frances. minor. carnations. phoebe bridgers. manatees. keith harring. new york. hadestown. the oc. challengers. mike faist. wake up dead man. zendaya. chris sturniolo’s precious girl
ⓘ In which… after you and your mother are evicted from your home, she sends you to live with your estranged (and rich) grandmother in Italy. After finding a box hidden by your grandmother — a meeting a boy that already makes leaving feel impossible — you decide to uncover the secrets of the sun-kissed country
The plane landed with a thunk, rousing you from your nap against the window as it shook.
You yawned, eyes bleary as you tried to remember where you were. You blinked hard, trying to omit the remaining feelings of sleep, and stretched. Your movements caused you to accidentally elbow the sleeping passenger beside you, who you quickly apologized to before turning back towards the window.
You peered out onto the taxi runway, and…
Right.
You were in Italy.
Alone.
For an undisclosed amount of time.
As a senior in high school.
Two nights ago
You padded down the stairs, floorboards creaking slightly as you stepped on them. You dodged the hole in the bottom stair, weaving around the clutter in your house.
Your mom was sitting at the table, hunched over pieces of paper with her head in her hands. She took a deep breath, seemingly not noticing you there.
You hesitated, scratching your wrist before clearing your throat. “Hey, mom… you okay?” You asked delicately, waiting for her to exit her trance.
She startles, blinking rapidly at you before standing up.
“Y/n. Sit.” She says, more of a command than a suggestion. You tilt your head, but don’t question it as you drop into the seat that is pulled out next to the one she just rose from.
She sighs, turning away for a second before whipping back around, pointing a finger in your direction. “You’re leaving for Italy tomorrow night. Go pack”
For a second, everything froze. Colors distorted. Time slowed down. Then it hit you like a slap in the face.
You let out a strained laugh, assuming it had to have been a joke. Your mother wouldn’t send you to a foreign country — two weeks after you started senior year — right?
But her face didn’t change. If anything, her eyebrows pinch farther together, her expression turning more stern. “I’m not kidding. Go. Pack. You leave tomorrow night.”
You take another second, just staring. You look like a fish, bottom lip hovering a few times before you finally find your words. “What?!” You spit, standing up. “What are you talking about?”
Your mom slammed her fist onto the table, holding a document up for you to see.
On it, a big red notice was stamped on the top.
EVICTION
Your heart dropped to the floor before you had time to catch it
“I cannot raise you anymore!” She shouted, throwing her hands into the air.
The paper floated silently down next to her, landing on the ground — forgotten
“You are going to live with your grandmother!”
You stopped, it all clicking into place. The money struggles. The way your mom came home from work at 6 AM, with eye bags that didn’t used to be there before.
Shit.
You slumped back into the chair, covering your hands with your face. “You’re serious.” You stated.
You didn’t look up from your hands, but you didn’t have to. You knew what she looked like. She had a solemn expression on her face, nodding softly.
“Yes. You’ll live with your grandmother.” She said, turning away from you. That struck you again. You had other grandparents? You knew your dad’s set, who had died when you were little, but you just assumed your mother’s side had died before you were even born.
As you had never even heard of them before.
Before you could ask to elaborate, she pointed at the stairs. “Go pack. You leave tomorrow night.” You gaped, standing up
“But- but what about school, what about my friends-“ you questioned, spitting words like fire as you tried to comprehend this.
She shook her head firmly, pointing at the stairs again. “Go. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.” She huffed, grabbing her keys and exiting the house. You heard her car beep, and the crunch of the gravel as she pulled out of the driveway.
Begrudgingly, you stomped back up the stairs, into your room and to the closet, pulling out your suitcase. Maybe your mom would change her mind…
Spoiler alert: she hadn’t. And what she meant by ‘we’ll talk about this tomorrow’ was apparently: ‘I’ll disappear in the morning, only leaving you a note with your tickets and detailing the address of your grandmothers home.’
So this is how you ended up.
You snapped out of your daydream with a tap on the shoulder, and you whipped your head around to see a flight attendant standing over you, a polite smile on her face. Her name tag was gold and shiny, and it gleamed ‘BARBARA’
“We’re here. You need to exit the aircraft.” She said, voice bordering on a little too sweet to be genuine.
You yawned again, standing up and exiting the aisle, accidentally knocking into seats as you tried to grab your bag out of the overhead compartment. You stumbled forward, kicking your head against the compartment on the other side of the aisle
Damn multiple suitcases.
After the mayhem with the flight, you were quickly ushered off the plane, and attempted to find the exit. You looked around, trying to read the signs that bordered every wall.
‘Ritiro bagagli.’ and ‘Auto a noleggio.’ was what you found, and you were disappointed to realize you hadn’t magically learned Italian overnight.
Finally, a silver sign with a car painted on it read ‘Taxi,’ which made you sigh with relief.
At least something’s make sense in this country.
You hurried out of the glass sliding doors, weaving around locals giving your dirty looks as you elbowed them out of the way.
Whatever.
You hailed a taxi cab, which were strangely, hard to tell if they were taxis, as they were just white with small ‘taxi’ signs on them.
Damn Americans and their bright colors.
You hopped into the cab, and handed the paper address to the driver. No point in attempting to verbally tell him where it was, as you would most likely just offend an entire language.
The drive to the house was so uniquely Italy that it seemed like it was plucked straight out of a travel brochure.
There were gelaterias everywhere, terracotta roofs, narrow streets, and laundry hung up between windows.
There were sounds coming from every direction, and mopeds sped between cars down the road.
The music in the taxi was joyful, and the driver was happily singing along, as he continued to yell at other drivers in Italian.
This country was so happy, it almost seemed if it was trying to make up for the heartbreak that came along with you living her.
Your phone buzzed, and you opened it, trying to keep your hopes down. You expected it to be your boyfriend, but no. It was just a spam email avout the benefits of daily crossword on the mind.
Right. Your boyfriend broke up with you the night your mom slammed ‘Italy’ into your face. You called him sobbing, and his reaction was to break up with you, as he said the long distance just wouldn’t work for him.
You put your phone down, trying to distract yourself from the thoughts in your mind witj the beautiful landscape that lined the roads.
When the driver finally pulled out onto the road leading up to your grandmothers house, it was as if you were transported off of Earth and onto another planet, somewhere that only consists of beautiful houses set over sunlit lakes, spanning acres of land.
You watched out the side window as the small car pulled up to the top of the hill, parking in front of the gate. You handed your euros, mumbling a “thank you” and jump out, grabbing your suitcase out of the back.
The driver yelled something, something you couldn’t understand, but he smiled. Maybe this wouldn’t be all that bad.
He sped off, leaving you alone at the iron gate that guarded the driveway from strangers.
The house behind it was… magnificent. Ivy stretched up and down the wall, witj a beautiful garden planted in front of the main windows. You could hear a faint waterfall in the back, probably falling into the lake thst shimmered below the cliffs adjacent to the house.
It was if the beautify of the country was trying to make up for the situation that put you here.
With a deep breath, you turned around, steeling yourself to face a woman you’ve never met before. You dragged your suitcase down the cement driveway, marveling at the fountain with a cupid adorned on top.
While you were standing there, rummaging in your wallet for a penny, the front door slid open. You didn’t notice until a throat cleared behind you, and when you turned around, there she was.
Your grandmother.
Your height. Grey hair. Your eyes. Smooth skin warmed by the Italian sun. You must’ve been staring for a second, because she suddenly launched into a conversation
“Oh, cielo! Sei in ritardo!” She chided, grabbing your shoulders.
You stared. Opened your mouth. Closed it again. Opened it one more time, just to say: “Ciao…” (pronounced see-ow).
Your grandmother winced, effortlessly switching back to English. “Oh dear…” she breathes, gabbing your suitcase and pulling it inside. “You’re late. You were supposed to be here at 4!”
You looked at your watch, phone still dead from the night before. 4:15. Huh.
“I’m sorry… I fell asleep on the plane and they had to wake me up.” You admitted, quickly following behind the woman.
Your grandmother (who, was very energized for her age) huffed, and set your suitcase on the floor inside. “Your room is the first door on the left. Go unpack.”
You nod, rushing up the stairs. This place is massive. You were so entranced with the house that when you got to the second floor, you had forgotten which room she said.
Right or left?
Shit.
You decided to take the room to the right, as the door was cracked open and you could see light spilling out into the hallway. You pushed the door open, revealing about a dozen moving boxes packed all over the place.
Realizing that you had mistakenly wandered into the wrong room, you went to exit. When a certain box caught your eye. In bold, black letters, was your mothers name
ADRIANNA.
Your breath hitched, and before you could process, you were kneeling next to the box, about to take the lid off.
“Don’t touch that.” A voice boomed behind you.
You yelped, jumping onto your feet. The perpetrator was, once again your grandmother, who had a seething look on her face. “You’re in the wrong room.” She warns, pointing at the door.
“I- I’m sorry-“ You stumbled over your words, trying to find an excuse on why you were snooping through her belongings.
She sighed, pinching the her nose bridge, eyebrows furrowed. “It’s fine. Just… go unpack. Dinners at 7. Don’t be late.” She commanded, exiting the room.
You hurried over to the other room, which was nicely decorated. You threw your bag down, going to open it, when your eyes flickered over to the bed that sat near the window in all of its plush glory. You glanced at the time again, 4:25.
All of a sudden, you were so tired, you felt you couldn’t even keep your eyes open. Jet lag, right.
No harm in a two hour nap, right?
Before you could kick some reason into yourself, you were snuggling into the comforter, sighing softly.
You drifted off thinking about your mom. Did she miss you? Did she want you to come back?
Your brain shut down after that, lulling into a peaceful slumber.
💌 p.s.: all the Italian is from google translate, so please tell me if something is wrong!!
ⓘ In which… after you and your mother are evicted from your home, she sends you to live with your estranged (and rich) grandmother in Italy. After finding a box hidden by your grandmother — a meeting a boy that already makes leaving feel impossible — you decide to uncover the secrets of the sun-kissed country
Starring…
curious!reader… 17. American. Loves to draw. Smells like strawberries. Likes to keep to herself. Earbuds in 24/7. Not afraid of getting her hands dirty. Has a digi cam on her at all times. Loves marvel. Listens to Phoebe Bridgers. Couldn't care less about Italy.
Chris… 18. Half Italian. Plays lacrosse. Rides hus moped everywhere. Loves to sneak into town at midnight. (Sort of) a player. Troublemaker. Fluent in Italian. Smokes occasionally. Straight A student. Listen to British Rap (for some reason). A flirt.
ⓘ This series is inspired by ‘Love & Gelato.’ The intro/some parts of the story are based off of it, but this is all my original work (nothing copied exactly from the book)
Question — I’m writing a new series based off a book that I just read and finished. The first part is basically just an introduction, but it is around 2k words and Chris isn’t even in it yet. Would it still make sense to post? I know how I am introducing him in part two, I just don’t know how I would in part one. Okay thanks :)
(tagging in triplets so I can get help from writers)
cw: dick grayson x gn!reader, friends to lovers, fluff, slice of life, a really bad love confession </3
based on order #21 from the event i’m doing :)
A loud clatter from your balcony has you shooting upright in bed and scrambling out of your cocoon of blankets. The moment the cold air hits you, though, you're slipping back into bed, hiding under the covers.
Maybe you could wait it out. Let them steal what they want while you stay warm. That sounds nice, you think as you start to doze off, fully hidden under your hordes of blankets.
You sigh, nose nuzzling into your soft sheets happily, your body melting in pure bliss before you feel a heavy weight on top of you.
At first, you think of screaming. But you hold yourself back when you realize it actually feels kind of nice. More warmth. More—
"You have the survival instincts of an ant." A whisper sounds close to your ear, muffled by the layers of blankets. Your elbow jerks out instinctively, in the same way your intruder had taught you.
"Ow—what the hell's wrong with you?" Dick groans, rolling off you and onto the side of the bed.
You’re tempted to bite him, but that would mean venturing out into the cold. No, you won't move an inch.
"What's wrong with you?! Who breaks into someone's home and tries to suffocate them?"
"It's called cuddling."
You peek out at him. He’s shirtless and in a pair of boxers, lying on his back with one arm under his head as if he belongs here. None of this is new. You’re friends with very few boundaries, who've done worse than this, really.
Still, you shift uncomfortably, the warmth biting at your skin now.
His lips pull up, like he knows you're staring. "Like what you see?" he teases.
You kick him.
He grabs your knee before you can pull back and drags you out of your cocoon.
"Dick!" you screech, hands curling around your beloved blankets.
"I'm warmer and hotter, baby." Large hands come to rest on your hips and tug you so you're plopped fully on top of him.
Slowly, you tilt your head up, eyes narrowed at his perfect face. "Dick."
"Yes, honey?" he asks innocently, a hand moving to tuck a strand of your hair back.
"What are you doing here?"
his eyes flicker to your lips. "Can't a guy come see the love of his life?"
A beat passes. You feel him tense under you like he said something he shouldn't have. The air feels heavier now, and you realize you aren't even cold anymore.
"What I meant was—"
"No take-backs." You press your cheek to his bare chest, where his heart thumps wildly.
He breathes in. It's impossible not to feel all of him.
"No take-backs," he concedes. His arms wrap around you, holding you close as if you might try to escape.
Uuuuhh... can I get a fic with Damian high on meds after having a surgery.... with extra drama in the form of him having a secret relationship, and asking for her(reader) while drugged.... uhh with a side of fluff hold the angst .... that's all thank you
Love ur fics sm, have a great day/night
݁ 𓈒 ཐི 𓉸 𝓗ALF-𝓐WAKE, 𝓦HOLLY 𝓨OURS !!
⏜︵ pairing 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 damian wayne x fem!reader
꒰ 🦇 ꒱ synopsis 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 damian gets knocked out during a mission and wakes up post-surgery with enough pain meds in his system to dissolve every wall he’s ever built. you’re supposed to be secret, but he exposes your relationship, obliterated by narcotics and his complete inability to hide how deeply he’s attached to you.
WAYNE MEDICAL WING LIGHTS WERE TOO BRIGHT for someone who’d just stopped being technically unconscious, but damian surfaced like someone annoyed at being dragged from a nap he didn’t consent to, an insult so personal his eyelids twitched before they even opened. the brightness pressed through his skull like it was trying to etch itself directly into his brain. sterile white, the kind that had never once existed in a place he trusted. he cracked his eyes open anyway.
bad choice.
the ceiling came into focus in pieces: harsh tiles, vents humming cold air downward, a hairline crack near the corner he’d catalogued months ago during someone else’s medical emergency. except this time it wasn’t someone else lying flat on their back in a bed built for recovery and compliance. it was him. which meant something had already gone terribly wrong.
the sheets were tucked too tightly, pinning him with all the subtlety of a net trap. the IV line tugged whenever he moved his fingers. his throat tasted dry, surgical dryness, not dehydration, and every breath carried that over-sterile antiseptic scent that hospitals diffused like perfume. it stung in a way memory recognized before consciousness did.
he hated it. he hated it viscerally, instinctively, the way you hate an enemy you’ve fought before.
a chair creaked. dick. of course. no one else sat that way, half-slouched, half-alert, like a golden retriever trying to look responsible. “hey, baby bat,” dick welcomed softly, which was exactly the wrong volume. “back with us?”
damian squinted at him as if being spoken to was rude. his voice, when it came, sounded like someone had replaced his mouth with cement. “why,” he croaked, blinking slowly, “are you here.”
“you had surgery.”
damian paused like the word needed to be decoded. then his eyebrows knit together, slow, offended, gradually outraged. “i didn’t agree to that.”
dick huffed a tired laugh. “yeah, well… it was kind of an emergency. and you were unconscious. and also? you literally signed the consent form before the anesthesia.”
damian stared at him, long and unimpressed. “forged.”
“it wasn’t forged.”
“i do not sign things.”
“you sign things all the time.”
damian shut his eyes briefly, like acknowledging that was beneath him. then he opened them again, narrower, sharper, but the effect was ruined by how unfocused the pupils were, drifting like his thoughts kept hitting walls before reaching their destination. the air was too clean. the lights too white. the smell coiled into his chest and pulled memories he’d rather leave buried, metal tools, cold hands, the way the world looked when he was small and helpless and expected to endure instead of resist. nothing specific, just impressions. sensations. hospitals always woke old ghosts.
his jaw tightened. he wasn’t supposed to be the one in this bed. he didn’t get hurt. not enough to be downed like this. the last patrol replayed in flashes — a blade catching him off-balance, the impact hot, surprising. he remembered the pain, but not falling. not blacking out. that made his stomach twist.
failure. vulnerability. unacceptable.
dick watched him with that older-brother sensitivity that always made damian bristle, like being perceived was an attack. “before you say anything,” dick added, “you did not lose the fight. you didn’t mess up. you got blindsided by a meta with a strength boost and you still managed to take him down. you just… didn’t stay upright afterward.”
damian glared. “i don’t recall being horizontal.”
“because you passed out.”
another glare. this one personal. dick raised his hands. “don’t look at me like that. i didn’t make you lose consciousness.”
damian’s fingers twitched against the sheets. the fabric felt wrong, stiff, overwashed, hospital-issue. the kind meant for patients who stayed still. he hated being still. he shifted slightly, and something tugged sharply at the back of his hand. his gaze snapped downward.
an IV. taped in place. tubing snaked up to a bag overhead, dripping fluid into his bloodstream without permission. his entire expression went cold. “remove it.”
dick inhaled sharply. “damian—”
“remove it.”
“don’t— okay, don’t—” dick took two hurried steps forward as damian’s fingers curled around the line. “don’t you dare pull that out. i mean it. don’t.”
“i am not a lab specimen.”
“you’re not,” dick agreed. “you’re someone who needs fluids and pain meds because you were— what’s the word— oh yeah— stabbed.”
“it was minor.”
“it was internal.”
damian blinked at him, insulted. “i don’t want it.”
“too bad.”
there was tension in damian’s shoulders. that hyper-focused alertness from childhood, when beds were places you recovered because you weren’t allowed to move, not because someone cared. his muscles remembered even when he didn’t think about it. his back never fully pressed to the mattress, his hands never fully relaxed. his breath always came measured, as if steadying itself for violence. the medical wing amplified that tension. the smell. the lights. the machines. everything too reminiscent of control.
he’d been so busy cataloguing exits and shadows and the exact height of the IV stand that he hadn’t even noticed how his own body felt until—
oh.
there it was.
the meds hit him. that soft, warm fog rolling in, blurring everything he tried to focus on. his thoughts glitched, trying to line up in formation and instead tripping over themselves. “grayson,” he said, voice suspicious, “did you put something in my blood?”
dick, who’d been leaning on the side of the bed like a worried parent pretending not to be one, blinked back. “uh—no, bud. you were asleep during the operation, remember? anesthesia? pain meds?”
damian stared at him like dick had just recited a riddle in an unfamiliar dialect. “i was… asleep,” damian repeated. “you let them do that.”
“you needed them to do that.” dick corrected.
damian’s eyes narrowed, though the effect was ruined by how glazed they looked. “i do not need unconsciousness to survive.”
“you do when your insides are trying to become your outsides.” dick muttered.
damian ignored him entirely, still watching him with a narrowing-bandwidth intensity. “you allowed it.”
“you signed the form.”
“forged,” damian said, again, instantly, with the complete confidence of someone who barely remembered what a pen was. “i would not voluntarily be medically compromised.”
“it wasn’t forged,” dick sighed. “you filled it out. you even wrote your full name at the bottom—very neatly, might i add.”
damian frowned like he was conspiring against him. he opened his mouth to deny it… but then a wave of dizziness rolled through him, like someone had tipped the room on its axis. he went still. his eyes went a little wide. “i feel… peculiar.”
“that’s the painkillers.”
“i dislike them.”
“i can tell.”
damian shifted, which was a mistake, his brain lagged behind the movement by a full second, like his consciousness had to sprint to catch up with his body. “my head is—” he paused, searching the ceiling as if the correct vocabulary word was written there. “—float-adjacent.”
“you’re high, dami.”
“i am not—” damian began, then stopped mid-denial, staring at the wall with deep betrayal. “i am.”
“yep.”
“i dislike this.”
“we’ve got that part,” dick said gently. “but you’re safe. and you’re okay. and it’s temporary.”
damian’s eyes tracked dick’s face like it was the only stable object in a shifting landscape. his brow furrowed with an almost childlike confusion. “i… don’t remember agreeing,” he murmured. “or anything. i was… focused. then pain.” he paused, blinked. “…then nothing.”
“that’s normal.”
“…where’s—”
but the name got lost on damian’s tongue.
not forgotten, more like the conveyor belt of his brain jammed halfway through delivering it. he blinked, confused, mouth still slightly open like the word might tumble out if he waited long enough. dick straightened, alert. “where’s who, bud?”
damian stared back at him, unfocused. something flickered behind his eyes, something searching, reaching. but whatever it was refused to surface. his brows knit, annoyed at his own mind for failing him. “…i don’t—” he frowned, as if the thought had slipped between his fingers. “i knew it. i know it. i just… can’t… hold it.”
dick softened. “hey. it’s okay. you’re still coming out of anesthesia.”
damian frowned. the door opened before dick could say anything else, tim walking in first, rubbing his eyes, followed by cass. tim raised his coffee cup. “look who’s conscious.”
cass tipped her head.
damian’s eyes snapped to them—well, halfway. they snapped, stalled, then drifted into their direction like his neurons were buffering. “you are loud,” damian announced.
tim blinked. “we… didn’t say anything.”
“your face is loud.”
tim nodded solemnly. “makes sense.”
cass stepped closer, tracking damian’s micro-movements with an ease that came from years of knowing how to read bodies better than minds. damian tried—tried—to push himself up. his arm trembled. his shoulder lifted a fraction. cass reached out with one finger and pressed it lightly to his sternum. damian went down like gravity had increased selectively on his body alone. his eyes went wide. “that is unfair.”
cass offered a tiny smile. “doctor’s orders.”
“i do not listen to orders.”
“you listened to hers.” tim added dryly.
damian glared at him. or tried to. the effect was softened by the fact his eyelids kept drooping like they were too heavy. “she cheated,” damian muttered.
cass watched the way damian’s eyes refused to work with him and smiled shyly. “you’re high.”
“i am not—” damian started, then hesitated, as if realizing halfway through the lie that he didn’t have the cognitive precision to pull it off. “i am… moderately under the influence.”
“that’s one way to put it.” tim mumbled.
damian’s head tilted back toward dick like his mind was circling back to unfinished business. “i was asking.”
“about who?” dick asked.
damian stared at him again. long, slow, pondering with the full force of a malfunctioning operating system. he opened his mouth, then closed it. frustration etched across his face. “…gone,” he said finally. “i lost it.”
“it’ll come back.”
“i hate this,” damian declared. “i hate hospitals. i hate beds. i hate drugs. i hate this room. i hate—”
“oh boy,” tim breathed. “here we go.”
damian lifted one hand. studied it. flexed his fingers—delayed, clumsy. he stared like his own hand had betrayed him. “my reaction speed is compromised. this is humiliating.”
“don’t worry,” tim said cheerfully. “we’re taking mental notes.”
damian shot him a bleary glare. “i will end you.”
“in your current state?” tim asked. “you couldn’t even end a game of tic-tac-toe.”
“i could,” damian insisted, leaning forward as if to intimidate him, except his torso only made it two inches up before cass’s finger sent him right back down again. damian let out a low, affronted noise. “stop that.” he told her.
she shook her head.
damian’s eyes narrowed, then drifted, then narrowed again as if the glare needed to be reinstalled every few seconds. he sighed, long and dramatic. “i should not be in this bed.”
“you were stabbed,” dick said gently.
“everyone gets stabbed.”
“not in the liver.” tim said, absolutely delighted to be here, absolutely delighted that damian wasn’t at full power to stop him.
damian blinked. “my liver?”
“yes.”
he frowned, deeply betrayed. “i use that.”
“not today you don’t.”
damian ignored him, attention wandering again, circling back toward the hole in his memory like a bee drawn repeatedly to the same window. tim rocked back on his heels, arms crossed, grin already sharpening. “so,” he began casually, “speaking of things you ‘use,’ want to talk about the stuff you were saying while you were unconscious?”
dick’s head snapped toward him. “tim. no.”
tim ignored him completely. “because wow. i didn’t know you had a romantic side. like—it was actually kind of sweet? a little embarrassing? honestly extremely embarrassing.”
damian’s face twisted. “what are you—”
“you kept saying,” tim continued, pitching his voice into a dreamy falsetto, “‘my beloved… come back… come here… where are you…’” he clutched his chest dramatically.
“I did not say that,” damian barked, though it came out slightly slurred, tragically soft, devastatingly unthreatening. “drake is lying.” damian announced to the ceiling, as if the ceiling could issue a rebuttal.
except —- then damian froze, not visibly, internally, like someone had pulled the emergency brake on his thoughts. the hazy warmth in his veins pulsed, rising like heat behind his ears. something in his chest tightened, memory stirring sluggishly but insistently. the drugs softened everything except that. that memory. that wanting.
the warmth in his bloodstream pulsed again, stronger, like a tide he couldn’t fight. he blinked slowly, vision blooming and fading at the edges, and in the middle of that blur, something clear rose to the surface. you.
your face. your voice. your hands brushing the hair off his forehead last week. your breath against his neck in the quiet hours. your laugh that he pretended didn’t undo him. he inhaled sharply, like the thought of you punched through the haze. tim, seeing the shift, took a step back. he knew this was no longer teasing territory, this was damian’s guard dissolving in real time. dick moved a little closer. “damian?”
damian blinked again. confusion, longing, frustration, and beneath all of it, a tenderness so raw it seemed to surprise even him. “where’s…” his voice wobbled, more breath than sound. “(y/n)?”
tim’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. cass’s head tilted, studying him. damian didn’t notice their reactions—didn’t even register that he’d slipped. the meds made the truth feel natural, inevitable, impossible to contain.
“i want her here.”
dick blinked rapidly. “her?”
“yes, her,” damian muttered like they were stupid for being confused, tone clipped but dreamy, like he was trying to be irritated through marshmallow fog. “she should be here.”
dick tried gently, “who—”
“(y/n).” damian snapped. “the one i— the one who—” he cut himself off, annoyed at how hard the words suddenly were. his tongue felt slow. his brain fuzzed.
everything except the wanting.
“i’d much rather be with her than you guys.”
damian pushed on, voice dipping into something warm and unrestrained and utterly unlike him. “she doesn’t talk so loudly,” he mumbled, glaring at tim for existing. “and she doesn’t hover.” a pointed look at dick. “and she’s gentle.” he added, a little dreamily, glancing at cass.
cass’s eyes softened. dick’s heart did a little somersault. tim opened and closed his mouth like a stunned goldfish. damian continued, because the drugs had him rambling, pouring out affection he’d buried so deep even he forgot it was there. “and she smells nice,” he said, brows furrowing like this was deeply important. “and she holds my hand when i’m hurt. why isn’t she here.”
“d,” dick said softly, “we… didn’t know she existed.”
“that’s not my problem.” damian glared at the wall. “she should be here.” he shifted, trying to sit up, but cass stopped him again. he slumped back instantly, blinking up at her like she’d just used dark magic. “i need to talk to her,” damian insisted. “she’s probably worried.”
damian’s face, already soft from the medication, creased in a way none of them had ever seen. not anger, not annoyance, something else. something gentler. unguarded. dangerously unguarded.
he frowned. a slow, heartbreakingly earnest frown. “…she should be here,” he murmured again, more wounded this time, as if the room’s failure to produce you was a insult.
tim whispered, “we’re in uncharted territory,” like a man narrating a nature documentary about a dangerous, delicate creature.
dick pulled a chair closer. “we’re not keeping her from you,” he said. “no one knew you wanted her here.”
damian scowled. “i always want her here.”
tim choked on a laugh. cass elbowed him. but damian wasn’t done—if anything the words were pouring out faster now, because every thought of you made the meds tug him deeper into that warm, floaty honesty. “she knows how to touch my hair the right way,” he admitted, cheeks flushing faintly. “you don’t just— you have to go with the grain, not against the—” he gestured vaguely at his head, missing by several inches. “she knows. why isn’t she here.”
“she doesn’t know you’re awake.”
“you should have told her,” damian argued, scandalized. “you should have— obviously you should have—” his breath stuttered, foggy frustration ripping through him. “i want her.” he repeated, smaller.
“okay,” dick said. “okay. we’ll get her. just… try to relax.”
damian tried to glare, but it melted halfway into a woozy pout. “i won’t relax until she’s here.”
dick exhaled, long-suffering but soft. “i’ll call her. just—stay in the bed. stay horizontal. stay… not ripping out your IV.”
damian made a grumpy sound that was supposed to be dignified and was absolutely not.
you arrived like someone who had run every red light between your apartment and the wayne medical wing. you hadn’t even finished tying your shoes when the call came—an unfamiliar number flashing on your screen, a clipped voice saying, “hi, uh, this is dick grayson—damian’s brother—please don’t panic, he’s okay, but he’s asking for you and we… think you should come.”
you barely remembered hanging up. or grabbing keys. or the elevator door almost closing on your shoulder. ten minutes, maybe eleven, but it felt like one long breath held in your chest. in those ten minutes, everything in your head spun: damian doesn’t get hurt. damian doesn’t call for anyone. damian doesn’t need.
so what could’ve happened for dick to sound like that? what could’ve happened for damian to ask for you?
the security staff let you through without question—dick must’ve put your name on some list, because no wayne employee is normally that chill about strangers sprinting through sterile hallways with fear in their eyes.
your boots echoed off polished floors. the medical wing always had that cold, expensive, unnecessarily white look—a place built to fix bodies, not calm nerves. you followed the signs, heart hammering, palms damp.
room 3B.
your hand hovered on the handle for half a second—half a breath—because you had no idea what version of damian you’d find on the other side of the door. injured damian? angry damian? scared damian?
you pushed the door open.
damian had not relaxed. if anything, he had stewed, curled miserably in a hospital bed that looked like it was offending his entire lineage by existing. his hair was a mess. his eyes were half-lidded and glassy. a deep, irritable crease sat between his brows.
when you stepped in, the room shifted. dick straightened in his chair, relief flooding him. tim blinked like he couldn’t believe you were a real person. cass smiled at you like she’d expected this all along. but damian—
damian’s eyes snapped open like someone had turned the sun directly toward him. the transformation was instant. his whole face softened and brightened all at once, surprise flickering into recognition, recognition melting into something warm and wreckingly tender. “beloved,” he breathed.
and it was so quiet.
then he tried—immediately, stupidly, disastrously—to sit up. “no—no, no,” dick sputtered, grabbing his shoulder, flattening him instantly.
damian blinked up at him, betrayed for the thirtieth time today.
but then his gaze dragged back to you, heavy, warm, intoxicated—not just by meds but by relief. “you’re here. finally.”
your heart dropped somewhere into your stomach. “of course i came,” you started, glancing wearily at everyone in the room but stepping closer. “you called for me.”
“i needed you,” he said, so matter-of-factly it felt like the room stopped breathing. “i told them. repeatedly. they were slow.”
“hey—”
dick shot tim a glare.
damian reached for you without hesitation, fingers outstretched, messy and uncoordinated but desperate. cass gently caught his wrist to keep him from yanking at his IV. “come here,” damian insisted, eyes locked on yours. “i hate this place. i hate all of them.” he gestured vaguely at his siblings. “i want you.”
your lungs forgot how to work. “dami,” you murmured, stepping to his bedside, taking his free hand carefully—careful because he was loopy, careful because he was fragile, careful because he was looking at you like you were the only real thing in a world made of fog.
he exhaled, shoulders sinking in relief the moment your skin touched his. “yes. that. stay.”
and suddenly you’re the idiot standing in a hospital room surrounded by the waynes. you don’t look at any of them. you can’t. eye contact feels like a trapdoor.
because this is the exact scenario damian spent months avoiding. the one he insisted would “complicate matters” or “invite unnecessary scrutiny” or “destroy our operational advantage,” which was his very dramatic way of saying he didn’t want his family to know he had feelings like a human being.
and now he’s clinging to your wrist like a toddler afraid you’ll evaporate. your voice tries to work but it comes out small. “uh… okay. i’m here. not going anywhere.”
dick makes a soft, amazed sound, like he’s watching a wild animal eat out of someone’s hand for the first time. tim is frozen in place, eyes narrowed like he’s trying to run a facial-recognition scan on the situation. cass just looks deeply entertained. damian doesn’t notice any of it. he’s too busy hauling your hand into his chest like he needs the pressure to stay anchored.
he nudges closer to you on the pillow—well, he attempts to, but he’s so high that the movement is less “smooth shift” and more “gentle toppling.” you catch him before he face-plants, hands awkward around his shoulders, and he… softens. actually softens. melts into your touch like he’s never heard of pride in his life. “don’t leave,” he mutters. “they’re awful. you’re the only tolerable one.”
his siblings watch this happen with the energy of people witnessing a natural disaster in slow motion. your heart does something inconvenient. “i’m not going anywhere,” you say again, softer.
he’s going to regret every single word of this when the pain meds wear off. damian relaxes immediately, head tipping toward you, completely unconcerned that half his family is witnessing this emotional striptease he’ll definitely deny later. then his hand paws clumsily at the air until it finds yours again. he drags it to his chest, then up toward his jaw, nudging, nudging, nudging like a disgruntled cat demanding to be held exactly the right way. you blink down at him. “what are you doing.”
“you know what i’m doing,” he mutters, pushing your palm against his cheek like he’s molding clay. “closer.”
“i am close.”
“not enough.” a pout forms soft lower lip pushed forward in wounded royalty. “you’re supposed to…” he gestures with his other hand, fingers fluttering like he’s trying to summon the word. “kiss me.”
your body goes rigid. “damian. your entire family is three feet away.”
tim chokes on spit. dick makes a strangled noise. cass is already covering her smile with her hand. dick, bless him, claps his hands together. “alright! great time to take a break. we’re gonna… uh… give you two some space.”
“a lot of space,” tim adds, sprinting for the door like the room is on fire.
cass pauses beside the doorway, gives you a thumbs-up, then closes the door behind them. immediately, muffled bickering erupts.
“you didn’t record that?”
“i’m not filming our brother in the hospital!”
“coward.”
“guys, shut up—”
“i can’t believe he said kiss me—”
“cass stop laughing—”
“OH my god—”
you drag a hand down your face. “this is mortifying.”
damian doesn’t care. damian cares zero percent. damian is busy guiding your hand back to his cheek and pressing into it like it’s a heat source keeping him alive. “they’re idiots,” he announces, voice thick with anesthesia and indignation. “loud. insufferable. invasive.” he blinks heavily, lashes brushing your wrist. “i’m glad they’re gone.”
“they’re right outside the door still arguing.”
“they’re always arguing,” he says, sleepy venom coating every syllable. “they argue about toast.”
you try not to smile. “and you don’t?”
“i argue with purpose.” he says this with the gravitas of a dying king. “they argue because they’re incompetent.” his fingers curl around your wrist and he tries to tug you closer again. “come here,” he murmurs, cheeks pink from more than medication. “you’re being difficult.”
“i’m being respectful.” you correct.
he frowns. actually frowns, like you’ve just informed him gravity is optional now. “disgusting.” he sighs like a martyr. “just kiss me.”
his fingers skate clumsily up your wrist, slipping twice before finally hooking behind your hand, dragging it back to his cheek with the determination of a drowning man reaching for a lifeline. his pulse flutters beneath your palm, fluttery in that way that tells you the meds are hitting harder. “i need one,” he murmurs, barely audible. “just—one.”
“damian—”
“please,” he whispers. he looks at you like you’re the single point of focus in a world that’s tilting. pupils blown, cheeks flushed with medication and emotion he can’t register enough to restrain. he’s trying so hard to keep his eyes open, to hold onto you, to stay with you in the haze.
the battle between logic and instinct lasts all of four seconds. maybe less. you lean in, careful, so he can pull back if he wants. he doesn’t. he meets you halfway, or at least tries to, except he misjudges the distance and bumps your chin first, blinking like the world betrayed him again. you soften. cup the side of his face, steady him, then you kiss him.
it’s gentle. warm. barely there at first, just the press of your mouth against his, letting him feel it, understand it. his breath catches, a soft inhale against your lips like he can’t believe he got what he asked for. then the tension melts out of him all at once. his shoulders sag. his hand slides up to clutch weakly at your shirt. he makes this tiny, involuntary sound—half sigh, half relief—like the kiss untied some knot inside him he didn’t know was choking him. he kisses you back clumsily, lazily, chasing the contact with unfocused devotion. the kind of kiss that says i’m not fully here, but what i feel for you is.
when you finally pull back—because he’s still recovering—his eyes remain closed for a moment, like reality hasn’t quite caught up. they open, glazed and adoring in a way he will absolutely deny to the grave. “that,” he murmurs, voice dropping like he’s drifting toward sleep. “better.”
you smooth his hair back gently. “yeah?”
he nods against your hand, eyelids lowering again. “you fixed the… everything.” his lips twitch like he wants to smile but doesn’t have the energy. “kiss me again later.”
you can’t help it. you laugh. “we’ll see.”
he hums—hums, like he’s some exhausted, medicated cat settling into sun-warm sheets instead of a post-surgery assassin with a reputation to maintain. for a few minutes, everything is strangely easy. soft. he drifts in and out, eyes half-lidded, expression mellow in a way that would terrify gotham’s criminal underground. he asks you three questions in a row (“what time is it… why does the ceiling breathe… can you make the bed stop tilting?”), only for his attention to wander halfway through the third answer.
you stroke his hair and he melts like warm wax, that stiffness he always carries dissolving like you’re seeing a piece of him that only exists under anesthesia and around you. “you should rest,” you observe.
“i am resting.” he sounds offended you’d suggest otherwise. “i’m the picture of—” he yawns without warning. “—discipline.”
“sure,” you say, hand smoothing down his cheek. “very disciplined.”
he narrows his eyes, but the effect is ruined by how heavy his eyelids are. “mockery is unbecoming.” he drifts again, fingers twitching once like he wants to pull you even closer but can’t muster the energy. ten more seconds pass before he murmurs, barely audible, “don’t be gone long.”
your chest folds in on itself. “i won’t.”
but you still have to go. he needs his siblings updated. you need to breathe something other than recycled medical-wing air. and—let’s be honest—you need to apologize for walking in and accidentally detonating a family-secret bomb.
you pry his hand gently off your shirt, not easy, because he makes a soft, grumpy noise at the loss, and settle it over his blanket. “i’ll be right back,” you whisper.
he scowls, soft and half-asleep. “you better.”
you slip out. the door clicks shut behind you, and immediately, the hallway noise stops. immediately. like a switch. one second there’s muffled arguing, sharp whispers, annoyed sighs, something that sounds suspiciously like tim saying “that’s not fair, cass, you can’t hit people in a debate—”
and the next? dead silent.
you step fully into the corridor. three faces turn to you at once, frozen mid-conflict like you just walked in on a crime scene. dick stands with his arms out like he was physically separating people. tim looks defensive, hands half-raised, mouth half-open. cass is calmly holding what looks like tim’s hoodie string, like she’s been yanking him back into line.
they all stare. you blink. “…hi,” you say. it comes out small. painfully polite. the kind of greeting you use when you’ve just barged into the batfamily’s private meltdown because your secret boyfriend couldn’t keep quiet on morphine.
dick straightens so fast you actually hear the click of his spine. “hi! hey! um. hi. wow. okay. you—you came out.”
tim elbows him. “of course she came out, she used the door—”
cass smacks the back of his head without looking.
“ow???”
you exhale slowly. “so… um. i guess i should say—sorry? for all of that? he’s… not usually like this.”
three pairs of eyes give you the exact same expression:
oh we know.
you swallow, fingers twisting together because suddenly you’re seventeen again and meeting someone’s parents in a too-small living room where everyone is staring. “right,” you say. “um. so. i’m—” the word lodges in your throat. girlfriend.
technically true. emotionally true. secretly true. publicly, though… this was supposed to come out months from now. carefully. intentionally. maybe after damian finished having a internal breakdown about letting anyone know he had feelings at all. definitely not in a fluorescent hallway with him high on enough pain meds to take down a rhinoceros.
you clear your throat. “i’m… his—”
they all lean in a fraction. like wolves scenting vulnerability.
“—girlfriend.”
silence. not the casual kind. not the “oh okay” kind. no. this is the thick, suffocating, batfamily kind of silence, where shock ricochets between them. you want to die.
“wow,” dick finally says, voice high and bright and absolutely panicked. “so you’re—uh—wow. okay.”
tim takes a step back from you like you’re a rare cryptid. “wait, wait. damian—our damian—has a secret girlfriend and he didn’t tell anyone?”
“it wasn’t—” you rub your face. “it wasn’t my idea to keep it secret.”
every head turns toward the door behind you. the door damian is behind. three simultaneous: “of course it wasn’t.”
you sigh. “he didn’t… want the attention. or the questions. or the—” you gesture vaguely at the cluster of energy in front of you “—this.”
dick nods so hard you’re briefly concerned for him. “yeah. okay. right.”
tim crosses his arms. “he trusts none of us with his personal life. unbelievable.”
cass tilts her head, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “he likes her,” she says simply.
everyone turns to her, startled by the rare verbal input. she shrugs. “i watch him.”
you’re still mortified.“i’m sorry,” you say again, because apologizing feels easier than existing in this moment.
“no, no,” dick insists. “don’t apologize. we’re just—processing.”
“poorly.” tim adds.
“yes, poorly.”
you glance at the door, then back to them. “he… didn’t mean to tell you. he’s just… really high.
tim snorts. “yeah, we noticed.”
but then—dick softens. visibly. his whole posture loosens. “we’re… glad you’re here. really.”
cass nods once. tim looks like he wants to be annoyed, but deep down, he’s already building a spreadsheet called damian’s girlfriend: things to investigate. you inhale, steadying yourself. this is fine. you’re here. damian’s safe. they’re… intimidating, but also weirdly welcoming in a way. dick takes a half-step toward the door. “he’s probably freaking out that you’re gone.”
you grimace. “…yeah. he’s not subtle right now.”
tim snorts. “understatement of the century.”
you all slip back into the room—well, you walk in, and the batfamily kind of fans in behind you like an unnecessarily dramatic procession—and immediately you’re met with a very specific sound: damian huffing.
he’s upright again, God knows how he managed it with stitches and sedation, blanket bunched around his waist, hair a complete disaster, eyes sharp but unfocused and dark with irritation. he looks like someone who’s been abandoned in a desert for hours, not eight minutes. the second he sees you, everything in him unclenches. the frown softens. the shoulders drop. the tension behind his eyes dissolves like sugar in tea. “finally.”
you take a slow breath. “i was gone for like ten minutes.”
“ten minutes,” he repeats, scandalized. “i could have died.”
dick, behind you, mouths jesus christ into his hands.
you step closer and damian instantly reaches for you, hands out, grabby, zero dignity, all instinct. he looks like he’s two seconds from climbing out of bed and onto you. “i told you,” he mutters, leaning toward you with the gravity of someone confessing state secrets, “i can’t sleep without you.”
your brain stalls. his siblings collectively short-circuit behind you. “you’ve… never said that.”
“i’m saying it now.” he tries to sit up even straighter, immediately winces, then stubbornly ignores the pain. “i hate it when you disappear. it’s—” he squints, trying to find the word in the fog of anesthetic swimming through him, “—unacceptable.”
“unacceptable,” tim echoes under his breath, shaking his head like this is the best day of his life.
damian hears it and snaps—not very effectively, because it’s slurred and soft and deeply non-threatening—“shut up, drake.” then he turns back to you, expression going gentle again so fast it’s whiplash. “come here,” he says, voice lower, sleepy, warm. “please.”
you move without thinking. “better,” he mumbles, leaning into your palm. Leaning. “i hate hospitals.”
“i know you do.”
“they smell like fear and bleach. drake smells like bleach too. it’s suspicious.”
tim throws both hands up. “what—why—what did i even do?!”
damian doesn’t answer, mostly because something else catches his attention. his gaze drifts back toward the IV taped to his hand like he’s just spotted an enemy combatant. “…it’s still there,” he mutters darkly.
you can practically hear dick’s soul leave his body. “damian—”
too late.
damian’s fingers curl, determined and clumsy, reaching for the line like he’s about to solve all his problems via self-sabotage “nope,” you say quickly, sliding your hand over his before he can yank. “don’t start with that.”
he blinks at you, startled. “but it’s in me.”
“yes,” you say calmly, “and it’s supposed to be. if you pull it out, it’s going to hurt, you’ll bleed everywhere, and dr. thompson will throw a fit.”
damian glowers at the IV like it personally betrayed him. “i do not consent to its presence.”
“tough,” you say softly. “leave it.”
and something miraculous happens.
he listens.
he actually stops. his fingers relax under yours, he gives one final deeply offended exhale, then slumps back against the pillow, letting you guide his hand away from the tubing entirely. dick stares at the exchange like he just watched a unicorn descend from the ceiling. “you’ve gotta be kidding me.”
tim narrows his eyes. “yeah, no, I want that in writing. he listened? willingly?”
damian doesn’t even look at them. his attention is fully back on you, as if he’s forgotten anyone else exists. “you’re better at giving orders,” he mumbles, voice slurred and honest.
your eyebrows shoot up. “i didn’t give an order.”
“yes you did,” he insists, even poutier now. “and i liked it.”
tim chokes. you press a hand over damian’s, trying not to laugh. “okay. well. thank you for listening.”
“i listen to you,” he says, like it’s obvious. “you make sense.”
and then—inevitably—damian’s gaze drifts, catches something on the wall-mounted TV across from the bed, and brightens in a way that is actually alarming. “tch. finally,” he mutters. “something decent.” it’s… an anime. some shonen fight scene paused on a commercial break. “they always have commercials on. americans have no discipline.”
“do you—watch that one?”
“i watch everything,” he says, as if this is another well-known fact. “i have criteria.”
“criteria,” tim echoes. “oh this I gotta hear.”
damian lifts a finger dramatically, like he’s addressing a senate hearing. “strong character arcs. accurate sword technique. no filler episodes.” he narrows his eyes like the concept personally offended him. “most of them… disgraceful.”
and then—god help you—he turns his head toward you and says, in a tone so earnest it almost knocks you over: “if i recommended shows to you, you would watch them. properly.”
tim inhales sharply. “are you ASKING her to watch anime with you? publicly? in front of witnesses?”
damian blinks once. twice. “yes?” he says, baffled that this is even a question. “why wouldn’t i? she listens.”
dick puts a hand over his heart. “this is the most emotion he’s displayed since he was born.”
damian ignores him completely because a new thought has struck him, and he must share it immediately or die.
“and she likes animals,” he says. “this matters.”
you look around. “…does it?”
“yes.” he nods, solemn. “people who don’t like animals are not to be trusted. it is… foundational.”
“i mean—true,” you mumble, trying not to laugh.
“she,” he says, pointing at you again, “lets titi sleep on her jacket. on purpose.”
tim freezes. “wait. the demon cat? on their clothes? and—no blood?”
you shrug awkwardly. “she’s actually very sweet—”
“HA,” damian cuts in, triumphant. “i told you.” then, with no transition at all: “titi likes her more than she likes you.”
this is addressed to the entire batfamily.
gasps. outrage. betrayal. you pat damian’s arm, trying to settle him down. he looks up at you instantly—immediate, instinctive. “don’t go again,” he says, like you abandoned him for years instead of stepping outside to apologize to his siblings.
“i’m right here,” you soothe.
he exhales, satisfied. “good. if you leave, they talk. they always talk.” his voice drops to a whisper, conspiratorial. “they gossip.”
“WE DO NOT.”
damian waves a dismissive hand. “yes you do. you gossip like… hens.”
“hens??”
“LOUD hens,” damian corrects, settling further into your side. “and idiotic.”
you choke on a laugh as all three brothers erupt in overlapping offended noises. and you’re just sitting there thinking—
yeah. he is absolutely, utterly, painfully doomed when he sobers up.
– or, the language of devotion from a boy who was raised to conquer, not to love
✶—Masterlist
It starts with the ring.
An emerald, cut sharp like a blade, set into gold with ancient Arabic filigree etched so fine it’s barely visible unless the light catches it. She finds it on her nightstand one morning—wrapped in black silk, warm as if it had been held in a palm all night.
The note is in his handwriting. Neat. Small. Precise.
“For your hand, which should always be protected.
She wears it. Of course she wears it.
She doesn’t expect the next gift—two weeks later, an anklet. golden, thin and elegant, a tiny د (the Arabic letter dāl) dangling from the chain. Damian doesn’t say anything when she finds it.
He just kneels down during a quiet hour in the Manor and clasps it around her ankle himself. His hands are steady. His touch reverent.
“I want them to know,” he says simply, eyes flicking up to hers. “Wherever you walk, you’re mine.”
She forgets how to breathe.
“Okay, but like,” Steph says later, eyes wide, “that’s not just romantic. That’s spiritual warfare.”
Jason whistles low. “Man’s out here forging rings like it’s Lord of the Rings, but hot.”
Dick smirks. “I told you. He’s an intense little poet when it comes to her.”
There are other gifts. A hair comb, made of dark wood and inlaid with jade. A carved pendant with lines from a pre-Islamic Arabic love poem, words so old they taste like desert wind and firelight.
He gives her a dagger once.
Not large. Not flashy.
But beautiful.
Etched down the spine, in Arabic script so fine it’s almost hidden, it reads:
“Whoever touches what is mine will bleed.”
She isn’t scared. Not of him.
She understands what it means—what he’s never been able to say without wrapping it in old language and older steel:
That he was raised by people who saw love as weakness.
That he is fighting to unlearn that.
That when he gives, it isn’t casual. It’s sacred.
They sit alone on the rooftop again.
Gotham sprawls below. The stars are faint. She’s wearing the anklet. The ring. A new necklace now—another gift, this one with a pressed green stone the color of his eyes, suspended above her collarbone like a vow.
“You’re mine,” he says softly, fingers brushing the pendant.
“Mm,” she murmurs. “Yours, huh?”
“I don’t mean that lightly,” he says. “I mean it the way temples mean prayer. The way altars mean blood.”
She smiles. “I know.”
“I would kill for you.”
“You have,” she says.
“I would die for you.”
Her hand finds his. “You don’t have to.”
Damian looks at her for a long moment. The kind of look that feels like burning incense and ancient gods and poetry that doesn’t rhyme.
Then he says, voice barely above a whisper:
“You are not mine like a thing to be owned.
You are mine like breath is to lungs. Like fire is to a blade.”
She closes her eyes, heart thudding. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m yours too,” he says.
Tim finds the dagger a week later.
Jason reads the inscription and whistles. “This boy’s out here writing Arabic death vows.”
“Poetic menace,” Steph mutters. “I love that for her.”
Dick just grins, arms folded. “Told you. He doesn’t love. He consecrates.”
And maybe that’s what it is.
Not love like hearts and flowers and Hallmark cards.
But love like carved emeralds and sacred steel.
Love like an altar.
Like devotion.
Like the whole world could burn—and he’d still reach through the smoke to clasp her wrist and whisper:
“rūḥī…”
i don't really what how i feel about this one
.Taglist🏷️: @simpingmyassoff , @shootingstargirl2001 (if you want to be added,comment down below!)
My mom gave me this 9-mil for my 13th birthday. Yeah. I'll always remember what she put on the card: "Jesus Loves Winners". That's why no matter what I do, I aim to win.
DROP DEAD GORGEOUS
1999 • dir. Michael Patrick Jann
cbf!chris who… knows you better than you know yourself sometimes. you use one less exclamation point while texting him? he’s already knocking at your door, bouquet in hand before you can even figure out why you’re upset. (you use three exclamation point every text. if you use less it’s a red flag)
cbf!chris who… attempts to play tennis with you. he gets hit with the ball over and over. the only compensation he gets? seeing you in the tiny tennis skirts you wear.
cbf!chris who… first kissed you when you two were five years old, under the slide at recess
cbf!chris who… climbs the trellis next to your window when he can’t sleep, tapping softly on your window. when you let him in, he collapses on your bed, wrapping his arms around and nuzzling his face into your hair
cbf!chris who… got his very first hot wheel from you (technically your mom) and his third birthday party. he still has it hung on his wall.
cbf!chris who… asks for money every week, even though he has more than most people living in california combined
cbf!chris who… is the darkness to your light. if you’re positive, he’s negative. you’re quiet, he’s loud. but still, you work.
cbf!chris who… follows you around like a golden retriever. when you go to mingle at parties, he’s pursing with a hand on your waist.
cbf!chris who… loves to annoy you. you go to the beach to tan? he lays his towel down next to you, playing with your hair and stealing one of your earbuds.
cbf!chris who… had his first time with you on the beach after a party.
a/n: um… monthly post… i’m trying to get better y’all 😕
I finally saw the new josh richards tiktok with Matt and Chris and it almost made me barf that he captioned it sway 2.0 and Matt commented squad… like boys plssss don’t join a cringe ass content house with these guys just because you share mgmt
frances ྀིྀིྀིྀིྀི @snoopysturns - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
