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theknightmarket · 1 year

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um i really wanna see a fic where damian takes care and looks after da. idk maybe da is sick but came to work anyways. maybe they were overwoking themself and eventually collapse. maybe they get injured somehow. just our dear mayor being concerned for them and looking after them

"You're too stubborn to die."

In which Damien helps the DA in a compromised state.

TW: angst, injury, blood

Pages: 15 - Words: 6,000

[Requests: OPEN]

A regular Sunday for the mayor of Los Angeles was, surprisingly, incredibly similar to that of any other thirty-year-old working man. It was one of Damien’s only days off in the month, and he treasured them like the holy grail; if his job was to hold endless amounts of paperwork, incessant meetings with countless people, and public speeches to bore the masses and himself, then his day off would be filled with as many relaxing activities as possible.

Damien wandered around the apartment, a watering can in one hand and his cane in the other. The doctor had long since said that he didn’t need it anymore, and that his insistence that he did was only psychosomatic, but it was more than that. To him, it was a grounding tool. If things got rough, and, in his profession, it was more of a when, he could grip tightly onto the stick and find comfort in the stability of it. Metal is not an easy material to break, and he much preferred it to messing with his jacket’s edges or cuffs. That meant, no matter how many of his veins popped through paled skin, it would always be there for him.

Now, though, he was content. The sun was shining, the windows let a blissful breeze flow through, and there was the distant hum of the radio from the kitchen. It couldn’t be more perfect. Sundays were always this way, like entering another dimension where famine had been decimated, all wars ended with the flick of a pen, greed, pride, envy wiped off the map. Even the air he breathed felt lighter.

There was a bounce in Damien’s step as he moved around, singing quietly along to the tune and thinking about his next projects. Getting all of the plants watered was number seven on his checklist – and, yes, it was in his back pocket while he went through the motions – but with only nine left to go, he thought he could get some recreation in. Maybe pick up a new book, you were raving on about ‘The Mysterious Rider’ yesterday, or he could swing by Celine’s place. Though, that place always did give him the creeps…

And you were going to be back in an hour.

The memory still made him smile, how could it not? He had been so excited but so nervous to ask you on a date, he’d double-checked and triple-checked and one more check for good measure. Hell, he’d planned the day out to a T, given that you’d even say yes. But Celine had convinced him you would, so he prepared flowers, reservations, outfits, all so that nothing could go wrong.

Then everything went wrong. He didn’t like focusing on that aspect of the story, it only made him wonder how he ever got you to go out with him again, but it all ended in a pretty fun evening, if he did say so himself. You’d assured him that it wasn’t all for naught, and that you’d had a good time, going so far as to ask if he was free a couple nights after. That one night turned into three nights, and then nights turned into days, and then, after a good few months, you’d gone right ahead and moved in together.

This was your apartment, too, it was where you came back to every evening with a tired smile and ready to have dinner together – and this night was to be no different.

Or Damien thought, until that hour passed, and he remained the only person in the room. But that was fine! He could hold out, and you probably only got caught in traffic or something. It just gave him time to get started on that book. It was absolutely nothing to worry about.

After taking it gently from the shelf, he settled onto the couch, a pillow behind his head and comfortable in evening clothes. The first sentence crossed his eyes, and he took in all the information he could as he read through the first chapter. It left him with questions, but that was fine, because you still weren’t back. Another half hour passed, and when he looked back up from the pages, he noticed that he had unconsciously shifted to be angled towards the front door. He tried to tell himself that everything was alright, he didn’t have to worry, work was probably just getting the best of you. Lord knows he wasn’t one to talk.

So, Damien kept reading, and when his eyes started to strain and holding up the book was too large of a chore, he went and made a cup of coffee. This was the first time you’d been late home, and what kind of partner would he be if he was asleep when you, surely, came back.

Minutes later, he was sipping idly at the kitchen island. The window across from him showed shimmers of orange and red, the cityscape of Los Angeles almost teasing him where he stood. You were out there somewhere, and he felt lousy not knowing where that was.

He took another sip.

The wall-mounted clock ticked by. Seconds felt like hours, and every one that dropped into the bucket pushed him closer to the edge. His jacket swayed on the hook, his shoes just below them. It would be so easy to get a cab over to your building and check how you’re getting on – you’d be hunched over your desk, taking a call from precinct cops who couldn’t do their jobs right, and then you’d see him, and you’d apologize for not getting back. He’d be fine with it, of course, and he’d end up helping you in the case that had its claws in you.

Oh, but he knew that he couldn’t do that. His heart thudded in his chest, his hands shook, but he respected your boundaries. It’d only been a month since you moved in, after all, and he didn’t want to overstep anything that quickly. Heaving a not-so-relaxing sigh, he vowed that he would stay right there in the apartment until you got back, no matter how long it took you.

By the third hour, he was starting to reconsider that.

The soles of his shoes were burned into the wooden flooring, his pacing surely annoying the neighbors below, but he could care less. Show him that you were alive and well, and he’d stop, but he had yet to see any clue as to your wellbeing, so they’d have to deal with it. He hated this, he hated this so much. Pointless waiting and irreverent, troublesome thoughts. They had no use to him, but he didn’t know how to get rid of them. They burrowed into his mind like an infestation of roaches or disease.

Tick, tock, tick, tock. He was going to throw that clock out of the window if he didn’t get ahold of himself. But what else was there to do? He’d completed all of his chores, even the ones he promised to leave for the next day, and he found himself waiting like a puppy at the front door. His eyes wavered over it, hoping for it to open just an inch to show he wasn’t stuck in purgatory.

Whatever higher power there was seemed to take pity on Damien, because not two seconds later, the creak of old wood broke the ticking of the clock. He almost sprung to his feet and launched himself at you when you entered, but he held himself back, if not for decorum, then for the sight of you. You were the most gorgeous person he had ever laid eyes upon, but he was not one to lie to himself; right now, you looked terrible. Your skin tone had lightened so much that you appeared ill, and your chest was rising quicker than before. Were you sick or had working three hours after your shift finally got to you? Damien didn’t know, and he didn’t care. Taking care of these symptoms was his top priority.

“Darling?” he called out, still restraining himself from rushing to your side.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you lugged yourself towards the bedroom, completely dismissing hunger. You were far too tired to think about that, the bed, comfy cushions, and a warm blanket calling to you.

Damien caught your arm before you could get too far, though, with a concerned grimace playing on his lips. “Are you alright?”

He sounded worried, and that was the last thing you wanted – never mind the fact that it was well-warranted – so you heaved a tiny smile and muttered, “I’m fine, love, just tired.”

He still wasn’t satisfied, that was obvious, but you weren’t paying attention to that. A kiss on his forehead from you, a noise of discontentment from him, and you were on your way to the bedroom, trying to focus on your feet as to not trip over warping wood. Everything was slowly fading away at the edges of your vision, consumed by blackness and turning the rest fuzzy.

You knew exactly why this was happening, you knew it was bad, but no way in hell would you let Damien know. You loved him more than anything on the earth, but he was bound to worry about you more than necessary. You’d be fine, you silently promised him. You had to be.

Nearly six hours later, the moon was high in the sky, casting a shimmer of gray dust across the landscape. Light reflected off of windows, night walkers stumbled over rocks, and dogs howled in the alleyways. Patters of rain caressed against the city, warning of a dreary but calm morning.

Even with that promise, Damien couldn’t sleep. He had work in the morning, his day off having ended at the stroke of midnight, and yet the thought of leaving you in the apartment was horrifying. You had knocked out the second your head hit the pillow, leaving him to his thoughts, and they centered around just one thing: were you alright? He couldn’t believe you were just tired, since you’d woken up bright and early the morning before. He was almost insulted you thought he’d fall for that, but he was too worried to mind.

He dragged a hand through his hair. It tickled at the nape of his neck, though he hardly cared. What if something was wrong? Really wrong? His heart thrummed against his ribcage, like if it hit hard enough, you’d wake up and tell him what was wrong. But his ribs didn’t crack, and you didn’t wake up, and Damien was left sitting in the armchair by the window with tired eyes. This wasn’t doing any good, and the sun was due to rise in a few hours; he figured he might as well make you both some breakfast.

Damien shuffled out of the bedroom, a dark robe swaying across the floor and his cane stepping beside him. He held it tight while he made his way to the kitchen, where he noticed blurry chatter. He started confused, which quickly morphed into fear, and then his cheeks brightened in silent embarrassment. What he had thought was a robber was just the radio he had forgotten to shut off. He was glad you weren’t awake to see him creep around the corner, stick raised to thwack however was in there.

He turned the volume down and went to work. After so many times missing breakfast, Damien wasn’t sure what to make, so he decided on the only thing he knew how to decently cook – waffles, and even then, there was a chance they would come out burnt.

The crack of eggs and dust of flour was comforting in a way to him that only a childhood meal could be. In the earliest hours of the day, there would be no consequence to adding a gram more sugar than needed or cooking them for a second too long. The waffle iron steamed and sizzed in front of him once the batter was poured on, almost making him laugh. He let himself smile for the first time that day, the sense of warmth and lightness filling him.

“It has come to our attention that – last night, at the Dimmock Public Health Centre – the district attorney of Los Angeles was shot in an attempted assassination—”

Damien’s smile collapsed.

“—The D.A was rushed back to a car that was seen heading away from the scene, while police were contacted to find the assassin. We have not heard back from our sources about their wellbeing, but we have been assured that they are no longer in danger. Despite this, there has been speculation as to their current location and the reaction of federal agents—”

His own heartbeat cut off the radio, pounding against his head like an overzealous drummer. The smell of burnt food wafted into his nose, his vision toppled over the edge, his hands sweat, his feet moved before his mind could catch up. You weren’t ill, you weren’t overworked, you were shot. And he didn’t realize, and you didn’t tell him, and you weren’t waking up.

You weren’t waking up.

His cane slammed against the footboard, but you didn’t stir, not even a huff. He would have begged for you to groan or berate him or say anything, but you didn’t. You stayed quiet, and Damien’s breathing grew louder.

He tossed himself to your side, strew the bedsheets across the floor and saw, red as a rose, blood. It seeped into the fabric, like bacteria overcoming a wound. God, your wound. Normally, he would ask your permission to lift your shirt, but this was urgent, so he disregarded the crimson staining his hands and pulled the hem up.

Tears flooded his eyes as fear flooded his heart. A lazy medical patch had been slapped onto the entry hole, half of it having peeled off already and the other bled through. Damien had never trusted the medical professionals present during speeches, and this only deepened his distaste for them – but he’d deal with them later. For now, he had to wake you up.

First, he whispered shakily, “Come on, wake up, dear.”

No response. He tried again.

“Dear, please.”

No response.

“C’mon, you have to wake up, please.”

No response—

A cough.

You were alive, you were panicked, but you were alive. Eyes shot open and limbs rushing to get you out of bed, but you were stopped short by your own hiss. It felt like you had been shot again, more tissue and muscle ripped through with no regard for the nerves there – it made you think the bullet had been laced with something, hellfire, poison, but no. Dismally, you remembered the paramedics removing the metal as quick as they could, but speed was favored over kindness. The hole pricked again in response.

Coming down from the small adrenaline high, your eyes focused back in on Damien, who kneeled in front of you. He looked worse for wear, and you wondered if he had been injured, too. This wasn’t true, of course, and the drop of his shoulders gave you some relief, though the slight wet patches dripping onto his cheeks had you furrowing your brows.

“A-are you okay?” you mumbled, tentatively grasping his hand.

A weak chuckle tumbled out of him, fading like the whizz of a stone dropped down a cavern. He squeezed your hand tighter, remaining wary of your state, and asked, “Are you?”

Your attempt to nod was interrupted by a rack of coughs shaking your very body. They didn’t stop, not even when pain splintered away from your wound and all breath vacated your lungs. You weren’t fine, that much was obvious, but, when you’d calmed down from the fit, you settled on staying quiet.

Damien had been your friend for the majority of your life, but, after a year at the very most, it was obvious how much he worried. If you told him there was a crack in the pavement, he’d cross the street to avoid tripping – and if you told him that you were at risk of passing out from pain, you’d be suffocated from his fear. He was such a mother hen; the thought nearly made you laugh but you stopped yourself before you could be overwhelmed by coughs again.

The man sighed at your silence. Unbeknownst to you, not giving him an answer was making him more scared as the seconds ticked by. He pushed away stray hairs that had fallen into your face, trying to see the truth in your eyes. Comforting, obviously masking injury, you stared right back.

“We have to get you to the hospital.”

If it were Damien in your place, you’d agree in a heartbeat, but you were the one lying in bed, blood sticking clothes to your side. Your partner, however, was the mayor of Los Angeles, they could barely go a day without him. You didn’t want to risk taking up his precious time, when some disaster could strike that he’d have to report on. In your mind, it made the most sense for you to go about your daily lives and for you to just deal with it throughout the day. The shot wasn’t that bad, and you’d seen bills for a paper cut before.

Considering this, you found it in yourself to clear your throat and reply, “No, we don’t, I’ll be fine.”

“We have to get your wound checked out, I mean,” he gestured vaguely to the stained area, “those medics were clearly frauds- they didn’t even dress it right, and it’s coming off already, and you’re bleeding—”

You pulled his hands closer to you, fingers curling around his own in a silent reminder to calm down. His volume was steadily rising, which meant his heart rate was, too, and you knew how he got when he was overwhelmed. These past hours had already put more strain on him than you had wanted.

“I’ll be fine,” you repeated, offering a smile. He responded in kind, but his was more placating than agreeable, “if it was anything to worry about, I’d be in the hospital, now, wouldn’t I?”

Damien mulled this over in his mind. On one hand, your logic was sound, as always, and arguing with you had long since proved a fruitless venture. On the other, he didn’t like the thought of leaving you to your devices, as if you’d never been injured in the first place. What if something happened to you and you didn’t notice? With nothing else to do, he decided on a compromise.

“Okay,” he conceded, and, for a second, you thought yourself safe – you might have even gotten down to the offices for some paperwork – but Damien’s hands darted to the discarded sheets and re-tucked them around you.

Damien was going to look after you himself.

He was scarily efficient in how he moved around the room, gathering spare pillows, blankets, anything that would make you feel more comfortable in the bed. By the end of his little escapade, you looked more like a bird in a nest than a human. You couldn’t deny how proud he looked, though, and it would be easy to let your eyelids slip down for a few more minutes…

But you snapped to your senses and summonsed your will to talk. “Don’t you have to go into work today?”

He paused, back turned to you, at his position drawing the blinds. “…Not necessarily.”

“Damien,” you drawled.

The hairs on the nape of his neck pricked up and his face felt the power of a furnace. “Well,” spinning around, he did poorly at hiding his blush, “technically, yes, I do – but the office can handle work without me, just for today.” He slid into place beside you, resting a hand onto your shoulder. “You are more important.”

Normally, you’d jump at the opportunity to spend more time with your partner. Your schedules weren’t exactly kind in allowing you to be together, and moments with him were treasured more than those without. However, at this second, your eyebrows furrowed, and your lips pouted. Most of the time, you’d be forced to get rest, confined to bed while Damien ran errands to ease your weary soul. That was the last thing you wanted, and the only way to convince him to hold back would be to get him out of the apartment entirely. Besides, this wasn’t as big a deal as he was making it out to be, you were sure.

As if he could sense your resistance, Damien whispered, “I still have three hours until I go. I’ll take care of you, and then we’ll assess the situation.”

Sneaky. Damien might have been reserved and shy in public, but you have seen you’ve seen your fair share of his mischievous, sly side. Despite hardly ever getting practice, he was worryingly good at getting what he wanted via cunning means. You both respected and feared that aspect of him.

He left a kiss on your forehead, now, and rose from the bed to restart his preparations. If he had the time, he would’ve crafted some kind of checklist, but getting you a glass of water and medical equipment was top priority. That, and salvaging what he could from those burning waffles.

When he was back at your side again, your eyes having slipped closed once or twice, skin being tugged away from muscle caught your attention. The patch had been badly applied, but adhesive remained against the wound that meddled with blood slowly spurting out of the cracks. Divots sprang red and raised flesh curled around the hole like a mountain range. It made Damien’s stomach squirm and flip, but he focused his expression to clean the area.

As you looked down at the man, ruffled dark hair a mess from stressing and still in his robe, your heart swelled with love. He was your partner, and it was crazy to think you were his. Even after four months, everything felt like a haze, a dream you were scared to wake up from, because you knew nothing would come close to this. Carefully, you shifted your arm to caress Damien’s cheek.

He glanced back up at you quizzically, a look you only returned with a smile. Shaking his head, he returned to his work slightly more comforted than he was before.

Nearly half an hour passed in this fashion; Damien patted off the dried blood, replaced that medical path with a bandage around your waist, and managed to get your mind off of the wound with excerpts from ‘The Mysterious Rider’. You appreciated everything he was doing, down to the way he’d pause when he noticed your eyes drooping. Most of the time, you would shake yourself awake again with a yawn, but there were the odd times when you felt yourself drift off for seconds at a time. These bouts of fatigue never lasted long, and, while you were thankful for the brief rest, the expression on Damien’s face had you staying awake longer.

Every time the curtains closed even slightly, a mix of emotions spurred in him, melting over his eyes, and giving you a first-row seat to his thoughts. Half of him was glad to see you comfortable enough in this nest, it liked seeing you warm and sappy – but the other half was always scared that it might have been the last time you’d close your eyes, as if he hadn’t done a good enough job to keep you alive, and it would be all his fault that you… slipped. But that all wiped away when they opened again, revealing your familiar and welcoming irises. Full of life.

Even though you both knew how he felt, he prefaced the start of the next chapter with, “You can fall asleep, you know.”

You couldn’t deny the fact that you were tired – getting shot would do that to you – but worrying Damien any more than he already was, was at the bottom of your bucket list. So, you lightly shook your head and replied, “Nope, I’m so awake, I could—”

You were, helpfully, cut off by a yawn. Damien looked at you from his armchair, unimpressed, but you continued, nevertheless, “—I could finish a case. Maybe go back to work, in fact.”

At this, he became alert, the sharp spike of fear prodding him in the side. “No, not yet.”

“Damien,” you pleaded.

“I said ‘no’.” As he stood, his cane felt like an earthquake against the wooden flooring. Inwardly, you sighed; you’ve never liked getting into arguments with him, mostly because he was normally the one in the right, but it was unavoidable. Damien had work in two hours, and getting there was a quarter of that, and, before that, there was changing into his uniform. He was neglecting doing any of these to take care of you, and you found it hard not voicing your opinion about that.

“Look,” you started, sitting up straighter in the bed, “how about we do a test run?”

Damien stopped himself from getting through the doorway to listen to what you had to say. Still, he was thinking through getting a cold rag in case of a fever, but most of his attention was directed towards your proposition.

You continued, tentatively, “You go on a walk, alright?” Disagreement stirred inside him the second ‘go’ came out of your mouth, which you could see and began battling immediately, “And we’ll see how I get on alone.”

He thought over the scenario, practically moving his head to the direction of his thoughts, until he rushed to your side and kneeled down. Your hand was soon encapsulated in his fingers, warm and worried. “What if something goes wrong?”

“It won’t,” you promised, leaning forward to peck at his lips. Really, you couldn’t be sure it would be alright, but it was worth trying just to see the blissful and hope-ridden look on Damien’s face. “It’s not like I’m going to die if you’re away for two seconds, love.”

With one more sigh and a slightly longer kiss for good luck, he began to get ready for a walk outside.

Five minutes in, Damien was spiraling.

His tolerance for being away from you had plummeted since the day before, and the glum of the streets was getting to him. It was indeed raining, turning his polished boots gritty from dust swept through the pathways, and it was difficult to discern what were droplets from the sky or from his skin. Despite the cold brushing against him, the worry he was experiencing was sending him into overdrive. He couldn’t tell if he was warm or cool if he was still walking or if he had made it past the first few steps to your apartment. It felt like he was having withdrawals, but there was no way he’d go back. Not only would he still be scared for you, but the disappointment you’d feel seeing him was something he’d do anything to avoid.

So, he took in a deep breath and tried to steady his beating heart. It was horrible, but he put himself through it. For you. He hoped you’d be proud, but he also hoped you’d be asleep when he returned.

The day was… nice, he supposed. Not many people were out this early, a few older gentlemen he passed with a wave, but the most popular of the species were stray dogs. One in particular he saw often when he was heading to or from work. The street had a nickname for the poor thing, and they’d elected to keep it there with spare scraps from the table or chew toys out of old pig’s ears. Benjie, if he remembered correctly, a golden lab that had been around for the last three years.

Fondly, Damien thought back on when you and the dog first interacted. He knew you loved pets, especially the over-active, wholesome ones. You’d requested him stay with you as soon as you saw him, even wagered you’d get him groomed and trained into a proper house dog. He rolled his eyes, you patted on his arm and vowed that, one day, he’d be the most pampered pup in all of Los Angeles.

But that had yet to come to fruition. Benjie was still out on the street, taking leftovers of roast dinners and maintaining a rough coat. Maybe, when this whole ideal was over, Damien would bring him home.

It was with that thought that a whole new cavalcade of bad ideas flooded his mind. They stopped him dead in his tracks, and – following that them – paled him beyond recognition. He flopped against a brick house, steadied his cane in the ridges of cobblestone and thought back on the very reason why you were in this position to begin with.

There was an attempted assassination. Someone had attempted to assassinate you. It hadn’t settled with him, until now, that someone powerful had hired a killer to end your life. And they had nearly succeeded, and you had nearly died, and—

And if they weren’t able to do it the first time, who was to say they wouldn’t try again?

Damien’s vision blurred together, buildings crumbling together and horses in the distance clicking like the trigger of a gun. He had to get back home, to you. God knows what could’ve happened to you in the time he was gone. You’d said you’d be fine, sure, but you were suffering from massive amounts of blood loss, and he loved you, but you were never the most logical person in the first place.

His feet were moving regardless of thought or will to. His eyes were clouded with possibilities and his mind overtaken by sorrow. If you weren’t okay when he got back, it would be all his fault. Why did he have to be such an idiot? He should have stayed with you, and he didn’t, and now you were suffering the consequences of his stupid choices.

He stumbled across the stones, plucked his cane from holes and brushing off the coattails of early risers. They were confused, but he didn’t care; all that mattered was getting back to you as quick as possible. Tears pricked up in the corners of his eyes, those wide windows scanning the street for your front door, and when he came to it, he all but ripped it off its hinges in order to get in.

Going two steps at a time was too slow for him but falling back down the stairs would be of no use to anyone. Still, he pushed himself to get to your apartment at a record pace. One mantra echoed through his mind while he struggled to your front door. Please, be alright. It was wish, to you, to any higher power, to anything that could better the chances.

His heart plummeted in his chest when he saw you lying on the ground.

Damien’s eyes whirled around, inspecting, for a second, for any hint as to what happened. Your arms were flattened out in front of, appearing to have cushioned your fall, and the only blood visible was what had leaked through your bandage.

Nevertheless, he fell to his knees next you, tilted your head up and looked for any other sign of injury. Hope overcoming horror, you seemed okay. Passed out, but okay, so he took his time in carefully drawing a hand up and down your body. Your heartbeat was steady and fine, your skin was barren of unexpected blemishes, and your eyelids were just beginning to flutter open again.

“Damien…?”

The second that he heard your voice, Damien captured you in a tight hug. Of course, at a hiss of pain from you, he pulled back, but you were going nowhere. The strict shift in temperature from the outside had him in whiplash and waking up with your back against the floor was doing you no better. He buried his head in your neck, both to keep you as close as possible and hide the tears beginning to flow. Not entirely sure of what was happening, you pat his back with one hand and cradled his head with another.

You shushed him and pecked at where you could, in the midst of whispering, “Hey, it’s all okay. I told you I wouldn’t die.”

Damien sobbed.

You held him tighter, an embrace solid enough to assure him you were really and truly there.

Exhale shivering in the air, he mumbled against you, “N-no, you’re… oh, you’re too stubborn to die.”

You smiled, ignoring the situation and thanking you lucky stars that you’d landed such a loving man.

“I’m here, love, everything’s okay.” Another kiss, and he lifted his head up to stare at you. Despite you being the one to have been shot, have passed out cold on the ground, you were comforting him. How had he ever gotten such a kind soul? He didn’t know, but he knew he was grateful, and that he’d do anything to keep you.

Shakily, he muttered, “Come on.” He secured his arm underneath your shoulder and lifted you to stand, against the twitching of his cane. The weight of two people was forgiven when you were up fully, and he gently sat you down at the island while he gathered your shoes and coat. “We are getting you to the hospital,” he announced, and that was that.

Being the mayor of Los Angeles had some drawbacks; long working days, the eyes of the press, social obligations – but there were definitely some advantages, not least of all being able to order anything with impunity, whether that was a public car, table at a restaurant, or being to stay in the room while nurses flittered around your partner. At this point, leaving your side felt more hellish than he expected hell to be, and, though he hated abusing his power, he was not about to wait in the hallway for the next hour.

So, by your side Damien stayed. The nurses poked and prodded at you, uncaringly prescribing you unlabeled medication, and redoing the bandages. He wasn’t ashamed to say he relaxed when they left you along, finally. At least he understood when enough was enough – or, he thought so, because if he told you that, you’d probably regard him unimpressed.

He caught your hand – noticeably less pale than it was before – in his own, and cradled it against his chest, as if fearing you’d disappear when let go. But, with you safely inside a hospital and treated by professionals, he could finally calm down. His nerves had been going haywire ever since you’d been late to dinner, but they found no reason to not settle down under his skin.

“You know, I love you.”

Damien perked up before sending a confused glance your way. Why were you telling him now? Was there something that he didn’t know? Had you been shot, had someone tried to kill you again—

“I nearly died yesterday, and,” you laughed awkwardly, as if you were telling a crude joke, “I kept thinking, what if I never get to tell you again?”

Now, he was fully turned to you, and it was then that he saw you were started to cry. He’d never seen you look like this before, wet cheeks and red eyes. His eyebrows involuntarily bent, and he squeezed your hand tighter.

You continued on, “I don’t want you to forget how I feel, and I think that if I had to live without you, I—” You cut yourself off with a sob.

Without a second thought, Damien moved to sit next to you on the bed, bringing you into his chest and cradling you as you cried. He peppered some kisses along your ear, neck, anywhere that could comfort you. He thanked his reputation for getting you a private room, lest you have to deal with people looking in to see the mayor and the district attorney communicating affection.

“I love you, too,” he responded, tone having never been more sincere.

You stayed like that until the nurses came back in, singing praises of Damien’s handiwork and pointing out your conditions. You would have to stay for a while longer, and you didn’t miss the proud smirk on your partner’s face when they told you that you should’ve come in sooner. Still, you laughed, rolled your eyes, and kissed him on the cheek. That normally shut him up, and this time was no exception.

Sighing, he sat back in his own chair, hand still caressing yours. “Do you still want me to go back to work?” he teased.

You brought Damien’s hand to you face, planted a well-intentioned kiss on the upper part of his hand, and winked. “Never.”

He felt himself lucky for being in a hospital; he was sure he could have died from a heart attack right there and then.

[Thank you so much for requesting - I'm sorry this took so long, but I'm glad that I got it out in the end! Gotta say, when I saw that I was allowed to injure the DA, I was already scheming. It did suck that I couldn't put a heart-rate monitor joke in though, since they hadn't been invented yet, but eh, the trade off is that we get nervous Damien waiting for you to come home. Again, thanks for requesting]

#request #markiplier egos #markiplier #who killed markiplier #damien #Damien x reader #DA #reader #markiplier egos x reader #wkm #wkm x reader #1920s #fanfiction #district attorney

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thattiredanimator1t0mblr · 10 months

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Guys!! I just made the most accurate mayor damien bot ever!

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zee-stars · 1 year

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*slams open the drawer I've been hiding in*

Some dude just found your blog!

I'm thinking, dark, yes, but DAMIEN. MY MAN IS WAY TOO HOT.

So Damien/dark whatever, with a DA who gets killed instead of like actor mark, they die instead in the events of WKM.

If you can GN reader :)

-out of pocket anon

OMG yes!!!! This is an amazing idea!! Sorry I took so long to answer lmaoo

Anyways, I was gonna wait until I wrote the fic to post this but I'm so bad at actually writting so I'm just gonna make a small blurb for now but probably making something bigger later!

Okay so like I'm thinking the night of the party you and will sneak off to play a little game.

Will told you there wasnt any bullets in it, you dont remember where he got it but you remember Mark had given him something thing earlier so you assumed it was from Mark.

So you play a few rounds, both you and Will laughing each time you hold the gun to your heads and pull the trigger. Nothing happens.

Except one time you feel a sharp pain in your head, and Will stops laughing. Your vision goes blurry and you feel really dizzy.

All you remember is you falling to the ground and Will sits above you crying asking you to stay awake.

You wake up again, as a ghost, you watch the events go on of WKM and here's a really cool thing,

One time Damien falls asleep out of exhaustion and in his dream he sees Mark loading a gun with one bullet, giving it to Will, you guys playing the game and you dying. He has put it all together.

Next thing you know he's going after Mark saying he killed them and all that.

That's all I can think of rn but again I will probably make this into a bigger fic.

Thank you so much for requesting!!

#out of pocket anon #markiplier #markiplier x reader #wkm darkiplier #damien x reader #darkiplier x reader #wkm wilford #wkm district attorney #wkm x reader #wkm damien #wkm #wkm au

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writeawaythepain · 2 years

Text

Killer Looks

Actor!Mark x (gn!reader)

I like this asshole too much…

tw: mentions fake blood

Word Count: 662

Prompts: Fl 16 - "Just one kiss?" F 20 - "Blood looks good on you."

Summary: Filming for a horror movie where you're the crazy murderer. Actor really likes the edgy-looking special effects makeup they put on you.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

You try to sit still, as the 3 people doing your makeup poke and prod at your face. They were going all out, expertly covering you with scars and fake blood. They smudged eyeliner under your eyes and from the glimpses of yourself you could catch in the mirror, you were surprised when you could barely recognize your own face. You looked creepy, like someone who would stab you in an alleyway, and you would be lying if you didn’t kinda love it.

After they finish with your makeup, you thank them, get up, and start to head your way over to the set where your co-star, Actor, was standing. He was playing the role of the protagonist, obviously, he would never settle for anything less, so his makeup was restrained to just a few scratches and bruises. When he heard someone walking up from behind him he started to turn around, and you took the opportunity to lean close to him and with a monotone voice, yell “boo.”

He didn’t even flinch. You frowned at his lack of reaction but then noticed that he was staring at your face. His eyes took in your new appearance and you swear you saw his cheeks redden a bit.

“Blood looks good on you.” He says, pulling one of his signature smirks.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!” You laugh, but your cheeks heat up a little as well. “Does the whole looking-like-a-murderer thing do it for you?”

“Uh, duh- Serial killers are hot.” He starts, but then laughs at his own words. “Or maybe that’s just you.”

“Shut up, you're supposed to be scared of me.” You remark, ignoring the fact he just called you hot. You start to walk closer to him, slowly, and he starts to back up before bumping into a wall. You keep getting closer until your face is only a few inches from his, and try your best to look as intimidating as possible, you’ve been practicing for this part and you knew you were pretty good at freaking people out. That’s why you had gotten the role. Actor seemed to be a different breed of person, though, because his smirk just grew larger.

“God, I am so turned on now-” He breathes. You stop, blink your eyes, and step back from him.

“God fucking dammit you are such a- you horny mother fucker-” You bury your face in your hands, before remembering you were wearing makeup and decide to just avoid eye contact with him instead. Actor just laughs, his voice ringing out and even though you hated how much you were infatuated with this asshole, it made you smile.

“Come on~ just one kiss?~” he all but purrs leaning close to you again. You roll your eyes, glad that your makeup covered the fact you still got this flustered over just a kiss. You’d done it before, even for movies. You had known Actor since you’d both started your careers as actors in a rom-com together. Since then you were the only person he would ever actually work with. Everyone else couldn’t stand him, even you couldn’t stand him sometimes but…

Your heart flutters as you close the gap between the two of you and smash your lips against his, placing a hand on his chest and pinning him to the wall. His arms reach around your waist as he melts into your touch. You pull away, pulling a smirk of your own as the man that you had somehow fallen head over heels for was looking up at you in pure adoration.

“You're supposed to be killing him, not kissing him. If you two love-birds are done, I’d like to actually start filming!” Your director yells out from behind you, ruining the moment. Actor sighs, annoyed, as you step away from him, slightly embarrassed. But, you decided you might keep the makeup on a bit longer after filming was done for the day.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

#actor mark x reader #x gn reader #x male reader #wkm x reader #markiplier egos x reader #fanfic #fanfiction #markiplier fanfic #x reader #slimewrites

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clanwarrior-tumbly · 2 years

Note

hi!! can you do a damien(wkm) x reader one shot/scenario where him and DA!reader are at a party or something and people keep trying to flirt with the DA and he's gets kinda upset abt it for the rest of the night and when they both go home he immediately goes and cuddles the shit out them

when the DA asks what he's doing he mumbles into their shoulder all grumpy abt ppl trying to get wih his partner literally right in front of him and the DA just snuggles back and combs through his hair and reassures him

"Wow, that was a great party, huh?"

As the door to your shared home swung open, you breathed a sigh of relief. You were eager to get off your feet and recharge from all the socialization at the party you and Damien attended. The night was still young but you were quite exhausted.

The man who entered behind you, however, only huffed in response as he shut the door. After hanging up your coat and tossing the keys into the basket, you decided to settle down on the sofa.

Though you felt the energy in the room change as you looked to the frowning mayor. He propped his cane against the wall, muttering angrily to himself.

Unfortunately he was like this the entire ride home; even at the party itself he seemed upset, but you didn’t want to ask what was wrong in front of other people. Plus he had a reputation to uphold, so he had to pretend everything was fine.

Yet he was very much not fine with how nearly everyone there tried “stealing” you away, in a sense. Some harmlessly asked if the rumors of you two dating were true, while others might’ve had one too many drinks and tried flirting with you (to which you politely decline their advancements).

You didn’t see it as anything out of the ordinary. The compliments on your handsomeness/beauty were inevitable, but you didn’t think it would bother Damien all that much.

What you never realized was that he was within earshot of most of those conversations. Even if he was standing right beside you, they still had the nerve to flirt anyway under the false pretense that he’d be too “busy” for a relationship and that you deserved someone “better”.

That put him in a sour mood for the rest of the night, so he was relieved to be home with you. Finally alone.

“Dames?” You asked, worried as he wordlessly sat with you on the sofa. “Are you oka-?”

That question was cut short when he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you in close, as if something was going to take you away. You blinked in confusion, wondering why he was acting so odd, yet you hugged him back. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, dear..all is well.” He mumbled softly into your shoulder.

“Hm..I don’t buy it. You’re usually never this clingy, though I welcome it.” You chuckled, combing your fingers through his hair. Though you pouted as he hugged you tighter in response. “Did something upset you at the party?”

“..yes. Everyone.”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific, darling.”

"The way some of them talked to you..and pretended I wasn’t there just..annoyed me. That’s all.”

“Oh..” Finally, it clicked in your mind. “You mean those people flirting with me? They were all drunk, Damien. They probably won’t even remember it.”

"I know, I know..it’s such a silly thing to get so worked up over.” His tone became laced with guilt. “I’m sorry for acting this way. We were having such a grand time..and I had to go and spoil our-”

"You didn’t spoil our evening.” You hushed. “If they were doing that to you, I would’ve acted the same way.”

“You would?” He muttered in slight disbelief.

“Of course! Well..I would’ve been picking fights with some people.”

“Please don’t do that for my sake. You’re one of the most respected individuals in this city-”

“True, but I’ll fight for my dear mayor in a heartbeat.” The kiss you planted on his head was all the reassurance that he needed. You could feel him physically relax in your arms, muttering a small “thank you” as the tension in his body evaporated.

It was rare to get this much peace. There was a lot to get done tomorrow; you two had nearly endless responsibilities and deadlines to meet.

But for now, you’ll forget about all of those and just live in the moment.

#clanask #iplier egos x reader #wkm x reader #mayor damien x reader #wkm damien x reader #mayor damien #fluff

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gaymingwriter · 7 months

Text

Masterlist and Requests

Requests temporarily closed!

Some of this will change, so please check before requesting!

Will write x reader for:

Markiplier Egos/Lore:

Darkiplier

Damien

Wilford Warfstache

Yancy

Illinois

Eric Derekson

Googleplier

Bing

Dr. Iplier

Actor Mark (this includes ADWM and AHWM Mark unless specifically requested for them to be different people)

Engineer Mark

Celci F. Kelvina

Mack (Engineer, Crewmate, Dictator)

Celine

Possibly more in the future

Septic Egos:

Jameson Jackson

Chase Brody

Antisepticeye (both original and current)

Marvin the Magnificent

Henrik

Other:

North Star/Starlo (Undertale Yellow)

Will write ships for:

Markiplier (several, ask for specifics)

I write SFW only

Masterlist

Some can’t fit here and are linked in a separate list

* = On my main account before I moved writing here

X Reader:

Eric x Kind!Captain*

Mack x Captain With Plushies (Headcanons)*

Mack x Captain (Sign Language)*

Damien and Celine/Dark x DA (Angst)*

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sardonic-the-writer · 2 years

Note

hey would you be okay with writing a mini drabble of wilford comforting the reader

Of course. I hope your alright hun. My inbox is open <3 /p

Wilford had noticed that you were a little less excited about things recently. He tried not to worry too much, remembering how every time you got like this you would just lightly smile and tell him things would blow over soon. And they would.

But not this time.

Walking in on you staring at a wall blankly had hit him hard. As if someone had taken a metal rod and stuck him in the heart with it. You weren't all there and he could tell by the way you barely moved when he settled into the mattress next to you.

"Sugarplum?" He had muttered, reaching out to brush a strand of hair away from your eyes. The tangled lock got slightly stuck in the weave of his fingers, making you let out a small grunt.

It was the most he had heard from you in days.

Pink mustache dipped down with the effort of Wilfords frown, big eyes looking at you sadly.

"Bubblegum what's wrong." The pinkette asked with a soft voice. Almost as if he would break you if he raised his voice any more.

He got a half hearted shrug in response, your eyes only flickering over to him for a bit before going back to staring at a stain on the dry wall. But it was enough time for him to see how blank you were. He hated it.

Asking you if you wanted to talk about it (and receiving the smallest of no's back) Wilford asked cautious permission before cradling you in his strong arms. You could feel the way they enveloped you, and more importantly how it lifted the weight from your chest a little. Straps from his bright suspenders dug into the back of your shoulder blades, the cloth and metal clips quickly being removed after your cuddle partner noticed your discomfort.

Sweet nothings and words of encouragement buried their way into your ears as Wilford quietly talked to you. Telling you about his day at the manor, how he had missed you, what he had been planning on foong tomorrow, ect ect.

It took a while for you to fall asleep on top of his chest, breathing slowing down to a soft snore. Wilford watched you sadly, petting your hair and kissing you softly before pulling a nearby blanket over both of your forms.

Hopefully tomorrow would hold a better day.

I put my whole Sardussy into writing this just for you anon. Please feel better <3 /p

#wilford motherloving warfstache #wilford warfstache #wilford warfstache x reader #wilford #wilford x reader #wkm #wkm x reader #ahwm #ahwm x reader #iswm #iswm x reader #egos #markipliers egos #markiplier egos x reader #egos x reader #markiplier egos

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misterier · 1 year

Note

oh that was nice i just read that! thank you!

then maybe one with damian ? not him as dark but as himself. his a really underrated character imo. we know damian and DA went to the same uni, so maybe they were roommates and DA gets really sick and they take care of them ? idk im in mood for some hurt/comfort skskss

| Yeah fs! sorry for all the questions, I hope this is alright, I wasn't sure if this was romantic but that's what I'm used to writing so I'm sorry if there was some romance hints in there.

also, my apologies for taking so long 💀 I low-key forgot this and rushed the ending, hope it's at least decent. thanks for being patient<33

this is also super short sorry about that

674 words, 3,714 characters

| Damien had gone to a party hours ago, and Y/n was still stuck in bed, though by now they were finally signs showing they were sick and their hair was a proper mess, sticking in all directions. They sighed and brought their hand to their pounding, burning head; they were miserable. Just as they reached for the water on their bedside, the glass fell to the ground and shattered; they bit their lip to stop themselves from screaming in pure frustration.

They threw their heavy blanket off in a huff and slammed their feet to the ground, only to get a wave of dizziness that sent them falling back into their bed. Y/n rubbed their eyes and sighed once again, the urge to scream echoing in their mind, then suddenly the door to the dorm opened slowly. Damiens eyes brightened seeing them awake, “Y/n! Hey, are you feeling better?” He questioned, slamming the door out habit making them grimace and cover their face. He winced at their reaction, quickly apologizing. They blinked slowly from pure exhaustion, groaning slightly when Damien moved closer to them, the shattered glass cracking under his shoe. "Did you...Did you break the glass?" He questioned, looking down at the remains in concern. "Yeah, I'm sorry, it just tipped when I reached for it." He gave them a sympathetic look; as much as he wanted to scold them for not cleaning their mess, he couldn't help but feel bad for them, after all, they would have cleaned if normally if they weren't so sick. "I'll get it, no problem." His frown changed to a fake, quick smile, already walking off to fetch a hand broom "Hey! Can you get me a water bottle?" Damien hummed in the kitchen, easily hearable through the thin, poster-filled walls.

Damien plucked the short broom and the dust pan from the nail on the wall and he swung the fringe open, grabbing a freezing water. He stumbled back to Y/n, his hands full, they prompted up a bit, and weakly took the water, almost dropping it in the process. "Thanks," They mumbled with a sad smile, scooting up to the wall to keep their backs straight. Damien mumbled something under his breath with a gentle hint in his eye while he crouched to one knee and woodshed in the glass slowly.

Y/n looked up while sipping the drink, watching the glow in the dark stars they and Damien had put up on their first day. An even softer smile began on their lips before it was abruptly cut short by a throat scratching fit of coughs; they stirred the lid of the bottle closed with rattling hands and did their best to hide the coughs with their sleeve. Damien propped up quickly, cutting his hand on the glass but not even caring while he looked up at them with concern.

"Are you alright N/n?" They looked up at him with red, teary eyes and scrunched up brows "I'm just dandy Dame," they said, before being thrown into another fit. "Yeah, that was a dumb question. I'll get you some meds okay?"He frowned, staring at them before slowly walking off to the bathroom with blood pouring from his hand.

Y/n threw themselves back into their bed and sniffled. Being sick is so annoying, they thought to themselves while they looked around the room tiredly. Before they knew it, Damien quickly returned with a bandage over his hand and a bottle of pills. "Hey, here I got some water. Sit up a bit okay?" The said gently, pulling them up on a pillow and handing them two pills and a water bottle that crinkled as it was handled off. They threw the pills to the back of their throat and chugged the water, giving Damien a nod of thanks. He smiled at them, ruffling their hair as he sat beside them.

Y/n wrapped their arm around Damien's shoulders and pulled the man to their side, nuzzling their head into his chest while they rested their eyes. . .

#damien x reader #wkm damien x reader #wkm x reader

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beybaldes · 2 years

Text

The Prying Hands Of Choice

detective abe x gn!reader

summary : "y/n and Abe reunite at Wilford's roller rink disco and fate does not seem to care."

Word count : 2.9k

~*~

Part 1 - The Prying Hands Of Choice

Part 2 - A Love Never Flourished

Part 3 - Somewhere, Somehow

~*~

Pushing past the pink haired man, despite his insistence that you shouldn't, you slipped through the rainbow of streamers and out into a dance floor. Not the most unusual place you had been dropped off at so far, but definitely the most fun: the bright, strobe lights and the funky 70s themed outfits all were a welcome change.

The broad shoulders entrenched in a suave leather jacket was an even more welcome one.

"Stop stalling! You're under arrest for the deaths of way too many people to even count." Abe. You hadn't heard that voice in what felt like eons - not since the manor, and however many years you had spent falling through wormhole after wormhole.

Your eyes filtered over to the other William, or Wilford as he had referred to himself as, that stood before him - near identical to the one who stood next to you now, bar the cocktail that he sipped from occasionally- boring down the barrel of his gun.

"Well that's just ridiculous I would never kill anybody." Wilford drawled, his speaking slurred as he tried to get the straw of his drink into his mouth; struggling severely besides the simplicity of the task.

Turning to ask the Wilford that stood beside you what was going on, you found him to have disappeared - like magic. Maybe there had only been one Will after all.

Were all those wormholes making you lose your mind?

Probably. You were seeing Abe after all. Abe who you'd watched die at the hands of the Colonel, shortly followed by yourself, after he'd spent so long, and tried so hard to solve Marks murder.

Although, if this is what losing your mind allowed you'd gladly embrace every twist of your imagination and echo of your past.

"Is that right?" Abe asked the pink haired man who stood in front of him, slowly lowering his gun with a twinge of anger in his voice. How long had he been so bitter?

Gently lifting your heavy helmet from your head, you lowered it to your side, holding it loosely between your fingers. You suddenly felt underdressed in your Captains coveralls - as though you'd have ever had time to change - that the outfit was too odd, too unlike the you Abe knew.

That wasn't you anymore.

The District Attorney who had worked hard in Damien's office, who tried to help solve their friends murder, who died trying to protect the people they loved, was long gone. Yet, was your new role of Captain much different from that?

How many times had you jumped into the wormhole? Jumped out of the airlock? Let yourself be consumed by the vastness of space? - to try and save your crew? To try and save Mark? Too many to count.

Perhaps Abe would love you, and your silly, little beret, all the same. Besides, you deserved to be a little selfish for once.

"Well..." Abe pulled a small, grey taser out of his holster, slowly stepping closer and closer to Wilford: who was still entirely focused on the straw in his Martini. "Whatever you say buddy."

The way Abe had spat out the words - as though they had soured on his tongue - did not befall you. Had he been through so much hurt since you saw him last? More than you knew.

Abe's heart ached for you; longed for you to still be by his side, be his partner (in every sense of the word). He kept himself awake at night in anguish, thinking and thinking about what he could've done to save you. After all, he had survived a bullet to the heart hadn't he? Yet, like always, he couldn't save the one who mattered most, his partner - you.

Was it his fault? Probably. Every partner he'd ever had at his side had left, been left behind, died - and he supposed by giving you the title, he had doomed you to such a fate.

He often wished he'd told you to run far away from that goddamn manor at the first sight of danger - but he hadn't, and he would have to live with that.

As Abe stalked towards Wilford, taser in hand, you let out a ghost of a sound - something between gasp and a whine - hoping to stop Abe before he took it too far, but not knowing the words to say, where to begin.

"Abe." You mustered out, hushed words coming out barely above a whisper, though it halted the detective in his tracks all the same.

Lowering the taser, Abe looked to the floor, tears welling in his eyes at the sound. Many times he had heard you calling his name, usually a whisper in the night - a comforting presence when he struggled to sleep - but this time felt too real. As though you were actually stood mere feet behind him and not 6ft below him.

He knew he shouldn't look - knew he would just be getting his hopes up over nothing. You were long, long gone. And a voice in his head is all you would be: yet like every other time he turned his head.

Though this time you were there. Standing, living, breathing mere feet away from him. At least he thought. He'd never seen the ghost of you before, only heard the echos of his past - but if this was him finally going crazy from your haunting presence, then crazy he would be.

"Abe." You chocked out, tears beginning to well in your eyes at the sight of the man before you. A hand came up to clamp over your mouth, to keep the pathetic whimpers in, letting your helmet clatter to the floor - the sound resounding around the near-empty roller rink.

Now Abe turned to fully face you, his eyebrows creasing together as he attempted to keep up his stoic appearance - this wasn't real, and he knew it. You were but a figment of his imagination; his own little secret only he had the joy of being privy too.

"You're not meant to be here!" Wilford slurred, his straw now loosely held between his lips and his martini almost gone. "I thought I told you to stay put y/n."

Will could see you too. Fuck.

Tears begin to rapidly fill Abes waterline as his eye raked up and down your figure - clad in a beige coverall, a little red beret resting disheveled atop your head and a discarded, cracked helmet on the floor. He doubted that it was in such condition minutes ago.

"I just couldn't help myself." You whisper breathlessly, your gaze never breaking away from Abes as you spoke. Finally getting to see him again, you doubted you'd ever be able to look away - not that you'd want to in the first place.

"Well, I guess I can it allow it for the mean time." William huffed folding his arms tightly across his chest, a sulk forming on his face. With a snap of his finger his martini began to refill. "But don't take too long, we've got to get back to our regularly scheduled programming soon."

You let out a teary laugh at Wilford's outlandish wording - ever the dramatic - a trait he and the him you knew seemed to share. Taking a few, small steps closer to Abe, you didn't speak, not wanting to get too close, or say the wrong thing, and startle him into disbelief.

This whole thing felt unreal enough to you, you couldn't imagine how it felt for him. Not only to see you now: but to wake up after being shot and finding you dead, and to spend years dedicating his life to finding your killer only to have you standing before him now.

"Partner?" Abe finally asked, his taser slowly being sheafed into his pocket as he finally took a step in your direction, not moving too fast as though that would make you disappear from his vision - gone like a wisp of smoke.

"Partner." You repeated, somewhat confirming his notion and somewhat using the term of endearment on him too. Talking larger and larger steps across the roller rinks wooden floor, you met each other in the middle, neither touching the other and both heaving in air.

"Are you- are you real?" Abe chocked out, his eyes flickering over every part of you he had been blessed with seeing again - free of blood and injury, filled with life and soul.

"I hope." Not the reply he has wanted, but it suited well enough. It was true, honest at the least - after falling through a myriad of wormholes you didn't quite know yourself, though you hoped now more then ever you were.

Taking another step forward, you were now chest to chest - close enough to feel the other breathe but far enough it could still be a dream.

A twisted dream at that.

Abe raised his hand to ghost above your cheek; almost too scared to touch you, to have you melt away under his finger tips. Though you didn't give him long to worry, leaning into the heat of his palm - skin meeting skin. Abe stilled at the contact, unnerved by the warmth that pooled in his fingertips and sent shivers up his arm and down his spine. You were once again in his arms - or were you?

Abe wasn't going to allow the prying hands of choice to drag you away from him again - in his arms, you would be safe this time. So, his hand swiftly moved to the back of your neck, pulling you against him and tucking your head into the crook of his neck; his free hand snaking around your waist and keeping you tight against him. Twisting his fingers into the fabric of your coveralls, he pressed you as tight against himself as he could.

You couldn't feel the beating of Abe's heart, but you hoped he could feel yours, assure himself you were real. He couldn't. Whatever resemblance of a heartbeat either of you had, had left you as you hit the floor of the manor many moons ago.

"Oh God, I missed you Partner." Abe's voice cracked as he spoke, the flood of emotion overtaking each of his senses. He pulled away slightly from you, enough that he could now clearly see your face - meet your eyes. Slowly, his hand moved from the back of your neck, coming to caress the side of your face. "But what's with the outfit?"

The two of you let out bittersweet, teary laughs, neither surprised by the capability to find such humour in the moment of upset and turmoil. It felt right to laugh in the others arms after all you'd been through.

You gently rested your forehead against Abe's, relishing in the moment and committing every detail of his face to memory - not knowing when you'd get to see it next. Though you hoped you'd see it today and tomorrow, and every day for the rest of your life - you couldn't exactly trust that would be the case.

Not when the crystal in your palm could start burning against you and whisk you away down another wormhole at any moment.

"I have so much I want to say." You spluttered, leaning into Abe's hand as you hiccuped out a sob. Abe's thumb brushed gently across your cheek, wiping away the escaped tears, hushing you soothingly. "I don't even know where to begin."

"Take your time gorgeous, we've got worlds of time." You didn't. Abe didn't know, you couldn't blame him for the way his words made you sob harder then before. Dropping your head into the crook of his neck, you grabbed fistfuls of his leather jacket, hoping a tight hold on him would keep him there with you.

"A captain doesn't leave their ship when it's sinking; now do they?" Wilford asked, his Martini once again empty and the straw still evading his tongue. "I believe our little y/n's time here is up. No?"

The warm-burning sensation in your palm only confirmed Williams words. Fate was not on your side; though when had it ever been?

"No." You commanded, though Will was right: you couldn't leave your crew to die by your lack of attention, because you were selfish enough to let the wormhole fester for your own peace of mind. "It's not fair."

"When is life ever fair?" William near spat - anger of a life he had once lived consuming him and leaving him just as quick. "When has life ever been fair to any of us? You're not special! You need to do what's right."

"Don't listen to him partner." Abe pleaded, his hands holding onto the fabric of the our coveralls tighter then he had previously; as though you'd slip through his fingers at the mention of going anywhere but with him. "I just got you back, I- I can't lose you again."

It was selfish of you, to want to heed to his words. To stay in his arms now you'd found them. And in all your lifetimes you'd never put yourself first, at least that you could remember. You'd given up your life, your body, your soul for the sake of your friends, for the sake of making things right - why couldn't you be selfish for once?

You had a job to do.

"He's right." You sombrely answered, removing yourself from Abe's hold with little struggle. His arms didn't chase after you, hold you close to him so you couldn't go - be taken away by things out of your control. He didn't fight this, didn't fight for you. "I have no choice in the matter."

"Life is ours to choose." Abe spat, the words bitter on his tongue. How many time a had you heard that phrase? In how many bodies? Tears welled in your eyes once more at the wave of grief that washed over you; grieving the life you'd never get to live with Abe, a life long taken from you. "Choose to stay."

Choose me.

"I would, if I could. I would over and over again." Your voice trembled as you spoke, leaning down to pick up your discarded helmet, not breaking eye contact as you did.

"Don't make them leave." Abe begged, turning towards Wilford - William, the colonel - pleading with the man he had spent the last decade, decades, chasing after. As though he had any control over the matter. "It's the least you could do."

Wilford didn't answer the man, instead he fiddled with the straw inside of his drink, idly sipping the liquid.

"Abe, it's okay." You soothed, taking a step closer to your lover, in some lifetime or other, though not daring to touch him. You'd already let go of him twice, and to do so again might kill you. "I'll find you. Somehow, somewhere."

"You promise?" You couldn't promise, that would be cruel. To have him lead his life in hope, in wait. You loved the detective far too much to subject him to such heartbreak.

"No. But I'll try my hardest." A bitter laugh left your sore and scratched throat, tired of the crying. "It's the best I can give you."

A hot white burn flooded your senses, the crystal that was buried deep into your palm glowing brightly.

"Ive seen so much more than you know, and it's means I know things. Like somewhere out there I've already found you; I can do it again. I will do it again." You reassured, wincing as the pain in your palm became unbearable, fighting against leaving becoming harder and harder. It was futile to resist.

"I hope you know I don't like this, not one bit." Abe seethed through his teeth, his eyes red and raw from both the tears he'd let flow and the ones he was trying to keep within.

Taking a step back from you, Abe stood closer to Wilford, giving you one last look over - relishing in the sight of you alive and breathing for what well could be the last time.

"Be safe, partner."

"I will, partner." A swirl of blue and white began to form behind you, the wind picking up inside the roller rink despite all the windows being closed. This was goodbye. Turning to face it, you had just about accepted your fate: but you knew you needed to be selfish for once. To have some peace of mind to get you through whatever mayhem was to come.

"Wait, Abe, I-" With a flash of bright light you were gone. Gone from Abe's grasp once again, slipped through his fingers like grains of sand.

"I know," Abe whispered, his glazed-over expression fixed on the spot where you had just stood. "I know."

"Well, better get back to our 'regularly scheduled programming.'" Abe sardonically spat, turning to Wilford and slipping the taser out of his pocket. "I have a job to do after all."

Abe would return to the roller rink before he knew, before he was ready to really. Though this time he wouldn't feel the heartbreak, dazed by the flashing lights and groovy music, he'd become entranced by the disco-loving Warfstache's antics and join in.

He'd dance to the upbeat music, moving in slow circles with Wilford and his mask-covered friends; deluded by the knowledge that you couldn't survive a bullet to the heart.

And he'd constantly find himself looking over his shoulder, a whisper in the wind calling his name, and a strange feeling that one day, he'd turn around and a person would be waiting at the other end of the call.

a/n : There's not enough Abe content so I decided to make my own.

If one single person wants a part 2 I'll make one because I already have ideas lol.

I hope you enjoyed! <3

#abe x reader #iswm x reader #detective abe x reader #wkm x reader #captain yn #abe the detective #detective abe #wilford motherloving warfstache #district attorney x the detective #in space with markiplier x reader

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itsyourimaginaryworld · 1 year

Text

Reading Hearts | Celine x Reader

Ship: Celine x GN!Reader (platonic) Requested by: @thefuzzyheadcollective Warnings: None Summary: The reader is feeling down, and Celine can obviously tell. Notes: Celine deserves more love, thank you for requesting this! x Words: 512

Being a seer came with a different kind of understanding of the world. It meant you relied less on facts, and less on what you could see because the world could be lying and your eyes could deceive you — what you see is not always what you get.

For example, tonight Celine’s dearest friend (Y/N) was smiling at the rest of the gathered friend group, but she sensed a melancholic feeling resting upon their soul. Nothing bad had happened, and the wave had seemingly come onto her friend out of nowhere.

It wasn’t something she was going to ignore, not when her feelings had gotten her so far.

People started going home as the night ended, and you remained alone with Celine. Your smile had faded away entirely now, and she could see you bite your lip as you closed the door on the last guest’s way out.

“What’s wrong, (Y/N)?”

Almost automatically you wanted to say ‘nothing’, but stopped yourself. She was a highly empathic person and you knew very well it would be in vain to put up a facade.

You walked over to the couch and motioned for her to sit down beside you, which she did.

“I don’t know how to explain it without it sounding silly,” you sighed. Celine chuckled a little.

“(Y/N), I play with tarot cards and crystal spheres, nothing is going to sound silly to me.”

You smiled back at her.

“I guess we can both be weirdos.” Your words came out so gently; even with your closest friends, you tried your best to make sure your jokes didn’t come out hurtful.

“So then, what’s wrong?” Her tone was back to serious and her eyes softly met yours.

“I don’t know...” You looked down at your hands that were resting in your lap. “I just have a sense something bad is going to happen at the mansion when I go there tomorrow night...”

You shrugged. Maybe it did sound stupid. At least you had said it now.

A moment of silence passed, which you were grateful for. Celine knew about your introverted nature and gave you all the time you needed to speak more if you wanted to. But you had nothing else to add.

“And it’s just the feeling?” Celine asked eventually.

You nodded. “Partly just because I’m worried what if someone doesn’t like me. And partly, something else that I can’t put my finger on...”

“Of course they’ll like you!” She put an arm around your shoulder. “I wish I could let you meet yourself, (Y/N). But Damien will be there, and you know him, he will make sure everything is fine.”

“I guess you’re right,” you said, feeling a little better.“If something bad happens, I will sense it, too, and I will be there to help.”

“You don’t have to—” you said, suddenly painfully aware of the fact you were going to a party where her ex-husband would be.

“I will if I need to be.”

“Thanks, sister,” you said. She smiled back at you.

“I’m always gonna be here.”

#the seer x reader #platonic celine x reader #platonic x reader #wkm x reader #who killed markiplier #wkm fanfiction #wkm #markiplier fanfiction #celine x reader #damien the mayor #markiplier cinematic universe

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effloradox · 2 years

Text

everyone i know (goes away in the end)

wilford warfstache x da!reader, darkiplier x da!reader, set post-WKM

Sometimes it's hard to be around Wilford. Everyone who lives in the Manor is of the same opinion in that respect, it's actually one of the few things that everyone can agree on. The moustachioed man has good days, and sometimes great days, but he's also occasionally privy to very, very bad days (as are all of the egos though). It comes as no surprise given everything he's been through, but his habit of disappearing for extended periods of time without warning or explanation worries everyone, including Dark even if he'd very rarely admit it.

It's only happened a few times since you started your residency at Markiplier Manor several years ago, but every time it happens it sends you into a nervous spiral. Logically you know that nothing too bad could happen to Wilford without Dark or The Host knowing, and there's no way it would be kept a secret if something did happen, but it still keeps you up at night sometimes when he's been gone longer than you all consider normal for one of his usual disappearances.

Everyone in the Manor knows your history with the pink-haired reporter, and the two of you's shared history with Dark (or as you initially knew him, Damien and Celine), so you understand why, when Wilford appears back in the grounds of the Manor in a frantic state after being gone for almost a month, it's you that's called for to check up on him and welcome him back home so to speak.

It's not the first time he's been greeted back to the Manor by an old friend (and it definitely won't be the last) but you wish it looked like he remembered any of the last times this had occurred, or indeed that he remembered you. You also wish he wasn't frantically waving a gun around at anything that moved, but as you started to move closer to him, you were honestly more concerned of him accidentally shooting himself than you.

"Wilford?" It's hard to approach slowly enough to not worsen his panic whilst fighting your own growing anxiety that if you don't get close enough to him then something bad is very likely to happen to one of you. You have no doubt that back inside the Manor, the other egos have been gathered together, with The Host no doubt live-narrating what's going on so that if something does happen, everyone is more than ready to intervene.

That knowledge is doing little to comfort you though as Wilford's focus seems to snap to you once you softly utter his name. He starts to shake his head upon seeing you, and his actions suddenly get that bit more frantic.

"No, no. You're not real. You're dead. I-" A strangled sob seems to halt his line of thinking for a moment, and you feel like you don't have the words to explain how heartbreaking it is to see him like this. "I killed you."

"Wil, I'm right here, I'm okay." You put your hands up to show you're not a threat and slowly try to walk towards him, but stop when he backs away from you and points the gun at your approaching form.

"Stay back! You're just another trick! You're all gone, you all left me behind! You, Celine, Damien; you all left me behind!" It's an uncomfortable situation to find yourself in. The memories of what happened at that fateful party all those years ago still haunts you, it still haunts everyone who was present. Your death was traumatic to say the least, but you've always felt more sorry for Wilford regarding that night than yourself. Maybe that's why you think about walking towards him consequences be damned, if Abe can survive a bullet to the heart then what's to say you can't too? Maybe he didn't fully load the gun before teleporting back to the Manor so he wou-

"Wilford." Dark's voice comes from behind you, and it's no surprise that you jump at his sudden appearance. You're thankful for it nonetheless. Maybe The Host sensed that you'd not improve Wil's condition if your mind continued down that spiral and thought a tougher intervention was required. At any other time you'd turn to face your de facto leader, mainly in relief that you're no longer dealing with this nightmare of a situation by yourself, but right now it feels impossible to tear your eyes away from Wilford in case he acts.

"Damien?" You can't help but notice the flicker in Dark's aura at his old name, but aside from that, he gives no indication that anything is out of the ordinary. Seeing Dark seems to settle Wilford if only slightly and when the gun is no longer being pointed in your direction, you deem it appropriate to step forward once more, remembering what you were sent out here to do.

"See Wil? We're fine. Come inside with us."

"But I saw you die. Both of you died! When will you stop haunting me?" It's only when you see Dark's calm facade start to crack that it occurs to you that you've never seen Wilford this bad before and from his reaction you're assuming he's thinking the same thing. He's had bad days, but he's never outright denied you and Dark still being alive. It makes you think that Actor had something to do with this event, that the man has somehow twisted Wilford into believing his delusions. Wilford’s connection to the present is…fragile at the best of times, it has been since the poker night but this is uncharted waters for all of you.

“Old friend, that was a long time ago. We're all safe now. Just come inside Wil, we can discuss this further in my office." The lack of distortion when Dark speaks feels strange; he sounds…human, more human than he has in years (maybe even decades). It surprises you, and it must have a similar reaction for Wilford because the manic look that's been in his eyes since he showed up slowly starts to fade away and the frantic energy that's clung to him dissipates almost instantly.

Wilford slowly looks more aware of his surroundings and the gentle nod of his head to Dark's proposition is the only sign you need to walk up to him and pull him into a hug. His arms wrap around you instantly and the shudders that start to come from his body as he begins to cry into your shoulder break your heart. It takes everything in you to not start crying too as you start combing your fingers through his hair and tighten your other arm around his waist.

It's the second pair of arms surrounding the two of you that jolts you out of your thoughts, and the brief eye contact you make with Dark when you look away from Wilford that makes you understand the implications of tonight's events. The Actor's planning something for sure, and at some point in the future you'll have to confront Wilford about where he disappeared to for the last month. But for now, the three of you remain outside in a tight embrace, the only sound to be heard is Wilford's crying and constant repetition of the fact he's sorry he forgot the two of you.

#my writing #fics #wilford warfstache x reader #darkiplier x reader #wkm x reader #who killed markiplier x reader

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theknightmarket · 1 year

Text

“Do you want to do this again sometime?”

In which Damien and the DA end up going to a party under false pretenses.

TW: sexual references (teasing)

Pages: 20 - Words: 8000

[Requests: OPEN]

“You have to help me.”

Hearing that as soon as your friend of, at this point, 20 years bursts panting and sweating profusely through the door was not the best way to start the day. Good thing that you’d had your fair share of French toast and coffee, so you were able to swirl around in your chair to gauge the situation soberly. Damien didn’t look scared, if a little nervous, but he wasn’t happy. You remembered him talking about some dinner party the day before, which he would attend a few hours after he left. Still in his formal attire, so he had spent the night unwilfully. He also lacked a bowtie.

“Did you hook up with someone?”

Much to your amusement, he went beet red the second the words escaped your mouth. It was painful to try not to laugh, but the single chuckle that breached the air had him rushing over to sit next to you, and he laid his cane on the table. A small attempt to hide his face was made with his free hand, though, you knew better. You had seen better, too, so you pat him on the back and left to pour another cup of coffee for the poor man.

From your position at the countertop, you heard him mutter, “You don’t have to say it like that.”

Oh.

Normally, it felt great to be right. It was your favorite hobby, actually, but this time… this time was something different. Your eyebrows crossed and a faint intake of breath made it difficult to focus on the mug in your hand. Grip steadily clenching and loosening, the thump of your heart stilled. This should have been more concerning, the idea that some medical defect would put an end to your life before it had even begun, but Damien having stayed the night was somehow worse to you.

Still, like any good friend, you brought the cup of coffee over to him and, making sure to avoid jostling him, set it down near his crossed arms. The steam faded into his eyes while he stared at the intricate design; he had always liked this mug, it was probably the best one out of your whole collection, in his opinion. A little golden retriever with a Christmas hat. Cute.

He took it gratefully and gulped it down within seconds, the warning that it was hot not fully registering in his mind until half of it was gone. Then, the pain started, and it started strong. Damien was never one to curse but, in this moment, that didn’t matter. All the words in the book came pouring out of his mouth, alongside any coffee left that could cause more pain. It wasn’t until the glistening burn started to dull itself into a sting did he cease the speaking and start the fanning, not that it would help.

You looked on with empathy and a small tinge of told-ya-so-ness. Either way, you quickly fetched a cold cup of water and bottle of honey, which, from experience, would work better than just waving at the burn. It didn’t take any coaxing to get him to open his mouth, so it was comparatively easy to help than when the roles had been reversed.

Luckily for you, Damien wasn’t physically able to point out this fact, so you mumbled, “You’re such an idiot,” as you handed him a slowly melting ice cube.

He rolled his eyes, momentarily distracted from the pain, but the curl of his lips downward and hiss were back the next moment.

After some minutes of pampering and healing, the mayor was able to speak again, even if it was only a few words per sentence – his coffee had gone cold by now, too, and you rose from your chair to throw it down the sink like a prisoner into jail. Yours was already gone, drank in an orderly and non-painful fashion, so you just placed your mug into the sink next to Damien’s empty one.

Despite the interlude, your mind still wandered back to his situation. Whoever he had been with, they must’ve been special to get with the mayor of sunny Los Angeles. You wondered what it was that drew him to them; maybe it was their looks alone, but Damien wasn’t that shallow, was he? Maybe they had a nice chat and it just escalated from there. You wondered how his sister would take it, since she was always so protective of him. You wondered if they would continue to see each other, if they knew each other already, if they had been together for a while now and you just didn’t know it, you wondered—

“I didn’t… hook up with anyone, you know.”

Oh, thank God.

It had never felt so good to be wrong! You would have paraded around the kitchen if you hadn’t company, but that company you did have was Damien and he had not been with someone last night. Shoulders relaxing and that easy-going smile returning to your face, you whirled around to look at him again.

“Then, why on God’s green earth, would you need my help?”

Damien sat up straight, pressed his hands across the table, and steadied his breathing. These were tell-tale signs that he was going to delve into a story, probably go off on a tangent, too, if you knew him well enough. With this knowledge, you cheerfully dashed back to your seat and dramatically leaned in close.

The sudden burst of crimson on his face didn’t go unnoticed, but the reason for it did. You were too excited for the story of why he came back your apartment disheveled and lacking a bowtie to care.

He started with a cough, “So, I went to that party last night.” You nodded. You were one to send him on his way with a good pep-talk and adjustment of his collar. “I’m aware.”

“I got there around six-fifteen, stayed in the car for another fifteen minutes and then went inside. I spoke to the Mr. Witz and his daughter Bethany.” You knew about Mr. Witz, he was an old guy in his late 50s and hell-bent on establishing his banking systems in L.A, hence why Damien was invited. “After being offered drinks, I took one and went to talk to, um, I think it was Mrs. Peterson, Mr. Daveed, and Mr. Ockley.”

With a light chuckle, you interrupted, “I’m starting to think you’ve killed someone and are trying to construct an alibi, Dame.”

“I’m not! I didn’t, I just—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know you didn’t,” waving him off, you finished, “Please, continue.”

Another cough to clear his throat, and he was speaking again, “It was around half-nine when I spoke to Mrs. Harrows and then was I introduced to her daughter, Penelope, I believe her name was. We were talking nice and having a fun time, but it was obvious when we got into the subject of, uh, romancewhy Mrs. Harrows really brought her daughter to the party.”

You nodded, knowingly, because, after most nights out with the rich and infamous - Mrs. Harrows amongst them – Damien had a habit of bursting into your apartment and ranting about whatever had gone wrong or even right this time. You always welcomed him with a smile and a drink, something that should have become tiresome after the thirteenth time that month, but they key word there was should. It didn’t, surprisingly, but you thought you knew why, and to be completely honest, that idea scared you. This exact scenario was the reason behind that fear.

“Mrs. Harrows, I would never speak ill of her, but she was determined to get her daughter into my, well, good graces. Of course, I wasn’t initiating by any means, but then she left myself and Penelope alone to get some champagne, and I realized that this determination might’ve been genetic.”

You grimaced at the implication, feeling bad for both Damien and the girl, but less so for her because… obvious reasons. Nothing that you wanted to trouble yourself with, in the presence of Damien, you wanted to pay as much attention as you could.

“So, for the better half on an hour, she was trying to charm me, and I was trying to get away. I even resorted to asking Mr. Witz about his insurance schemes.” His speaking was speeding up, and his tone was growing gradually more nervous, to the point that you were wondering if he was going to have a stroke. Eventually, though, he completely stopped still at the end of a sentence. His eyes held a look of remembrance, faint fear, and a hint of something else. You couldn’t quite pinpoint it, and you didn’t have his monologue to distract you from thinking about it. It wasn’t confidence, it wasn’t excitement, it was almost sad in a way. Disappointed, but for what, you didn’t know.

“And then,” he began again shakily, “she asked if I would like to go for a stroll around the gardens.”

“Scandalous!” you mocked, even though you knew full well what that really meant. You had been invited to a good amount of those kinds of social gatherings, and, nearly every single time, someone would approach another and ask to go out around the gardens. At this point, it was basically a marriage proposal, but no one was insane enough to refuse such a request if not for a good reason, none of which Damien had. Penelope Harrows was a nice girl, beautiful and, by all means, well-off. Damien, meanwhile, was single, equally rich, and with no one at his side throughout the evening to drag him away. So, there was the question – if Damien hadn’t lied to you, why had he not gone home with her?

The mayor rolled his eyes, smiling all the while, but he continued the story, “Of course, I said no – but she was insistent,” that blush rose from the dead, coating over the bridge of his nose to both ears, “and, when I refused again, she asked why.”

Damien was already getting choked up with words, them bundling together in the middle of his throat and halting breathing altogether. He knew what he wanted to say but getting it out was a much harder task than putting the sentence together. After a few seconds of floundering, his resolved crumbled – just as his knees felt despite being sat down – and he opened his mouth with a sigh.

“I told her I was engaged.”

Oh.

“To you.”

Oh.

You don’t know what you had expected, but it definitely wasn’t this. Hell, you would’ve been less surprised to hear he had just insulted her and gotten fired. However, that was not what had happened. And you had mixed feelings on the idea.

For one, this was going to be difficult to fix. With so many influential people around Damien at the time, word was going to spread faster than a wildfire, and possibly damage a lot more, too. There were going to be death threats in your mailbox, which was par for the course, and fear for both your reputations as unbiased and objective swelled in your heart. Though, beside that little feeling was something else. A light feeling, as if the calm glow of the moon had leaked out of your stomach and into your heart. It was ludicrous and dishonest to be called Damien’s fiancé, but that didn’t stop you from grinning behind your hand. Your heart thudded in your chest when your eyes met.

“We’ve been extended an invitation to attend another social gathering tonight at Mrs. Harrows’ estate. Seven o’clock sharp, dancing and socializing included, expect to depart around eleven.” He recited the information like a script, as if he’d rehearsed it time and time before – knowing Damien, he probably had, even in his mind to get the wording just right.

You nodded. “Okay.” With that, you started towards your bedroom, specifically the closet which held most of your formal outfits. Shuffling through them, you picked at the ones you thought most suitable: the off-white one with cut edges, a completely black one that might have been too funeral-ly, and a more modern mix of the two. You heard the familiar footfalls of Damien’s dress shoes and his cane thumping against the wood as he approached, your head delved into the cabinet to scout out some appropriate shoes at the same time.

“You- you’re not mad?”

Ducking out for a second, you asked, “Should I be?”

“No, but… I mean, I didn’t ask permission to call you my fiancé.”

“Probably half of L.A knows about us now, so why bother pretending we called it off overnight?” Besides, you wouldn’t mind it being the truth eventually.

Your eyes blew wide and the hanger you had grasped in your hand clattered to the floor. That thought, had it actually come from you? You hadn’t focused much on romance since you landed a job as the D.A – though the odd thought about asking Damien out to dinner or a walk down the beaches would occasionally pop into your head – but now your imagination was running wild. You had a few suits in your closet in view, and each time your eyes glossed over them, you saw that damned mayor in it, standing at the end of an aisle. Were you the marrying type? This was unknown territory, way out of your comfort zone but you couldn’t deny the shaky excitement rising in you. Even the memory of your parents nagging you about getting into a relationship gave you pause.

But was Damien considering anything? You knew he took his mayoral duties seriously, probably too seriously to be considered healthy, so would he be open to setting some time aside for anyone, let alone you? Breathing picking up and heart pounding in your chest, you realized that you were being overzealous. You could start by asking him out if you could even get past that hurdle.

Meanwhile, Damien hummed in agreement, sitting on the bed behind you. His cane flipped between hands, a habit he had adopted when nervous ever since he had first gotten the thing. He barely needed it to walk anymore but he claimed it was just to be safe - you thought it was something to fiddle with to take his mind of off whatever bothered him.

“So, what’s the problem, Dame?” Finally sticking your body out of the closet and toting two different outfits, you catch Damien off guard. He sputters and avoids eye contact for a few seconds, before settling on laughing quietly to himself.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

You lay the clothes down on your desk’s chair and come to sit down next to him again.

“Well, there’s obviously something.”

Silence. You tilted your head to look him in the eye, he looked away again. You moved closer, he shuffled back.

“Damien—” his gaze immediately met yours, deep chestnut mudded with uncertainty, “—tell me what’s wrong.”

“What if it goes wrong?”

The stark fear that consumed his voice, laced it with poisonous pessimism, had you squeezing his hand before you could think to move. His fingers clamped around your own and captured the assurance you gave him, warm and solid.

Now having all his attention, you asked plainly, “What is the worst you think will happen?”

His scenario was quick to flood out of his mouth, shaking every word, “You and I will show up and they immediately know that I lied, and they’ll get us alone and pick apart our stories like doomed vultures – our reputations will be ruined, you’ll lose your job, I’ll lose mine, and then I’ll be forced to marry Penelope Harrows, even though I don’t want to, and you’ll marry someone else and move away and—” Tears were brimming in the corners of his eyes, overwhelming him to the point that his sentence cut off by the silent splash of water against your connected hands.

“Okay,” you started, rubbing tire tracks into the back of his hand, “and what’s the best thing that could happen?”

This one took longer for him to come up with – and, all the while, you sat by him, pushing away the tears that fell and smiling to calm the ones just starting to flow – until he mustered up the words. “We go to the party and… and everything is fine.”

There looked like there was something else he wanted to say, something else that tapped at the border of his lips, but you let it be. This was, after all, a big improvement from the bad scenario.

Finally, you asked, “And what’s most likely to happen?”

Damien stopped completely still as the dead. The cogs in his mind whirred at a pace faster than you were able to keep up with. Then, he spoke slowly, “We go to the party, and we talk to the other guests. They ask us questions, but we give sensible answers, and maybe they something’s it’s a bit odd, but it’s common courtesy to not poke holes in public, so they won’t prod. We go home around eleven and sleep until the morning.”

You smiled tenderly; Damien was a rational person with rational thought processes, it just took some coaxing to get them out of him, and coax you did. This happened often, especially for public parties, and you couldn’t count on two hands how many times you calmed him down before a speech. It gave you a sense of pride that you had this down to a T, but seeing the aftermath was all the more rewarding.

You snapped to attention when your hand was squeezed once more, this time by Damien, as he whispered, “Thank you.”

“Happy to help.”

And there you two sat, watching each other like the most interesting show in all of Los Angeles. For you, the sparkles in Damien’s eyes danced along, bursting and cracking with the intensity of supernovas – bright oranges and blues and purples were born and died in those masses of brown. They never ceased to amaze you. The swirling, the twinkling, the parts that played against each other to create this amazing spirally galaxy.

But, as Damien looked in yours, he found his lungs completely empty, breathe stolen away when he stared straight at you. Confined within the color of your irises was adventure untold and affairs whispered in the darkest of nights, to the one you trusted the most. There was danger sparking bombs, bombs that exploded chambers, chambers that held reward unimaginable. He hoped – promised himself as twilight overcame the sky – that he would, one day, be the only one to lie next to you and bear witness to those stories so intricate he believed he was there himself.

What a world that would be, huh?

He knew it was only a dream, distant and so, so tantalizing that it pained him whenever he glanced in your direction. At the same time, he couldn’t hold back. The love and loss bound to happen if he let himself slip wasn’t something he wanted to risk, but his body forced himself to. It forced him to step one inch closer, forced him to say one more ‘goodbye’ and ‘hello’ when he saw you. It forced him to recognize that, maybe, the lie of being your fiancé was more than to protect himself.

Damien felt the bed puff up at your sudden vacancy. A confused look sent your way, which showed you looking equally so.

“What time is it?” you muttered, wandering off back to the kitchen. When you arrived, the clock showed it was barely half-past ten, seemingly giving you all the time in the world, but that was a trick. You knew it would take around an hour to get to Damien’s place, then you’d have to actually get ready for the party – shower, dry, dress –, you’d end up having dinner at his, too, because God forbid someone expect to be fed at a party. Then, there was the matter of preparing yourselves with excuses and stories and—

You leaned back into the bedroom doorway and asked, “Do we need rings?”

Damien’s face reddened and the grip on his cane tightened so much that you thought it might snap in half. Chuckling, you smiled and moved forward to sit beside him.

“It’ll be fine,” you whispered, swinging an arm around his shoulder, “if we’re together, we can get through it.”

You heard him audibly sigh, the breath shaky and unstable, but he trusted you. That was all you needed.

After a few seconds, you patted him on the arm and picked up the two outfits you had selected, as well as a pair of shoes you could feasibly dance in without breaking your toes. Or Damien’s if that was to happen.

You grabbed his hand with the free one of your own and guided him to the front door. He was quick to adjust his jacket before creaking the wood open for you. A mock bow, and you were out into the fresh air, Damien closing and locking it behind you.

“By the way,” you asked casually as your shoes clicked against the stone path, “why were you so… disheveled?”

“I slept in my car.”

“Of course, you did.”

The manor was a sight to behold and, standing at the base of cobble stairs, was nothing less than intimidating. Cold air rose goosebumps on your arms despite the jacket wrapped around you, fog accumulating in front of you every time you exhaled. Multiple unsteady breaths, and you still didn’t feel better off, until your hand was grasped by Damien, who stood beside you. Sounds of wheels rolling over gravel and metal doors opening behind you fell to deaf ears when a reassuring pressure calmed your heartbeat – though, there was a constant thrum not caused by the daunting role ahead of you.

But that was all this was, right? The role of dutiful fiancé to the mayor of Los Angeles, ready to put in a good word or story with the man. You were also the District Attorney, but, somehow, you knew that wouldn’t be the focus of tonight.

Hand in hand, you and Damien strolled in.

Beautiful golden chandeliers dangled overheard in the foyer, spreading a unique glow to every square inch of the floor. Two staircases intertwining at the middle lead to a second floor, while a rug that pooled where you now stood trailed up the centre towards the dining room. Everything was polished to perfection, looking as though nobody had lived here for quite some time, but that was impossible to imagine with how many people flooded the rooms. Doctors, generals, even some lawyers you remembered seeing in court decorated the edges – each one was its own piece of silver-plated furniture.

You swallowed and held Damien’s hand a little tighter.

“Oh, my good mayor!” a voice unknown to you called from the top of the staircase.

Now, you had never met Mrs. Harrows but, by what Damien told you, this was either her or a very good copycat. Salt and pepper hair always tied up with a satin ribbon, some long dress she was sure to trip in, and mountains upon mountains of jewelry draped across her skin – her voice was even the same as he had described, high pitched but not squawking. More like a mouse that went through puberty.

The lady rocketed down the stairs, fast despite her age, and landed perfectly in front of Damien. A small smile cracked over his mouth, and he let out an awkward chuckle.

“Mrs. Harrows, always a pleasure to see you,” he spoke cautiously, every word running through millions of checks and balances to get it right.

You suddenly dreaded what you would have to deal with for the next four hours.

Brining her hand towards Damien to occupy him, she turned her sight, instead, to you. “Hmm, and this is your lovely fiancé, is it?” she asked, looking you up and down. It was, strangely, threatening for a 5’1” old woman.

Your cheeks were already hurting from smiling so much, but you continued to do so to placate her. The grin threatened to fall when you were reduced to only Damien’s partner, though you held strong as you replied, “You are correct, Mrs. Harrows, and thank you for inviting us.”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure, dear. I’ve always told our mayor that he needs a strong partner to help him in his life.”

Awkwardly, Damien chuckled at his side. If his bowtie wasn’t strung so tight, you could’ve sworn you’d see smoke billowing out like a busted machine. “Yes, well…”

Mrs. Harrows smiled at him kindly, and then turned to you, asking “Now, when did you meet?”

“We’ve known each other since we were children,” you responded. These kinds of questions were the easy part, the part that was already real and didn’t need any sudden improvisations.

“Young love!” the lady gasped, “When did you get engaged then?”

In your mind, you were noting down everything that could come up again, the loose info that might land you in hot water if you didn’t keep it all straight. It was a tactic you used in court, but you supposed it wouldn’t hurt to exercise it here, as well. You started, “Actually, just a month ago. We went out to the town we grew up in, saw the places we made our best memories at, and then Damien proposed to me at the restaurant we used to sneak out to.”

A mischievous gleam appeared in Mrs. Harrows’ eyes, and Damien’s nervous gulp was nearly audible. “Sneak out, eh?” she whispered, in the way old grandmother’s do when anybody paying a sliver of attention could still hear them.

You elaborated, “Every Friday afternoon, we’d get out of our houses and go to this family-owned place a couple of blocks away. They knew us and Damien tutored their youngest kid, so we got free ice-creams or milkshakes. Chocolate and mint, huh, Dame?”

The man looked completely lost in the conversation. The focus in his expression only returned when he responded, “Uh, yeah.” And then, he went back to staring into the distance. He was surprised, and worried, about your uncanny ability to make things up out of thin air. It was something good for a lawyer, sure, but it had him blinking away the shock many times in your conversation. Shoving the end of his cane into the tile, he tried to take his mind off it.

“But we never told our parents, so we’d always have to climb in through trees or awful sounding back doors when we went back,” you finished your story with an eyeroll.

Mrs. Harrows giggled, “I won’t tell a soul- oh, but I must ask, when did you know it was right?”

That question. It appeared to stump you, and Damien took hold of your hand to assure you that it was okay. If you wanted, he would take the reins and give his own skills a try. However, you knew that was a fool’s game, so you sucked in a breath and answered, “Hmm, it was just after a dinner party, I think, when Damien practically took my door off its hinges to get into my apartment. He was all flustered and tired, and I had just finished making some coffee, so I was finished and sitting on the couch for the night. He didn’t really say anything when he came in, but he came in and laid down, looking out of it. We didn’t talk, we didn’t do anything, we just sat together until it got to around midnight and we talked. I think… that was when I realized he was it for me.”

Damien’s grip on your hand tightened, his back straightening and his eyes widening as he remembered just that very occasion. It could have just been you drawing inspiration, but the memory was too similar – down to, regrettably, the door and midnight you mentioned – to one that happened exactly two months ago.

“That’s precious, dear,” Mrs. Harrows cooed, and she shot a glance over her shoulder to where her daughter was chatting with a group of her friends. “I hope my Penelope finds someone like that.”

You smiled. “I’m sure she will, Mrs. Harrows.”

“But tell me, what do you do during the day? I’ve heard all about the mayor’s duties, what do you do?”

Finally, you were able to talk about something familiar to you! Your job, something you treasured, was vastly easier to talk about. “Ah, well, I’m the District Attorney for Los Angeles, but I’ve been in touch with the other states for work, too.”

Her once squinted eyes and pursed lips immediately disappeared with recognition. “Oh, I’ve read about you in the paper!” Without another word, your arm was wrapped by her own and you were gone from Damien’s side before you could think to protest.

The man watched as you disappeared into the sea of strangers, a hesitant wave ducking between two gentlemen the last that he saw of you. Not even a full half-hour in and he had lost you. His first thought was to chase after you, and his foot lifted from the tile just a centimeter until he realized that the both of you would be fine on your own, that you would be fine on your own. So, he relaxed his shoulders and focused on finding someone to talk to. It didn’t take much searching for him to locate a group of friends – or, rather, people he had shared a conversation with before.

In fact, Mr. Ockley was holding court over four men surrounding him, telling some story about the political crisis in Germany. Damien jumped in with his own opinion of the Weimar Republic, grimaced when half of those gentlemen turned out to be against the democracy and tried to play it off with a light laugh and subject change.

The next hour continued much like that, with the mayor jumping from group to group and attempting to play nice. His battery was wearing thin though, only made worse when the most that he saw of you was the shade of your jacket in the midst of reds and blues, or the occasional smile you sent him when you noticed each other at the same time. He coped by assuring himself that he just had to wait it out until the bell rang, which reminded him too much of your days in college for his liking, and then he’d see you at the dance. Being supposedly engaged, you’d go through the motions together. You were a team. He didn’t have to worry.

So, despite his constant affirmations and whispers of comfort to himself, why was he? Why did he continue to worry so much? It was like a curse set wild upon him by a damned witch from his past – it shook him to his core and infested his bones. And, the worst thing, he knew exactly why but couldn’t voice it. Just once he wanted to come right out and say something. Tell you his feelings and let whatever came of it be, he didn’t want to think about it. But something always stopped him. Whether it wasn’t the right time, or someone interrupted, or the words simply got caught in his throat before he could tell you.

That he loved you.

“Now there’s a sight for sore eyes!”

Even in his imagination, another person had to come and ruin the moment – but he couldn’t say he didn’t expect it, after all, considering who that person was.

Damien swiveled on his heel, cane grounding him like a third leg as he came face to face with Mark, one of his oldest friends, and, behind him, his twin sister. Celine didn’t look thrilled to be there, but he couldn’t blame her; he didn’t feel lie being there anymore either, now that disappointment and sorrow filled his heart.

“I could’ve sworn I saw our dear little District Attorney somewhere in here, so I told Celine that you’d be here, too,” Mark stated when he was within steps of the mayor.

That seemed to pique the lady’s interest because she was quick to squint her eyes at Damien and ask, “You’re not on a date, are you?”

“Ah, well, you see—”

“I knew they’d get together eventually; I should’ve made a bet,” Mark interrupted, as he was want to do.

Damien tried to explain, “What happened was—”

This time, Celine was the one to cut him off, saying, “No, I definitely would’ve said he’d bite the bullet around now.”

“No, you misunderstand—”

“We don’t know how long they’ve been together for, maybe it was a long time ago.”

“But that ring, Mark, it’s clean.”

“Damien is a careful man – he wouldn’t let something so special get dirty.”

“So, it could go either way—”

“Excuse me!”

The two, as well as some of the people close enough to eaves-drop, stopped short of another argument. Damien felt like a child in the midst of their parents’ divorce, and, somehow, the topic of his supposed relationship had devolved into their failing marriage. Not that he would say it out loud, or in public, at the very least. He paled to think what they would be like when you two really got married. If. If he really got married.

Damien coughed to clear the air for a second before explaining in a low tone, “I accidentally told someone that we were engaged to stop them pursuing me, that is all. We are not… we’re not really engaged.”

There was a moment of silence for the three, the rest of the party continuing to chat amongst themselves, but, for them, it was quiet while they processed the information. Mark was the first to speak, as always, but Celine did look somewhat disappointed before she looked away.

“Well, that’s certainly more boring.” And that was that for him. The actor wandered away into the crowd, leaving Celine behind with Damien.

Sighing, she whispered, “You really should tell them.”

Damien’s heart plummeted for fear that his emotions were that obvious. “Tell them what?” He feigned ignorance.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Damien, don’t play dumb with me.”

“I’m not playing dumb, I…” His eyes lowered when he realized he wasn’t going to get past the woman he shared a womb with for nine months. Whatever went on in their lives was no secret to the other, like Celine’s marriage or whatever Damien had going on with one of their oldest friends. Slowly, he conceded, “I only wonder when is the right time.”

“How so?”

“Well, we barely spend any free time together, and any we do have is often after a large social event that we both would need to unwind from. I don’t want to add to their already-heavy workload, and I fear that my feeling may be unreciprocated.”

Celine was still, thinking through a plan, it seemed, which gave Damien more fear than running for office had. He fumbled with his cane, wringing his hands around it to find some kind of comfort without you there to help. It wasn’t until she spotted something in the distance that she grabbed her brother’s arm and tugged him out of the room. Rushing through waves of strangers and acquaintances, he could barely see where they were going. Eventually, however, after side-stepping a considerable number of shoes and elbows, they came to a stop right where the night had begun.

People gossiping against the walls – shiny decorations spread to show the Harrows’ wealth – golden chandeliers hanging from the ceiling – and, at the head of it all, the pair of staircases that led to, now, two people. Mrs. Harrows and you.

And, by the will of God, you looked like an angel.

The glow of gold that praised you, the sparkle in your eyes even from this distance, the impeccable confidence you held in the cross of your hands and bend of your back over the wooden banister. You looked out over this ocean, parted it with your vision like the red sea for Israel, and saw him. Because, of course, you saw him first. You always had. He didn’t know whether he wanted to run from this manor or run towards you, dip you backwards into a gentle kiss that could speak a thousand more words than he ever could hope to in your presence.

Celine paused just below the landing, from where you waved with a grin before indulging Mrs. Harrows in more idle chatter. Damien’s shoes felt rooted to the floor when your eyes met, and he was only able to breathe again as you shifted them away.

“Tell me, right here, right now – that you think they’d consider a relationship with you ‘work’.”

Try as he might, Damien couldn’t, but the weight on his heart was none the lighter. There was still the glaring question of whether you thought of him like that, after all.

“And don’t think for a second they don’t think of you like that.”

God damn it.

“I don’t know if you’re deaf or blind or both, but you should have noticed by now how they act towards you.”

Damien glanced, genuinely confused, towards his sister, to which she sent back a blunt look.

“First of all,” Celine began, “there hasn’t been a day gone by that they haven’t spoken about you like you’re the end-all-be-all of the entire world. Really, it’s getting on my nerves, and you don’t even notice it! Every time I’ll go to their office, they’ll ask how you’ve been, if you need any help, and then there’s those looks they’ll send you when you’re obviously not looking. They put you on a damn pedestal.”

Damien was sure that she was still talking, but he wasn’t listening. He was too caught up in the idea that Celine might actually be telling the truth – that you really did feel the same way and there was a chance this could all go well. In fact, it could be the best thing that could’ve happened that night, because Damien hadn’t told you everything that he thought would be the best. He had kept hidden the part where you admit your feelings to each other and go for a walk around the gardens. You both knew what that meant.

But, although it was the best outcome, he was terrified to initiate it, so he pledged to himself that when the bell chimed to begin the dance, he would take your hand and slip outside for some time in the fresh air. Lord knows he can’t dance with his leg.

That was the plan that would be put into action mere seconds later, when a handbell was rung from the main hall. Damien immediately regretted thinking this but was swept away with the crowd before he could leave for good. You were slightly better off, and, although you lost sight of your friend, it was obvious where he was headed towards. Accompanying Mrs. Harrows, you moved toward the dance hall.

It was a great place, stained glass windows that detailed wars and marriages lining each wall to the outside. Rows of tables sat flushed against those walls, which held bowls of fruit and pastries too beautiful to be eaten. It felt disgraceful, sinful, even, to be in there with such glorious views, but nobody had much choice in the matter. People would match up soon enough, Mrs. Harrows looking over her guests and making sure their needs were met. The two of your parted when she left to ask after a bachelor for her daughter – this wasn’t an assumption, she told you this as she left your side. After wishing her good luck, you went to find your own man, whose tailcoat you saw between a group of people.

It was tough to make your way through, but you managed it, if only to see the way Damien’s eyes lit up when he caught sight of you. He fought against the tide to fall in step beside you, and he took your arm in a classic gentlemanly fashion. You ended your little journey by one of the walls, both happy to be together again after the whole night spent apart. Still, it was quiet between you two, flanked by the sound of dress-shoes tapping against the floor and the swishing of dress fabrics.

“So, you spoke to Mrs. Harrows,” Damien started plainly. Inwardly, he berated himself for going back on his plan, but you were none the wiser as you leaned against the brick.

You nodded and replied, “Yeah, she talked by ear off about her late-husband and kids. I’m surprised I haven’t gone deaf yet.”

Damien laughed, the sound reverberating in his chest and flowing like a river into the air. Such a pleasant sound had you chuckling alongside him. “That sounds like Mrs. Harrows, though I’ve never heard her mention a husband.”

“I think she murdered him.”

“Like I said.”

The laughter trailed off into the crowds, which left you watching the dancing couples with faint interest and Damien starting to sweat. Was now a good time to ask to leave? Or would you think he was getting bored and wanted to leave the manor entirely? Good Lord, he hated this, why couldn’t he just invite you out for a normal date, like a normal guy with a normal love. No, he had to be dramatic and start out a possible relationship with lying to the masses about already being engaged, because he was dramatic, and a liar, and, worst of all, a coward—

“Do you want to take a walk?”

But you weren’t. Your words infested his brain and took control of his like some parasite. It made him malleable and suggestable while you waited for an answer. When you hadn’t received one in five whole seconds – which, really, wasn’t as long as it felt with bated breath and a rushing heartbeat – you shrugged it off and offered, “Or, we can stay here and watch people dance. Your choice.”

“I’d like to leave.” That was not how he wanted it to come out, but the words had left before Damien became aware of what he was doing.

You were startled by his abruptness, leaving you to mutter barely loud enough, “Oh, uh, okay. It’s not eleven yet, but I’m sure we could get a car.” You were disappointed, but you were here for him, so you stood up straight and began the way out of the hall.

Damien was quick to grab your hand, holding it like his life depended on it. You retraced your steps and sent him a confused look, to which he cleared his throat and spoke, “I meant, yes. Yes, I would like to take a walk.”

And again, you smiled! Completely disregarding his mistake and pretending like it had never happened in the first place. He was surprised your cheeks weren’t hurting with how much you were stretching them, but you continued to do so – shoot everybody who waved at you or called your name a grin – until the two of you were safely out of the back doors.

The air was crisp and fresh, you noticed as soon as your foot crossed the threshold. The garden was as beautiful as the dance hall, more so, even, because every inch was covered with greenery or natural effects. The gravel underneath your shoes was intertwined with stray leaves and chestnuts from the trees above, and the paths were lined with bushes of a variety of flowers. It almost looked artificial, with how perfectly placed the roses were in mossy shrubs. They winded towards a silver fountain in the centre, but that was awhile away with how sprawling the garden was.

You seemed to be the only couple out there, and you liked it better that way. Damien did too, because it meant that he could forget social norms and the fake engagement and worry only on what was right in front of him. You, and the cacophony of fluttering butterflies you let loose in his stomach.

You tugged your friend by the hand and started to wander along, listening to the faint cheer of the band and the crunch of gravel.

Content to stay quiet, you inspected the surroundings, not noticing Damien’s moving mouth. No words were coming out yet, his nerves strangling any attempt to make a sentence, until he eventually whispered, “I ran into Celine and Mark.”

You hummed. “How’re they holding up?”

“Well, Mark left when I told him we weren’t really engaged, but Celine… she stuck around.” He wasn’t about to tell you what happened with her, but it was a topic of conversation he had chosen, so he had to reap the reward. Hands twisting around his cane, he spoke, “I guess, we talked about love.”

“Did she tell you about Will?”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

You grimaced, hoping he wouldn’t prod further into what you knew about the affair, and he didn’t, luckily. Instead, he continued, “It made me think about what I really want, and how I’d like to go about, well, getting it.”

There, you stopped at the edge of the water fountain. The faint trickle of water soothed you when you looked back to Damien. In the dark, it was hard to see, but his cheeks were painted red, and his breathing was catching up to him.

“You’ve already got the whole of L.A at your fingertips, what could you ever want?” you asked, both teasing and genuinely interested.

He was struggling for the words, the confusion getting near painful now that he was seconds away from blurting it out. “You see, I know what I want, I just don’t know how to ask.”

You stood still for a moment and let the scenarios rush through your head. If you were right, and it was likely, then you knew exactly what he meant. You swallowed, “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Of course.”

“Then, I think I can help you.”

He watched with eager eyes as you turned to him, your entire body matched with his. “You just have to look them straight in the eye and do it. Don’t think, don’t worry, just do it, or say it.”

“You say that as if it’s easy.”

“It’s not. I know, because, if it were, I would’ve done it months ago.”

There was a determination in his eyes that was revealed in the next few seconds, as if he had received blinding confirmation. A surefire confidence you had never seen before. You would’ve asked what that was, but you found yourself unable to speak for the moment; lips bound by Damien’s, you were sure those fireworks and flames were real. Every sense was enraptured – his woody cologne, your hands lightly brushing his lapels, bursting notes deafened by those brick walls, your mouths moving in unison. You couldn’t help the smile that broke the kiss momentarily, but your date was back again with a smile of his own. It was warm and sweet, contrasting the fresh air around you and it had you leaning in so far you were worried you would topple over

Still, when you formally separated, the glint in his eyes told you all you needed to know.

“Do you want to do this again sometime?”

You laughed that glorious, genuine laugh, and laid another, this time shorter but just as sweet, kiss on his parted lips.

“Sure.”

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