch trembling over his unharmed skin. When your hand dips to where his heart should be, he captures your hand and guides it back to his face, fingers laying over yours as he presses it against his cheek, soaking in your warmth.
His own skin is barren of its expected, scorching warmthâand his lashes flutter once before his eyes fall shut, mesmerised.
"Damian." You gasp softly.
He shakes his head faintly, almost in warning not to question further. His gaze opens, and it pours over you openly, hungrily.
"Are you real?" Your whisper comes out as a broken plea, head tilting as you look at him. There are no inconsistencies, even the faint scar where a blade had passed through his palm when he was but a boy, the same raised skin you used to press your lips over in the solemnity of the night, wishing he never experienced a pain like that again.
An undercurrent ripples below his steady gaze, conveying an answer you can't uncover. "I am here, beloved."
"How?" Your voice tremors, teetering madness.
âYou called.â
Your brows furrow together, the vagueness of his statement twisting your thoughts into a whirlwind. âNo.. I called for you every single day. Since you've been gone.â
His expression fractures in your admission, that undercurrent in the dark green, sweeping you with its darkened shadows. You canât read it. Not fully, failing to truly understand the depth of his gaze that reminds you that this isnât a dream or a recreation of any normal morning from before. Damian has always looked at you with want and devotion, yes, but it has never seemed almost inhumane.
Your burning questions still linger on the precipice, torn between relief and despair, when Damian closes in. His lips capture yours almost desperately, and you realise instantly in your grief that you had forgotten this side to him. Rare, and smothered by self-controlâbut existing regardless, is his intensity.
The sound of his name between your lips is lost, muffled by the way his free hand manoeuvres the back of your head to bring you impossibly closer to him. Itâs real, it has to be, this push-and-pull as if he canât decide whether he could ever get enough of the taste of you.
You have held yourself together for two yearsâbut youâre close to falling apart in the scent of him, so overwhelmingly home, something youâve been trying to capture through his cologne bottles, his shirtsâbut nothing compares to the real thing.
He doesnât fare much better, lost of all his composure as he consumes you. Itâs devotion, the way he holds you like youâre the only anchor keeping him tethered to reality. âI am here.â His lips brush over the corner of your mouth, tremoring. âIâm home.â
"We need to tell your family." It's the first logical thought that's formed since you lost strength in your legs, landing on the tiles with your hand still grasped in his, knees pressing against one another. "I should be calling Dick."
His lips press together, something manic crossing his gaze but you donât see itâtoo wrapped up in the novelty of a miracle that shouldn't exist. You needed to hear it, have it confirmed for you to your own faceâ that you werenât the only one who sees Damian. Your steps quicken towards the entrance, hands reaching for your coat that has your phone right by the front doorâtossed on the ground after stumbling home the night before.
Damian grabs you by the wrist right as your fingers brushed the fabric, tugging you back. Your widened gaze meets his own fervent expression. "Damian?"
"I canât predictââ His hold falters, softening in its clutch. ââwhat happens when you walk through that door."
Your brows furrow, letting him pull you gently back towards him. Your free hand comes up to press gently against his cheek, caressing once. "What do you mean?"
His jaw clenches, a rare tension seizing his features. Or rather, one you didn't recognise on him at all. Fear.
"Earlier, I had tried the door." He explains slowly, as if the words pained him. "I had reached for the lockâand something changed. I wasn't here, or anywhere. It was silent and I didn't truly exist, not till I found myself back in the kitchen."
Your mouth dries at his words, lips parting with the low thud of anxious dread gnawing away at your gut. You had been so relieved, you hadn't even begun to name all the possibilities of this miracle having a short-end you haven't seen coming.
"Oh." You mutter, fingers fumbling loosely in the air as your hand drops to your side. "Okay. That'sâ"
Scary. So fucking terrifying that you can't even voice it out, the thought that he could just disappear as quickly as he reappeared back into your life.
"Maybe we can try?" Your voice lacks the confidence of someone who's willing to put the possibility of never seeing the only person she's ever loved again on the line. "If I go with you this time, it mightâ"
Might work. There is nothing you detest more than the what-ifs that overpower the old, a bitter habit that's sprung to life now that it has new fears to feed on.
He nods briskly at the suggestion, but the tension in his jaw doesn't fade. "Listen to me. Ifâ"
"Damian, if what you're about to say is anything to do with disappearing or leavingâyou're not allowed to say it." You cut him off.
His lips clamp together, gaze averting to the door. "I only aim for us both to be prepared."
Unlike last time. The insinuation lands coldly against your exposed skin, and you immediately move to tug the coat on to rid yourself of the forming goosebumps. You didn't want to be reminded of that first lonely night in the apartment, when the news hadn't yet settled inâand you were surrounded by bedsheets that were filled with his scent.
Call it human desperation, needing to believe in only the good outcomesâbut you refuse to think further than the events that have occurred in the past twenty minutes. Damian is back, that is all that matters. The rest, you'll both figure it out together.
His hands immediately come up to the sleeves, helping you to put the coat on. The simple action renders you breathless, the way he was equipped to you like a shadow, tuning himself back into step with your own movements. You had forgotten that feeling, of puzzles pieces fitting perfectly together that it made life easy.
"I'm more than prepared." Your reassurance for him, or yourselfâyouâre not sure which bears more comfort. "Come on, Dami." The nickname rolls off like a soothing mantra, one normalcy laced within all the abnormality of the situation, of his presence lingering near your side like a shadow. "You better prepare yourself. You're about to experience intense familial affection."
It's easier to pretend, that anything other than a happy family reunion was bound to happen, to seal in the fact that he's really here. That's all your mind is leading towards, this impossibility existing on the morning of what should've been your second year anniversary.
His lips finally twitch, a soft smile gracing his lips as he takes your hand. It's warmer now, as if life was slowly bleeding back into him. It reassures you immensely, and your fingers tighten into a reassuring squeeze around his.
"How haveâ" He falters, grip tightening unintentionally over your fingers. "âthey been?"
"Itâs not been easy." You answer truthfully. "Bruce is taking it the hardest, his habit of burying himself in work has worsened. He needs you to snap him out of it the most, I think. Dickâhe's trying to keep everyone together, but I worry for him even if he keeps pretending he's fine."
Your fingers twist the lock, opening the door. His hand still remains firmly in your grasp, and your eyes widen, gaze twisting to him in hope. "Still here." You murmur, waving your interlocked fingers with yours in his gaze.
You see it too, the faint relief that flickers in his expression. That's the very last thing you see.
The moment you take one step out the door into the threshold of the hallway, your raised hand comes up bare. The space where Damian used to occupyâis now empty.
"I swear he was here." You plead, watching as Dick paces around the apartment. "Damian was right here, and he was talking to meâand we were coming to see you."
He runs a hand over his locks, and you can tell he doesn't believe you, as much as he is trying to genuinely listen. You know it sounds cruel, going on about how his deceased baby brother is alive and well. That it makes you sound insane, overcome with grief enough to hallucinate Damian's existenceâbut you know that he was really here.
You aren't hallucinating, even if you had to push down any arising doubt as Dick finally stops in his tracks, turning to face you.
He looks exhausted. Packed with cases, wrinkled shirt haphazardly put on, bags under his eyes. Still charmingly Dick, but drained of the spark that used to brighten his gaze.
He calls out your name, and you hear it immediately. His deflection, his concern. You shake your head, but he raises a hand.
"Youâ" He swallows, and you see him assessing the right way to deliver his words. "âhave been through a lot. I understand, I really do."
"Dick." Your voice comes out as a plea.
"But if you've been seeing Damian." He goes on. "I think it's time we find someone. For you to talk to."
He thinks you've gone crazy.
"Dick, I'm not crazy." You plead. "Or grieving. Damian was right here, I was telling him about you and Bruce. He made me toast."
His gaze switches to the uneaten plate, and softens into what could only be pity. You have to swallow back the bitter taste at the sight of it.
"It's your anniversary, right?" He asks.
You stiffen, before giving him a bare nod.
"I should've called." He sighs, placing the blame on himself. "I had remembered it being around this week, but work's just been so busy andâI'm sorry. I know it must've been difficult to go through this day alone."
"Please, Dick." You stand up from the couch, walking over to where he stood. "You have to believe me."
His expression tightens, a sigh leaving his lips. "I can't."
"Why?" You plead.
"Because if I do, I would've lost him twice." He admits honestly, a rare fracture of truth beneath his usual composure. "I can't let myself think that, because I have people who need me to be here, to be grounded."
You flinch, as if he struck you. His expression immediately crumbles in regret, but he doesn't take back his words. His lips part in an effort to try and smooth out the mess laid out in front of him, when his phone rings.
He curses inaudibly, tugging at his pockets to take out his phone. His gaze falls to the contact name, and his lashes narrow. He looks to you, an apology already splurging out of his lips. "I'm sorry, I really have to go. It's an emergencyâbut I will come visit right after."
You shake your head. There isn't a point if you didnât have proof, and if he wasn't going to believe you, it'd do you both better if you didnât dig into the wound so carelessly. "It's fine." Your throat squeezes tight on itself, making it hard to form your words coherently. "I'm sorry I called you all the way here, I know you've been busy."
"Hey." He calls out to you reassuringly, even as his ringtone vibrates lowly between the two of you. "I'm always here if you need me, you got that? Being busy doesn't mean I can't make time for you if you need a listening ear."
You nod stiffly, as convincingly as you could. "You should go, Dick. City needs you."
He stares at you, concern flooding his gaze once more. You smile weakly at him, pushing at his shoulder towards the door. "Go." You reassure him. "I'll text you if I need anything, okay?"
He nods once, lips pulling downward in consideration before his phone starts ringing again at a louder volume. He lets out a low sigh, hand coming up to squeeze yours over his shoulder in a comforting manner. "Anything, alright?" He murmurs.
You give him the barest nod, watching as he walked out the door, closing it behind him. The moment the door clicks shut, you find yourself on the kitchen floor.
Your sobs rack your body violently, your palms covering your mouth as you let it out. You don't know how long you spend, keeling over yourself as you rock back and forth, tears streaming down your cheeks before you eventually found yourself laying on the cool tiles, the only sensation that registers to your body.
You don't know how many minutes you spent going over the words shared between you and the Damian you swore was right in front of you, the scent of toast still lingering in the air before your eyes finally fall shut, body shutting down from exhaustion.
When you wake, you find yourself tucked in your sheets. You vaguely remember laying on the kitchen floor, not even having the energy required to drag yourself to your bedroom. The room is dark, which means the entire day has passed. Did Dickâor someone else come in through the door and carry you onto the bed?
You don't think you locked the door, but you don't trust in your memory to recall any recurring events in a faithful manner. Your gaze shifts from the window where the glow of the street lamp illuminates a warm tint over the streets, before your neck cranes to your right.
A shadow sits at the corner of the bed, back facing you.
Your heart nearly drops to your feet. Your call doesn't dare sound hopeful, almost frightened. "Damian?"
His head shifts, and green eyes, haunted by shadowsâmeet yours.
"Are you my imagination?" You whisper. "Am I dreaming again because if I am, this is justââ Cruel.
He doesn't answer, lifting himself off the corner to sit beside you instead. Slowly, his hand takes yoursâand there it is again, that fading ebb-and-flow of warmth between his fingers.
"Talk to me." You say numbly. "Or I'll really think I'm going insane."
"I don't knowâ" His voice fills your ears, and the relief is almost sickening. "âhow to fix this. Or make it easier to bear. I am only worsening your pain."
Your lip trembles, and you bite at it to keep something, anything from flooding out. "Do you know what day it is today?" You murmur, exhaustion plaguing your voice.
Damian doesn't even pause to think. "Our anniversary."
"Yeah." You smile wryly. "You missed it for the second time this year."
His fingers running over the beat of your pulse, freeze. The faintest whisper leaves his lips, and it is nothing short of broken. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay. Youâll make it up to me, wonât you?" You swallow thickly, trying your best to keep it together. "I was going to take you to that Thai place we love down the street, after meeting your family. Thought it'd be a good welcome-back present of some sorts, y'know?"
He stays silent, but you spot the clench of his jaw, the thick lump forming at his throat.
"This is so sick." You laugh weakly, tears pooling at the corner of your eyes. "What kind of reality is this?"
You hear the faint whisper of your name. His hand traces over your temple, brushing back the loosened strands. "I'm sorry." It comes out stronger this time, as if the vowels have finally found suit a place in his vocabulary.
"Stop apologising." You scold softly. "I want you here."
He understands your request immediately, scooting closer and falling into the sheets as his arms wrap around you. In the weight of his embrace, you finally let yourself fall apart a little, face buried into his chest and inhaling his comforting scent.
"Your heart.â You whisper, unable to sense the rhythmic beating youâre used to finding. âWhere is it, Dami?â
âWhere itâs always been.â He murmurs, arms pulling you impossibly closer.
There is a missing link, something youâre terrified of missing. He is real, as even your mind canât conjure something as complex as the halftime beat of his thumb brushing against your lower back, or the way his fingers brush through the nape of your neck, finding your temple and resting over it with a soothing amount of pressure.
âYouââ Your voice trembles, afraid to ask. âHow is any of this possible?â
âI donât know.â He answers honestly. âI only know that you called. I was finally able to answer.â
The rules settle quickly, the doâs and donâtâs of his existence. When you walk out the front door, he disappears, but not entirely. He merely reappears in the kitchen as he did the morning you found him, time operating as a frozen capsule within the walls of your apartment, with your current present tuned down to a low, buzzing humâenough for his presence to stay. When you exit the apartment, itâs as if life comes flooding back in motionâroaring in its intensity that Damian simply vanishes. Not home, or anywhere. As reality intended.
You canât have people enter the threshold of the apartment either, not without Damian completely disappearing from the rooms. Your only attempt had ended with Dick pleading with you to see a professional.
The conversation still lingers like a bitter aftertaste of stale coffee, when you let yourself imagine his exhausted, frantic expression when you searched the apartment upside-down in the hopes of letting him see his baby brother again.
You donât call Dick over much after that, only the here-and-there messages that you've recovered and that you're doing better. You donât mention Damian, and the texts tentatively recover into a semblance of the norm, his usual check-ups and quips before he disappears into his long list of responsibilities.
You adjust, creating something sacred out of the cruelty, and you make things work, to reduce the risks of his disappearance to only what was neededâfor work, or quick supply runs that are now meant for two. You have to, because youâd rather have Damian with the shattered edges of reality falling in on you, than lose him forever.
Your head rests on his chest late in the night, updating him on the past twenty-four months of your life through your photo album while he watches you, trying to bring some of the outside world in for him. Thatâs one strange loophole, that so long as itâs only you who witnesses it, he doesnât fade from existence. You had tried face-timing Tim once, and felt the sudden emptiness of Damianâs weight beside you. The tears were difficult to explain, as was the way you frantically ended the call after, refusing to show how shattered you felt.
Loopholes were small miracles, ones you were trying to exploit in the hopes the world would carry on without punishing either of you for testing the waters. That eventually, youâd find a way to right the mess.
But you know itâs not enough. How could it be? When paranoia runs so rampant, or the quiet lingers too long when youâre in a different room, and you canât stop yourself from checkingâfrom slamming yourself into the door to catch him staring at you, as if he expected your anxious movement minutes before.
Damian is nothing but a master at concealing his own doubts, from letting his frustrations plague your own wearing strength. It does not change the fact that he is still human. You find him mostly at your desk when he assumes you've finally fallen asleep, pen in hand with his hand running through his thick locks, growing out at the edges from not having been cut for weeks. You never see what heâs writingânot before he hears your quiet footsteps and gently folds the paper away.
He would reassure you silently, a warm, gentle touch over your face, cupping them in his hands and pressing soft kisses over your skin to replace your worries. Heâd whisper âIâm realâ over and over again till youâre sure even your imagination couldnât conjure the trace of his fingers down your lower back, the way his gaze softens when you finally let yourself fall into his embrace.
You donât ask unless heâs willing to speak of it, because Damian in his own way is coping with this fractured reality, where you are only able to have each other in the confined walls of your home, without him being able to truly live in this world. You know it takes a toll on him, youâre just waiting for him to realise he doesnât have to remain strong for the both of you.
You let him have the peace of doing what he feels he must, scribbling away in urgency into the paper, because for as much as Damian has lost normalcy in his life, you could only give him whatever he was able to still grasp.
âHey, you! Itâs been so long since weâve seen each other!â Steph exclaims, pulling you into a hug.
âMissed you too, Steph.â You huff at the impact, a warm smile spreading across your lips.
âWhere have you been?â She continues, pulling back to analyse your face with a scrutinising expression. âWoahâactually, you look great. Have you been skipping less dinners?â
Your lips part automatically, almost wanting to say Damianâs taken up the cooking. It falls shut immediately, along with your expression. Your voice is tender, testing your words carefully. âYeah, something like that.â
âGood. Iâm obliged as the wiser one to have nagging privileges since Dick isnât hereâno matter how busy life gets, you canât skip what makes life worth living.â
âChocolate chip pancakes?â You raise a brow.
âThat too.â She grins. âBut Iâm really glad to see you. Itâs been ages.â
Your heart tremors with guilt. Ever since Damian reappeared back in your life, youâve been putting off so much. Life outside had begun to feel like an intrusion, a compulsory step before you made it home to where the miracle sparked, suspended in time. Even now, youâre terrified the one night you let your guard down, you might come back to an empty apartment. Where youâll fall asleep and he wonât be there at the corner of the bed, waiting for you to bid him closer and being dragged into his embrace.
âItâs really good to see you.â Your voice softens, taking in the sight of her blond locks, her purple sweater, and the underlying relief in her expression.
Her smile brightens and her arm wraps around your shoulder, dragging you along. âCome on, Iâve got this new place I want to check out. Heard the ownerâs a huge fan of Spoiler.â
âYouâre not going to bargain deals with your merchandise, are you?â
She hums a sweet tune, head facing forward.
âSteph.â You snort.
âWhatâitâs a good strategy.â She shrugs. âTell me itâs not genius.â
âItâs definitely classic you.â
âYeah, classic me is a genius, same diff.â She grins, steps rushing slightly whenever she gets excited, particularly when it comes to food. The door bell jingles when you both step into the small bistro, the scent of honey and sugared powder filling your nose.
You can imagine Damianâs nose wrinkling at the overly sweet scent, but the thought doesnât have time to stick before Stephâs already pulling you over to the corner seating, with a perfect view of Wayne Tower in the distance. Your gaze flickers to the tower, before drawing it back to Steph whoâs looking over the menu.
âDamian would hate this place.â She says suddenly.
The tilt of your lip freezes, and she casts you a knowing look. âYou thought it.â Steph murmurs, placing the menu down. âI know that look.â
Your lips part, mouth dry. âWe donât have to, Steph.â
âNo, itâs okay. I don't want you feeling like it's a no-go zone with me.â She smiles gently. Thereâs that part of her you never stopped admiring, her bravery to speak for what others never dared to see. âI do actually miss making fun of him.â
He misses you too, you want to say. He misses you all.
âSometimes, I wish he left something for us.â Steph murmurs, her smile lessening into something honest. âHe was loud with his actions, and he could never resist an insult butâit just feels like I have nothing much to remind myself of him.â
You pause, her suggestion seeping into your bones. Your gaze widens imperceptibly, but she doesnât notice.
âThereâs Titus, of course.â She jokes wryly. âThat beast always tackles me whenever I visit the manor. Guess I know where he got his manners from.â
Youâre half-tuning out, because that could be it. Damian could write something so personal to each of themâso theyâd at least he know he exists somehow. In this world.
âYouâre right, Steph.â You mutter, lost in thought.
âOf course I am. Have you seen Titus recently?â She snorts. âWeighs a truck if he jumps you from the back.â
You shake your head, a fond smile tilting your lips upward. Maybe finally, you have a chance through this loophole, a way to bridge the unseen and the present. You may have a way to bring him backâpast the walls of your home.
The nature of Damian is beginning to reform under his bones. The burn of his questions, how he goes silent when he formulates a plan, only without the hesitation he once held in the first few weeks on the prospect of breathing life into the abnormality of his existence.
âWhat was your wish?â Damian murmurs, gaze peering over you as you tumble into the sheets, feeling his arms slowly wrap around you, pulling you closer to his side of the bed. âI heard you call my name, but nothing of your request.â
âIt was the same thing, always.â You recall faintly. âThat I didnât want to ever get used to coming home to our apartment alone. That I could see you again, and remember what life used to feel like with you.â
The specific details of your wish echo in your thoughts, your mind capturing onto the specificity of your words. You feel his mind register it faster than yours, but he doesn't form any accusations, not the way your own brain immediately pinpoints to.
âIs that why you canât step a foot out of our home?â You realise, dread thumping patiently as it inches closer to guilt. âWhy no one can see you except for me?â
He calls out your name, stopping you in your tracks. âIt is not your fault.â He says before youâve even voiced it out. âDo not carry on a burden that isnât yours to bear.â
âWhat ifâif that's the reason, would you stay?â You ask in the dark. âThis doesnât feelââ
Sustainable or fair orâhorrible words pile on top of the other, right at the tip of your tongue. You feel the paranoia that traces along the edge of every conversation you have with himâlike the waiting still hasnât ended. That the world hasnât quite let loose of its claws on either of you.
âFor as long you want me, Iâll always be here.â Damian reassures you, hand lifting to press against your cheek, grounding you.
Thatâs impossible, you almost want to say. Youâll always want him.
âWhat about you?â You ask quietly. âYou look tired, Dami.â
He stares at you for a beat, and you feel the gears in his mind turning. His under-eyes are clear of dark circles, his body shows no signs of exhaustion, although you know he hasnât truly slept since his return. You feel it sometimes in your half-awake state, when he lets his guard downâand the trace of his fingers over your pulse.
âIt is difficult to rest.â He answers honestly, a dry swallow in his throat. âIt does not feel like living. There is no calling for survival, not when I am trapped in place. I am not wholeâbut the feeling fades when you are here.â
âI want to make things better for you.â You wish desperately.
His gaze softens at the edges. âYou are.â
âI want to actually try something. I have an idea, Iâm not sure if itâll work or change anything.â You admit. âI know youâve been writing every night. I was thinkingâwould you write letters? To your family? Steph mentioned that sheâd like to have something to remember you by.â
His hold tightens over your shoulders, before forcing himself to relax.
âI just thinkâit might work.â You go on, fingers pressed softly against the expanse of his chest, right where the fabric bunches over your gripâwhere his heartbeat should be. âIf they believe it too, I donât knowâit sounds silly.â
"Beloved.â He calls, his expression twisting in consideration. âIâve⊠already written letters.â
Your lips part in astonishment. Has that been what heâs been doing this entire time? âLeave it to you to already have a plan.â You tease softly.
His lips quirk slightly, but thereâs still that lingering solemnity in his gaze thatâs never fully lifted. âIâve written letters for you too.â
Your brows furrow. âWhyââ
Looking into his eyes, you spot the knowingâthe underlying preparation of a man not truly believing the cards are in his favour.
âNo.â Pushing yourself away from the sheets, out of his embraceâyou stare at him wordlessly, that familiar pounding beginning in your chest.
âTell me you havenât been writing goodbye letters, Damian.â You plead.
He only watches you, choosing to remain silent becauseâhe could never lie to you. Not without you catching it in the twinge of his expression, the purse of his lips.
âNo, I donât want to think thatânot when the impossible has already happened.â You shake your head. âI canât handle a goodbye.â
âIt is not a certainty.â He reminds you.
âI know but I have to believe.â Your voice breaks. âI believed every night, that somehow, youâd come back to meâand you did. So, I donât want a goodbye, Damian.â
âI want you to live your life.â You admit in earnest. âNot to be sealed in here, waiting only for me. You are so greatâyou deserve the chance to be so much more. If there is even a possibility, I want you to fightâto get your life back.â
You are asking a difficult task, for Damian who doesn't put faith in what he can't predict without data or evidence. You see the argument, the calculation weighing in his mind but then he looks at you andâsomething in him gives. For all that heâs fought for, defying even the rules of the dead, half-whole in a world that once belonged to him as much as it does to you, he has never found the strength to say no to you.
âAlright.â He answers softly. âI will try.â
He has broken his promise only once in your entire lifetime of knowing each other, but tonight, you place your trust in himâthat heâd keep this one.
The letters are a brilliant plan. Itâs the most hopeful youâve felt in weeks. Damian waits by the door, a safe two feet away from the threshold where he had last vanished through the hold of your fingers when you both attempted to cross.
âThis will work.â You mutter, strapping on your boots.
Looking back to him, Damianâs already watching you, your favourite coat already over his forearm. He doesnât make a comment, but when you lift your arms for him to put on the coat, as the sleeves loop throughâhe leans in and closes the distance.
He doesnât loosen his hold, tugging you closer till youâre wrapped in his scentâand his lips crash into yours. Itâs anything but soft, nothing withheld. Itâs a promiseâunspoken, and a Damian unraveled. Your free hand wraps instinctively around the nape of his neck, tugging softly at the dark waves that have grown past his usual desired length.
A low sound vibrates against his throat, the intensity of him burning through his skin. It is not a goodbye, you remind yourself, refusing to let anything wet prick at your eyes. You are going to fix thisâand he was going to come home.
âI love you.â You gasp against his lips, mere seconds after he finally parts to let you have air.
His hand rises to cup your cheek, gaze focused over your featuresâbefore finally looking you straight in the eyes. âI am yours. Every part of me always.â
You swallow thickly. âAlways.â
You want Damian. You want him in all the worst parts of himâthe part of him that left and never came back, the part of him that immediately thought to make your favourite breakfast in the first instance of his return, the only person who you wanted to spend the rest of your life with.
âIâll be right back.â You promise, grip tightening over the letters.
His gaze flickers with want, uneaseâa multitude of emotions so vulnerably human, and you understand. Youâre the only who will. He lets you take a step back, and you can feel it even when you turnâthat he never takes his eyes off of you.
Itâs a reassuring weightâof course, till the letters disappear from the grip of your fingers the moment you step out the door. Time splits on itself when your heart dropsâgaze snapping to your empty hand, proof of his existence written tirelessly in the thick stack of letters gone without a trace. When you spin back around to your apartment, the sight of Damian behind you disappears with it.
He's gone.
You don't move. Not for a few minutes, staring into the empty space where he once occupied. The door remains open, the buzzing roar of life beyond the threshold numbed to your senses. Eventually, when reality hits you right below your ribs, you do what was only inevitable. You break.
Damian reappears an hour past midnight, one of the longest instances heâs ever gone missing from the apartment. One of the days you truly needed him, you spent alone waiting. He finds you crumpled on the kitchen floor, hands emptyâgaze staring blankly into the wall. The wall that holds memories, picture frames of your life with himâand your eyes peer soullessly into the distance.
You faintly register the stir of tension in the air, but youâre tired. Itching faintly for something to happen, the clock ticking down in your mind rendered useless. Your last solution has failed.
Damian stands in your kitchen as he did the first time, when it had all seemed like a dream, and you have nothing to say.
Damian eventually speaks, and it is nothing you want to hear. âWe must cease this.â
Your head cranes, looking at him with defeat. Still, you shake your head weakly. You spot that familiar fire, lit in his gaze when his jaw clenches at your stubbornness.
Of course you recognise it. That fire you faced before he had gone out that door two years ago. Your biggest regret had been letting him go, not fighting harder. Itâs just thatâyouâre so exhausted. You need time to think, to replan, to not feel like youâre on the verge of puking because youâre so afraid and you canât do anything about it.
âThere is no denying this. Every instance I reappear, I see your griefâand I am reminded that I am the cause of your suffering.â He says, low and pained. âThat I have failed you, and even now, I chain you.â
âDamian, stop.â You plead, trying to shut it out.
âIt is the truth.â He states numbly. âYou are not living. For as long as I remain, youâll be chained to the memory, and I have to watch you lose yourself because I am not able to let you go.â
âI have failed you.â He repeats. âBut I will not be the reason that you do not live. For as long as I remain here, never truly whole, neither will you.â
âDonât you understand?â You snap. âI havenât been whole! Not since the day you died. You leaving wonât change that. Our realityâit isnât ideal, and itâs terrifying that every time I open that door, I fear I wonât ever see you again, but Iâve lived more now than I have in these past two years.â
âYou are still hurting.â His narrowed gaze assesses the trembling of your body, the dullness in your eyes. âTell me it is enough. Having me hereâa fracture of who I used to be.â
Your lips part, and your heart tremors with a painful ache. âI donât care.â Your voice breaks. âAs long as I have you, the pain is nothing compared to not having you at all.â
âBut I do.â He pleads. âI refuse to be your chain. The reason your life is reduced to this. You told me that I deserved to be something more. Have you not considered that I want the same for you?â
âWhat do you want me to do, Damian?â Your voice croaks, exhausted. âWhat do you propose we do?â
âI want youââ His expression tightens. ââto rescind your wish.â
âNo.â Stumbling in your step as you try and fail to rise from the tiles, heâs in front of you in seconds.
You push weakly at his grip that steadies you, anger churning something bitter in your gut that heâs so willing to throw away his promiseâthe only one you have left for him to keep.
He calls your name, pleadingâurgent. "I think this is the end."
"No." You shake your head adamantly, tears soaking your cheeks. "Please."
"I love you." He murmurs. "I love you, and I do not expect your forgiveness."
"What about always?" You break. "Please, I can't lose you again. I can'tâI imagined this life with you, Damian. I can't have you again, and lose youâplease. Don't go."
His composure shatters the second those words leave you, regret sweeping his entire expression. "I have failed you."
You don't want to hear this. You want him to stay, and for this stupid wish to lastâand for the universe to answer your desperate cries to not take him away.
"I love you." Grabbing a fistful of his shirt, you clench tightly as if it could prevent the striking of the clock taking him away. "I can't love anybody else, it's only ever been you."
"I love you." He whispers in devotion, voice raw. "I have only ever seen you. It was always you."
Was. As if he's already seen the inevitability of his going.
"Damian." Your voice is scattered, torn between misplaced rage and desperationâbut none of it holds true. "You promised meâthat you'd never break your promises. Why?"
Why did he go out on that mission? Why did he not heed your words on waiting for back-up, for someone to be by his side? Why did he leave you alone in this damned apartment, waiting for his return only to open the door to Dick's blank expression battered, where he had to watch you fall in on yourself.
"You should've listened to me." Your fists dig into his chest. "You should've stayed home, with me. Instead of that stupid missionâand leaving me alone. You idiot."
"I know." He murmurs, letting you take it out on him. Even now, he was accommodating youâtaking in all your anger even when you didn't want to leave it at this.
You're picking a fight, because you didn't want this to end. Whenever you got in an argument with Damian, he'd refuse to leave it till it was solved. Somewhere in your logic twisted by grief, you wondered if even his determination for your forgiveness would outweigh the cruelty of your wish.
"Fight, damnitâDamian, fight." You cry out, tears forming a puddle onto his shirt. "Don't leave it at this."
"Beloved." He whispers, gazing at you with so much love, it leaves you hollow.
"I wrote letters." He whispers, memorising you with intent. "As many as I could."
You faintly register his words, somewhere beneath the numbness your body is undergoing to process the heavy, sinking chain dragging at your heart.
"I know it's not enough, it never will be." He mutters. "But I wrote them to keep you company. To scream at me, to hate meâeverything. What I never got to say, nothing is amiss."
A low, mocking huff leaves his lips not long after his words. "You can burn them if it reminds you of my failures, or if you wish to be part of the memory of me when it only serves you pain. Butâ"
He swallows, fingers tightening around you. "If you wish to hear my voice, to have me by your sideâI am there. In those letters, you'll have me, always. My last thoughts, my wishesâthey're all of you. They've always been about you."
âNo, this canât end.â Your voice breaks. âPlease.â
âIt will end eventually.â His voice lowers, attempting to soothe the cutting truth of his words. âIt is my only mercy that I can face you this time, before I go.â
âWhy does it have to end?â You mutter into the dark. âIsnât this enough?â
âIt is more than Iâll ever deserve.â He confesses, pressing his lips softly to the crown of your head.
Your words are lost on your tongue, a horrible taste of grief rendering you immobile as you collapse fully into his touch. He holds you, that same pressure over your temple, fingers brushing over the nape of your neck.
âTell me.â Your body succumbs before your mind, eyes closing shut. âEverything. From the start. I want to hear it all. Please.â
His fingers linger over your temple, before brushing back loose strands of hair to tuck behind your ear. You feel it then, finally, the low thump right where his heart should be. Then, he starts, and you hear the story of how the two of you met from his eyes. You let yourself fall into step with his memory, the last youâll ever hear of it. In the knowing of a goodbye, you focus on the slight tremor in his voice, the tight grip of his handâand how his faint heart was finally beating now that youâve given it back.
You find the stack of letters in the morning, kept neatly in your drawerâall addressed to different names. Father. Mother. Brown. Drake. Grayson. Todd. Duke. Cassandra. The list went on. Your own stack is separated, in a thick bundle that mustâve began from the first time you caught him writing.
The world was impossibly cruel yet fair, his letters remaining despite the impossibility, the scent of him still coating the paper. He is gone, and the existence of him remains.
Life is heightened back to its usual roar, the faint chaos of the streets beyond the walls of your apartment playing as if nothing had ever changed. The quiet greets you like an old friend, and there is no shuffling of the sheets when you wake, no toast at the counter.
Your fingers grip at the first letter, trembling as you open the first. You hear his voice immediatelyâand nothing prepares you for it, as if he sealed himself within the pages. You feel the warmth of his touch, the low candor of his voice, reading it to you.
"To my beloved.â
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