madi!

warnings: female reader, illness, description of infected wounds, blood letting, violence, angst.

You weren’t sure if you were awake or sleeping. If you were even alive or dead. Nothing hurt anymore and that was a relief.

As if in a haze you could hear Geta, he was yelling, screaming, roaring, despair so obvious in his voice that you just wanted to reach out to him and make it better.

But your limbs were so heavy. And this limbo you were in felt so good… so tempting to stay in.

A small voice at the back of your head whispered that you couldn’t leave Geta, though. He would be shattered.

It had all started with the bite Geta had given you. A few days after he had taken your virginity in the audience hall, you had noticed it had gone red, itched and felt warm to the touch.

You didn’t think much of it then, simply put a cool rag on it before going to sleep.

But the day after that it had gotten worse. Now there was a yellow scab on it and when you put your fingers against it you could feel a light throbbing.

That wasn’t good, you knew. You were scared of Geta finding it disgusting so you wrapped a light cloth around it, telling him it was to prevent it from scarring.

He had just snorted and told you he would have liked to put a scar on you, but then you cleverly distracted him by offering to massage his temples and he forgot about the whole thing.

When you returned to the servant quarters that night the wound looked even worse. You pressed your finger against it and a yellow fluid with a tint of green welled out.

The next morning you had a fever and the new head maid ordered you to stay in bed, putting a cool cloth on your head.

It felt better, but your fever didn’t go down. As the day got warmer you felt even weaker. All the servants were away so there was no one to help you.

You tried to drink at least, having lost all appetite for food.

That’s when the door to the servant quarters opened with a bang. You opened your eyes and saw Geta, in his toga, worry and anxiety etched on his face.

“Y/N,” he breathed and your eyes widened.

“Your majesty…”

You tried to get up to curtsy but your head spun even from sitting up.

“You’re sick. They told me…” Geta breathed.

They had told him. But this was something else. Your whole body was flushed, your eyes glassy and unfocused.

That’s when he noticed the wound on your neck. Now the whole side of your neck looked red and swollen. There was an infection and an aggressive one.

“Guards,” he called. “Carry her to my chambers. And someone fetch the physicians!”

The palace physicians had examined you and concluded that the bite Geta had given you had apparently become infected.

“We’ll clean the wound and let some of the evil blood out, see if it helps.”

They had drained some of your blood and put a salve over your wound. But that didn’t make you feel better. In fact, you felt even weaker.

The next day, your head was pounding, as if a thousand drums played inside Geta’s chamber. He had slept on the couch, not wanting his own warmth to make you uncomfortable.

Your mouth was dry and it felt like a million ants were crawling inside your wound. Geta sent for the physicians again. They drained you once more, trying to put a poultice on the wound and put special blankets on you.

“Flannel,” they explained to Geta. “Makes her sweat; draws the sickness out.”

It was stifling, you were sweating rivers underneath the blanket, begging Geta to take it away.

Geta was desperate. He had the finest physicians at his hands and yet… you only got worse. Worse from a bite he had given you. 

Before dinner they drained you again, but it didn’t seem to do any good.

One of the maids that cleaned his chambers told him in a shaky voice that someone would need to help you drink and spoon feed you something light, like soup or porridge or else you wouldn’t have the strength to fight at all.

Geta only sneered at her when she offered to do it. “Fetch it here. I’ll do it myself.”

The girl’s mouth fell open in surprise, but when he glared at her she hurried off.

He wasn’t used to caring for someone else, but he’d be damned if anyone else took care of you and tainted you with even more filth.

You didn’t want to eat, not even soup. You still took a few sips of water but at the evening you just wanted to sleep.

Sleep was the only thing that stopped that drumming in your head.

That evening he called them again. Your fever was even higher and the wound had turned into a yellow crater, oozing. He would have felt disgusted if it hadn’t been you.

The physicians shook their heads. “Well?!” Greta said, throwing his hands up.

“The infection is growing worse,” one of them told him. “It hasn’t gone to blood poisoning, not yet and that’s a good sign. But…”

“But?!” Geta yelled.

“Every sign is indicating it’s heading that way. Blood poisoning has no cure. Amputation is the only way to survive, but we can’t very well cut off her neck.”

Geta threw his wine goblet against the wall.

“You’re supposed to be the best physicians in the empire! And you can’t even cure my… my paramour from a simple wound?!”

It was the first time he had called you that. Up until now you had simply been his mistress. His… his whore.

He almost felt ashamed how he had called you that, despite the fact that you had been pure as the snow he had once witnessed the few times he traveled outside of Rome.

“Get out!” he snarled at them.

He paced the floor, refusing to believe it. Blood poisoning. That meant death.

You couldn’t die. No! He wouldn’t let you.

Suddenly you coughed and waved to him.

“Please… sire, take this off. I’m… it’s too hot.”

The physicians had told him to keep the flannel. But what had they done for you? He ripped it away and felt your hand.

You were burning up. Quickly he brought you into his arms, carrying out onto the balcony to the fresh night air.

You sighed in contentment when the breeze chilled your sweaty body and Geta put you down on a stone bench. The sensation of cold marble underneath your back felt wonderful.

Geta watched you, feeling like he was about to cry.

You were still fighting but you were fading. Even he could see it.

No! There had to be some way to help you.

Refusing to leave your side he called one of the guards underneath the balcony and ordered him to send every messenger boy to his chambers, instantly.

He didn’t like to leave you out in the balcony alone, but it was way too small for all the boys to squeeze onto.

Geta walked into his room and leveled his gaze at them.

“I want you to go out into the city, find each and every healer and apothecary you can find. Tell them Emperor Geta is ordering them to the palace to heal… someone dear to him. And it needs to be fast! Understood!?”

The boys nodded and ran off, knowing they would earn a gold coin for delivering the messages.

He thought about bringing you inside again but this was the only time today you seemed more lucid, even though you didn’t speak.

The night went on. Geta was pacing the small balcony. You still laid on the bench. He wanted to move you into the bed but every time he tried you whimpered.

Until you didn’t even do that.

He could see the edges of the wound had started to go dark. Soon they would be black. But still no red streaks. When those came, it would be too late, he knew that.

Finally there was a knock on the door and one of the servants said that the healers he requested had come.

“Send them here. One at a time,” he told the servant, refusing to leave, even to meet them in the throne room.

Each time he brought them to the balcony and showed them the wound. But soon he realized that they didn’t know much more than his physicians. One of the healers even talked about cutting a wound on the other side of your neck to balance out the evil spirits that clearly lived inside it.

Geta threw him off the balcony, enjoying the splat that came when he hit the ground.

The next one was an older woman, gray haired and her whole face wrinkled like dry leather. But she stood up straight and her pace was brisk as she went out onto the balcony to see you. She frowned when she saw the wound and when she felt your forehead.

“You were right to bring her out here into the breeze. But we need go a step further. We need to get the fever down, otherwise she will die from that. Cold water into the bath and put her in there,” she told Geta and finally, finally, it felt like someone that knew what they were doing.

“What else has been done?” she asked Geta and he said that the physicians had drained you, which made her snort angrily.

“Imbecilles,” she muttered, not clarifying what she meant by that.

Buckets of cold water were brought in, and Geta made sure to put you into the tub, the old woman nodding.

“Yes, that’s good. Now… I’ve got a beverage with me to fight the infection from the inside. She’s unconscious so we need to feed it to her. Then… I need some maggots.”

Suddenly Geta wasn’t so sure that this woman was the right one.

“What the fuck are you talking about, crazy old hag?” he spat at her and she just raised an eyebrow at him.

“They will eat the dead and toxic tissue in the wound. It will help, I promise.”

Geta walked up to her, grabbing her robe and pulling her in to growl at her.

“If you harm her, if you do anything to make her worse… I’ll have you boiled alive,” he promised.

The old lady just nodded.

“She’s special to you.”

Geta didn’t answer.

“Don’t worry, your majesty. She’s only a girl. She bears no guilt. I don't harm innocents.”

“No guilt for what?” Geta wondered, his tone dangerous but the old woman just waved him off.

“Maggots. Make sure to fetch them. There should be plenty in the palace gardens.”

Geta had to look away when the old woman made a special poultice and placed the maggots into it, wrapping a bandage around it and placed it around your neck while she spoon fed the beverage into your mouth. You were still in the bath and when he touched you it felt like you weren’t as warm. “Now we wait,” the old woman said. “If I’ve succeeded it will turn within a day. If not… well, then there’s not much more I can do.”

You weren’t sure when it happened but suddenly you could hear Geta more clearly. Not just bits and pieces of him, but everything.

The peaceful limbo you had been in… it didn’t seem as tempting anymore.

You wanted to comfort Geta. He still sounded in distress. He needed you to take care of him.

“Come back to me,” he whispered.

I’m trying, you thought, fighting with all your might to move toward his voice. To open your eyes and see him.

You suddenly felt cold. Like your were… lying in cold water?

Finally you managed to open your eyes, looking straight into Geta’s dark brown ones.

You tried to speak but your mouth was so dry you were tempted to drink your own bathwater.

“She’s awake!” Geta yelled, and suddenly there was an old woman beside him, holding out a goblet for you.

“Welcome back, girl. Drink this.”

You were so thirsty that you didn’t question it, and gulped down the liquid, even though it didn’t exactly taste pleasant.

“Is she… will she…”Geta asked, looking at the woman.

“The worst is over,” the old woman said. “I’m very glad you’re feeling better, girl.”

You looked at Geta, suddenly wondering who the woman was. She hadn’t been among the physicians that had bled you.

You also wondered what Geta had said to her tell you that.

The old woman checked your bandage and when you learned that it was maggots inside it, feasting on your flesh you gave a little shriek, but she shushed you, saying it was necessary evil.

“They’ve done a great job. I think we can remove them now, even,” she said, plucking them one by one into a bowl, which Geta quickly called a servant to get rid of it.

“It looks better,” the woman said, “another day or two with some salve, keep it covered and it should be healing well.”

“And plenty of rest. Your body has been through a rather rough ordeal,” she added, almost glaring at Geta, as if he would order you out of bed immediately.

You nodded and as she said it you couldn’t help but yawn, which made her smile.

“Rest,” she said again before curtsying to Geta and walking out of the chamber.

It was only then that you took a real look at Geta. He was still in the robe had worn on the day he brought you to his chambers. His chin was covered in stubble, as if he hadn’t been shaved. He had real shadows beneath his eyes, not make up, and his hair was slick with oil, as if he hadn’t washed that either.

Had he been that worried about you?   

You held out your hand and he immediately took it. It felt good to touch him, however little it was.

“I know I’m probably not very alluring right now, but… will you hold me?” you whispered and he wrapped his arms around you without further ado.

“I don’t think I am either,” he said, “I… I’ve been out of my senses.”

“Sorry,” you whispered before yawning again.

“Don’t apologize. I was the one that got you that wound.”

You didn’t answer, feeling yourself succumb to sleep. But just before you went under you heard him whisper:

“I would tear down the whole world to save you, Y/N.”

taglist: @spider-starry @stranger-things-mania

@ali-r3n @jenniquinn @quinnyficsy @littlemissholy @midnightevab

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⋆˙⟡ synopsis: when red hood stumbles into your shitty convenience store at 2 am looking for marlboros, you don’t expect him to come back—but he does, except now he’s jason, your cute regular.

⋆˙⟡ pairing: jason todd‎ ‎ 𝔁‎ ‎ cashier!reader.

⋆˙⟡ cws: gun violence, injury (head wound, concussion), brief non-consensual touching (handsy customer), needles/stitches (implied), mild language, hospitalization, rating—mature.

⋆˙⟡ word count: 7.7k.

⋆˙⟡ author’s notes: i’ve probably said this like fifty times, but i’m restarting my dcu taglist. i’ll make a proper post soon, but if anyone is interested you could leave a comment or send me an ask. even though there is a afab presenting picture in the moodboard, that does not dictate reader’s gender—i have always written gen!reader.

Your clenched hand bangs on the “OPEN” sign for the third time this night. One letter is always burnt out—the “O”, to be specific. As a result, the small convenience store you work for has the word “PEN” basically written on its front door. Let’s say it doesn’t naturally garner any paying customers after normal shopping hours. Well, any normal customers, that is. You’re pretty much desensitised to every stranger who walks through the door.

“Does this make my store look like we sell dirty magazines?” Your manager, an old lady whom you’ve just learned to call ma’am instead of her real name—Marjorie—barks your way before opening the door to finally head home.

How nice that she never stays around for the night shift. Fantastic choice of words to end her stay here for tonight, too.

“More like a stationery shop,” you say, trying to align the sign to the center of the door, “I’m not sure people expect us to be selling anything… mature at a convenience store. You know, with there being aisles full of groceries.”

“I’ll be damned if a stupid sign ruins the reputation of this store, do you hear me? This building has been in my family for generations.” She’s still pointing at you, even though she’s half out of the door. “Take care of the place, don’t forget to clean up.”

“Sure, ma’am.” You try your best to hold back the sarcasm in your voice, but it fails, and you receive a nasty side glare from the woman.

content bruce wayne, clark kent, dick grayson, jason todd, tim drake, damian wayne x hanahaki!gn!reader, blood mention, one-sided love, self-sacrfice (damian's), choking, suffocation/inability to breathe mention, emotional neglect, angst

masterlist

word count 5.8k total, i lowkey wrote a small fic for each character instead of headcannons :/

bruce wayne

the first time bruce sees it, everything stops.

you've tried to hide it—even the thought of the batman returning your feelings was insane—but bruce notices everything. the slight hitch in your breathing. the way your hand curls too tight when you cough. and then—

a petal.

soft. fragile. wrong.

there’s a moment—just a flicker—where fear cracks through him so violently it almost looks like anger.

and then he moves. fast. precise. controlled in that terrifying way where it’s obvious he’s barely holding it together.

within hours, he’s pulled every medical file on hanahaki, contacted specialists (and… less legal experts), cross-referenced experimental treatments

he treats it like a war. because losing you is not an option.

but here’s the thing—

when he realises why it’s happening? that it’s love? that it’s unreturned love?

something in him goes very, very still.

he doesn’t ask right away. he won’t corner you. won’t make you confess under pressure. but he starts watching you differently.

closer. carefully.

and if—if—there’s even a chance it’s him? he spirals in the quietest way possible.

because bruce wayne has built his entire life around control… and now your life is slipping through his fingers over something he’s afraid to name.

when he finally does speak i’s low. steady. too controlled.

“you don’t have to protect me from the truth.” except what he means is tell me it’s me so i can fix it. tell me it’s not so i can still save you.

either way—he will not let this take you. even if it means breaking every rule he’s ever made for himself.

clark kent

clark knows before you even finish coughing.

not because he’s guessing, because his senses don’t miss things like this.

he hears the shift in your lungs—the wet, uneven catch of breath that doesn’t belong. he hears the obstruction before it surfaces, something soft and wrong where air should be clean. he smells it too—the faint, impossible sweetness of petals where there should be nothing but oxygen.

by the time the flower actually falls into your hand? clark has already gone still.

focused. the kind of stillness that means every part of him is paying attention to you.

“hey,” he says softly, already there, already close. “easy—easy, i've got you.”

his hand is warm at your back, steadying. not restraining. never that. just there, grounding you like gravity decided to be kind for once.

he doesn’t panic out loud. that’s the thing about clark—he feels everything, but he filters it through gentleness. you don’t see the fear spike in his chest, don’t hear the way his heartbeat stutters for half a second when he realises what this is.

because he knows what this is. of course he does. he’s seen it before. heard it in other people’s lungs. seen what it does when it’s left too long.

and now it’s you.

he swallows that fear down so fast it almost looks like nothing happened.

“breathe with me, okay?” he murmurs, voice low and calm, like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. “slow. wou’re alright.”

he helps you through it like it’s routine. like he’s done this a hundred times. careful, patient, never making you feel fragile—just held.

hnd here’s the part that hurts: he doesn’t assume. not even for a second.

because in clark’s mind, the idea that you—you, who he sees as bright and good and endlessly deserving—would be suffering like this over him? it doesn’t even cross his mind as the first option.

instead, his concern turns outward.

who did this to you?

who made you love them so deeply it’s carving flowers into your lungs—and then didn’t love you back enough to stop it?

clark is soft, but he is not passive. the next time it happens, he’s already prepared.

water. a place to sit. his hand at your shoulder, thumb brushing slow, grounding circles like he’s trying to anchor you to the moment. and somehow that makes it worse, how caring he is, how attentive he can be. it makes your feelings all the more stronger, all the more painful.

“hey,” he says again, quieter this time. “you don’t have to hide it from me.”

and when you don’t answer—when you look away, like the truth is something heavy—you see it.

just for a second. something sharper beneath the softness.

“…do they know?” he asks.

clark doesn't center himself in your pain. won’t make it about him, even if some small, quiet part of him is… hoping. wondering.

but his jaw tightens just slightly. because if someone out there knows you feel like this—knows it’s hurting you—and still hasn’t stepped forward?

that’s not something he can ignore.

“you deserve better than that,” he says, and there’s steel under the warmth now. not anger at you—never—but at the idea of someone taking your heart and treating it like it’s optional.

he exhales slowly, like he’s choosing his next words carefully.

“…if you want,” he adds, softer again, “i could talk to them.”

it’s almost hesitant. careful.lLike he doesn’t want to overstep—but he will, if it means helping you.

“i won’t… push. or anything like that,” he says quickly, because the last thing he wants is for you to think he’d force someone’s feelings. “but i could make sure they understand.”

and there it is. clark kent, the strongest man alive, offering to have a stern, polite conversation with the person unknowingly breaking your heart.

because in his world, maybe—just maybe—it’s a misunderstanding. maybe they don’t realise how much you’re hurting. maybe if someone just explains it properly, it’ll fix everything.

(it’s such a clark solution it almost hurts.)

he looks at you like this is solvable. like love isn’t something that slips through your fingers—it’s something you can reach if you try hard enough.

and still—he doesn’t consider that it might be him. not really.

because that would mean you’re looking at him with all that quiet feeling, all that softness, and clark has spent his whole life being careful not to take things like that unless they’re freely given.

so he waits. stays close. every time you cough, he’s there before you can call for him. every time your breathing stutters, his hand is already steady at your back, grounding, reassuring, gentle in a way that makes it impossible to panic.

and when you finally tell him?

when the truth slips out—soft, hesitant, terrifying—that it’s him?

clark doesn’t move at first. mot because he’s rejecting you. because he’s processing.

“you… me?” he says quietly, like the words don’t quite fit in his mouth yet.

there’s no disbelief in a cruel way—no “how could you?”—just a kind of stunned softness, like the world tilted and he didn’t expect it to.

because clark doesn’t think of himself as someone people fall for like this.

not you. not in a way that hurts you.

and then it hits him. all at once.

rvery look you’ve given him. rvery moment he brushed off as coincidence. rvery time you stayed close, every time you said his name like it meant something more.

and underneath that?

guilt.

“i didn’t realise,” he breathes, and it’s the quietest thing you’ve ever heard from him. “i’m so sorry—i would’ve—”

he cuts himself off, because there’s no version of this where he lets it keep hurting you.

his hands come up—not grabbing, not overwhelming—just gently framing your face, like he needs to be sure you’re real, that you’re here, that he hasn’t lost you already.

“you should’ve told me,” he says, but it’s not a reprimand. it’s soft. almost aching. “you don’t have to carry something like that alone.”

and then—finally—clark kent stops holding himself back. in the quiet, certain way he does everything that matters.

“i do,” he says, simple and steady. “care about you. a lot more than i let myself say.”

and it’s not rushed. not panicked.

it’s real. like sunlight breaking through something heavy

and when your breathing finally evens out—when the petals stop—clark stays right there, forehead resting gently against yours, like he’s grounding himself just as much as you.

“next time,” he murmurs softly, a hint of warmth returning, “you tell me first, okay?”

because if there’s one thing clark kent refuses to let happen, it’s you suffering in silence.

not when he’s right here.

dick grayson

dick doesn’t clock it immediately. not because he can’t—but because the moment is so normal it feels impossible for something to go wrong.

you’re laughing. he’s mid-story, hands moving, grin easy and bright—and then you choke on your breath.

he’s still smiling when he reaches out automatically, instinctively—“whoa, easy—”—but then you cough again.

and something soft hits your palm.

the smile drops. not fades—drops. like a switch flipped.

“…hey.” it’s quieter now. careful.

dick steps in close, one hand already at your back, the other hovering like he doesn’t want to startle you. he doesn’t touch your hand yet—doesn’t look at the petal right away.

he looks at you.

“breathe,” he says gently. “slow. Iive got you.”

now, dick's good in a crisis. not just physically but emotionally as well. he knows how to make things feel lighter, safer, even when they’re not.

so he softens everything. his touch is warm, steady. his voice low, grounding. he angles himself just enough to block you from anyone else noticing, instinctively protective.

only when you’ve caught your breath does he glance down.

at the petal. at the pattern.

and then—

Oh.

Oh.

dick knows what this is. he’s seen it before. heard stories. maybe even helped someone through it once or twice.

but it’s different when it’s you.

you can feel the shift in him—not away from you, never that—but deeper. focused. like every part of him just recalibrated around keeping you okay.

he doesn’t say it out loud yet. doesn’t want to scare you.

instead, he keeps things light—just enough.

“…okay,” he says, exhaling a quiet breath, like he’s steadying himself. “so. that’s… not ideal.”

there’s a tiny smile there. not a joke, just familiarity. like he’s trying to meet you where you are.

he walks you somewhere quieter and sits you down. brings you water. stays close, closer than usual, like distance suddenly feels wrong.

and he watches. not in a creepy way—just attentive. careful. like he’s cataloguing every little sign your body gives him.

you cough again later. another petal.

and this time he doesn’t look away.

“…hey,” he says softly, crouching in front of you now so you can’t avoid his gaze. “uou wanna tell me what’s going on?”

there’s no pressure in it.

just concern. real, open, honest concern.

if you deflect? he lets you. at first.

because dick understands space. he won’t corner you. won’t force you to say something you’re not ready to.

but he doesn’t drop it.

he checks in more. texts you random things just to keep you talking. shows up more often, under the excuse of “just passing by.” keeps you laughing when he can, keeps you grounded when he can’t.

and slowly, he pieces it together.

dick grayson notices everything that matters.

the way your eyes linger on someone. or don’t.

the way your voice shifts when certain names come up.

the way you go quiet when he asks just the wrong question.

and eventually, he asks it.

“…do i know them?”

it’s not accusatory. it's not even filled with any hate.

it’s careful. because dick is already preparing himself for both answers.

if it’s someone else? he swallows whatever weird, twisting feeling hits his chest and immediately pivots to support mode.

“okay,” he says, nodding once, steady. “alright. we can work with that.”

and he means it. he’ll help you figure it out. talk it through. even—if it comes to it—help you approach them. because your happiness matters more to him than anything he’s feeling.

but there’s a flicker in his eyes. just a flicker.

because part of him… wants it to be him.

he doesn’t let himself sit in that thought long. because what if it’s not?

he won’t make this harder for you.

but if it is him? if you hesitate just a little too long—if your eyes flick to his and then away—

dick goes still.

quiet.

“oh,” he breathes.

and it’s not shock, exactly.

It’s… realization.

everything clicking into place all at once. every moment. every glance. every time you stayed a little closer than necessary, every time your hand lingered in his.

and suddenly, he feels a little stupid.

for not seeing it sooner. for not asking sooner.

“hey,” he says again, softer now, stepping closer, hands coming up like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t anchor you somehow. “why didn’t you tell me?”

there’s no anger in it. just a kind of aching confusion.

because in dick’s world, love is something you share. something you say out loud, something you don’t let sit in silence until it hurts you.

“i’ve been right here,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

and then—because he’s dick, because he doesn’t wait once he understands— he closes the distance.

“i care about you,” he says, voice steady now, grounded in something real. “More than i’ve probably been letting on.”

his forehead presses lightly to yours, a soft, grounding touch.

“you don’t have to do this alone, okay?” he adds quietly. “not with me.”

and the thing about dick grayson?

he doesn’t just fix the problem.

he stays.

through the recovery. through the awkwardness. through the shift from almost to something real.

he keeps you laughing, even when your chest still aches. leeps you close, like he’s making up for every moment you spent hurting in silence.

and every time you breathe a little easier?

you can feel it; the quiet promise in the way he holds you now.

He’s not going anywhere.

jason todd

jason notices too late and that’s what destroys him.

at first, it’s background noise. you coughing. turning away. brushing something off your sleeve like it’s nothing. he clocks it—but not as important. not as urgent. not as this.

necause if it were serious, you’d tell him… right?

(that’s the lie he tells himself.)

then one night, you don’t turn away fast enough.

a petal hits the ground. not soft and pretty like in stories.

crushed. streaked with red.

jason freezes. actually freezes.

“…what the hell.”

it comes out low. dangerous. not loud—never loud—but the kind of quiet that means something’s about to break.

you try to brush it off. say it’s nothing. say you’re fine.

and jason—jason snaps.

“don’t.” his voice cuts sharp. “don’t you dare say you’re fine when you’re coughing up—” he gestures, frustrated, furious, “—that.”

he steps in close, too close, like he’s trying to physically block whatever’s hurting you.

his hands hover—he wants to grab your shoulders, check you over, make sure you’re real—but he stops himself at the last second, jaw tight.

“who is it?" there’s no hesitation. no softness in it. just anger, raw and immediate and protective. “who’s got you like this?”

because in jason's head, this is simple: someone made you fall for them hard enough that it’s killing you. and they’re not here fixing it.

that’s a problem. a him problem.

you don’t answer. or you deflect. or you say it doesn’t matter.

and jason's temper spikes.

“doesn’t matter?” he echoes, incredulous, pacing now like a caged animal. “you’re coughing up bloody flowers and you’re telling me it doesn’t matter?”

his hands drag through his hair, breathing sharp.

“give me a name,” he says again, voice dropping—dangerous now. “i just wanna talk.”

(he absolutely does not just wanna talk.)

and here’s where it gets worse.

because jason doesn’t think it’s him. not even a little. not even on the list of possible people.

because in his mind? you are—

good. bright. soft in ways the world didn’t ruin.

and he is—

not.

so no, it’s not him. it’s some idiot out there who doesn’t know what they have.

and jason is already planning how to fix that.

he gets worse about it. more protective. more present. shows up unannounced. walks you home. stays too long, leaves too late. watches you like if he blinks you’ll disappear.

and every time you cough? every time another petal shows up?

it eats at him.

because you’re getting worse.

and whoever it is, isn’t doing anything about it.

“unbelievable,” he mutters one night, after you nearly choke on another bloom. “uou’re— you’re this—” he gestures at you, frustrated, like he can’t even put it into words, “—and they’re just letting you—”

he cuts himself off, jaw clenching.

“they don’t deserve you.”

it comes out sharp. immediate. certain.

because that part, at least, he believes.

and then, it begins to click.

not all at once. not clean. just… wrong.

you don’t talk about this person. you don’t mention them. don’t get defensive the way people do when they’re protecting someone else.

instead, you go quiet around him. you hesitate when he gets too close. your breathing stutters when he says your name too softly.

and jason—

jason starts to feel something cold settle in his chest.

“…no,” he mutters to himself once, pacing, running the pieces over and over. “no, that’s not—”

because it doesn’t make sense. it can’t make sense.

until it does.

you’re mid-cough again. worse this time.

there’s blood. more than before. petals sticking to your lips, your fingers shaking as you try to hide it.

and jason is right there—too close, too fast, panic bleeding through the anger now.

“hey—hey, breathe—” his voice cracks, hands finally grabbing your shoulders, grounding, real.

your eyes meet his.

and there’s something there. something he’s been ignoring. something he’s been too stupid to see.

“…it’s you.”

it’s barely a whisper. you don’t even mean to say it out loud.

but jason goes still.

not angry. not explosive.

gone, for a second.

“…what?”

it’s quiet. too quiet. like all the sound in the world has turned into a dull buzz, blocking out everything but this moment.

you don’t repeat it.

you don’t have to.

because now he sees it. all of it.

every look. every hesitation. every time you stayed just a little too close and he didn’t question it.

every time you coughed and he didn’t understand.

“…no,” he breathes, shaking his head like that alone can undo it. “no, that doesn’t—”

because how? how does someone like you look at someone like him and feel anything worth dying for?

“you’re telling me—” his voice breaks, rough, disbelieving, “—you’re like this because of me?”

and suddenly all that anger he had? it turns inward.

violent. sharp. relentless.

“jesus christ,” he mutters, dragging a hand over his face, pacing again but it’s different now—frantic, unsteady. “i’ve been right here. i’ve been right here and you’re—”

his voice catches. he looks at you—really looks at you—and sees how bad it’s gotten.

the blood. the shaking. the way you’re trying to downplay it. and something in him just—

shatters.

“i let you get this bad,” he says, low, horrified. “i let you—” he gestures helplessly, like he can’t even process it, “—you got to this point and i didn’t— i didn’t see it?”

he laughs once. bitter. self-destructive.

“great job, todd. real observant.”

and then he’s back in front of you again, hands gentler now—careful, like you’re something fragile he might break if he’s not paying attention.

“why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, softer, but it’s not blame—it’s hurt. “why didn’t you say something before it got—”

this bad.

before it got to blood.

but he already knows the answer.

because he wouldn’t have believed it. would’ve brushed it off. made a joke. pushed you away “for your own good.”

and now? now you’re paying for it.

“…i'm an idiot,” he mutters under his breath.

not fishing. not dramatic. just… true.

he exhales, shaky, then looks at you again—really looks. and this time, there’s no confusion. no denial. just something raw. real.

terrified.

“you’re not—” he starts, stops, tries again. “you don’t get to— to feel like this and just— not tell me.”

his voice is rough, but there’s something else under it now.

desperation.

“could’ve fixed this,” he says, quieter. “could’ve— i don’t know— figured it out, done something, anything before you started coughing up blood—”

his hands tighten slightly on your arms, not hurting—just grounding himself.

and then, finally, jason todd does the one thing he’s been avoiding this entire time.

he doesn’t push you away. he doesn’t make it a joke. he doesn’t run.

he stays.

close. solid. real.

“…you’re not dying over me,” he says, voice low, firm in a way that leaves no room for argument. “not happening.”

and it’s not a threat. not to you.

to the situation. to himself.

to the universe that let this happen in the first place.

because yeah, jason will still threaten the idea of the person who hurt you.

still hates them. still wants to fight them.

but now he knows it was him. and somehow?

that’s worse.

because now it’s not about fixing someone else. it’s about fixing himself.

fast enough to make sure you’re still here to see it.

tim drake

it doesn’t start dramatic. no sudden petals. no cinematic collapse.

just… time.

because loving tim drake is a slow burn.

it’s late nights in the cave, both of you half-awake over glowing screens. it’s coffee going cold because he forgot to drink it—and you quietly swapping it out for a fresh one. it’s him saying your name absentmindedly, like it’s part of the background noise he relies on to function.

and you? you fall somewhere in the middle of all that. softly. quietly.

like it doesn’t matter. like it won’t hurt.

except it does.

because tim always chooses the mission.

not intentionally. not cruelly.

just… inevitably.

you see it in the way he leans toward the comms instead of you. the way his focus sharpens when gotham needs him—and blurs everything else out.

including you.

the first petal shows up on a random tuesday.

you’re alone, wwhich feels fitting.

you stare at it for a long time before you even react.

“…right,” you murmur, like this is just another thing to deal with. like your heart quietly trying to kill you is just… inconvenient.

you don’t tell him. of course you don’t. tim already has too much on his plate. you’ve seen what happens when he overloads—how he stops sleeping, stops eating, stops being anything but the mission.

you’re not adding yourself to that list.

but tim notices.

not immediately. mot cleanly. but he does. because he knows you, better than anyone.

it’s small things at first. you’re quieter. slower to respond. you cough and brush it off too quickly. you miss a message—then two—then you apologise like it matters more than it should.

tim files it away. observes. waits.

until one night, you don’t brush it off fast enough. a petal slips from your hand and lands on the keyboard between you.

tim freezes. “…what is that?”

it’s not fear, not yet. just confusion—sharp, focused, already analysing.

you try to laugh it off, which you know is a bad move. even if tim's always focused on the mission, he is a detective and he knows you better than anyone.

tim leans forward immediately, eyes narrowing—not at you, but at the problem.

“how long has this been happening?” his voice is calm, too calm. the kind of calm that means his brain is already running ten steps ahead.

you hesitate.

and that’s all he needs.

“okay,” he exhales, running a hand through his hair, already shifting into problem-solving mode. “okay, we can fix this. we just need to—”

he cuts himself off.

because he knows what this is.

“…hanahaki,” he mutters.

and now there is something else in his voice. not panic.

but something close.

“what stage?” he asks immediately. “how frequent? any blood?”

you answer reluctantly, and with every word, his expression tightens just a little more.

but here’s the thing: tim doesn’t ask who. not at first.

because in his mind, that’s not the priority. fixing it is.

he throws himself into research. sleepless nights. files open. medical contacts pinged. he builds timelines, probabilities, outcomes.

he treats it like a case. like if he just thinks hard enough, he can outsmart it.

and you watch him. you watch him choose this—choose solving you—over actually seeing you.

and it hurts in a way the flowers can’t even compete with.

eventually, you say it. quiet. careful. “i'm thinking about the surgery.”

tim doesn’t look up at first.

“mm,” he hums distractedly. “that could work. it’s—uh—high success rate, minimal physical complications—”

“i’d forget them.”

that makes him stop.

“…what?”

you swallow.

“the person i love,” you clarify. “it erases the feelings. completely.”

tim stares at you now, really stares. and for the first time, he asks.

“…do i know them?”

you don’t answer. but something in your expression—something quiet and resigned—makes his chest tighten.

“…is that what you want?” he asks slowly. and it’s not clinical anymore. not detached. “to forget them?” he presses, softer now. “just like that?”

you look away.

“…it’d stop hurting.”

and that, that hits him wrong.

because tim drake understands pain, but choosing to erase something that matters?

that doesn’t sit right with him.

“they must be important,” he says carefully. “if it got this far.”

you let out a quiet, almost bitter laugh. “they are.”

tim hesitates.

something in him pulls—some instinct he can’t quite name—but he pushes it down.

because it doesn’t make sense. because it couldn’t be—

“…you should be sure,” he says finally. “before you make a decision like that.”

it sounds logical. reasonable.

it breaks your heart.

because what you hear is he’s not stopping you.

so you nod.

and you make the appointment.

tim doesn’t realise what’s happening until it’s too late. not really.

he notices you’re quieter. that you stop lingering. that your messages get shorter.

he tells himself it’s fine. that you’re handling it. that the surgery is a solution. until someone—dick, jason, maybe both—looks at him like he’s the dumbest man alive.

“you seriously don’t get it?” they say.

tim frowns. “get what?”

and then they tell him. not gently. not kindly.

“it’s you.”

everything stops.

“…what?"

“they’re in love with you, idiot.”

and suddenly, everything clicks.

the way you look at him. the way you hesitate. the way you stay, even when he doesn’t. and the surgery—

“…when?” he asks, already moving.

“they left.”

that’s all it takes.

tim is gone.

no suit. no plan.

just fast. urgent. wrong in a way that doesn’t matter anymore.

because for once, the mission isn’t gotham.

it’s you.

he finds you just in time. of course he does.

he always does.

“wait—!”

his voice echoes down the hallway, breathless in a way you’ve never heard before.

you turn, surprised.

and tim—he looks wrecked. hair a mess. jacket half on. breathing like he ran the entire way.

“you can’t—” he starts, then stops, trying to catch up with himself. “don’t do it. not yet.”

you blink. “…tim—”

“i didn’t know,” he says quickly, like if he doesn’t get it out now, he won’t at all. “i didn’t— i should’ve— i just thought—” he cuts himself off, frustrated. “you don’t get to just erase something like that,” he says, softer now. “not if it matters. not if they matter.”

you look at him. careful.

“…they do,” you say quietly.

tim swallows. “…yeah,” he says. “i know.”

and for once, tim drake doesn’t calculate. doesn’t plan. doesn’t wait for certainty.

he just steps closer.

“they should’ve told you,” he says, voice steadier now. “that you weren’t alone in it.”

your breath catches. “…tim—”

“i’m saying it now,” he interrupts, softer. “before you forget. before you decide you don’t want to remember.”

and then, finally—“it’s me.”

not a question. no confusion.

“i didn’t realise,” he admits, quieter. “but i— i don’t want you to lose that. not because i was too slow to catch up.” he exhales shakily. “so don’t go through with it,” he says. “not yet. not when this isn’t one-sided anymore.”

and maybe it’s messy. maybe it’s late. maybe it should’ve happened sooner.

but Tim drake is here now.

and for once, he chose you first.

damian wayne

damian never thought about love. not romantically. not softly. not in the way stories describe it.

love, to him, was duty. loyalty. obligation sharpened into something unbreakable. It was earned, weaponised, withheld.

he did not need it.

he certainly did not expect it.

and then there was you.

gotham academy—years ago now. you, loud in ways he found inefficient. annoying, at first. persistent. unafraid of him in a way that felt… incorrect.

you talked to him like he was normal.

he didn’t like that.

(he stayed anyway.)

it started small.

sitting beside each other because no one else would. trading insults that slowly lost their bite. you stealing his sketchbook once and discovering page after page of—

you.

he took it back immediately. scolded you. told you it was practice.

you believed him.

he told himself that was enough.

you became… constant.

not dramatic. not overwhelming.

just there. walking beside him. talking when he did not. sitting in silence when he needed it. challenging him in ways no one else dared.

damian did not name it. he did not have to.

you were his.

not in possession—but in certainty. in permanence.

and you?

you fell. slowly. inevitably.

doomed from the start.

because how could you not? yhe way he noticed everything about you—the smallest shifts in your mood, the way your voice dipped when you were tired. yhe way he cared—not loudly, not gently—but in precise, deliberate actions:

a book left on your desk because you mentioned it once. a corrected paper you never asked him to look at. a quiet, “you should rest,” when you pushed too far.

he never said he cared.

he never had to.

and that was the problem.

because damian wayne did not think about love. not like this. not something soft. not something shared.

so you never let yourself hope.

when the first petal came, you understood immediately.

you didn’t cry. you didn’t panic.

you just… sat there, holding it, staring at something beautiful that would eventually kill you.

“…of course,” you murmured.

you didn’t tell him. you never would.

because this—this love—was never meant to be returned. it wasn’t something you wanted to burden him with.

damian had never been given love freely, you wouldn’t make yours a weight he had to carry.

so you chose something else.

you chose to love him quietly. completely.

until the end.

you stayed by his side, same as always. laughing. arguing. walking beside him like nothing had changed.

even as your lungs filled with petals.

even as breathing became harder.

even as the blood started.

and damian noticed. of course he did.

“you are weaker,” he said bluntly one afternoon, eyes sharp as they tracked your movements. “your endurance has declined.”

you laughed it off. “i’m fine.”

he didn’t believe you.

it escalated quickly. coughs. hesitation. the way you’d turn away just slightly too late.

and then, he saw it.

a petal.

damian froze.

not visibly, but internally, something shifted.

“…explain.” his voice was sharp. controlled.

you didn’t.

that was your first mistake.

damian investigated. aggressively.

he cornered people. threatened them. interrogated anyone who had looked at you too long.

“who is responsible?” he demanded, tone lethal. “tou will answer me.”

because in his mind, this was simple; someone had done this to you. someone had made you weak. someone had made you suffer.

and he would destroy them.

but no one fit. no one made sense. no one matched the way you looked—

not at them.

at him.

it took too long. far too long. by then—

you were fading.

your laughter softer. your steps slower. your breaths… shorter. and still—

you smiled at him.

like nothing was wrong. like this was enough.

that smile would haunt him.

one night, you coughed. harder than before.

blood. petals. too many.

damian caught you before you hit the ground.

“idiot—” his voice broke, just slightly, hands tightening around you as if he could force you to stay. “why did you not inform me sooner?”

you smiled.

“it’s okay,” you whispered.

it was not okay.

“who is it,” he demanded again, quieter now. desperate in a way he did not understand. “tell me. i will fix this.”

you looked at him. soft. tired.

certain.

and that’s when—finally—it clicked.

not because you said it.

because you didn’t.

because of the way you looked at him.

like he was everything. like he had always been everything.

damian went still. “…no.”

the word came out fractured. wrong.

“it is… me?”

you didn’t answer; you didn’t have to.

and suddenly, everything made sense.

the way you stayed. the way you smiled. the way you never asked for anything in return.

you had been dying—

for him.

“…impossible,” he breathed, shaking his head like he could undo it. “you—you are… you deserve—”

not him.

“i did not—” his voice broke again, sharper this time, angry now—at himself. “i did not see it.”

you were slipping. right there in his arms.

and damian—damian, who had been raised without softness, without gentleness, without love—felt something inside him crack open.

“Iidespise this,” he said, voice trembling with something dangerously close to grief. “i despise that something so weak could—could—”

kill you. take you from him.

too late.

far too late.

"i will not allow this,” he snapped, like sheer will could rewrite reality.

but it was already happening.

your breathing faltered. your body going slack.

still smiling. for him.

and damian finally understood love. not as theory. not as obligation.

but as something real.

something yours.

something he had never been given—

and yet, you had offered it freely.

without expectation. without demand.

“…beloved,” he whispered.

the word unfamiliar. fragile.

his hand came up to your face—gentle, for once, like you might break.

“i am… unworthy of this,” he said, voice unsteady. “of you.”

your eyes fluttered. fading.

damian refused.

"no,” he said, sharper now, desperate. “you will not leave. not now. not when i—”

he stopped.

because the truth was there.

clear. undeniable.

“i love you.”

the words felt foreign. heavy.

too late.

but he said them anyway.

and then, he kissed you.

not perfectly. not gently.

desperately, like he was trying to give something back that you had been giving him all along.

for a moment, nothing happened. and then—

you gasped. air rushing back into your lungs like you’d been drowning.

the petals—gone.

the weight—lifting.

your eyes opened.

damian stared. frozen. disbelieving.

“…you remain.”

his voice was quiet. reverent.

and, something in him settled.

not calm. not peace.

something stronger.

a vow.

his forehead pressed to yours, breath still uneven.

"you will not be rid of me,” he said softly. “i will not allow it.”

possessive. certain.

unyielding.

"i am yours,” he continued, like it was the most natural truth in the world. “as you have always been mine.”

and this time, it wasn’t unspoken.