Damien
and every demon wants his pound of flesh
but i like to keep some things to myself
but i like to keep some things to myself
Damien lay there stiff as the stone under his coat, eyes on the fire but not seeing it. Her words stuck in him like burrs, catching no matter how he tried to shake them loose. Just because you can endure hardship doesn’t mean you always have to. It should’ve been comfort, but instead it scraped across old bone. He’d built himself on that very belief—that pain was the only constant, and strength meant outlasting it. Was he proud of that, or just too stubborn to admit it was a wound he kept raw on purpose?
What kind of man did that make him? And worse—what kind of man even thought about easing up the moment someone warm and stubborn sat too close to the firelight?
He hated the way his gut twisted, bitter and hot, like the burn of whiskey before it settled. Hated that she could undercut him with a single look, a single insistence. Hated more that he wanted to give her what she asked.
Aria’s soft shifting didn’t break him out of it. But her voice did—the rasp of it, dry and sheepish after the drink scorched her throat. Damien rolled his head on the makeshift pillow, eyes dragging back to her. For a heartbeat the apology almost made it to his tongue, but he swallowed it. “Yeah, it tastes awful,” he murmured instead, voice low, steady. “Makes you wonder why people even drink it at all, huh?” He let a smirk edge into his mouth, thin and quick. “But you get used to it. Or you don’t, and stick to the fruity stuff. Though I should warn you, that’d make you less of a man in my eyes.” The joke slipped out quiet, light enough to float between them, though the warmth never reached his eyes.
When she handed the flask back, he propped himself on an elbow, took a small swig—just enough to let his body settle, not enough to burn through what she might need. He capped it and set it down where he’d reach it if the night turned worse.
He watched her ease down onto the bedroll, careful with every breath. On her good side, facing him. His eyes lingered a moment too long before flicking back to the fire, his jaw working as if that could chew down the knot in his chest.
Then her fingers were tugging the blanket over him, lingering just long enough to make sure he felt it. He turned his head again, found her eyes in the flicker of light. Back to back, she said. He raised a brow, and for a second the corner of his mouth quirked at the sheer stubbornness of it.
“But then you’ll be lying on your stitches,” he said, voice low, no longer sharp but heavy with something closer to frustration than refusal. “If they come undone—” He cut himself off, sighed. A sound like he was tired of fighting her as much as himself.
“Just… come on, then.” He shifted, rolling back enough to lift his arm, not looking at her while he did it. The words came quieter, grudging but there. “It’s warmer this way anyway.”
He didn’t move closer, didn’t pull her in. But he left the space, left the choice, his arm waiting like a door only half-open.
What kind of man did that make him? And worse—what kind of man even thought about easing up the moment someone warm and stubborn sat too close to the firelight?
He hated the way his gut twisted, bitter and hot, like the burn of whiskey before it settled. Hated that she could undercut him with a single look, a single insistence. Hated more that he wanted to give her what she asked.
Aria’s soft shifting didn’t break him out of it. But her voice did—the rasp of it, dry and sheepish after the drink scorched her throat. Damien rolled his head on the makeshift pillow, eyes dragging back to her. For a heartbeat the apology almost made it to his tongue, but he swallowed it. “Yeah, it tastes awful,” he murmured instead, voice low, steady. “Makes you wonder why people even drink it at all, huh?” He let a smirk edge into his mouth, thin and quick. “But you get used to it. Or you don’t, and stick to the fruity stuff. Though I should warn you, that’d make you less of a man in my eyes.” The joke slipped out quiet, light enough to float between them, though the warmth never reached his eyes.
When she handed the flask back, he propped himself on an elbow, took a small swig—just enough to let his body settle, not enough to burn through what she might need. He capped it and set it down where he’d reach it if the night turned worse.
He watched her ease down onto the bedroll, careful with every breath. On her good side, facing him. His eyes lingered a moment too long before flicking back to the fire, his jaw working as if that could chew down the knot in his chest.
Then her fingers were tugging the blanket over him, lingering just long enough to make sure he felt it. He turned his head again, found her eyes in the flicker of light. Back to back, she said. He raised a brow, and for a second the corner of his mouth quirked at the sheer stubbornness of it.
“But then you’ll be lying on your stitches,” he said, voice low, no longer sharp but heavy with something closer to frustration than refusal. “If they come undone—” He cut himself off, sighed. A sound like he was tired of fighting her as much as himself.
“Just… come on, then.” He shifted, rolling back enough to lift his arm, not looking at her while he did it. The words came quieter, grudging but there. “It’s warmer this way anyway.”
He didn’t move closer, didn’t pull her in. But he left the space, left the choice, his arm waiting like a door only half-open.
