snail ✷

side: @babylov3 • whenever i feel emotionally tormented, i am here • asks open :P

[snailpebbles]

introduction pageee (⁠.⁠ ⁠❛⁠ ⁠ᴗ⁠ ⁠❛⁠.⁠) !!

hi hello, lovely to have u :P im snail (i actually dont like snails lmao) & yeah welcome ! i enjoy writing (not just ff lolz), photography, and ciphers. i live in a literal village by definition :< ft. insta

fandoms: lads, haikyuu, formula one, skz, p1harmony, yellowjackets, marvel, dc, alice in borderland+ many more i cant think of !

rules/gen bullshit: be nice, no weird asks PLEASE, dont steal my shit it takes me months to write fr, idc if u spam like (makes me feel special), i dont write explicit stuff on this blog nor do i answer explicit asks (go to my other one tyty @babylov3 )

masterlist (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

REQUESTS ARE OPEN :3

[naruyii]

diva

[snailpebbles]

rewatching merlin admiring Gaius' cunty laid down bob

[yufannc]

[snailpebbles]

I've been reintroduced to eoin macken and Oh My God.

[carisd]

hey siri, play “be like a woman”, im feeling romantical😈

[snailpebbles]

it's not weird to add my insta right... cough snaiilpebbles cough ..

[snailpebbles]

my boyfriend broke up with me because he thinks he can't give me the future I want !

[snailpebbles]

untapped meth market in whoville

[jiuchip]

to deserve you || yoon keeho

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪ pairing | established keeho x reader ༉‧₊˚. 𓆩♡ synopsis | the fight was a long time coming, you were expecting it. it was the words that come from keeho’s lips you weren’t prepared for.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪ details | sfw, angst, hurt, comfort, arguing, unhealthy communication, healthy communication, keeho grovels, theo cameo 𓆩⟡ length |  2.9k ⟡𓆪

➻ requested by anon! 𓆩⟡𓆪 note || are you guys drowning in the angst soup yet... there's a side of comfort this time! lowkey not the proudest of this one i have such a tough time writing keeho but i hope it’s still okay😭

The fight had been simmering in you for a while now, waiting for the right spark to strike aflame.

That spark came when Keeho texted you saying he would come home late from work for the nth time this past month. It struck just the right nerve inside of you, so now you wait patiently on the couch for him with flames licking around beneath your skin, angry but patient.

The clock above the TV ticks away obnoxiously, mocking you with every second that it moves towards 11pm. This is the latest he’s ever been. And there was no follow up either.

Normally he’d send another text a few hours later— or call you if you’re lucky— to let you know if he won’t make it by dinner but today you've been sitting by your phone like a pathetic fool waiting for a text you’re not even sure you want anymore.

You’re not sure what you were hoping for. You’re not sure why you expected things to go your way. Lately, nothing did. Dates always got pushed back far enough until they were forgotten. You could barely plan an evening together even just at home before he would get spontaneously pulled away by his management. You knew he was a busy man but busy people could still make time for their partners.

When the clock strikes eleven, you pull yourself up to your feet and make your way to the stove to make dinner for one.

You hear him enter the apartment when you’re aggressively scrambling eggs. 

“I’m home,” he calls, voice weak and gruff from exhaustion.

You don’t respond. Not even when he calls your name. And not when he wraps his arms around your waist and plasters himself to your back.

“Baby?” He asks, nudging his mouth against the slope of your jaw. He feels liquid as he relaxes against you, warm and solid. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you say tightly as you plate your eggs, trying to lean out of his hold but he’s persistent enough to follow you with his body.

He freezes at the tone of your voice. “There’s something wrong,” he states after a tense silence. When there’s no response from you, he turns you around, holding your arms down so you can’t get away easily. There’s a concerned furrow between his brows.  “What is it?”

You grit your teeth, refusing to meet his eyes. You push against his forearms to shove his hands off of you. “What, you can’t figure it out?”

The concern on his face makes way for shock and then irritation. It comes quicker than you thought it would; the late night has probably worn his inhibitions down. It’s definitely not the right time to be doing this but he’s not the only one who’s tired.

His jaw tenses and his brows dip further, eyes narrowing as he tries to read you clearer. “Well if you don’t tell me, how am I supposed to know?”

You scoff, finally meeting his eyes. “Think, Keeho,” you say, fashioning your tone into something patronizing. “Just think! You’re a big boy, I’m sure you can figure out what could possibly have been making me upset all these days. Or are you really that dense?”

There’s a flash of anger you see flit through his eyes. “How about you stop being so immature and just tell me,” he snaps. His eyes widen a little as he says it, like the words weren’t meant to come out that way but his exhaustion must have rewired the filters in his brain.

“Oh, I’m being immature now?” You ask through grit teeth, taking a step forward. “You practically abandoned me for, like, a month! So yeah, excuse me if being upset about that makes me immature.”

Any regret you might have seen in his face is gone. His expression becomes a stony one, hard and cold, and you can see the anger brewing again in his eyes. “You know how work has been recently,” he says, slowly and quietly; an attempt to keep himself under control.

“Oh, spare me the bullshit,” you spit, pouring as much vitriol as you can into your words. “What, because you’re busy with work that means you get to just ignore me?”

His restraint starts to crack and his voice rises steadily with each word. “Oh for fuck’s sake, I wasn’t ignoring you!”

“We can’t even hang out recently without you getting pulled into work. When was the last time we went on a date?”

“A date?!” He scoffs. He’s starting to look a little manic now, like he’s in absolute disbelief of what he’s hearing. Like you’re being crazy. “All of this over a fucking date? It’s just a few weeks of extra hours and you’re already throwing a tantrum over dates?”

You dig your nails into your palms and take a sharp breath to wind down the storm rattling in your head. “I’m not throwing a tantrum and you know this isn’t just about dates. I’m just saying—“

“No, you are,” he cuts you off. “You know I have more important things to worry about right now—“

“More important?” You repeat, feeling your heart climb up your throat. “More important than us?”

He throws his head back, bringing his hands up over his face. “Fuck!” He yells into his palms before he slides them down and looks at you— glares at you. “There you go twisting my words now,” he seethes.

Your throat feels tight and there’s a sting behind your eyes. “I’m not twisting anything,” you say slowly, hoping maybe then he would just listen.

But he’s not hearing you, he’s pacing away to the living room with his hands digging into his hair. “I can’t deal with this right now. I can’t deal with you right now. Not when you’re being so fucking needy.” He says it like you’re a burden. He’s ranting to himself now, and the next words come under his breath but you can hear them clear as day. “So fucking unnecessary.”

Every inch of your body feels hot with rage and sorrow, a living thing that crawls under your skin and cries for you to get out. “Fine,” you say. You’re calm as you collect your phone and your car keys from the counter on the way to the door. “Don’t deal with me anymore.”

You’re shoving your feet into your shoes when you hear him call your name but you’re out the door before you can let yourself turn back.

The drive to your brother’s apartment is a short one, thankfully, because you’re a hazard on the road with blurry eyes, shaky hands, and a distracted brain. The way up to Theo’s apartment is a blur and you don’t even let him ask you what’s wrong before you sink yourself into his arms and sob into his chest.

For once, he doesn’t shove you away or call you a gross, snot-nosed gremlin. All he tells you is that you’re staying here for the night before he makes sure you go to sleep hydrated and with company.

You wake up to poorly hushed voices arguing outside the bedroom and Theo’s bedside clock flashing past 3am. You’re not able to distinguish the voices through your sleepy haze as you drag yourself out of bed and step out of the room. 

“Taeyang?” You ask groggily, blinking your eyes open. When they adjust, you immediately wish you hadn’t left the bed.

Keeho shoves past Theo in the entryway to reach for you. “Baby—“

“Don’t touch me,” you snap, flinching back from him when he gets in your space.

Keeho looks like he’s been physically punched by the words as he reels back, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air before they slowly drop back to his sides.

“Keeho,” Theo says from behind him, voice low and ready to strike. “You should go.”

“No,” Keeho says, his eyes wide in panic. You only realize now that they’re puffy and rimmed red. His cheeks are flushed too and his lips look bitten raw. “No, not yet, baby, please—“ He shifts like he’s about to reach for you again but stops himself and pulls back. The words tumble out of his lips, staggered and rushed. “Please, just let me talk— a few minutes, that’s all I ask.”

You feel your heart wrench around in your chest. His callous words from before rattle around in your head, the acid in his eyes in the way he’d looked at you flashing before your eyes.

Keeho’s face breaks open when you don’t respond. His lips start to wobble and his eyes start to well and the sight alone hurts you more than anything else. “Please,” he says through a restrained breath.

Theo’s eyes meet yours over Keeho’s shoulder. He gives you a minuscule nod before he steps out of the front door, closing it behind him.

As soon as he hears the front door shut, Keeho falls right to his knees with a gut wrenching sob. He’s saying things to the floor that you can’t hear through his heaving and crying and you can’t stand the sight of it.

“Keeho,” you say, taking a step forward to haul him up to his feet but as soon as you get within reach again, Keeho’s arms are around your thighs and he’s looking up at you with brown eyes drowning in tears and his pretty face twisted in anguish. 

“I’m sorry,” he starts and you can’t get a word in before he’s spewing off through hiccups and sniffles. “I didn’t mean it, any of it. I was— idiot, I was so stupid. I was stressed and I didn’t know what I was saying but— fuck— none of that matters!” He squeezes his eyes shut and tilts his head down to hide his face as he presses against your stomach. “Doesn’t fucking matter… I hurt you. With things I didn’t even mean— stupid, I was so—“

“Keeho,” you try to say, reaching down to lift his head back up because he’s starting to become unintelligible again.

His eyes snap back up to yours with such an intensity that you nearly flinch back, but his arms tighten around you, keeping you close. “You’re not needy. You weren’t twisting my words,” he says through uneven breaths, looking and sounding a little more sane, but he’s still as desperate. “You weren’t throwing a tantrum, I was. I was being an asshole and I wasn’t listening, and I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness but please—“ He breaks down again with a fresh wave of tears but he refuses to look away from you. HIs voice is small and nearly a whine as he pleads with you. “Don’t leave. Please don’t leave me.”

You’re not sure how he does it; wearing down your resolve with just one look and a few words. But you can feel it cracking away with each of his sobs.

You reach behind yourself to grasp his wrists and unwrap his arms from you. 

He bristles when you do, that panicked look back in his eyes. “No, please—“

“Keeho,” you say firmly, going down to your knees in front of him. That shuts him up, and he finally starts to listen. He watches the words from your lips as they fall into the thick air between you two. “I need you to promise me something.”

He doesn’t hesitate; he nods immediately as he shuffles closer on his knees. The heavy breaths from his parted lips land warmly against your lips as he looks down at you, waiting.

“Please don’t raise your voice at me again,” you find yourself saying. Your eyes water with no warning and your voice starts to shake against your wishes. “I know I was being unfair too, and I should’ve just told you what was wrong but…” You lower your head, weak to keep his eyes. “Calling me needy and talking to me like I was crazy—“ You take a sharp breath to stop the tears from falling just yet. “It made me feel so small. Like what I was saying didn’t matter at all. You didn’t even let me explain properly why I was upset. I know that you were tired and you were stressed but you made me feel like shit. I don’t ever wanna feel like that again.” You squeeze your eyes shut in an attempt to keep the threatening tears back. “All I did was miss you and you just…” You break away with a shaky breath, picturing the way he had twisted with such anger towards you; anger that you’d never seen from him before.

You open your eyes again when Keeho’s forehead presses against yours. His eyes are fixed down with a faraway gaze and there’s a steady stream of tears still slipping down his face. 

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he whispers, quiet and honest. “I let my anger get away from me and it hurt you.” He reaches for your hands in your lap, moving slow and questioning. When you don’t pull away, he lets his hands envelop your smaller ones. “I hate myself for it. But it’ll never happen again.” His hands squeeze down on yours like he’s physically sealing the promise. “If it does, you can walk away and never look back. I won’t stop you.”

You let out the breath that’s been stuck in the recesses of your lungs, and along with it, the heaviness that settled in your chest some weeks ago. “Sounds like a plan,” you say lightly, and your eyes meet his again.

The relief that washes over his face is instant. He drops his head down to your shoulder as his arms snake around your waist to pull you flush against him. “I don’t deserve you,” he mumbles into your neck.

“No, you don’t,” cuts in Theo as he walks back in through the door. “Are you two done? I’m tired.”

Despite his snappy tone, Theo looks at you with eyes softened in a silent question. When you give him a small smile and a nod, the tension in his shoulders releases.

“Yeah,” you say aloud, wrapping your arms around Keeho’s shoulders, who’s still buried away in your shoulder and shut away from the world except you. “Just about.”

“Cool,” Theo says passively as he walks past you both towards the living room. He kicks the side of Keeho’s leg as he passes, not lightly. “Get to bed.”

Keeho doesn’t even react to Theo. Instead he pulls back and shuffles up to his feet, pulling you into his arms as he lifts. Your legs wrap around his waist as he brings you into the bedroom and drops you down on your back, easing himself down with you. 

You accept his weight on top of you with a grunt but you don’t push him away. Your chest feels tight again, but it’s for the better this time.

He presses his forehead to yours and you reach up to wipe away the wetness from his cheeks with your palms. “I don’t deserve you,” he says again, the cadence of his voice delicate now.

You shake your head slightly, tilting your chin up to brush the tip of your nose against his flushed one. “Don’t say that. We both could’ve handled that better.”

“No,” he says firmly, his brows pinching. “No,” he repeats, softer. “Just… Let me deserve you again. I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll quit my job.”

You laugh a little at how earnestly he says that. “No, silly. If you do that you can’t take me out on expensive dinners anymore.”

The lightness of your voice gets the smallest of smiles out of him. “True,” he says, then buries his hands under your— Theo’s— hoodie; not with intent, but just to feel you against him without barriers. A quiet reminder for himself that you’re still here, with him. “I’ll take you on a date tomorrow. I’ll leave work on time from now on. I won’t even look at my phone.”

You smile at his words, but he doesn’t stop there. He plants a soft kiss to your brow. Then one to your eyelid. And a myriad more, gentle and fluttery, down your face as he rattles off again.

“I’ll buy a new phone for my managers and then block them on my personal one. I’ll tell them to fuck off if they try to take me away from you again. I’ll lie and tell them you’re pregnant so they’ll actually leave me alone and then if it gets too far we’ll just say the test was wrong and we didn’t realize—“

“Keeho!” You cut him off with a baffled laugh, grabbing his cheeks to stop him from continuing to attack your face with unrelenting kisses. 

There’s a pout on his lips now, a tiny thing that you want to kiss off of him. “What? I need to be thorough.”

The grin you give him eases him down into a smile. “You’re ridiculous,” you say through your smile.

“I’m proactive,” he corrects, dropping his head down to yours again. His eyes fall to your lips, but he hesitates.

You smooth your hand down the hair at the back of his head, a touch that grounds both him and you. His eyes are soft now, all harsh edges faded into nothing but tenderness as he peers down at you, questioning.

“Come here,” you urge him forward with your hand and he leans down to kiss you like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him. 

It is.

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1 reblog/comment = 1 virtual kiss <3

© jiuchip

[snailpebbles]

a tainted reflection (lost in your unseeing gaze)

pairing: shane hollander/ilya rozanov

tags: hurt/comfort, AU of ep5 injury, graphic injury descriptions

cross posted on ao3

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆

Playing against Ilya was never not fun. Following their reconnection at the All-Star’s Game, Shane had never felt this relaxed. This safe. There was nothing like their face-offs, nothing like their matching grins and ferocity on the ice. Sure, playing with the Russian had its own charms, but competition is the foundation of their…whatever this is.

He isn’t brave enough to say relationship, not yet. That doesn’t keep Shane from hoping, fantasizing of the day that he can hold Ilya’s hand off the ice and on it (gloves be damned). Maybe it’s stupid to be this in his head in the locker room – he is the captain and should probably be giving some sort of speech but…semantics. Or whatever. He should really look up the definition of that word.

Hayden’s hand on his shoulder startles Shane out of his thoughts, making him realize he’s been on autopilot to gear up this whole time.

“You seem a bit distracted.” Hayden teases, switching his gold band out for a safe rubber one. Shane tucks that little idea away for a wistful future. He grins unsteadily and stands, laughing under his breath.

“No, I’m all good man.” He reassures as he bends to double check his skates, another ritual. “Just ready to see Rozanov cry is all.” The other players cheer at that, taking any opportunity to shit on the famously infuriating player. Shane snorts and smiles a bit too fondly, but he works with people that get brain damaged every other week, so he isn’t worried.

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆

The stadium lights are practically blinding as each player skates out per their name, cheers growing progressively louder until they’re borderline screaming for #24. It never gets old, Shane thinks to himself, eyes scanning the crowds. His parents aren’t there for once, his mom having a business meeting and his dad hosting the rare BBQ party.

Rozanov is across the ice and waves mockingly as the crowd boos - definitely not Bears fans. Something warm settles in his chest as he stretches with his team, something he sees reflect in Rozanov's eyes.

In a private part of his mind, Shane is relieved. Not that he doesn’t love his parents – of course he does – but they can be a bit…overzealous. Ilya had teased him relentlessly one game when his parents had their faces painted.

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆

“Is cute, Hollander! You have so many fan girls!” Rozanov was reclined back in a repetitive hotel bed, Shane tucked beneath his arm with a blushing face. His chest was still kind of heaving from their previous activities that, if Rozanov's wandering eyes were anything to go by, were about to be resumed.

“It’s embarrassing. They brought a cut-out of my face.” Rozanov can only laugh loudly at his obvious shame, large hand cupping and squishing his freckled face. That burning increases tenfold.

“Is cute.” Rozanov repeats, quieter. Fonder. His initial reaction is to protest but that glint of what might be longing in Rozanov’s eyes stops him.

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆

Shane blinks and Ilya is suddenly in front of him, cocky grin pulling his lips in that familiar way. Right, the face-off. Shane historically tends to lose these, and this time is no different. After a muttered, “you look pretty” (pritty), the puck is off and Ilya has control. His skates fly fast as ever across the ice, dodging and passing the Voyageurs.

Comeau gains control and slings the puck to Shane who easily commands it back across the ice, handling the stick with an instinctive ease. The screams of the fans all fade into the background. All he feels is the slick ice beneath him, the sweat beading on his forehead, and the urge to glance over his shoulder.

Ilya is right on his ass, beaming like the Sun and easily outshining it.

He doesn’t hear Hayden’s yell at first, not until the Sun dims and the ice is suddenly everywhere, but oh so hot.

Someone screams, he isn’t sure who. A lot of people are screaming actually and it’s so warm. Shane paws at his neck, annoyed at how sweaty he is, at how black spots are dancing in his vision. They come back red – It’s the last thing Shane registers before his eyes shudder back and the spots cover everything.

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆

“Quick move by Comeau, control taken from Rozanov-”

“He’s moving fast now, not an easy feat with the on pile of Bears!”

“Smart choice, puck now in Hollander’s hands.”

“Wow! Clearly captain for a reason, isn’t he?”

“Winding up now, a surefire goal for the Voyageurs-”

“...Oh- oh God.”

The stadium goes silent as the impact happens, as blood arcs through the air. It stains the barriers, the ice, the glass. Everything.

One scream breaks the horrified silence.

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆

Shane's name breaks on Ilya's tongue, breaks in his soul and his heart. He is so still, so red. A bed flashes through Ilya’s mind as he falls to his knees, gloves fumbling as pills scatter in his mind and imaginary foam bubbles across the ice, pale as his mothers lips.

“Shane, Shane please–” He’s sobbing, tears choking him out as his hand covers Shane’s unguarded, torn neck. Someone is fighting behind him, medics practically falling over themselves to get to center ice where Shane is…God, Shane.

He screams again, crying and cursing, pressing and digging into the slippery muscles of Shane's neck. Never should he be able to count the cords, taste blood that squirts into his mouth, staining his uniform. His heart is cracking into innumerable pieces – Shane taught him that word, Ilya tried counting his freckles.

The blood mercifully stops and medics press on Ilya’s shoulders, yelling for a stretcher. He can't tell what's happening, why they're crowding him. All Ilya feels is the blood pulsing beneath his thumb, shoved in his Shane's neck.

…”Keep pressure, good…don’t let up yet.” Someone is talking to him, praising his quick action. He doesn’t want praise, wants it to stop, but his voice doesn’t seem to be working.

The first thing Ilya notices as they lift Shane up, his hand still digging into his loves neck, is how much more his freckles stand out on such pale skin. It’s wrong. Shane’s eyes are closed instead of glaring, his chest barely moving, his cheeks not even flushed as they always are in Ilya’s presence. Everything is so, so wrong.

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆

Something is beeping in his ear, insistent and annoying.

“Ilya, turn off your fucking alarm-” He mutters, swiping at air where an Ilya shaped body would normally lay. It doesn’t stop. That and his throat hurts so damn bad.

“Shane? Fuck, okay-” Somebody rushes out of wherever this is, yelling for…a nurse? What?

“Where am I?” He croaks out, recognizing the now clear blur as his dad. The older man sinks into the blue plastic chair dragged up to what must be a hospital bed – why is he in the hospital? A familiar dread coils in Shane’s stomach, bleeding red.

“There was an accident on the ice.” His dad gets the words out slowly, taking his son's hand. “Jackson and Marleau collided and skid, right into you. One of their uh, their skates it…” He cuts off and swallows, running a hand down an exhausted face. Memories edge their way into Shane’s mind, ones of unbearable heat.

“My neck.” Shane whispers, both horrified and confused. At his dads nod, breath forcefully escapes his battered lungs. The memories all rush in, swirling and throbbing in his probably concussed head. Cold, then pressure, then heat, a scream, then nothing.

So quick, the way it almost ended. Anticlimatic.

A new person enters the room holding a clipboard and wearing a relieved smile.

“Shane, I’m Dr. Connelly. You took quite the hit.” She steps to his bedside just as his mom comes in, visibly crumbling in on herself. His mom silently takes vigilance at his bedside, hand in his other one. She’s shaking as she leans in, kissing her only sons forehead.

Dr. Connelly explains his surgery, what care he needs, and his prognosis. Based on the scribbling he hears, his mom is copying it all down in her heavily used notebook. The familiarity is nice since his head is swimming.

“Can I still play hockey?’ He whispers, not wanting to agitate his throat further. Chuckles echo around the small room as the curtains rustle, allowing filtered light in. Shane doesn’t find it that funny, but the painkillers sort of numb his annoyance.

“When that fully heals, yes. It’s a full recovery.” Dr. Connelly nods before taking her leave. There’s a collective relief and with that knowledge, as well as quiet reassurances that yes, his feet are still there, Shane falls into a dreamless sleep.

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆

The door creaking open is what rouses him. The room is no longer washed in sunlight, the Moon having risen however long ago. Regardless, the Sun comes in anyways with quiet footsteps and a worried expression.

“Ilyaaaa!” His head feels full of cotton in the best way possible, the cheer barely even a whisper as the now-recognized Ilya comes closer. Shane takes a second to appreciate his love, eyes scanning him over and hand reaching out. Cool fingers quickly latch onto his own.

“Shh, moya lyubov, do not hurt yourself more.” Ilya's voice is like a blanket for his body, washing him over with warmth. “You feel okay, yes?” Right, he almost died. Or something.

“Yesss, yes…lots of stitches and drugs, but yes.” Shane answers very informatively, unable to suppress his grin as Ilya automatically stops him from nodding. It bothers him how scrunched up Ilya’s face is, how red his eyes are.

“Ah, that is why you act so…not Shane.” The Russian steps closer, sinking into that same plastic chair. He inhales and exhales slowly, brushing the back of his hand over freckled cheeks. “I worried.” He admits as Shane pouts, leaning only a bit into the touch as to not tug on the heavy gauze padding.

“When you fell, I…” Ilya swallows thickly and Shane’s eyes track the movement. Now is not the time for that, he scolds himself. Tears line the other man's eyes and it's wrong – that is Shane's thing and he says as much, scoring a wet laugh from Ilya.

“Do not do that again, da? My heart will not take it.” Ilya sniffles and dips his head, lips pressing to the back of Shane's hand. Somebody giggles and it must be himself based on the new ache in his throat. Ilya pets his hair with his other hand, muttering something in Russian that Shane cannot bother to pick apart.

“I had this whole plan for tonight.” Shane whispers, drawing Ilya’s attention back to him instead of the circumstances. He presses on even as his head aches more.

“Shane–”

“Will you come to my cottage this summer?” He says it in one breath, trying to avoid needing a new dose of pain meds. He wants to be mostly aware of this conversation after all. Maybe not for the way Ilya's expression twists, though. “No Russia. Alone with…me.” Not as elegant as previously planned but, oh well. He almost bled out so he deserves some grace.

“Maybe, maybe. Only if you heal fully.” Ilya speaks after a long moment and he bends down again at Shane's puckered lips, smiling faintly in amusement.

Before Shane can question Ilya’s pinched tone, a nurse comes in. After some of the most awkward banter Shane has ever witnessed, making him both wish for another skate to the neck – bile rises in his throat that he quickly pushes down – Ilya leaves. Eventually the nurse does too and he’s alone. High on pain meds and with an imaginary skate digging into his throat, clogging full of blood. Sleep pulls him down before he can spiral, but this time he’s met with red ice and an echoing scream.

He blames his tears when he wakes up on the physical pain.

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆

sorry they are infecting my brain but I'm alive :P

[snailpebbles]

this means i can pull jongseob now

[snailpebbles]

it's my bday and I've been gifted three fuggler children 🎉‼️

[bitethebullets]

the loss of the audio jack is due to puritan culture hating on penetration

[landoscarfaith]

why did they not pit 😃

[spidersinmysoup]

"You snooze you lose" anti nap propaganda, changing it to "you snooze yaaaaayyyyyy yippeeeee"

[latedeparture]

݁ 𓈒 ཐི 𓉸 𝓞FF 𝓨OUR 𝓢IX !!

⏜︵ pairing 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 damian wayne x reader

꒰ 🦇 ꒱ synopsis 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 after a mission goes sideways and the team argues over the fallout, damian is uncharacteristically silent. you barely know him, have barely spoken, but his focus on you and almost imperceptible concern over your injuries make it clear where his concerns are.

GOTHAM NIGHTS HAVE A PARTICULAR COLD.

the kind that slips under your suit no matter how many layers you pretend you don’t need. the shipping yard breathes it out in long exhales, fog moving between the rusted containers like it has somewhere better to be.

you try not to shiver. it feels undignified, considering the rest of the team is standing like they’re posing for a very grim, very brooding statue garden. six months with them, and you’ve learned that everyone has a signature stance. being with them means knowing where everyone is without looking. dick told you once, offhandedly, like he didn’t realize it was advice, that the key to surviving in a team like this is “learning the rhythm, not the rules.” you think about that a lot. mostly because you’re still not entirely sure what he meant.

the yard around you buzzes with that strange pre-mission quiet, too still to be safe, too loud inside your head to be calm. you can hear the hum of generators from the dockside, the distant hissing clank of a crane someone left running overnight. it should be threatening; it feels familiar. you’ve spent all your life in places like this. back alleys. rooftops. the underside of gotham’s beaten-down skin. you know how footsteps sound on wet metal now, you can identify which type of gun someone’s loading by the rhythm of the clicks.

it’s weird, being here with them. not unwelcome, just strange, like walking into a movie halfway through and trying to pretend you’ve always known the plot.

the fog thickens around your ankles and someone on the far side of the container stack shouts orders at their men, muffled by distance. the lights above flicker in that way gotham lights always do, like even electricity is nervous here. right on cue you hear a voice in your comm: “hold.” dick, not bruce’s, because bruce isn’t here tonight. when bruce isn’t present, two things usually happen: either everything goes smoother because no one’s trying to impress him, or everything descends into chaos because no one’s trying to impress him. tonight feels like it could tip either way.

jason isn’t here either. he was invited, technically. more like notified. you distinctly remember hearing him say, “hard pass, i’m busy, tell golden boy to shove the comm up his—”

the rest got cut off, but you got the general message.

cass isn’t here because she’s running surveillance with oracle on a separate op uptown, something about a trafficking pipeline they’ve been tracking for weeks. steph had complained loudly about missing that one, which is exactly why she’s here now, buzzing with the fidgety, restless energy of someone who wanted a high-stakes mission and got… this.

“this” being a freezing dockyard, rusted containers, and smugglers who probably don’t brush their teeth.

tim is crouched a few feet ahead of you, wrist display glowing faint blue across his face. he looks wired and exhausted in the same breath, like he could solve a murder and fall asleep standing up in the same thirty seconds. damian stands a little apart, blade angled down at his thigh, posture straight enough to rival military statues. he’s scanning the yard with hawk-like focus. you watch them both because there’s nothing else to do in this slice of stillness, and because observing the team has kind of become your hobby. not in a creepy way. more like… it helps to catalog the little things, the rhythms, the tells. especially when half of them communicate primarily in grunts, glares, or dick’s version of motivational speeches.

tim squints at his screen, muttering something under his breath, probably about corrupted data streams or outdated intel. you wonder if he even hears himself when he does that, like maybe he’s been awake so many nights that the line between internal monologue and actual words has completely dissolved. it wouldn’t shock you. you once passed him in the cave at 4 a.m. and he said “i need more batteries” before realizing he wasn’t alone. he still hasn’t explained that.

damian, though —- he’s different.

not in the “he’s the murder demon” way everyone jokes about. or the “he could kill you with a paperclip” way. or even the “he was raised by assassins and has a moral code that makes philosophers cry” way. it’s the quiet. the intentional, controlled kind. the kind that feels like he’s checking every variable in the environment and then a few inside himself. the kind that makes you, despite better judgment, want to look twice, just to understand what he sees that you don’t.

he shifts his stance slightly, weight rolling to the balls of his feet, and you don’t even realize you’re mirroring him until you catch it and force yourself to relax again. too late. he notices. he doesn’t comment, he never does, but his eyes flick toward you for half a second and then away. it’s not hostile. it’s not warm either. it’s… damian. a very specific brand of neutrality that feels like standing in front of a locked door and not knowing whether knocking is a good idea or a death wish.

dick signals a hand gesture you only half understand (he swears they’re standard; they are not). you think it means “ready?” or “move?” or possibly “be a graceful gazelle just like me.” you assume “ready” and nod.

the yard groans under the wind, one of the stacked containers lets out a metal creak that sounds disturbingly like a complaint. steph sighs behind you, whispering, “if we don’t see action soon i’m robbing a 7/11 on the way home.”

“you say that like barbara doesn’t have cameras everywhere.” tim notes dryly without looking up.

“she can’t arrest me,” steph whispers back. “she likes me.”

“she pities you.” damian adds flatly.

you laugh lightly before you can stop yourself. the sound escapes, small and embarrassingly human, but it’s too late, damian’s head turns a fraction in your direction. not all the way, but enough to make you aware of your own breathing. great. now he thinks you’re entertained by his bullying. which… maybe you are. technically. but he doesn’t need to know that.

“uh. okay. that’s… not right.”

your stomach dips a little when tim says that. you’ve learned this tone. this is the i just discovered new horrors tone. “what?”

tim frowns. “there’s movement inside the primary container. wasn’t there on the scan ten minutes ago.”

you tilt your head. “how much movement?”

tim doesn’t answer. which is becoming a theme tonight and not a comforting one. damian exhales through his nose, the kind of sound only a trained fighter or extremely judgmental cat can make. “drake. specifics.”

“i’m working on it,” tim mutters, fingers flying. “just—hang on. it’s reading kinda glitchy. like… too many—”

a metallic clank interrupts him. then another. the kind of sound that doesn’t belong to wind or rust or anything natural. tim freezes mid-keystroke. his wrist display flickers once, twice, like even the tech is hesitating. you shift your weight carefully, because the fog is thick and the dark is thicker, and whatever is making that sound is uncomfortably close, like one-container-over close. you’re tucked behind a red steel crate streaked with graffiti and old bullet dents, and the metal feels colder against your spine than it did a minute ago.

another clank. louder. you and tim exchange a look you both interpret instantly: that wasn’t supposed to happen. that wasn’t supposed to be there. that’s going to be very bad.

damian doesn’t look at anyone, he just angles his blade lower, shoulders tensing with the kind of alertness that doesn’t shake. he’s facing the sound already, as though he predicted this half a second before everyone else did. you wish you had that kind of reaction time. you mostly just have hope and anxiety.

dick starts, “everyone—”

the container beside you shudders. not the one you’re watching. the one right next to you.

you don’t even process the movement at first, just the deep, vibrating groan of metal bowing inward from the force of something slamming from within. tim’s eyes widen.

“oh f—”

an explosion hits.

the world goes white-orange and sound. a shockwave slams the side of the container outward, ripping the metal like paper and sending jagged pieces careening across the yard. you’re knocked back by the pressure alone, breath punched out of your lungs, ears ringing with a high, thin whine. the fog evaporates under the heat blast, shredded into a wild, swirling blast of steam. tim takes the brunt of it.

the explosion detonates so close to him that he disappears in the fireburst for a split second, silhouetted, thrown backward like a rag doll.

“tim!” dick’s voice tears out of him.

he lunges without thinking, sprinting into the debris cloud while metal is still raining down. a huge chunk of shrapnel spins toward where tim is falling —- and dick snatches him mid-air, one arm around his torso, momentum carrying them both behind a stack of cargo crates. they hit the ground hard, skidding, but alive.

your pulse slams so loud it drowns out your ringing ears. smaller explosions chain-react inside the ruptured container, internal charges cooking off, sparks and small bursts rattling the steel frame as whatever was inside destabilizes. you swallow hard against the metallic taste in your mouth and try to get your bearings. your vision swims for a second, colors too bright, and you blink until it all settles into something vaguely coherent.

“tim?” dick calls, half-panicked, half-commanding.

a groan answers back.

you scan the yard automatically, muscles tense, adrenaline boiling through your veins. your eyes catch purple first, stephanie, way off toward the west stack, brushing debris off her shoulders while glaring at the explosion. “i’m good!” she yells, shaking out her ponytail. “mostly! i’m suing whoever packed that thing!”

dick is helping tim to his feet, one arm braced under tim’s shoulders. tim’s limping, breathing shallow, soot-smeared from temple to jaw. his suit’s torn at the knee where he hit the ground, and yeah, that leg is going to be pissed at him tomorrow, but he’s upright. talking. making full sentences, even. “i said the scan was weird,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “nobody ever listens.”

“you said ‘kinda glitchy,’” dick fires back. “that’s not intel, that’s a vibe.”

you let out a shaky breath. they’re okay. everyone is okay.

you turn —- and almost run into damian’s chest. he’s right there. like right there. closer than he was a second ago, close enough that you can see the little fleck of metal embedded in his shoulder pauldron. his eyes flick over your face, a silent inventory of injuries you haven’t even checked for yet.

you open your mouth to say something, anything, and freeze. because the container you were supposed to be watching is no longer quiet. the metal door slides, not like it’s malfunctioning, like someone’s opening it. no, not someone. multiple someones. heavily armed silhouettes spill out of the shadows, rifles and modified tech glinting under the broken floodlights. more footsteps echo, dozens, maybe more. tim was right. the scan was wrong. horribly wrong.

“uh,” steph says, backing up, “were we… expecting the population of a small country?”

“no,” tim wheezes, tightening his grip on his bo staff. “we were not.”

another wave emerges. and another. your chest tightens. this isn’t a squad, this is an army. they were waiting. “it’s a trap,” dick says, already pulling tim behind him.

“we should fall back,” tim adds, wincing as he shifts his leg. “like… yesterday.”

a spotlight snaps on overhead, blinding-white and sweeping across the yard. the noise of boots hitting concrete builds and builds, swallowing up the space between containers until it feels like the walls themselves are marching. damian inhales sharply beside you. “tt. they send foot soldiers. how cowardly.”

“your standards are insane,” steph says, already bolting. “everybody RUN.”

you don’t need to be told twice.

bullets start screaming past the second your feet leave the ground. metal clangs, sparks burst, tim curses somewhere behind dick, and the whole world turns into a shaky, echoing tunnel of go go go go go. your brain, unhelpful, as always, chooses now to observe things. the bat-family: sprinting at full speed. “left!” dick shouts.

you go left. damian goes right. steph goes over the crate entirely like she’s auditioning for parkour olympics. tim gasps somewhere behind you, “i’m too young to die. and i didn’t finish my coffee this morning.”

“that’s what you’re worried about?” you snap, sliding behind a barrier.

“i’m multitasking!” tim fires back.

you leap over a busted pallet and immediately regret having knees. gunfire ricochets so close you feel the heat skim your cheek. fun fact: you think, humans are not designed to run this fast unless a bear is involved. or, apparently, fifty angry men with rifles.

“incoming!”

a crate explodes near your side. splinters shower the ground. damian yells something aggressively in arabic, probably an insult about their mothers, and hurls a smoke pellet behind him. the cloud blooms thick and dark. blessed cover. “move!” dick orders.

all of you surge through it, stumbling, coughing, sprinting blindly until the yard opens into the loading ramp. bullets keep shredding the smoke behind you. someone shouts “DOWN!” and everyone instinctively dives. you hit concrete hard enough to knock the air out of your lungs.

steph grabs your jacket and drags you behind a truck tire. “up! come on!”

you scramble, legs burning, lungs screaming. a bullet whips past and you mentally file that under no thank you. tim limps up beside you, gripping dick’s arm. “we’re almost there—”

a shot cracks and you feel something slice hot across your upper arm. it’s a clean graze. barely anything.

“did you get hit?” dick demands, glancing back.

“nope,” you say, clutching it. “i’m just leaking enthusiasm.”

tim’s steps stutter every few strides, his limp worsening, but he keeps pace because apparently robins are powered by spite alone. you’re half a step behind steph, trying to figure out if the warmth spreading down your arm is sweat, blood, or divine punishment for volunteering tonight.

damian appears at your side while you’re running. “you are hurt,” he observes. not panicked, not emotional, just stating it like reading a label.

“yup,” you answer, hopping over a shattered pallet. “just a love tap.”

“that is not—”

“dami, keep running,” dick snaps from ahead, breathless. “we don’t have time for a medical debate!”

another burst of gunfire rains overhead, sparks showering down. all of you duck in the same instant. it’s almost choreographed, if choreography involved mortal peril and bad decisions. steph laughs—why? how?—as she swerves around a twisting path between containers. “this is fine! totally fine! i love cardio!”

“you hate cardio,” tim coughs from dick’s hold.

“shut up, limpy!” steph calls back.

you hear tim mumble, “ableist.” under his breath.

the yard stretches on forever; every container looks the same. every shadow looks like a threat. your breath is fire in your throat and the graze on your arm pulses with each heartbeat, but honestly? you’ve had worse papercuts. you’re more annoyed than injured. mostly because blood is ruining your sleeve. that was your favorite patrol jacket.

damian keeps pace with you even as the gunfire gets erratic, like he’s tethered there by obligation. he doesn’t help you, doesn’t touch you, doesn’t break formation, but he’s checking your blind spots, adjusting his path so you don’t have to. you don’t notice. he won’t let himself look like he cares.

the exit gate finally comes into view, your get away car headlights cutting a clean, bright tunnel through the chaos. you all barrel toward it. dick practically throws tim into the passenger seat. steph dives into the back. you reach the door, shove yourself inside, and damian slips in behind you, slamming the armored frame shut before the next round of gunfire can tag any of you.

dick floors it. the docks fall away behind you, lights, gunfire, smoke. you smell burning plastic. you’re not sure if it’s from the explosion or your jacket, and finally let your head drop back against the seat. the adrenaline cools just enough for pain to start flowing through your arm. steph leans over, squinting at your sleeve. “wow. should i call your family? say your final goodbyes?”

“it’s a graze.”

“it’s bleeding,” tim adds helpfully.

“so are you,” you point out.

“yeah,” tim says. “but i’m used to it.”

dick groans. “can we not normalize that?”

the ride tunnels into quiet again. you feel a stare. damian sits across from you, arms crossed, shoulders tense. he looks like he’s analyzing the pattern of residue on the floor, but his eyes flick to your arm every few seconds like he’s checking the status of a ticking bomb. you raise a brow. “it’s really not that bad.”

“i did not say it was.”

“your face said it.”

“my face says nothing.”

“incorrect,” tim chimes in.

damian kicks his boot lightly. “you are injured. be silent.”

“see?” tim says to you. “he’s in his feelings.”

“i heard that, drake.”

dick inhales deeply, already done with all of you. “okay. no fighting until we get back to the cave. i’m serious. alfred will make us file incident reports.”

everyone goes quiet immediately. fear of alfred transcends sibling rivalry and blood loss.

the car rolls into the cave, the lights warm and familiar in a way only exhausted, half-injured people can appreciate. as soon as the doors open, all the arguing that was suppressed in the car detonates.

“you should have waited for my signal—”

“your signal sucked—”

“i wasn’t talking to you—”

“well i’m talking to you now—”

“tim sit down before your leg gives out—”

“you sit down—”

alfred steps into view. everyone shuts up. it’s instinctive, the second alfred appears, hands folded behind his back, posture straight enough to make soldiers cry, the entire room snaps into silence. his accent slices through the cave. “i do hope,” he says, surveying the state of all of you with the precise disapproval of a man who has seen far too much, “that there is a sensible explanation for the chaos you’ve tracked into my clean floors.”

you are pretty sure the floor is not clean, but you would rather swallow a batarang than say so. alfred’s gaze lands on tim first. “master timothy, if you insist on returning from patrol in this condition, i will be requesting your legs back for warranty evaluation.”

tim tries to smile and fails. “yeah. uh. blame the explosion?”

“believe me,” alfred says, “i intend to.”

dick starts to speak, something like an explanation, maybe an apology, maybe a dissertation on why tonight wasn’t technically his fault, but alfred lifts one eyebrow. dick immediately stops talking.

alfred then turns to you, taking in the bloody sleeve, the soot on your jaw, the very faint tremor in your hand. he tuts under his breath, quiet, but enough to make you feel twelve years old and caught playing soccer in the living room. you sit on the medical platform because alfred gestures once and you’re not suicidal.

tim sinks down on the one across from you with a grunt that sounds like someone dropped a sandbag on concrete. he props his elbow on the edge of the cot like he needs it to stay upright. “and what,” alfred begins, “have the two of you done to yourselves this time?” his accent lands heavier when he’s disappointed. he snaps a tray open and begins laying out instruments with clipped efficiency.

steph, dick, and damian are still clustered in the open space between the operating lamps, as soon as alfred’s attention shifts to alcohol pads and suture thread, the three of them erupt like shaken soda. “it wasn’t my fault,” steph insists immediately, hands flying up, mask shoved back into her tangled ponytail. “i told you the alarm had a secondary trigger!”

“you didn’t tell anyone,” dick shoots back, pacing like he’s trying to dig a trench in the floor with his boots. his shoulder is definitely messed up, but he’s too worked up to care. “you yelled it after it went off!”

“it’s not my responsibility if you old people don’t listen—”

damian cuts in, voice low enough to slice. “your incompetence nearly got us all killed.”

“say that again,” steph snaps, stepping toward him.

“i said,” damian repeats, meeting her steps, chin lifting, “your incompetence—”

“hey,” tim croaks from his cot, sounding about three minutes away from unconscious, “can everyone not kill each other while i’m bleeding out? that’d be great.”

alfred glances over his shoulder at the noise, not raising his voice, not even sighing, just looking, and all three suddenly remember how to shut up. they don’t leave, though. they stand there like they’re glued to the cave floor, fuming in silence. alfred turns back to you while speaking to the others, his voice softens just a fraction. “honestly. master bruce will be thrilled to hear how you’ve all distinguished yourselves tonight.”

dick groans. “alfred, come on—”

“no, master richard. i have not yet ‘come on.’” he threads the needle with immaculate precision. “i am simply preparing the speech i will deliver to master bruce regarding your collective talent for disregarding orders, plans, and basic common sense. it will no doubt be inspirational.”

steph mutters, “we’re so dead,” under her breath.

dick throws up his hands, pacing in the middle of the med bay. “i mean seriously, what the hell were we thinking? fifty guys? fifty guys and metas on payroll? what was the plan even—”

“there wasn’t a plan,” steph interrupts. “there was no contingency for ‘everything goes sideways at the same time.’”

tim groans from his cot, pushing himself upright just enough to make it clear he’s alive but not exactly thriving. “contingency plans? dick, we literally had one job: secure the cargo and get out. it’s not a thesis, it’s a logistics problem.” he pauses, wincing at his thigh. “and we failed. badly.”

dick runs a hand over his face, fingers trembling a little from adrenaline, sweat, or maybe panic. “i just… i don’t get it. we’ve done worse missions, but—this?” he gestures vaguely. “was out of nowhere.”

steph quirks her head. “yeah. but it was also a trap. and how did they even know we’d be there?”

“metas,” tim croaks. “obviously they’re counting on us underestimating them. and yeah, maybe we did.”

“underestimating isn’t even the word,” dick mutters. “we got blown apart before the first fight really started.”

the three of them go back and forth for a while longer, voices overlapping, blame passing like an unwanted parcel. steph argues a point, dick fires back, tim interjects with muted curses and groans, and damian . . doesn’t say anything. he’s leaning against a support beam, arms crossed, shoulders squared. the way he’s holding himself is almost ridiculous in contrast to everyone else’s panic, the way he tilts his head slightly, eyes tracking you instead of the bickering.

dick freezes mid-gesture, almost dropping his hands in disbelief when he notices damian’s lack of insults to the team. “damian? anything?” his voice is sharp with frustration and curiosity from the mission. everyone looks at him.

damian doesn’t answer, he doesn’t even blink. his gaze remains locked on you, zeroing in like he’s running some calculation only he can see. his jaw clenches, then he tilts his head, just the slightest motion, the kind that speaks more than words ever could, and he asks like he’s pulling the words out of some place he usually locks behind walls, “are you all right?”

the air shifts. you catch the hesitation, like he’s been holding it in all night, struggling with it, trying to find the right moment, and somehow now, in the middle of everyone yelling about mistakes and failures, it bursts out. there’s no apology, no justification, not even a trace of embarrassment. just that question, entirely directed at you.

the med bay freezes. steph blinks, mouth slightly open. dick’s hand drops to his side like he’s forgotten what he was going to say. tim lifts a brow, unsure if he’s hallucinating from blood loss or exhaustion. even alfred pauses mid-suture, the needle hovering over the antiseptic, lips pressing together as if trying to contain the surprise in a british-accented hum of disapproval.

damian doesn’t seem to care who heard. he doesn’t scan the room, doesn’t glance at the wide-eyed stares, doesn’t adjust his posture. he isn’t waiting for approval, he isn’t concerned about praise, and he certainly isn’t trying to manage anyone else’s reaction. it’s only you. only that single question, delivered with the kind of intensity that makes you painfully aware of every scrape, every cut, every inch of exposed skin and fatigued muscle, every heartbeat that’s still racing from running and explosions and chaos.

you freeze, caught between the recoil of his words and the need to process them. your mind races, flitting between disbelief and confusion, trying to parse why damian wayne, a person you barely interact with, whose idea of conversation is usually a clipped “move aside” or a pointed correction during training, would suddenly zero in on you with that intensity. you’ve been with the team long enough to feel at home in chaos, to navigate dick’s constant running commentary, tim’s half-dead pragmatism, steph’s sarcasm, even alfred’s disapproving surveillance, but damian is a different puzzle entirely. you don’t speak his language. you’ve never had to, never really wanted to, because he has this way of existing on the edge of the room, of the team, of everything, evaluating, calculating, and correcting without a word.

and now he’s looking at you, the sharpness in his eyes having nothing to do with a mission, nothing to do with a plan, nothing to do with anything you can label. you glance around, half-expecting someone, dick, tim, steph, even alfred, to leap in, to explain, to normalize, to do anything to stop the confusion blooming in your chest, but no one speaks. eyes flick between you and damian, a mix of shock, disbelief, and that unspoken understanding that this is… unusual. unprecedented. in all your time with the team, in all the briefings, training missions, and near-disasters, damian has never asked anyone if they were all right. certainly not you.

“uh, .. yeah. i’m okay.”

it’s absurdly anticlimactic given the gravity in his tone. you can’t help but notice the way his posture doesn’t relax after your words. he’s still scanning you, inspecting the way your chest rises and falls, maybe counting the scratches on your arm, though he won’t ever say it aloud. your chest tightens, because you don’t know what to do with someone’s concern that’s never been voiced before, that comes from someone who normally has a permanent, unshakable barrier between him and everyone else.

after a beat that stretches too long, dick tries lightheartedly, clearing his throat. “okay. good. glad we .. got that cleared up.”

“oh, perfect. so i’m the one who got flung across three containers and almost glued to a shipping crate with shrapnel, but somehow the only person anyone actually asks about is them?” tim’s voice has that dry, wounded tone that immediately makes steph snicker, though dick just pinches the bridge of his nose.

damian’s eyes flick to tim. “i do not care what happened to you.” he says flatly. he doesn’t soften it, doesn’t try to sugarcoat, doesn’t even glance at anyone else.

tim blinks, caught somewhere between offended and incredulous. “oh, well thanks, damian. really makes me feel valued.”

“you’re… fine,” damian adds bluntly, as if that explains anything, then he turns back, refusing to indulge the argument any further. dick sighs, exasperated, rubbing at his temples, while steph mutters something under her breath about how at least you guys survived.

eventually, the chatter in the med bay thins. dick retreats to his usual corner to stew silently and check his gear, steph mutters something about never signing up for “nightmare logistics,” and tim’s half-limp, half-exhausted shuffle takes him toward the training area to ice his leg. alfred hovers, polishing tools and muttering under his breath about youth, responsibility, and the dangers of leaving explosives around gotham.

you pad down the hall, half-distracted, mind still untangling the way damian looked at you earlier. it doesn’t make sense. months on the team, you’ve learned the measure of his attention: damian rarely spares it for anyone, and when he does, it’s calculated, not a courtesy. you try not to think about that. try to focus on something mundane. like food. food is simple. food doesn’t explode or shoot at you.

the kitchen smells before you even see it: roasted spices, faint garlic, something citrusy, a trace of cardamom. your steps slow, drawn forward despite yourself. the knife work is precise; you realize before you can blink that the vegetables are being chopped with exacting speed, the kind of motion that only comes from someone who’s done it enough to make it look effortless, the kind of precision you envy. damian stands at the counter, back straight, not scanning the room, not monitoring anything, just… engaged in this oddly domestic gesture.

he doesn’t glance up at first. you pause near the doorway, watching the way his knife glides, the smell of saffron mingling with onions and something richer, something earthy. it’s unmistakably arabic cuisine, some kind of vegetarian dish, lentils and roasted eggplant, cumin and coriander dusting the pan.

“want some?” he says without looking at you, almost careless. he doesn’t smile, doesn’t soften, doesn’t backtrack; the offer is executed without commentary or justification, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to offer food to someone, even someone he’s never really spoken to beyond mission briefings and terse corrections.

you blink. “what?”

“would you like some?”

“uh… yeah.” your voice comes out quieter than intended, and he nods once before sliding a plate toward you without looking. the vegetables are perfectly roasted, the lentils lightly seasoned, each bite fragrant with the kind of care that’s not meant to be shared. you pick up a fork, hands still shaky from the adrenaline, and begin eating.

he continues cooking, untouched by the rest of the world, and somehow that calm in him makes you aware of the tightness in your chest. he doesn’t ask if you’re hurt again, doesn’t check, doesn’t hover; he just exists nearby, performing this mundane act with exacting precision, and yet it feels like attention, like… consideration.

you pause mid-bite, fork hovering a fraction above the plate, because for a beat it clicks, that this was going to be his plate. the one he had prepared, the one he got out for himself, the one he was going to eat himself, and now he wordlessly gave it to you. he hasn’t said anything, hasn’t offered it with a word, hasn’t explained, hasn’t even looked at you. he’s just… slid it across the counter like it’s nothing, like it’s the most mundane thing in the world to give up his meal. he doesn’t even acknowledge that he’s doing something for you at all. he just… does it.

small things reveal themselves unintentionally: he tilts the cutting board slightly so juices don’t spill onto the counter you’re passing, he picks up the towel you knock off without a word, tsk-ing quietly to himself, the faintest acknowledgement of your clumsiness but not mockery, the kind of micro-respect he doesn’t extend to anyone else. and you realize, he is doing this because he wants to, which is… entirely frustratingly unrecognizable as kindness. you wonder if he even understands what normal gestures mean, and since he does not do these things with others whether he counts this as… something.

you clear your throat, fingering the edge of your plate like maybe if you touch something solid it will steady the swirl of confusion in your chest. you realize, for the first time in months on the team, that maybe he… tolerates you. that word feels dangerously soft for him. so you do something that feels dangerous. maybe reckless. you start talking.

“this smells… amazing,” you start, letting your voice roll gently over the words like a test, light and noncommittal. you’ve heard the stories from the team. horror stories, really, about the way damian shuts people down. you’ve stayed away, carefully, because why tempt that attention when it always comes edged with critique or dismissal? but now, here, watching him work in precise, practiced movements that feel almost meditative, you wonder how far you can push. “did you always cook like this?” you ask, tipping your head slightly, watching him add spices with a flick of his wrist. “like, proper spices, and everything… not just… whatever.”

the tilt of his head is imperceptible but it exists; you notice. “i have been trained to prepare meals with the same rigor applied to other endeavors,” he says, voice clipped, formal, precise, but not cold.

“well… it shows,” you say, letting yourself smile, letting your eyes trace the arc of his movements. “this is… really good. like, better than—well, most people i know.”

“i do not cook for accolades,” he says, still watching the vegetables brown, but you notice the faintest trace of… acknowledgment. recognition, maybe. for your comment, your presence, your attempt at conversation.

you shift around the counter slowly, moving closer to him, lingering in the periphery first, then brushing past his space until your chest is awfully close to his back, your head hovering just above his shoulder, careful not to press but close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body. you’re acutely aware of the way his hands move, the vegetables turning golden in small, even arcs. “so… this is a sort of lentil stew?” you ask, your voice casual, though your heart is caught somewhere between nervousness and curiosity, because you know damian’s patience is razor-thin and he doesn’t tolerate proximity either. “what are those… spices? cumin? coriander? or something else?”

he doesn’t flinch at you pressing close to his back, doesn’t step away, doesn’t scowl. instead, he tilts his chin fractionally, the smallest acknowledgment that he’s heard, and answers without looking at you. “cumin, coriander, smoked paprika… the sum of their proportions is important. a misbalance affects the texture and flavor.” there’s a subtle cadence in his words that signals… consideration. that he’s allowing your presence in the same space while continuing his precise work.

you feel the faintest spark of disbelief, of incredulity, of… testing. this is damian, who corrects, critiques, scolds, and strikes down anyone who oversteps, even slightly, but you are here. leaning, watching, speaking, touching—barely—but you are here. and he is not pushing you away.

“huh,” you lean a tiny fraction closer, imperceptibly nudging into his space. “so you… always cook for yourself then? never… for anyone else?” your voice is careful, probing, small, seemingly innocuous, but your mind is racing, trying to parse why he’s allowing this, why he’s given you the plate, why he’s continuing the task with your shoulder brushing his.

“i always prepare meals for myself,” he replies evenly, eyes fixed on the chopping board. “alfred maintains proper standards; i emulate when necessary.”

you pause, chewing over the words, trying to read between the carefully measured lines. he doesn’t say he’s never cooked for anyone else; he doesn’t say he does. then why did he cook for you? how far can you go? how much presence will he tolerate? how much closeness will he allow before the precise, impeccable damian wayne snaps into the biting, scolding persona everyone warns about? you shift a fraction closer, letting the tip of your shoulder press lightly against the back of his torso. then you shift to lean one hand against the counter, just enough that you brush his arm, just enough that it’s noticeable, because he would absolutely lose it if anyone else did this, and yet, here, he continues chopping, entirely unfazed.

maybe if anyone else did this, they’d have been rebuked, shoved, yelled at, probably left with a bruise in manners or pride. but he… does nothing. you feel your heartbeat push against your ribs, waiting, waiting, the anticipation almost unbearable, a slow burn that threads into every sense. without thinking, because the moment feels both daring and right, your arms slide around him, wrapping lightly at his waist, a hug from behind. you brace for impact, for recoil, for the way he’s scolded, shoved, or glared at anyone else who dares to breach his space. your fingers press against his sides, your forehead almost brushing the back of his neck, and for a long, suspended moment, he freezes. you can feel the tension coiled in his body, shoulders stiffening, muscles rigid, but then, impossibly, nothing. he does not shove you off. he does not snap. he does not mutter an admonition, or a clipped reprimand, or a single sound of protest. you realize, with a mix of disbelief and awe, that he is letting you do this, he is tolerating, maybe even accepting your presence.

you wait. you let it stretch, a single heartbeat, two, a dozen infinitesimal moments, your mind spinning with the sheer impossibility of it. you feel, exhilaration, disbelief, something intimate in its terror and its beauty, that the man who refuses to bend, the man who refuses to touch or be touched by anyone else, is letting you, just for this fleeting moment, cross the line that no one else has ever crossed. finally, the quiet snaps, and he asks almost hesitant: “what are you doing?”

you pull back to free him, voice deceptively casual: “just… checking something. thank you for the food. good night.”

you step back, careful not to linger, forcing yourself to disentangle from the heat of him that’s still lingering in your arms, and you know that if you wait, if you let yourself stay, the moment will shatter, so you leave. your palms still tingle from the contact, and your chest is a little tight in a way that feels almost dangerous.

you round the corner near the stairwell and as you shift to leave completely, your gaze flickers back, just a sliver, and there it is, damian, the curve at the corner of his mouth that is not a smile but a kind of satisfaction, a acknowledgment of what just happened, and it hits you with a jarring clarity. he’s pleased.

it is entirely unmistakable: the small, rare, human pleasure on damian wayne’s face confirms everything you hadn’t dared to hope.

POSTED 11/17/2025.

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