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The first time Damian Desmond kissed Anya Forger, he thought he was going to die from the sheer intensity of it. It was sweet and all-consuming. She kissed with a reckless abandon that left him dizzy and breathless.
That was months ago, and now—against all odds—she was officially his girlfriend. And he, her boyfriend. A title which he wore with pride and awe and honour. A title that held special privileges. Like carrying her school bag for her. Or holding her hand under the desk, even if it meant scribbling illegible notes with his left hand. Or having a built-in excuse when she caught him staring at her.
Or… like being summoned for secret morning meetings in the dimly lit, abandoned corners of the school before the halls filled with students and faculty.
Every time, Damian showed up to their rendezvous spot early, his stomach twisting in knots while he paced in anticipation.
Every time, without fail, when she poked her head through the door or around the corner with her bright smile and brighter hair, his pulse leapt.
And every time, when she kissed him, the world ceased to exist. At least for a little while.
Yesterday, after school, Anya told him to meet her in the library the following morning. Naturally, Damian was sceptical. Making out in the library was far too risky and brazen. It was like asking to be caught. But she swore up and down that it would be strictly academic, no funny business. That she only wanted him to go over her history assignment before she submitted it.
So, this morning, Damian showed up like they'd agreed, so they could go over her assignment. Which, to their credit, they did. For all of ten minutes... because Anya decided, actually, she was happy with it as it was, and led him by the hand to ‘show him something’ nearby.
And now, well... They weren’t exactly talking.
They were on the second floor. Low foot traffic and tall shelves lined with dusty encyclopedias that hadn’t been touched since the turn of the century. There, at the back of the aisles, hidden away in an alcove, was a booth where Anya sat perched on a table that was intended for perhaps more academic pursuits.
Her hands were in his hair, the heat between them growing bolder by the second. His lips moved against hers confidently, matching her enthusiasm at every breath. Damian had followed her under the assumption that they’d share a few stolen kisses. No harm, no foul. She was cute, and he was more than willing. Sue him.
But he should’ve known—Anya never did anything halfway.
The way she was kissing him now was so eager, so completely unrestrained, it had his stomach doing flips. His fingers tightened around her waist, his knees feeling just a little weak.
Then, she moved to his jaw, and before he knew it, Damian sucked in a sharp breath as she pressed deliberate kisses all along his throat. He felt her intensity. The way she lingered, the way she sucked lightly, then harder. A warm, stinging sensation bloomed under her mouth at one point, but his brain was too scrambled to process it as she captured his lips once more.
When she pulled away completely several minutes later, panting, Damian barely even registered it.
Anya stared at him—or rather, his neck—her bright green eyes widening slowly. She tilted her head in amusement.
“Oops.”
Damian blinked, still standing between her legs, still dazed, still catching his breath. “What…?”
She ran her finger along a spot her lips had graced earlier. Her expression was half-apologetic and all smug. “That’s… gonna leave a mark.”
His body went rigid. Damian grabbed her shoulders. “What do you mean, ‘leave a mark’?” he implored.
“I’m sorry,” she said, but she sounded nothing of the sort.
Without another word, he turned on his heels and raced out of the library, beelining for the nearest bathroom. He shoved the door open. The cool air inside was a much-needed shock to his system.
Damian strode straight toward the mirror, resting his hands on the sink, and—
Fuck.
The red mark on his neck was impossible to miss. Bold, bright and right where anyone would see it. For a moment, he just stared at his reflection in pure horror. Slowly, he took in the rest of his appearance.
He looked… thoroughly kissed.
His hair was a little tousled, a few strands sticking up in the back from where Anya’s fingers had raked through it. He attempted to smooth it down, but it stubbornly resisted, a frustrating reminder of exactly what had just happened.
His lips were swollen, slightly redder than usual. It was subtle, but then, anything was in relation to the absolute crime scene Anya had left behind. He clamped tightly to the side of his neck, like he was staunching a mortal wound, which, to Damian, he very nearly was.
He went to march right back to where he’d left Anya, but he didn’t have to walk far; she was leaning against the wall outside the bathroom, waiting for him.
She was grinning.
“You vampire!” he hissed. “What did you do!?”
“Sorry,” she giggled, pushing off the wall. “But you taste so nice.”
Immediately, a red-hot flush crept down Damian's neck to match the stupid mark.
“You—! Shut up! Anya, we have school pictures today!”
And that was when she broke. She doubled over in laughter. Loud, unhinged and utterly unrepentant.
“Is that today?” she wheezed.
Damian was going to die.
Reluctantly, he lowered his hand from his neck to check his wristwatch. There was still a solid forty-five minutes before the first bell, which meant he had a small window to fix the damage before anyone else saw it. The only problem was, Damian didn't have the first clue about how to get rid of a hickey. Was it even possible?
Anya, still laughing to herself, finally caught her breath. She looked at him, then sighed.
“Alright, alright, don’t look so tragic. We can fix this,” she said.
Damian stared at her blankly, fundamentally rejecting her optimism. “Do you own a time machine?” he asked, keeping his tone even.
She furrowed her brows. “No?”
“Do you suddenly possess the ability to grant me wishes?”
“No, but what does that—”
“Am I going to wake up and realise this was all a terrible nightmare?”
“No…”
“Then you can’t help me! I’m doomed and it's all your fault!”
Anya shook her head in disagreement. “First of all, you are nobody’s victim,” she said. “I didn't mean it. Accidents happen. But don’t act like you didn’t like it."
Damian looked away, huffing but not denying it.
"Secondly, you’ve got a real bad attitude this morning, but since I’m a very understanding girlfriend, I’m letting it slide. And lastly, when have I ever let you down, Sy-on boy?”
Damian couldn't believe what he was hearing. Her selective memory was world-class. He went to open his mouth to argue, itemised list at the ready.
She held up a defeated hand. “Don’t answer that.”
He dragged tired hands down his face. “So, what is your big idea, then?”
Anya pondered it for a moment. He could practically hear the cheesy quiz show music playing behind her eyes.
Suddenly, she slammed her fist in her hand. "Ice!"
“Ice?”
“Yes! I’ll go and get it, and you go wait where we were before,” Anya said. She tried to nudge him back towards the library, but Damian resisted, even against his better instincts, rooted to the spot by spite.
Her face dropped, all the chaos melting away. “Go!” Anya ordered.
Damian conceded and sulkily began walking back, hand awkwardly glued to his neck. The librarian greeted him with the same polite smile she usually did, but all Damian could manage to return was a tepid smile of his own. As he made his way to the staircase, he noticed that more people were milling about now. More people meant more eyes, and more eyes meant more chances for someone to spot the stupid hickey.
He hurried up the steps, finding his way back to the booth from earlier and took a seat. Damian looked out the window to the courtyard below, trying to remain calm and avoid spiralling completely about his situation.
After several minutes of tapping his foot impatiently, Anya returned with the goods.
“Ta-da! Ice pack.” She held it up proudly above her head before tossing it to him.
Damian pressed it to his neck immediately. It stung. He gritted his teeth, but he held it firmly in place.
Anya stood beside him, hovering and watching him with intrigue.
“How’s it feel?” she asked.
Damian glared up at her. “Cold.”
“Don’t get smart with me. I had to fake a sprained ankle to get you that ice pack.”
He ignored her.
The minutes ticked by, minutes he didn't have to spare. So, when he pulled the ice pack away after ten painstaking minutes, Damian expected results.
“So?” he asked her, hoping and praying that the mark had lightened.
Anya leaned closer and inspected his neck. She made a face and winced. That wasn’t promising. “Eh… honestly, it looks angrier.”
Damian swore under his breath.
“Okay, so maybe ice wasn’t the move,” she said flippantly.
Damian sighed sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You think?”
She blinked at him, looking far too chill for someone who had just ruined his day before first period.
“I mean,” Anya started, holding her hands loosely in front of her. “We could just… leave it.”
Damian stared at her as if she had just suggested he drop out of school and join the circus.
“Leave it?” His voice cracked slightly. “I have to take a formal school photo today.”
She unsuccessfully bit back her laugh. “Yeah, and?”
“And—” He gestured wildly at his neck. “You want this permanently documented? Immortalised in the official school archives for everyone to see?”
Anya pressed her lips together, rocking on her heels like she was thinking about it.
Damian was going to pass out.
“Okay,” she said finally, rolling her eyes. “Time for plan B. I know who can fix this.”
Damian's blood ran cold. “You’re not calling anyone here,” he warned.
She backed away from him slowly. “I’m calling the big guns. Just… wait here.”
“No!” he panicked. “Hey, get back here! I’m serious—” But it was no use, she disappeared out of sight. Sauntering off for the second time to find a solution.
Defeated, Damian quickly read his watch, then slumped forward onto the desk with a groan. God, there were only twenty minutes before registration. All he could do was take desperate, steadying breaths.
This… this could still be salvaged. And if anyone could fix this, it had to be Anya. When it really counted, she got results. Like the time their Language Studies teacher misplaced their finals exams, only for Anya to find them like a seasoned detective and save their entire class from a failing grade. Or the time the school took omelette rice off the cafeteria menu and Anya lobbied so hard that it was back by the end of the week. Or when she negotiated with terrorists to get their class out of a hostage situation way back in first year.
There was a method to her madness, and for that reason, Damian had no choice but to believe in her and whoever the hell she was calling.
After what seemed like an eternity, he heard quick footsteps getting increasingly closer. Damian tensed up, on high alert for rogue students or teachers. But when he heard Anya’s hushed, “this way,” his guard dropped.
The cavalry was here, apparently. Damian looked up, half-expecting some debauched upperclassman with a lifetime of experience in covering up sins. What he got was… Becky Blackbell.
And with her, the death of his reputation.
Becky took one look at his face and smirked like she had just won the lottery.
“Well, well, well,” she said with crossed arms. "Anya told me you were in distress, but this is even better than I imagined."
Damian closed his eyes very, very slowly. “I hate you both.”
“No, you don’t,” Anya smiled, making herself comfortable in the seat across from him
Becky clapped her hands together. “Okay, Desmond. Let’s see it then.”
Damian did not move. His hand stayed firmly on his neck, covering the evidence.
Becky raised an eyebrow. “Are you gonna show me, or am I gonna have to make you?”
They glared at each other in a standoff, but then, before he could react, Becky reached forward, grabbed his wrist and pulled.
He yanked his hand back from her grip. “Hey!”
Undeterred, Becky inched closer, studying the mark. “Yeah, that’s bad.”
“No shit,” Damian snapped. “I’ll get a bolt if someone sees.”
Anya, the absolute devil, cackled like this was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. “Can you imagine?" she snorted. "After all these years, this is the reason you finally get one.”
Damian shot her a look that could have incinerated her on the spot.
Becky dropped her school bag onto the desk with a thunk.
"Move over," she said to Damian, and he unenthusiastically shuffled down so she could slide into the seat beside him.
She took out a smaller pink bag, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat and unzipped it with purpose.
“Lucky for you, I’m always prepared,” Becky said, digging through what was an absurdly large collection of… makeup!?
She laid out various brushes and tubes of things(?) on the table. All lined up as if she were about to perform surgery.
“What’s your concealer shade?” she asked sincerely.
Damian’s brain stuttered. “I—what?”
Becky sighed, disappointment apparent. “Never mind, I’ll figure it out.”
She eyed the tubes with intense scrutiny for a good minute, then selected three.
“Alright, Romeo,” she said. “Tilt your head.”
Damian didn’t even have it in him to protest. Desperate times called for desperate measures after all.
Becky got to work immediately, dabbing something directly onto his skin.
“Too light,” Anya chirped from her front row seat across the table.
Becky hummed, reaching for a different tube. “Alright, let’s try—”
“Too dark.”
Becky squinted, swatching the third.
“Too orange.”
“None of these is a perfect match," Becky noted. "But it’s fine, I’ll blend them.”
She set the concealers aside, then pulled out another tube. This one was smaller and unmistakably green.
Damian recoiled. “Hold on. Why is it green? What happened to the other ones?”
“Relax,” Becky said, uncapping it with a flourish. “This is just a colour corrector.”
“You’re gonna put green on me?” Damian asked slowly, as if she’d just offered to tattoo it on him.
“It cancels out red tones,” Becky explained, already dabbing the green product onto a brush. “It’s science!”
"That does sound sciencey," Anya agreed.
Then, with a sharp, no-nonsense look, Becky pointed the brush at him. “Now, you need to sit still. No sudden movements.”
Damian clenched his jaw, straightening his spine.
Becky moved closer, tilting his chin and started working. And that’s when the real humiliation set in. Having Becky Blackbell in his personal space was, quite possibly, the most awkward experience of Damian’s life.
He wasn’t used to people touching him this closely or casually, least of all Becky. The only person who ever got in his space like this was—
His gaze flickered toward Anya. She watched on with concentration, head resting on her palms tranquilly, as if this entire thing wasn’t totally her fault.
Becky continued doing things. Using this or that, it didn’t matter; it all felt weird against his skin. Before they knew it, the bell tolled, and Damian’s stomach immediately filled with dread. Time was up.
“Hurry up!” he begged Becky, long past the point of feeling any shame.
“Hold still,” she said. “I’m almost finished.” She sprayed two pumps of something against his neck, and it made him flinch.
“Aaaand done,” she announced, handing him her compact mirror.
Damian lifted it carefully, examining his neck from multiple angles. The hickey was… completely gone! Like it had never been there. His shoulders sagged in relief.
“Niceee,” Anya said, with a wealth of pride for her friend’s skills. "Up top!"
The girls shared a high-five before Becky stood up, swiftly putting all her belongings away.
“You owe me, Desmond,” she said.
Damian exhaled. “Yeah. Fine. Whatever. Thanks.” He snapped the compact shut and handed it back, and that should have been the end of it.
“It should last all day, but don’t do anything sweaty,” she advised, as if she were giving out post-operative instructions. “Well, any more.”
Damian silently grabbed his bag and walked away.
Damian blinked against the camera flash.
Well, that was over.
He hopped off the stool as the photographer waved him away, tugging at his uniform collar. He felt like he'd just survived a battlefield. The photo was probably fine—normal, boring, zero sign of the harrowing chaos that had consumed his morning.
Everyone else in line looked so carefree, like people who didn't have to worry about photographic evidence of their girlfriend’s… enthusiasm. Damian hoped he carried at least some of that energy, because despite Becky's admittedly excellent cover-up job, he felt no sense of victory or thrill of having gotten away with something. If anything, the makeup only amplified his paranoia because now he felt branded in a different yet equally humiliating way, and it was definitely showing on his face.
He couldn't wait for this day to be over.
As he exited the gym, Anya called out to him from behind. Damian turned and waited for her to skip over before they continued their way down the corridor.
“Sooo, how was it?” she said, wearing that same insufferable, knowing smirk she’d been sporting all day.
He sighed. “Fine.”
She nodded, mock curiosity all over her face. “So, no signs of our passionate rendezvous?”
Damian flushed. “Would you stop being so loud?” he said, nervously glancing around for teachers walking the halls.
“I have a good feeling about my photo,” Anya said, unfazed. “I think my dad will like it this year.”
“I never want to see mine again,” he said with finality.
“Does that mean you’re finally done being moody?” she asked.
“No,” he frowned, still sour. “Not if you’re still here.”
“Wow, that’s the worst ‘thank you’ I’ve ever heard.”
“Thank you?” Damian scoffed. “For what?”
She shrugged coolly. “For making your morning interesting.”
Damian’s jaw tightened. He felt her gaze—fixated and heavy with something wicked—burning a hole in his neck.
“It’s a real shame you covered it up. It looked good on you," Anya pouted, her delivery shamelessly coquettish. “Maybe next time I’ll leave it somewhere even more visible.”
He paused, all his sanity leaking out of his brain. She always knew how to do that. Provoke him. On purpose. Accidentally. Accidentally-on-purpose. She did it so well that at times Damian wondered if she was put on this Earth with the sole mission of making him lose his head over and over again.
Predictably, he snapped.
Damian grabbed her hand, firmly, enough to pull her into his space and make her realise she’d gone one step too far. She let out a soft yelp as he tugged her along. And suddenly, they weren’t in the hallway anymore. They were under the stairwell, tucked away from sight.
He manoeuvred Anya until her back met the wall, planting a frustrated hand beside her head. Damian tried to ignore how his heartbeat thundered in his ears as he stared down at her, watching her blink through the confusion and whiplash.
After over a decade of being on the receiving end of her nonsense, Damian liked to believe he had a stronger tolerance for it than this. But something about actually dating her now stirred up old habits, and he found himself back at square one. It was as if he’d lost all the progress he’d made over the years towards behaving normally around her. Like in taking their relationship to the next level, Anya had somehow—unfairly—unlocked some new berserk button within him.
But as much as Damian loved her and everything that came with loving her, he still had his pride. If she was going to keep messing with him and saying outrageous things, then maybe he should try meeting her there.
In a low voice, he said:
“So do it.”
Her face dropped, confidence wavering almost instantly.
Damian didn’t know where that came from or what he was doing, but he knew he wasn’t done. With his free hand, he reached up, sweeping her hair back over her shoulder, slowly and deliberately. His fingers unintentionally grazed her neck, and to his surprise, that ghost of a touch was enough to make her inhale sharply and shift in place.
“No?” Damian kept his nerves steady, embracing his newfound bold streak. “In that case, I have a better idea. What if I returned the favour?”
Anya stared at him, words seemingly failing her. Which was annoying because he desperately wanted to know what was going on in that pretty head of hers.
Damian let his hand cup her cheek a moment, daring her to look away. His fingertips glided down, tracing the slope of her throat, thumb skimming just under her jawline. “Should I put it here?” he mused.
Anya swallowed, and he felt it.
His fingers travelled lower, brushing the hollow of her collarbone over her shirt. “Or here?”
Her pulse thrummed under his fingers even through her uniform. Her lips were parted, and he watched her chest rise and fall with shallow breaths. The pink hue splashed across her cheeks was so bright it almost glowed under the dim ambience of the stairwell.
Damian took it all in as they both beheld each other with wide-eyed reverence. He felt himself getting enchanted. She looked so cute. He wanted to burn the mental image in his brain forever or pinch her cheeks or press his forehead to hers or kiss her lips or give her the world or—
No! he told himself. Focus. Don’t get thrown off just because she—what is that face she’s making? I don’t know… but this is working. Sort of.
He couldn't stop now. He had to see it through, even if that meant white-knuckling his way through this. So, before he could think better of his flimsy game plan, Damian moved his hand to her hip, closing the distance until she was only a heartbeat away. He leaned in, close enough to brush his lips against her ear.
“Or maybe,” he whispered. “Somewhere only you can see?”
Anya let out a whiny breath, which immediately sent a sharp jolt shooting straight through him, and Damian would die before admitting where he felt it.
Good, he thought. It meant he won this round. Damian let the moment linger, letting her feel exactly what it was like to be on the other side of this game. He remained outwardly composed despite the electric aftershocks that still pulsed through his veins. Then, for both their sakes, he took a merciful step back.
“I’ll see you after class,” he forced out smoothly before leaving Anya standing there stunned, and for once in her life, at a loss for words. It wasn't so much a cool exit as it was a tactical retreat. He knew it wouldn't be long before she regained her footing and turned the tables on him.
Damian hadn’t expected that to be so effective. That was new. That was… dangerous. Because now he knew how to shut her up. And God help him, he wanted to try it again.
The next morning.
Damian sat on a bench near the old schoolhouse, his scarf tossed beside him, waiting for Becky to finish whatever sorcery she was performing on his neck.
“Stop moving,” she said, working quickly.
“How long am I supposed to keep doing this?” he asked.
“A week or so.”
He let out a strangled laugh. “A week!?”
“Give or take.”
“You can’t be serious.”
Becky blew some powder off her brush, giving him a very matter-of-fact look. “You’re lucky I don’t charge you.”
Damian sighed, staring out at the empty, overgrown courtyard in resigned acceptance.