I need everyone to know what a cutie patootie 1986 Sun Wukong is
"After the release of Journey to the West, I received more than 40,000 letters from fans all over the world, nearly half of which were love letters.
A Vietnamese fan wrote to me after learning that I was nearsighted, saying that she was willing to give me her eyes because "Sun Wukong's eyes are more important than mine." A Chinese fan wrote to me, saying, "You are handsome, but you would be even more handsome if you put on Sun Wukong's makeup." At this point, I realized that among the tens of thousands of love letters, some were courting me, but more were courting Sun Wukong."
"She loves me…she loves me not…she loves me…" The famed Monkey King sits with his legs crossed in a green field, his tail curled and idly flexing behind him while he uses clawed fingers to pluck petal after petal from the flower stem in his fist. His eyes are closed but Tang Monk knows his student well enough to know that Wukong is aware he is here.
"She loves…me…not." The last petal is plucked, followed by a harsh breath of air from the monkey's nose as he huffs in frustration. He tosses the now bare stem onto a pile of other discarded flowers, all missing their petals.
"Call it stupid if you must Monk, I don't care." The tone he speaks with says he very much does care.
"I wasn't going to say such a thing, my student. I was just curious as to what has kept your attention for an entire afternoon. Important matters, it's apparent." Tang Monk lifts the bottom of his robes and settles into the grass next to the monkey, watching as Wukong grabs another unplucked flower from a separate pile. He begins the process once more. Now that the monk has a proper view he can see that the plucked flowers are also in two separate piles, and he points to them.
"One for 'love' and the other for 'not', I assume?" Wukong let's his head fall back in frustration as he groans towards the heavens, his tail lashing behind him.
"Uhg, yes. And it's an even tie. Love, not, love, not, love, love, followed by not, not. I thought the whole point of this silly human practice was to find out for certain!" He plucks the remaining petals of his current flower with more aggression than necessary, throwing it into the 'love' pile before starting again on a new one.
"Well…there is a trick to it, you see." Tang Monk starts, biting the inside of his cheek to try and hide his smile. He fails. It's not his fault his student is so silly when his mind is consumed with thoughts of you.
"What do you mean?" The monkey asks, those golden eyes moving from the flower in his fist to his Master's.
"Well, depending on the number of petals and which one you start on changes the outcome. It's not actually helping you find the right answer like soothsaying would." Wukong stares at him for a solid moment, still as stone, before dramatically groaning and falling onto his back, letting the flower drop from his hand. He brings his palms up to rub at his cheeks, kicking his feet and thrashing his tail before letting all his limbs drop to the grass below and staring up at the sky. Tang Monk reaches over and gently pats at his arm in consolation.
"…Why is it all so complicated Master? Why can't I just…know?" Despite knowing him so well after all these years of travel, Tang Monk still has trouble understanding when his disciple is genuinely asking or speaking rhetorically about such matters. He tries for the genuine approach anyways.
"Well…Simply asking her would certainly be a step in the right direction." He reaches out and grabs at one of the unplucked flowers. There are so many still left.
"You know I can't do that. Heh-how pathetic would that be? 'Hello sweet peach, I just want to tell you I love you and know if you love me back? Oh, you don't? No problem, have a good day, I'll see you at the campfire for dinner tonight!' No. No, I won't embarrass myself like that." The monkey crosses his arms, pouting at the sky. Tang Monk does his very best to not reveal to his student that rejection is far from your mind when it comes to him. This is something you both need to figure out yourselves.
"Well. A bouquet of flowers never hurts anyone's chances, hmm?" He asks instead, dropping the flower he was holding right on the monkey's nose. It twitches in response, the flower falling to land on the fur of his cheek as Wukong thinks on his words.
"………Maybe." He finally relents, eyeing the pile with a glimmer Tang Monk has come to recognize as one that means change is coming. Change is coming very fast.
His lips against the back of your hand in a teasing gesture as you attend some fancy party. It gets your first real laugh for the night and he would wear that fact like a badge of honor if he could.
When his tail curls around your hand you can't help but lift it up to your lips, pressing soft kisses down the length of it. His fur puffs up as his cheeks burn hot with a blush, and the boyish smile he gives you melts your heart.
If either one of you is eating fruit, you always offer the other a bite for the cost of a real kiss. Wukong always pulls away a small chunk of the fruit and holds it between his teeth, giving you an expectant look. After so many years together, you have no problem leaning forward and meeting his lips with your own, stealing the bite of fruit and licking the juices from his lips before pulling away. His tail always curls high up in a happy display. Wukong will demand more such kisses until there's nothing left of the fruit, at which point he'll steal you away for someplace more private.
Your boyfriend, Damian Wayne, is the best taste tester. Even if he refuses to admit that.
DC masterlist ◞ Based on this request.
a/n: Trixie vs writing anything other than dc..
The apartment smelled like vanilla, cinnamon, and something that might have been slightly burnt sugar. You stood at the kitchen counter in one of Damian’s old Wayne Enterprises shirts, sleeves rolled up, flour dusting your cheek like war paint. Bowls, measuring cups, and various ingredients were scattered across every available surface. This was your happy place — experimenting with new recipes, tweaking old ones, turning the kitchen into a laboratory of flavor.
Damian Wayne — your boyfriend of two years, now a very serious college student who still somehow found time to patrol as Robin — sat at the small breakfast bar, arms crossed, watching you with a mix of amusement and mild suffering.
“You volunteered for this,” you reminded him sweetly, sliding a fresh batch of experimental lemon-blueberry muffins toward him. “Taste tester duties. Remember?”
“I was under the impression it would involve one or two items,” Damian said dryly, though the corner of his mouth twitched. “Not an entire bakery’s worth of prototypes.”
You grinned, leaning across the counter to kiss his cheek, leaving a faint trace of flour there. “You love me. And you secretly love being the first to try my creations.”
He sighed, but there was no real annoyance in it. At nineteen, Damian had grown into his sharp features and sharper tongue, but with you he was softer — still arrogant, still precise, but willing to sit through your chaotic kitchen experiments because they made you happy.
“Very well,” he said, picking up a muffin with the delicate care of someone handling evidence. He took a small, measured bite, chewing thoughtfully. His green eyes narrowed in concentration.
You bounced on your toes. “Well?”
“It is… okay,” he pronounced. “The lemon is bright. The blueberries give some god moisture. But, the crumb is slightly dense. Maybe.. less flour next time, or another egg.”
You scribbled notes on your recipe card, nodding. “Good catch. Okay, next one.”
Damian raised an eyebrow. “There’s more?”
“Many more,” you said cheerfully, pulling a tray of chocolate-chili cookies from the oven. The scent was rich and a little spicy. “I’m trying to perfect a new line for the campus bake sale next week. You’re my official critic.”
He took a cookie when you offered it, breaking it in half to examine the texture before tasting. “The heat builds nicely at the end,” he said after a moment. “Surprising, but.. not unpleasant. The chocolate balances it. These may be your best yet.”
Your heart did a little flip at the rare praise. Damian wasn’t one for empty compliments — if he said something was good, he meant it.
The afternoon stretched on like that. You moved through recipes with focused energy — a rosemary olive oil cake that Damian deemed “elegant but perhaps too savory for dessert,” a batch of matcha white chocolate blondies that made him pause and actually take a second one (“These are… weirdly addictive”), and a disastrous attempt at lavender-honey macarons that ended up in the trash after one bite from both of you.
Damian never complained. He sat there in his comfy clothes, hair slightly messy from running his hands through it, offering thoughtful feedback between bites. Sometimes he’d stand up to help — steadying a mixer when it started to wobble, or reaching ingredients on the high shelf you couldn’t quite grab. Every so often he’d pull you away from the counter for a quick kiss, tasting whatever you’d just been sampling on your lips.
“You’re going to make me gain weight,” he muttered at one point, accepting a spoonful of experimental tiramisu mousse.
You laughed, wiping a bit of cream from the corner of his mouth with your thumb. “You burn it all off anyway with your… nighttime activities. Besides, I like cooking for you.”
His expression softened in that way it only did for you. “And I like that you do.”
As evening fell, the kitchen looked like a war zone but the counter was lined with successful creations. You finally collapsed onto the couch with Damian, legs draped over his lap, both of you pleasantly full and tired.
“You know,” you said, tracing patterns on his arm, “most people would have bailed after the third failed batch.”
Damian’s hand rested on your thigh, thumb stroking lazy circles. “Most people are not fortunate enough to have a partner whose passion produces such… interesting results.” He paused. “The matcha blondies were genuinely excellent. You should make those again.”
You beamed. “Noted.”
He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Thank you for including me in your process. Even if it means becoming your official guinea pig.”
“You’re the best taste tester I’ve ever had,” you murmured, snuggling into his chest. “Critical, honest, and very cute when you’re concentrating.”
Damian huffed, but his arms tightened around you. “I am not cute.”
“You’re adorable,” you countered, kissing his jaw. “Especially with flour on your nose.”
He wiped at his face, scowling when he found the evidence. You laughed, and he retaliated by tickling your sides until you were both breathless and tangled together on the couch.
Later, as you packed up the successful baked goods for the campus bake sale, Damian helped without being asked — labeling containers in his neat handwriting, making sure everything was stored properly. The apartment smelled like sugar and vanilla and home.
You watched him for a moment, heart full. College life with Damian Wayne wasn’t always easy — between his classes, your own, and his continued work as Robin — but moments like this made it perfect.
“Thank you,” you said softly as he closed the last container.
He looked up, green eyes warm. “Always.”
The kitchen might be a mess, but with Damian as your taste tester and partner in crime, every experiment felt like a success.
Even the ones that ended up in the trash.
a/n : this was so cute brah he’s so freaking awesome
Pairing: Damian wayne x reader
Summary: Damian Wayne seeing you off to work
Content: aged up damian wayne . fluff . one shot . occ damain
It was a cold Gotham morning. You could hear the wind making its way from the window you opened earlier to the sun catchers, making the little beads you wove yourself clink together, forming a soft, calming, almost melodic sound.
It was too early to hear the busy streets, but every now and then you would pick up the sound of cars honking out of habit as you got ready for work.
You smiled softly, drinking what's left of your tea while petting Cloudy. Cloudy was a stray cat you adopted a few months ago after finding it near a dumpster. Its fur resembled its name, a deep gray color with little spots of white that you were sure would fade when it got older.
After tossing the mug in the sink, you made your way to your room, carefully opening the door, trying not to wake Damian. His face was soft; his normally furrowed eyebrows relaxed, pressing against the pillow while breathing softly, chest rising rhythmically.
You paused a bit, admiring his relaxed form. He rarely overslept, and you weren't one to wake up your probably sleep-deprived boyfriend. You crept across the room and quickly dressed yourself before slipping out again, softly closing the door behind you.
You passed through the living room, heading towards the front door.
"Hmm, I don't think I'll need a jacket..." you muttered under your breath before grabbing the keys.
Hearing the door creak behind you, you thought nothing of it, assuming it's cloudy padding over towards you.
Glancing over your shoulder, you startled slightly, finding your boyfriend across the hallway, his hair tousled, eyes barely open as he made his way toward you.
You smiled warmly as he tugged you into an embrace, melting into his arms, and rested your face against his chest.
"Good morning, habibati," he whispered, voice laced with grogginess, "are you heading for work?"
You hummed, "It's still a bit early. I wanted to stop at the new cafe across the street to grab some coffee."
You pulled away softly before pressing a kiss on his nose. "i'll be off then."
He planted a firm yet gentle squeeze on your waist. Before reaching for the scarf and wrapping it around your neck, letting it land on your chest, then pulling your hair out, adjusting the strands so they could frame your face.
He took a step back, admiring his work, his eyes shining in a way that was only visible if you looked close enough.
"Perfect."
You raised an eyebrow, barely concealing your smile.
"You're staring," you chimed.
"Merely observing," he cut in.
"Observing what? My face?"
"My handiwork, obviously."
You looked down at the scarf before rolling your eyes
"Keep telling yourself that, boy wonder"
His lips twitched into a faint smile, opening the doorknob for you.
His hands found yours, giving you one last squeeze as you slipped out into the Gotham streets.
Luckily, you had a scarf and warm affection towards a certain someone, keeping you comfortable.
summary: when midnight marks the second year anniversary since damian's death, you make one desperate wish in the midst of your grief before falling asleep. when you wake, you find damian waiting in the apartment—as if he never left.
pairing: damian wayne x reader
content/warnings: angst, hurt-comfort, grief and loss, mentions of previous death, emotional reunion, yearning
Grief is a companion fond of making you dream.
"Beloved."
Damian stands before you in the kitchen, in his most-worn sweater, the one you swore you stuffed in the back of your shared closet when it had lost his scent.
The scent of toast, your favourite kind slathered with jam, lingers in the air and the familiarity of this sight—of him awake at an earlier hour to prepare you a simple breakfast, feels like a faraway dream.
You're struck by his voice, the tone and cadence your memory never managed to capture. You had to be dreaming still. Even when the edges of him are so life-like, not fuzzy like you're used to when you reach for the figment of him in your sleep.
He can't be standing in your kitchen, the one you used to share with him two years ago, because he is dead. Your Damian is dead.
You don't move, not immediately. You watch life breathe in and out of his chest, and feel the long, dragged seconds stretch between the distance, the pads of your fingers pressing into the cold slab of the counter, frozen in place.
He doesn’t push. Doesn’t corner you, or raise some pointed remark on your distance. He only waits, as if that’s everything he’s willing to do. Damian has never been good at being patient, but in the wake of his appearance, it’s all he seems to be doing.
You're afraid. To speak, make a sound or move that could shatter the perfect image. You expect to turn your head just slightly off-angle, and find yourself in your sheets once more, and the life-like version of him will be gone. The ache of his absence still clung to you, even more so at the sight of him, like a sore wound you can't resist running over.
Your stomach grumbles lowly at the scent of breakfast, empty from a near sleepless night and a skipped dinner. At that, he finally shifts his gaze, and you find your breath stolen from the way that striking, unwavering green pierces through you.
“You’re starving.”
The prospect of a dream falls away, and reality strikes you hard when the stature of him remains, words falling out his mouth—something your dreams have never achieved. You don’t listen, coming up to him like a storm—hands trembling as you raise them to slowly, tenderly cup his face.
He lets you, unmoving as his gaze sinks deep into yours. Your fingers trace over his cheekbones, where that scar should be. The last you had saw of him, unmoving in the hospital—when the mere sight had rendered you immobile, shaking uncontrollably till someone had to drag you out the room. Your hands trail down his jawline, over his neck—your touch trembling over his unharmed skin. When your hand dips to where his heart should be, he captures your hand and guides it back to his face, fingers laying over yours as he presses it against his cheek, soaking in your warmth.
His own skin is barren of its expected, scorching warmth—and his lashes flutter once before his eyes fall shut, mesmerised.
"Damian." You gasp softly.
He shakes his head faintly, almost in warning not to question further. His gaze opens, and it pours over you openly, hungrily.
"Are you real?" Your whisper comes out as a broken plea, head tilting as you look at him. There are no inconsistencies, even the faint scar where a blade had passed through his palm when he was but a boy, the same raised skin you used to press your lips over in the solemnity of the night, wishing he never experienced a pain like that again.
An undercurrent ripples below his steady gaze, conveying an answer you can't uncover. "I am here, beloved."
"How?" Your voice tremors, teetering madness.
“You called.”
Your brows furrow together, the vagueness of his statement twisting your thoughts into a whirlwind. “No.. I called for you every single day. Since you've been gone.”
His expression fractures in your admission, that undercurrent in the dark green, sweeping you with its darkened shadows. You can’t read it. Not fully, failing to truly understand the depth of his gaze that reminds you that this isn’t a dream or a recreation of any normal morning from before. Damian has always looked at you with want and devotion, yes, but it has never seemed almost inhumane.
Your burning questions still linger on the precipice, torn between relief and despair, when Damian closes in. His lips capture yours almost desperately, and you realise instantly in your grief that you had forgotten this side to him. Rare, and smothered by self-control—but existing regardless, is his intensity.
The sound of his name between your lips is lost, muffled by the way his free hand manoeuvres the back of your head to bring you impossibly closer to him. It’s real, it has to be, this push-and-pull as if he can’t decide whether he could ever get enough of the taste of you.
You have held yourself together for two years—but you’re close to falling apart in the scent of him, so overwhelmingly home, something you’ve been trying to capture through his cologne bottles, his shirts—but nothing compares to the real thing.
He doesn’t fare much better, lost of all his composure as he consumes you. It’s devotion, the way he holds you like you’re the only anchor keeping him tethered to reality. “I am here.” His lips brush over the corner of your mouth, tremoring. “I’m home.”
"We need to tell your family." It's the first logical thought that's formed since you lost strength in your legs, landing on the tiles with your hand still grasped in his, knees pressing against one another. "I should be calling Dick."
His lips press together, something manic crossing his gaze but you don’t see it—too wrapped up in the novelty of a miracle that shouldn't exist. You needed to hear it, have it confirmed for you to your own face— that you weren’t the only one who sees Damian. Your steps quicken towards the entrance, hands reaching for your coat that has your phone right by the front door—tossed on the ground after stumbling home the night before.
Damian grabs you by the wrist right as your fingers brushed the fabric, tugging you back. Your widened gaze meets his own fervent expression. "Damian?"
"I can’t predict—” His hold falters, softening in its clutch. “—what happens when you walk through that door."
Your brows furrow, letting him pull you gently back towards him. Your free hand comes up to press gently against his cheek, caressing once. "What do you mean?"
His jaw clenches, a rare tension seizing his features. Or rather, one you didn't recognise on him at all. Fear.
"Earlier, I had tried the door." He explains slowly, as if the words pained him. "I had reached for the lock—and something changed. I wasn't here, or anywhere. It was silent and I didn't truly exist, not till I found myself back in the kitchen."
Your mouth dries at his words, lips parting with the low thud of anxious dread gnawing away at your gut. You had been so relieved, you hadn't even begun to name all the possibilities of this miracle having a short-end you haven't seen coming.
"Oh." You mutter, fingers fumbling loosely in the air as your hand drops to your side. "Okay. That's—"
Scary. So fucking terrifying that you can't even voice it out, the thought that he could just disappear as quickly as he reappeared back into your life.
"Maybe we can try?" Your voice lacks the confidence of someone who's willing to put the possibility of never seeing the only person she's ever loved again on the line. "If I go with you this time, it might—"
Might work. There is nothing you detest more than the what-ifs that overpower the old, a bitter habit that's sprung to life now that it has new fears to feed on.
He nods briskly at the suggestion, but the tension in his jaw doesn't fade. "Listen to me. If—"
"Damian, if what you're about to say is anything to do with disappearing or leaving—you're not allowed to say it." You cut him off.
His lips clamp together, gaze averting to the door. "I only aim for us both to be prepared."
Unlike last time. The insinuation lands coldly against your exposed skin, and you immediately move to tug the coat on to rid yourself of the forming goosebumps. You didn't want to be reminded of that first lonely night in the apartment, when the news hadn't yet settled in—and you were surrounded by bedsheets that were filled with his scent.
Call it human desperation, needing to believe in only the good outcomes—but you refuse to think further than the events that have occurred in the past twenty minutes. Damian is back, that is all that matters. The rest, you'll both figure it out together.
His hands immediately come up to the sleeves, helping you to put the coat on. The simple action renders you breathless, the way he was equipped to you like a shadow, tuning himself back into step with your own movements. You had forgotten that feeling, of puzzles pieces fitting perfectly together that it made life easy.
"I'm more than prepared." Your reassurance for him, or yourself—you’re not sure which bears more comfort. "Come on, Dami." The nickname rolls off like a soothing mantra, one normalcy laced within all the abnormality of the situation, of his presence lingering near your side like a shadow. "You better prepare yourself. You're about to experience intense familial affection."
It's easier to pretend, that anything other than a happy family reunion was bound to happen, to seal in the fact that he's really here. That's all your mind is leading towards, this impossibility existing on the morning of what should've been your second year anniversary.
His lips finally twitch, a soft smile gracing his lips as he takes your hand. It's warmer now, as if life was slowly bleeding back into him. It reassures you immensely, and your fingers tighten into a reassuring squeeze around his.
"How have—" He falters, grip tightening unintentionally over your fingers. "—they been?"
"It’s not been easy." You answer truthfully. "Bruce is taking it the hardest, his habit of burying himself in work has worsened. He needs you to snap him out of it the most, I think. Dick—he's trying to keep everyone together, but I worry for him even if he keeps pretending he's fine."
Your fingers twist the lock, opening the door. His hand still remains firmly in your grasp, and your eyes widen, gaze twisting to him in hope. "Still here." You murmur, waving your interlocked fingers with yours in his gaze.
You see it too, the faint relief that flickers in his expression. That's the very last thing you see.
The moment you take one step out the door into the threshold of the hallway, your raised hand comes up bare. The space where Damian used to occupy—is now empty.
"I swear he was here." You plead, watching as Dick paces around the apartment. "Damian was right here, and he was talking to me—and we were coming to see you."
He runs a hand over his locks, and you can tell he doesn't believe you, as much as he is trying to genuinely listen. You know it sounds cruel, going on about how his deceased baby brother is alive and well. That it makes you sound insane, overcome with grief enough to hallucinate Damian's existence—but you know that he was really here.
You aren't hallucinating, even if you had to push down any arising doubt as Dick finally stops in his tracks, turning to face you.
He looks exhausted. Packed with cases, wrinkled shirt haphazardly put on, bags under his eyes. Still charmingly Dick, but drained of the spark that used to brighten his gaze.
He calls out your name, and you hear it immediately. His deflection, his concern. You shake your head, but he raises a hand.
"You—" He swallows, and you see him assessing the right way to deliver his words. "—have been through a lot. I understand, I really do."
"Dick." Your voice comes out as a plea.
"But if you've been seeing Damian." He goes on. "I think it's time we find someone. For you to talk to."
He thinks you've gone crazy.
"Dick, I'm not crazy." You plead. "Or grieving. Damian was right here, I was telling him about you and Bruce. He made me toast."
His gaze switches to the uneaten plate, and softens into what could only be pity. You have to swallow back the bitter taste at the sight of it.
"It's your anniversary, right?" He asks.
You stiffen, before giving him a bare nod.
"I should've called." He sighs, placing the blame on himself. "I had remembered it being around this week, but work's just been so busy and—I'm sorry. I know it must've been difficult to go through this day alone."
"Please, Dick." You stand up from the couch, walking over to where he stood. "You have to believe me."
His expression tightens, a sigh leaving his lips. "I can't."
"Why?" You plead.
"Because if I do, I would've lost him twice." He admits honestly, a rare fracture of truth beneath his usual composure. "I can't let myself think that, because I have people who need me to be here, to be grounded."
You flinch, as if he struck you. His expression immediately crumbles in regret, but he doesn't take back his words. His lips part in an effort to try and smooth out the mess laid out in front of him, when his phone rings.
He curses inaudibly, tugging at his pockets to take out his phone. His gaze falls to the contact name, and his lashes narrow. He looks to you, an apology already splurging out of his lips. "I'm sorry, I really have to go. It's an emergency—but I will come visit right after."
You shake your head. There isn't a point if you didn’t have proof, and if he wasn't going to believe you, it'd do you both better if you didn’t dig into the wound so carelessly. "It's fine." Your throat squeezes tight on itself, making it hard to form your words coherently. "I'm sorry I called you all the way here, I know you've been busy."
"Hey." He calls out to you reassuringly, even as his ringtone vibrates lowly between the two of you. "I'm always here if you need me, you got that? Being busy doesn't mean I can't make time for you if you need a listening ear."
You nod stiffly, as convincingly as you could. "You should go, Dick. City needs you."
He stares at you, concern flooding his gaze once more. You smile weakly at him, pushing at his shoulder towards the door. "Go." You reassure him. "I'll text you if I need anything, okay?"
He nods once, lips pulling downward in consideration before his phone starts ringing again at a louder volume. He lets out a low sigh, hand coming up to squeeze yours over his shoulder in a comforting manner. "Anything, alright?" He murmurs.
You give him the barest nod, watching as he walked out the door, closing it behind him. The moment the door clicks shut, you find yourself on the kitchen floor.
Your sobs rack your body violently, your palms covering your mouth as you let it out. You don't know how long you spend, keeling over yourself as you rock back and forth, tears streaming down your cheeks before you eventually found yourself laying on the cool tiles, the only sensation that registers to your body.
You don't know how many minutes you spent going over the words shared between you and the Damian you swore was right in front of you, the scent of toast still lingering in the air before your eyes finally fall shut, body shutting down from exhaustion.
When you wake, you find yourself tucked in your sheets. You vaguely remember laying on the kitchen floor, not even having the energy required to drag yourself to your bedroom. The room is dark, which means the entire day has passed. Did Dick—or someone else come in through the door and carry you onto the bed?
You don't think you locked the door, but you don't trust in your memory to recall any recurring events in a faithful manner. Your gaze shifts from the window where the glow of the street lamp illuminates a warm tint over the streets, before your neck cranes to your right.
A shadow sits at the corner of the bed, back facing you.
Your heart nearly drops to your feet. Your call doesn't dare sound hopeful, almost frightened. "Damian?"
His head shifts, and green eyes, haunted by shadows—meet yours.
"Are you my imagination?" You whisper. "Am I dreaming again because if I am, this is just—” Cruel.
He doesn't answer, lifting himself off the corner to sit beside you instead. Slowly, his hand takes yours—and there it is again, that fading ebb-and-flow of warmth between his fingers.
"Talk to me." You say numbly. "Or I'll really think I'm going insane."
"I don't know—" His voice fills your ears, and the relief is almost sickening. "—how to fix this. Or make it easier to bear. I am only worsening your pain."
Your lip trembles, and you bite at it to keep something, anything from flooding out. "Do you know what day it is today?" You murmur, exhaustion plaguing your voice.
Damian doesn't even pause to think. "Our anniversary."
"Yeah." You smile wryly. "You missed it for the second time this year."
His fingers running over the beat of your pulse, freeze. The faintest whisper leaves his lips, and it is nothing short of broken. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay. You’ll make it up to me, won’t you?" You swallow thickly, trying your best to keep it together. "I was going to take you to that Thai place we love down the street, after meeting your family. Thought it'd be a good welcome-back present of some sorts, y'know?"
He stays silent, but you spot the clench of his jaw, the thick lump forming at his throat.
"This is so sick." You laugh weakly, tears pooling at the corner of your eyes. "What kind of reality is this?"
You hear the faint whisper of your name. His hand traces over your temple, brushing back the loosened strands. "I'm sorry." It comes out stronger this time, as if the vowels have finally found suit a place in his vocabulary.
"Stop apologising." You scold softly. "I want you here."
He understands your request immediately, scooting closer and falling into the sheets as his arms wrap around you. In the weight of his embrace, you finally let yourself fall apart a little, face buried into his chest and inhaling his comforting scent.
"Your heart.” You whisper, unable to sense the rhythmic beating you’re used to finding. “Where is it, Dami?”
“Where it’s always been.” He murmurs, arms pulling you impossibly closer.
There is a missing link, something you’re terrified of missing. He is real, as even your mind can’t conjure something as complex as the halftime beat of his thumb brushing against your lower back, or the way his fingers brush through the nape of your neck, finding your temple and resting over it with a soothing amount of pressure.
“You—” Your voice trembles, afraid to ask. “How is any of this possible?”
“I don’t know.” He answers honestly. “I only know that you called. I was finally able to answer.”
The rules settle quickly, the do’s and don’t’s of his existence. When you walk out the front door, he disappears, but not entirely. He merely reappears in the kitchen as he did the morning you found him, time operating as a frozen capsule within the walls of your apartment, with your current present tuned down to a low, buzzing hum—enough for his presence to stay. When you exit the apartment, it’s as if life comes flooding back in motion—roaring in its intensity that Damian simply vanishes. Not home, or anywhere. As reality intended.
You can’t have people enter the threshold of the apartment either, not without Damian completely disappearing from the rooms. Your only attempt had ended with Dick pleading with you to see a professional.
The conversation still lingers like a bitter aftertaste of stale coffee, when you let yourself imagine his exhausted, frantic expression when you searched the apartment upside-down in the hopes of letting him see his baby brother again.
You don’t call Dick over much after that, only the here-and-there messages that you've recovered and that you're doing better. You don’t mention Damian, and the texts tentatively recover into a semblance of the norm, his usual check-ups and quips before he disappears into his long list of responsibilities.
You adjust, creating something sacred out of the cruelty, and you make things work, to reduce the risks of his disappearance to only what was needed—for work, or quick supply runs that are now meant for two. You have to, because you’d rather have Damian with the shattered edges of reality falling in on you, than lose him forever.
Your head rests on his chest late in the night, updating him on the past twenty-four months of your life through your photo album while he watches you, trying to bring some of the outside world in for him. That’s one strange loophole, that so long as it’s only you who witnesses it, he doesn’t fade from existence. You had tried face-timing Tim once, and felt the sudden emptiness of Damian’s weight beside you. The tears were difficult to explain, as was the way you frantically ended the call after, refusing to show how shattered you felt.
Loopholes were small miracles, ones you were trying to exploit in the hopes the world would carry on without punishing either of you for testing the waters. That eventually, you’d find a way to right the mess.
But you know it’s not enough. How could it be? When paranoia runs so rampant, or the quiet lingers too long when you’re in a different room, and you can’t stop yourself from checking—from slamming yourself into the door to catch him staring at you, as if he expected your anxious movement minutes before.
Damian is nothing but a master at concealing his own doubts, from letting his frustrations plague your own wearing strength. It does not change the fact that he is still human. You find him mostly at your desk when he assumes you've finally fallen asleep, pen in hand with his hand running through his thick locks, growing out at the edges from not having been cut for weeks. You never see what he’s writing—not before he hears your quiet footsteps and gently folds the paper away.
He would reassure you silently, a warm, gentle touch over your face, cupping them in his hands and pressing soft kisses over your skin to replace your worries. He’d whisper ‘I’m real’ over and over again till you’re sure even your imagination couldn’t conjure the trace of his fingers down your lower back, the way his gaze softens when you finally let yourself fall into his embrace.
You don’t ask unless he’s willing to speak of it, because Damian in his own way is coping with this fractured reality, where you are only able to have each other in the confined walls of your home, without him being able to truly live in this world. You know it takes a toll on him, you’re just waiting for him to realise he doesn’t have to remain strong for the both of you.
You let him have the peace of doing what he feels he must, scribbling away in urgency into the paper, because for as much as Damian has lost normalcy in his life, you could only give him whatever he was able to still grasp.
“Hey, you! It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other!” Steph exclaims, pulling you into a hug.
“Missed you too, Steph.” You huff at the impact, a warm smile spreading across your lips.
“Where have you been?” She continues, pulling back to analyse your face with a scrutinising expression. “Woah—actually, you look great. Have you been skipping less dinners?”
Your lips part automatically, almost wanting to say Damian’s taken up the cooking. It falls shut immediately, along with your expression. Your voice is tender, testing your words carefully. “Yeah, something like that.”
“Good. I’m obliged as the wiser one to have nagging privileges since Dick isn’t here—no matter how busy life gets, you can’t skip what makes life worth living.”
“Chocolate chip pancakes?” You raise a brow.
“That too.” She grins. “But I’m really glad to see you. It’s been ages.”
Your heart tremors with guilt. Ever since Damian reappeared back in your life, you’ve been putting off so much. Life outside had begun to feel like an intrusion, a compulsory step before you made it home to where the miracle sparked, suspended in time. Even now, you’re terrified the one night you let your guard down, you might come back to an empty apartment. Where you’ll fall asleep and he won’t be there at the corner of the bed, waiting for you to bid him closer and being dragged into his embrace.
“It’s really good to see you.” Your voice softens, taking in the sight of her blond locks, her purple sweater, and the underlying relief in her expression.
Her smile brightens and her arm wraps around your shoulder, dragging you along. “Come on, I’ve got this new place I want to check out. Heard the owner’s a huge fan of Spoiler.”
“You’re not going to bargain deals with your merchandise, are you?”
She hums a sweet tune, head facing forward.
“Steph.” You snort.
“What—it’s a good strategy.” She shrugs. “Tell me it’s not genius.”
“It’s definitely classic you.”
“Yeah, classic me is a genius, same diff.” She grins, steps rushing slightly whenever she gets excited, particularly when it comes to food. The door bell jingles when you both step into the small bistro, the scent of honey and sugared powder filling your nose.
You can imagine Damian’s nose wrinkling at the overly sweet scent, but the thought doesn’t have time to stick before Steph’s already pulling you over to the corner seating, with a perfect view of Wayne Tower in the distance. Your gaze flickers to the tower, before drawing it back to Steph who’s looking over the menu.
“Damian would hate this place.” She says suddenly.
The tilt of your lip freezes, and she casts you a knowing look. “You thought it.” Steph murmurs, placing the menu down. “I know that look.”
Your lips part, mouth dry. “We don’t have to, Steph.”
“No, it’s okay. I don't want you feeling like it's a no-go zone with me.” She smiles gently. There’s that part of her you never stopped admiring, her bravery to speak for what others never dared to see. “I do actually miss making fun of him.”
He misses you too, you want to say. He misses you all.
“Sometimes, I wish he left something for us.” Steph murmurs, her smile lessening into something honest. “He was loud with his actions, and he could never resist an insult but—it just feels like I have nothing much to remind myself of him.”
You pause, her suggestion seeping into your bones. Your gaze widens imperceptibly, but she doesn’t notice.
“There’s Titus, of course.” She jokes wryly. “That beast always tackles me whenever I visit the manor. Guess I know where he got his manners from.”
You’re half-tuning out, because that could be it. Damian could write something so personal to each of them—so they’d at least he know he exists somehow. In this world.
“You’re right, Steph.” You mutter, lost in thought.
“Of course I am. Have you seen Titus recently?” She snorts. “Weighs a truck if he jumps you from the back.”
You shake your head, a fond smile tilting your lips upward. Maybe finally, you have a chance through this loophole, a way to bridge the unseen and the present. You may have a way to bring him back—past the walls of your home.
The nature of Damian is beginning to reform under his bones. The burn of his questions, how he goes silent when he formulates a plan, only without the hesitation he once held in the first few weeks on the prospect of breathing life into the abnormality of his existence.
“What was your wish?” Damian murmurs, gaze peering over you as you tumble into the sheets, feeling his arms slowly wrap around you, pulling you closer to his side of the bed. “I heard you call my name, but nothing of your request.”
“It was the same thing, always.” You recall faintly. “That I didn’t want to ever get used to coming home to our apartment alone. That I could see you again, and remember what life used to feel like with you.”
The specific details of your wish echo in your thoughts, your mind capturing onto the specificity of your words. You feel his mind register it faster than yours, but he doesn't form any accusations, not the way your own brain immediately pinpoints to.
“Is that why you can’t step a foot out of our home?” You realise, dread thumping patiently as it inches closer to guilt. “Why no one can see you except for me?”
He calls out your name, stopping you in your tracks. “It is not your fault.” He says before you’ve even voiced it out. “Do not carry on a burden that isn’t yours to bear.”
“What if—if that's the reason, would you stay?” You ask in the dark. “This doesn’t feel—”
Sustainable or fair or—horrible words pile on top of the other, right at the tip of your tongue. You feel the paranoia that traces along the edge of every conversation you have with him—like the waiting still hasn’t ended. That the world hasn’t quite let loose of its claws on either of you.
“For as long you want me, I’ll always be here.” Damian reassures you, hand lifting to press against your cheek, grounding you.
That’s impossible, you almost want to say. You’ll always want him.
“What about you?” You ask quietly. “You look tired, Dami.”
He stares at you for a beat, and you feel the gears in his mind turning. His under-eyes are clear of dark circles, his body shows no signs of exhaustion, although you know he hasn’t truly slept since his return. You feel it sometimes in your half-awake state, when he lets his guard down—and the trace of his fingers over your pulse.
“It is difficult to rest.” He answers honestly, a dry swallow in his throat. “It does not feel like living. There is no calling for survival, not when I am trapped in place. I am not whole—but the feeling fades when you are here.”
“I want to make things better for you.” You wish desperately.
His gaze softens at the edges. “You are.”
“I want to actually try something. I have an idea, I’m not sure if it’ll work or change anything.” You admit. “I know you’ve been writing every night. I was thinking—would you write letters? To your family? Steph mentioned that she’d like to have something to remember you by.”
His hold tightens over your shoulders, before forcing himself to relax.
“I just think—it might work.” You go on, fingers pressed softly against the expanse of his chest, right where the fabric bunches over your grip—where his heartbeat should be. “If they believe it too, I don’t know—it sounds silly.”
"Beloved.” He calls, his expression twisting in consideration. “I’ve… already written letters.”
Your lips part in astonishment. Has that been what he’s been doing this entire time? “Leave it to you to already have a plan.” You tease softly.
His lips quirk slightly, but there’s still that lingering solemnity in his gaze that’s never fully lifted. “I’ve written letters for you too.”
Your brows furrow. “Why—”
Looking into his eyes, you spot the knowing—the underlying preparation of a man not truly believing the cards are in his favour.
“No.” Pushing yourself away from the sheets, out of his embrace—you stare at him wordlessly, that familiar pounding beginning in your chest.
“Tell me you haven’t been writing goodbye letters, Damian.” You plead.
He only watches you, choosing to remain silent because—he could never lie to you. Not without you catching it in the twinge of his expression, the purse of his lips.
“No, I don’t want to think that—not when the impossible has already happened.” You shake your head. “I can’t handle a goodbye.”
“It is not a certainty.” He reminds you.
“I know but I have to believe.” Your voice breaks. “I believed every night, that somehow, you’d come back to me—and you did. So, I don’t want a goodbye, Damian.”
”I want you to live your life.” You admit in earnest. “Not to be sealed in here, waiting only for me. You are so great—you deserve the chance to be so much more. If there is even a possibility, I want you to fight—to get your life back.”
You are asking a difficult task, for Damian who doesn't put faith in what he can't predict without data or evidence. You see the argument, the calculation weighing in his mind but then he looks at you and—something in him gives. For all that he’s fought for, defying even the rules of the dead, half-whole in a world that once belonged to him as much as it does to you, he has never found the strength to say no to you.
“Alright.” He answers softly. “I will try.”
He has broken his promise only once in your entire lifetime of knowing each other, but tonight, you place your trust in him—that he’d keep this one.
The letters are a brilliant plan. It’s the most hopeful you’ve felt in weeks. Damian waits by the door, a safe two feet away from the threshold where he had last vanished through the hold of your fingers when you both attempted to cross.
“This will work.” You mutter, strapping on your boots.
Looking back to him, Damian’s already watching you, your favourite coat already over his forearm. He doesn’t make a comment, but when you lift your arms for him to put on the coat, as the sleeves loop through—he leans in and closes the distance.
He doesn’t loosen his hold, tugging you closer till you’re wrapped in his scent—and his lips crash into yours. It’s anything but soft, nothing withheld. It’s a promise—unspoken, and a Damian unraveled. Your free hand wraps instinctively around the nape of his neck, tugging softly at the dark waves that have grown past his usual desired length.
A low sound vibrates against his throat, the intensity of him burning through his skin. It is not a goodbye, you remind yourself, refusing to let anything wet prick at your eyes. You are going to fix this—and he was going to come home.
”I love you.” You gasp against his lips, mere seconds after he finally parts to let you have air.
His hand rises to cup your cheek, gaze focused over your features—before finally looking you straight in the eyes. “I am yours. Every part of me always.”
You swallow thickly. “Always.”
You want Damian. You want him in all the worst parts of him—the part of him that left and never came back, the part of him that immediately thought to make your favourite breakfast in the first instance of his return, the only person who you wanted to spend the rest of your life with.
“I’ll be right back.” You promise, grip tightening over the letters.
His gaze flickers with want, unease—a multitude of emotions so vulnerably human, and you understand. You’re the only who will. He lets you take a step back, and you can feel it even when you turn—that he never takes his eyes off of you.
It’s a reassuring weight—of course, till the letters disappear from the grip of your fingers the moment you step out the door. Time splits on itself when your heart drops—gaze snapping to your empty hand, proof of his existence written tirelessly in the thick stack of letters gone without a trace. When you spin back around to your apartment, the sight of Damian behind you disappears with it.
He's gone.
You don't move. Not for a few minutes, staring into the empty space where he once occupied. The door remains open, the buzzing roar of life beyond the threshold numbed to your senses. Eventually, when reality hits you right below your ribs, you do what was only inevitable. You break.
Damian reappears an hour past midnight, one of the longest instances he’s ever gone missing from the apartment. One of the days you truly needed him, you spent alone waiting. He finds you crumpled on the kitchen floor, hands empty—gaze staring blankly into the wall. The wall that holds memories, picture frames of your life with him—and your eyes peer soullessly into the distance.
You faintly register the stir of tension in the air, but you’re tired. Itching faintly for something to happen, the clock ticking down in your mind rendered useless. Your last solution has failed.
Damian stands in your kitchen as he did the first time, when it had all seemed like a dream, and you have nothing to say.
Damian eventually speaks, and it is nothing you want to hear. “We must cease this.”
Your head cranes, looking at him with defeat. Still, you shake your head weakly. You spot that familiar fire, lit in his gaze when his jaw clenches at your stubbornness.
Of course you recognise it. That fire you faced before he had gone out that door two years ago. Your biggest regret had been letting him go, not fighting harder. It’s just that—you’re so exhausted. You need time to think, to replan, to not feel like you’re on the verge of puking because you’re so afraid and you can’t do anything about it.
“There is no denying this. Every instance I reappear, I see your grief—and I am reminded that I am the cause of your suffering.” He says, low and pained. “That I have failed you, and even now, I chain you.”
“Damian, stop.” You plead, trying to shut it out.
“It is the truth.” He states numbly. “You are not living. For as long as I remain, you’ll be chained to the memory, and I have to watch you lose yourself because I am not able to let you go.”
“I have failed you.” He repeats. “But I will not be the reason that you do not live. For as long as I remain here, never truly whole, neither will you.”
“Don’t you understand?” You snap. “I haven’t been whole! Not since the day you died. You leaving won’t change that. Our reality—it isn’t ideal, and it’s terrifying that every time I open that door, I fear I won’t ever see you again, but I’ve lived more now than I have in these past two years.”
“You are still hurting.” His narrowed gaze assesses the trembling of your body, the dullness in your eyes. “Tell me it is enough. Having me here—a fracture of who I used to be.”
Your lips part, and your heart tremors with a painful ache. “I don’t care.” Your voice breaks. “As long as I have you, the pain is nothing compared to not having you at all.”
“But I do.” He pleads. “I refuse to be your chain. The reason your life is reduced to this. You told me that I deserved to be something more. Have you not considered that I want the same for you?”
“What do you want me to do, Damian?” Your voice croaks, exhausted. “What do you propose we do?”
“I want you—” His expression tightens. “—to rescind your wish.”
“No.” Stumbling in your step as you try and fail to rise from the tiles, he’s in front of you in seconds.
You push weakly at his grip that steadies you, anger churning something bitter in your gut that he’s so willing to throw away his promise—the only one you have left for him to keep.
He calls your name, pleading—urgent. "I think this is the end."
"No." You shake your head adamantly, tears soaking your cheeks. "Please."
"I love you." He murmurs. "I love you, and I do not expect your forgiveness."
"What about always?" You break. "Please, I can't lose you again. I can't—I imagined this life with you, Damian. I can't have you again, and lose you—please. Don't go."
His composure shatters the second those words leave you, regret sweeping his entire expression. "I have failed you."
You don't want to hear this. You want him to stay, and for this stupid wish to last—and for the universe to answer your desperate cries to not take him away.
"I love you." Grabbing a fistful of his shirt, you clench tightly as if it could prevent the striking of the clock taking him away. "I can't love anybody else, it's only ever been you."
"I love you." He whispers in devotion, voice raw. "I have only ever seen you. It was always you."
Was. As if he's already seen the inevitability of his going.
"Damian." Your voice is scattered, torn between misplaced rage and desperation—but none of it holds true. "You promised me—that you'd never break your promises. Why?"
Why did he go out on that mission? Why did he not heed your words on waiting for back-up, for someone to be by his side? Why did he leave you alone in this damned apartment, waiting for his return only to open the door to Dick's blank expression battered, where he had to watch you fall in on yourself.
"You should've listened to me." Your fists dig into his chest. "You should've stayed home, with me. Instead of that stupid mission—and leaving me alone. You idiot."
"I know." He murmurs, letting you take it out on him. Even now, he was accommodating you—taking in all your anger even when you didn't want to leave it at this.
You're picking a fight, because you didn't want this to end. Whenever you got in an argument with Damian, he'd refuse to leave it till it was solved. Somewhere in your logic twisted by grief, you wondered if even his determination for your forgiveness would outweigh the cruelty of your wish.
"Fight, damnit—Damian, fight." You cry out, tears forming a puddle onto his shirt. "Don't leave it at this."
"Beloved." He whispers, gazing at you with so much love, it leaves you hollow.
"I wrote letters." He whispers, memorising you with intent. "As many as I could."
You faintly register his words, somewhere beneath the numbness your body is undergoing to process the heavy, sinking chain dragging at your heart.
"I know it's not enough, it never will be." He mutters. "But I wrote them to keep you company. To scream at me, to hate me—everything. What I never got to say, nothing is amiss."
A low, mocking huff leaves his lips not long after his words. "You can burn them if it reminds you of my failures, or if you wish to be part of the memory of me when it only serves you pain. But—"
He swallows, fingers tightening around you. "If you wish to hear my voice, to have me by your side—I am there. In those letters, you'll have me, always. My last thoughts, my wishes—they're all of you. They've always been about you."
“No, this can’t end.” Your voice breaks. “Please.”
“It will end eventually.” His voice lowers, attempting to soothe the cutting truth of his words. “It is my only mercy that I can face you this time, before I go.”
”Why does it have to end?” You mutter into the dark. “Isn’t this enough?”
“It is more than I’ll ever deserve.” He confesses, pressing his lips softly to the crown of your head.
Your words are lost on your tongue, a horrible taste of grief rendering you immobile as you collapse fully into his touch. He holds you, that same pressure over your temple, fingers brushing over the nape of your neck.
“Tell me.” Your body succumbs before your mind, eyes closing shut. “Everything. From the start. I want to hear it all. Please.”
His fingers linger over your temple, before brushing back loose strands of hair to tuck behind your ear. You feel it then, finally, the low thump right where his heart should be. Then, he starts, and you hear the story of how the two of you met from his eyes. You let yourself fall into step with his memory, the last you’ll ever hear of it. In the knowing of a goodbye, you focus on the slight tremor in his voice, the tight grip of his hand—and how his faint heart was finally beating now that you’ve given it back.
You find the stack of letters in the morning, kept neatly in your drawer—all addressed to different names. Father. Mother. Brown. Drake. Grayson. Todd. Duke. Cassandra. The list went on. Your own stack is separated, in a thick bundle that must’ve began from the first time you caught him writing.
The world was impossibly cruel yet fair, his letters remaining despite the impossibility, the scent of him still coating the paper. He is gone, and the existence of him remains.
Life is heightened back to its usual roar, the faint chaos of the streets beyond the walls of your apartment playing as if nothing had ever changed. The quiet greets you like an old friend, and there is no shuffling of the sheets when you wake, no toast at the counter.
Your fingers grip at the first letter, trembling as you open the first. You hear his voice immediately—and nothing prepares you for it, as if he sealed himself within the pages. You feel the warmth of his touch, the low candor of his voice, reading it to you.
"To my beloved.”
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
starring; damian wayne x gn!reader (established relationship)
summary; damian has been trained since birth to endure any type of situation. except the situation where you look too good to handle.
wc; 650
ramblings; uh so I didn't upload a fic for a bit, sorry. this is quick because I didn't know what to write lmao
warning; suggestive, kiss, not descriptive making out.
Damian Wayne’s education had been exhaustive, brutal, and unparalleled. He was proficient in seven forms of martial arts, could disassemble and reassemble over two hundred guns blindfolded, and could recite the geopolitical landscape of the last century as easily as other teenagers recited song lyrics. He had been trained to resist interrogation, to endure extreme pain, to function on minimal sleep, and to withstand the most deadly toxins known to man.
He had not been trained for this.
He had not been trained to resist the sight of you, soaked to the bone by a sudden, violent downpour. You two have been caught on your walk home, the sky opening up without warning, and had made a frantic, laughing dash for the only nearby shelter: Your apartment.
Now, standing in the small, steamy space, water pooling at your feet, Damian was facing a threat for which he had no defensive protocol.
Your academy t-shirt was plastered to your torso, rendered nearly transparent by the rain. It clung to every line, curve and plane of your chest and abdomen, outlining a topography of muscle that Damian had only ever seen hinted at. Water dripped from your hair, tracing paths down your neck and over your collarbones. You were rubbing a towel through your hair, laughing breathlessly. “We look like drowned rats.”
Damian couldn’t speak. His own wet clothes felt like a second skin, cold and restrictive, but it was nothing compared to the heat flooding his system. His training manuals contained no chapters on the physiological response to a wet, laughing, shockingly beautiful lover in a state of undress. His heart was performing a frantic, arrhythmic drum solo against his ribs.
“You’re shivering,” you said, laughter softening into concern. You stepped closer, dropping the towel around your neck. “Here, take this one.” You reached for a second, dry towel from a shelf.
As you moved, your arm brushed against Damian’s chest. The contact, even through damp cotton, was a spark on kindling. You held out the towel, Damian didn’t take it. He just stared, his green eyes dark and utterly focused, drinking in the details: the way the fabric clung to the dip of your waist, the faint tremor in your hand from the cold, the parted lips, still breathless from their run.
The rational part of his brain screamed a retreat. This is a compromised position. Withdraw.
He didn’t withdraw. He moved forward.
He closed the small space between you two, his hands coming up to cradle your face, his thumbs stroking away the droplets of water on your cheeks. His gaze dropped to your mouth.
“Damian…?” you whispered, eyes wide, the towel forgotten in your hand.
That was all the invitation he needed. He leaned in and kissed you. It was a deep, searching kiss, full of all the things he’d been trained to suppress; want, need, a tenderness that felt terrifying and new. He could taste the rain on your lips, feel the cool dampness of your skin under his palms, and the contrasting rising heat from within.
You melted into him immediately, a soft sigh escaping into Damian’s mouth. Your hands came up to grip Damian’s soaked shoulders, holding on as if he were the only anchor in a storm.
This was a battle Damian was designed to lose. Every ounce of his League-honed discipline, every lesson of his years as Robin, evaporated under the simple, overwhelming softness of your mouth on his, of your body solid and real against his own. He was a fortress built on a fault line, and you were the earthquake.
He was trained to withstand anything, but he had no defense against this. And for the first time in his life, Damian Wayne had absolutely no desire to retreat.
summary: an unexpected guest finds you during your shower..?
warnings: fluff, est. relationship, they’re both sappy af, arachnophobia (?), use of pet names (hayati, habibti, beloved), v short
A thud. A scream. A bang.
Is what Damian Wayne heard coming from the bathroom which you were occupying.
His heart jumped, as did he off of the couch as he ran over to the bathroom door. He quickly turned the handle, wasting no time before barging into the steamy bathroom.
He saw you, eyes wide, skin still damp from the shower as you shakily held onto the towel around your body.
“Hayati, what happened?” He said, hurrying over to you and wrapping his arms around your shoulders, trying to calm your clearly stressed form.
“Damian!” Your arms flew around him. No, not in a hug, but in an attempt to run behind him and hide.
He caught your wrist before you could head to the door.
“What are you doing?” His eyes were filled with confusion, even more so concern.
“Dami! There’s a spider in the shower!” You said with a twinge of mortification in your voice.
Damian stared at you for a moment before letting you go, his expression deadpanned.
“A…spider, habibti?”
You groaned, “Yes! A spider! Oh- don’t look at me like that, I’m not crazy!”
He couldn’t help it as a grin tugged up on his lips. “Now when did I say that, hayati? Come on, I’ll get it for you.” Damian turned around, making his way over to the shower as he pulled the glass door open.
You huffed and crossed your arms as he examined the marble tiles for any chance of an arachnid. That’s when he saw the small 8-legged creature hovering right above the shower head.
He stared at it. It stared back at him. It’s many eyes blinking at the tall specimen in front of him. Damian sighed as he reached his hands out, clasping the spider into his hands.
You watched as he turned back from the shower, eyes wandering up to yours while his palms guarded the bug. They were dangerously close to each other, threatening the spider with a fate he couldn’t possibly escape.
You stared at his palms with your eyes wide open, tracing every little twitch in his fingers. Like if you looked away even for a second it would find a way onto your skin.
“Shall I throw it away?” He tilted his head lightly.
Your eyes flew to his face as you shook your head repeatedly. “No. Don’t kill it.”
Damian raised an eyebrow, yet he knew what he had to do. He carefullly walked past you and out of the bathroom before arriving at the tall window that lead to your balcony.
The window was skilfully opened by his elbow as Damian stepped out into the cold air. His bare feet met the chilling tiles and a shiver ran up his spine.
He crouched down in front of one of the plants, placing the small arachnid on a rustling leaf.
You watched the whole scene unravel from inside of the apartment, an awestruck expression forming on your face. Damian walked back into the warm apartment when he noticed you.
“What is it belov-“ He didn’t get to finish his sentences as you enveloped him in a long hug, burying your face in the crook of his neck.
“You’re so sweet, Dami.” you sapped into his collarbone. “Love you.”
He chuckled, “All of this just because I got rid of a spider?”
You didn’t answer, just sighed further into his skin.
Damian smiled, “Love you too.” His fingers crept behind your neck, swiping a line of bubbles your body wash had left over.
“But you should get back into the shower.” He whispered and you nodded, letting him go almost hesitantly.
Damian looked around the now empty living room as he heard the shower turn back on. His eyes trailed over the wet droplets you had left on the floor from all the scurrying you did while you were still dripping wet.
He just sighed and trotted over to the kitchen to grab a mop.
a/n: idk I feel like Damian can be such a loverboy when he gets close enough to someone😙
Summary: How do you break the news to your not-really-boyfriend that you’ve been reassigned sectors.
Pairing: Damian Wayne x Green Lantern!Reader
Word Count: 2.1k
Content Warning: Angst, open-ended ending, breakup?, Fem!Reader, situationship final boss, grumpy x sunshine if you squint, former figure skater!reader, second person, no use of y/n
A/N: bello!! I'm back with some more angst! this is for this request by @jasmineserag i hope it is up to par! As always, i hope you enjoy my lovelies <3
•───────•°•⭐︎•°•───────•
“Heya Spooky Jr! Wanna get some ice cream?”
Damian just stared, his signature expression of unimpressed plastered across his features. He didn’t even break a smile when you hovered upside down in front of him.
He never did like that nickname.
You found him on a rooftop that had definitely seen better days in downtown Gotham. He and Bruce had spent the past few weeks working on a case that split their heads in half. Maybe it was selfish to ask him of this, especially when you knew he wouldn't say no, but you don't know if you'll ever get the chance to do this with him again.
A smile broke out on your face when he shook his head exasperated. You're positive this night had its tolls- every night in Gotham did, yet he still agreed.
He'd never admit it, but there isn't anything he wouldn't do to keep you smiling. No task would ever prove too arduous, if it meant you looked at him like that every night.
You don't miss the subtle twitch of his lips when he tells Barbara he has something to take care of. There's a scoff and rolling of the eyes Damian partakes in, a response to whatever teasing his family has sent his way. He cuts the line after ensuring that "he'll be back shortly."
That’s how you find yourselves with two cups of melted ice cream on a hill at the Gotham City limits.
“I am going to assume you wanted to discuss something more than ice cream flavors.”
His words cut through the otherwise stillness of the night. There's a sharpness to them that gives him away. He knows there's something more, something you're hiding.
“What? We can’t just get ice cream like old times?”
“When have you and I ever just gotten ice cream.”
Your face heats from memories of late nights that held better news, and of early mornings when you thought the world was yours for the taking.
You don't look at him. A silence falling over you both. He doesn't miss how you've grown a sudden interest in stirring your melted ice cream.
“I’m assuming it has something to do with your recent meeting on Oa.”
He doesn't phrase it like a question. No, it's a statement. He's giving you the opportunity to be honest with him, to be as bare with him as he's allowed himself to be with you. It's not like you've lied to him; you just go around news and opening up in different ways than he does.
Over the course of whatever it is you have with him, you've learned how to meet him in the middle.
“You never were one to miss anything, were you Dami?”
It's almost heartbreaking to see his walls start to go up. It's as if he's picked up a trowel and started laying the clay and bricks himself. After spending years breaking down the fortress of Damian Wayne, you can't quite hold back the sigh at how quickly he manages to build them back up again.
He stays silent, giving you the space to speak the words that will destroy the night.
“I’ve been reassigned sectors.”
The words don't sound right as they leave your mouth.
You never were skilled at giving bad news. They land somewhere in the inch that separates your shoulders; not quite meeting him, but not staying on your skin either.
“Ah…" his voice comes out too quiet, too small for the man that's speaking them.
You swallow, “yeah.”
The silence is almost devastating. You want to take the words back, pull them back into your mouth, and bury them so deep in your stomach that they'll never see the light of day. Anything to avoid this air neither of you can breathe in.
“For how long?”
You knew he'd ask, you bet yourself ten dollars it would be his first question, but a selfish part of you hoped he wouldn't. The sick part of you hoped he'd be angry enough to scoff and stalk away, if only to make this easier for you.
“How long?” he asks again, when you can't bring yourself to admit it the first time.
“That’s the thing,” your eyes meet his devastating green ones with a bittersweet expression, “I don’t know.”
“I-" his eyebrows pull together, "I don’t understand.”
“The sector I’ve been reassigned too has been having some… " there's a pause while you try to figure out how to phrase the disaster the guardians filled you in on, "well, political instability to put it diplomatically-“
He scoffs and rolls his eyes, annoyance seeping in, “And when have you ever been diplomatic?”
You shoot him a look and he just about glues his lips shut. He knew there were only certain lines he could cross before you constructed scissors to cut his tongue off, and he was starting to get close.
“-And one of their green lanterns recently passed away. So I was reassigned to it until further notice.” You swallow before dropping the bomb, “Possibly permanently.”
He turns to you in an instant, barely succeeding in concealing how appalled he is, “Surely Jordan-“
“Has no say, Dami.” your lips pull solemnly on your face. “I volunteered anyway. It was supposed to be just until the political environment stabilized, but I offered to stay after as well. It all depends on the new green lantern they’re assigned, they need someone experienced for the time being.”
“And why would you do that?”
He didn't seem to register anything after hearing you volunteered.
“Why wouldn’t I?” now it's your turn to get annoyed, “What do I have here, Damian? Realistically? What's here?”
He’s silent at the rhetorical question. You place the cup of melted ice cream on the grass next to you, before turning to him.
“I have an associates degree I got with a 2.5 GPA, a washed up figure skating career I gave up for the Corps, and a shit retail job that gives me no PTO, despite being an Assistant Manager.”
It was the obvious choice to volunteer. There wasn't a lot you had going for you on Earth. The corps wasn't exactly a top ten paying career.
“You have me.”
His voice comes out impossibly small. It almost doesn't sound like him. If you hadn't spent the better part of most nights listening to him recount stories he'd never uttered before, you wouldn't have recognized it.
Despite the sentiment being sweet, you scoff. He at the very least, has the decency to not act offended at your reaction.
“You do.” he attempts to reiterate the statement, as if it'll make it any more true than it is now.
“Damian, stop." you shake your head, tears fighting to break free from your lower eye lid, "you’ve never had a habit of lying to me before, don’t pick it up now.”
“I’m not lying.”
“But you’re not telling me the truth either.” his lips clamp together, the protest dying in his throat, “I’ve never had you- not completely anyway, and that’s okay. I've accepted it. I knew it when I decided to get involved with you. The mission always come first, right?”
He looks as if he’s been shot when you repeat those words to him. The same words he said to you all those months ago, when you asked him why you couldn’t be something more.
“It’s what I’ve always loved about you Damian, your dedication to this city, to the cause, to the people. I knew you were never going to pick me." you swallow the lump in your throat, he looks more broken than you've ever see him, "If it came down to the mantle or me, it would be the latter.”
It was the truth. There was no way to disguise it, no other way to dress it up. Deep down in places he doesn't want to think about, he knew it as well it as you did.
He almost hates how easy you accept it. There's a part of him he attempt to not dwell on, that hopes you would fight for him. Had you fought him on the decision at all, he'd like to think he could've made it work; the same way father did for Selina.
“I wanted to pick you.” he whispers into the night, almost like a secret- or an oath.
And that, that you do believe.
Just for a second, you let yourself imagine what it would’ve been like. What it would mean to be a priority in the life of Damian Wayne- to be his North Star. His eyes are boring into you; and behind the storm drowning them, you know he's picturing the same.
“I think we could’ve been good together,” you match his whisper, “you and me.”
“It would’ve been nice,” he agrees.
You see it all in his eyes. They held the portal to a reality you'll never have- a reality you would've traded everything away for.
And Damian sees it in yours: The future that could've been. The future you'll never have.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he looks away before deciding to bite the bullet and ask, “When is the earliest you would be back, if the sector is assigned a competent lantern?”
“The earliest?” you puff your cheeks with air, exhaling with an unsure expression, “Two years probably?”
He nods dutifully while you kick your feet against the grass, your eyes cataloguing him to memory.
“I will wait.”
“Please don’t.”
The response is instant, and his neck snaps in your direction. You’re not sure who’s heart breaks first when he notices your eyes are glassy.
“Please don’t wait for me," you try not to think too hard on how your words sound oddly like a plea, "I don’t know if I’ll be back in two years or at all. The last thing I want is for you to be waiting for something that might not happen." you swallow hard, taking a deep breath before telling him, "I want you find someone.”
“I won’t.”
“You will Damian." and for the first time all evening, you touch him. Your palm finds his cheeks and he squeezes his eyes shut, leaning into you. "You’ll find some nice sweet girl who’s going to love going to galas with you, who’s going to patch you up at four in the morning, and who’s going to be smart enough to help you with those anatomy studies of yours.”
He shakes his head as if he can will the thought away, “I don’t want that, I want you."
“And there’s nothing more in the world that I would love, than for that to be true.” you can tell in the way his eyes crack open, he hates that you don’t believe him, “But if you did want me, really did, in that way, I would already be yours. You would have already asked me, and we wouldn’t be doing this dance that we’ve grown accustomed to performing in the dark.”
He doesn’t say much after that and neither do you.
The rest of the night escapes you on that hill. He doesn't go back to patrol and can't bring himself to explain why. Sunrise greets you like an old friend that's come too early.
He doesn't move for a good while after you leave. He can't breathe right either.
It isn't until Todd finds him, he manages to stand up again. He wasn't sure what state he must've appeared to be in, because Grayson arrives shortly after as well. And for once, he doesn't mind the company of his two older brothers.
Neither of them say much, just sitting with him until he can bring himself to move on past the hill. He'll never tell them that he only got the courage to leave when the smell of you vanished, and the imprint you left on the grass was gone.
He still has your spoon from that night. It sits on a cup on his desk, the same one that holds his pens.
He still looks to the stars every night on patrol, thinking of you. Almost as if can will you to come back to him.
Because he’ll prove it to you one day.
He’ll prove it to you that he can pick you.
He’ll make sure you never doubt how much he loves you again.
Whether it is in this life or the next, Damian Wayne will wait for you.
But for now, he will love you from afar. Forever waiting for his favorite green star to shoot across the sky and land in his arms one final time.
Sun Wukong/The destined one (mostly relationship) headcanons!
The people have spoken and the people crave monkey business. So let's get down to it!
❤
Post journey Wukong is a wiser, stronger monkey, but don't let him fool you he's still a trickster at heart.
When you first meet, he has you refer to him as 'Great Sage'.
Earning the right to say his given name isn't so much a big moment as it is just him beginning to care for you. You slip up, whether it be because you were sick or injured or just not thinking, and he doesn't correct you. In fact he kind of likes it.
He doesn't make a big deal out of it, but if you watch closely you can see his tail twitch and his eyes lost in thought.
One character flaw you'll have to deal with, even when you're just friends, is Wukong thinks he knows what's best. He's old and wisened and POWERFUL; if he thinks he knows something will be best for you, he'll do it without so much as telling you.
Credit to Hanibalistic! Their one shot about Wukong and stealing an immortal peach for a mortal reader was perfect and exactly how I think he'd act! That impulsive, "I care about this person and will do what I think is best for them regardless of the consequences or their opinion" is very... him.
Hey, we all have our flaws. (Just don't tell him that.)
On the positive side, he wouldn't let a scratch befall you. At some point you'll stop instinctually defending yourself because of how safe you feel with him. Which is heavily ironic considering how often he himself will put you in dangerous situations just to pull a prank.
But besides your poor heart from getting scared so often, you have nothing to worry about. Wukong won't leave room for even one mistake to slip by him.
Expect him to never call you by your name, almost ever. He chronically tends to call people by titles or nicknames. From calling the tang monk, master, or how he'd call Bajie 'idiot' for most of the book- just expect something. He'd only refer to you by name if he were really serious.
Something I personally find really funny that isn't represented in many medias with him is that he's OLD. He's old as hell and he knows it. In the book he'll often refer to basically everyone as 'nephew' or 'little brother' which is oddly endearing and also really funny.
I feel as though most people don't utilize how heavy he is- even in movies and stuff. His staff is like thousands of pounds! You aren't moving him unless he wants you to. God forbid you end up cuddling. Even while resting I never think he'd put his full weight on you, but you'd definitely be stuck.
Will never refuse to help you, but will tease you endlessly for needing it. "Helpless little thing aren't you?"
His love language is gift giving and acts of service.
He's impulsive with words, but look at how he treats you and you'll see how he cares.
Considering his connections, expect to have the world at your fingertips. He'll never leave you wanting, you'll always be satisfied. There is no gift beyond his reach. Just be careful what you ask for, because he WILL get it one way or another.
He is a king, a leader- it's basically second nature to be serviced, and that's why it's so important how he acts toward you. For you, he stays vigilant, ready to catch you if you fall or feed you when you're hungry. For you, he'll carry you in his arms if you're tired. For you he'd put himself in servitude.
Monkeys also show affection to one another by grabbing at each other for attention, and grooming one another's hair.
I don't think he'd have any trouble getting your attention, he's very vocal! So he'd focus more on your hair. Don't be surprised if he randomly starts combing through with his fingers or just playing with it. It's calming for him, and another form of affection.
You've changed him for the better... And for the worse. He happier, more content and occupied (which is good for everyone). BUT, should you ever disappear or get stolen from him he would surely devastate heaven and earth to get you back. The last thing anyone needs is another, more wrathful, Wukong rampage.
Expect to get shown off at every convenience! You're his king/queen and he'll make sure everyone knows it.
You have the BIGGEST wedding. And I think the best part would've been the Chuangmen, which is a wedding game tradition, usually meant for the groom to prove his loyalty, devotion, and desire to marry the bride by completing tests made by her bridesmaids. There are a ton of really interesting Chinese wedding traditions that I would recommend reading about, but with the sheer power of Wukong, these challenges in particular could've been absolutely ridiculous!
Wukong isn't jealous, no that would be ridiculous, he has nothing to fear. That by no means doesn't mean that he doesn't get offended on your behalf. He's gotten upset at not being greeted properly, there's no way in HELL he doesn't get pissed if someone were to flirt with you. They're lucky if all he does is kill them.
Feel free to make fun of him for not being able to swim. He'll absolutely make you regret it, but do it anyway it'll be funny.
Am I the only one that thinks he'd be great with kids? 🤚
Like COME ON- the dude probably helps take care of the baby monkeys on his mountain. He tells them cool stories to get them riled up. Will lay down and let them play with his hair while you read or sing to him.
Give this man kids I dare you.
That's a topic for a different post 😌
Likes kissing you on the top of the head, will also lay his forehead against yours just to be close to you.
These two designs I really like for him! Y'all let me know in the comments which version is your favorite <3
💙
The destined one may look like Wukong, but they're certainly different in... most areas.
Being selectively mute makes things a good share more difficult to communicate with him than Wukong, but it has it's charms.
You'd just been... tagging along with him. He didn't mind, unlike the wolves and undead he'd been beating through, you proved no threat to him.
He figured you would just leave on your own- or die. But by some miracle even he didn't understand, you stuck by him through rain and dust storms alike. By the time you made it to the New West he felt obligated to keep you around.
For the first time since you started following him, you were actually in danger. And to both of your surprises, he dropped what he was doing to protect you.
Don't bother asking him why. Whether you do, or simply tell him thank you, he'll just wave you off. But you notice him walking closer to you than normal after that. No longer were you left to catch up with him while he sprinted off; he'd keep stride with you now, glancing at you every now and then.
He CAN talk, and he probably surprises you the first time he does. It's not even for something important. It's just one fateful night where you happen to decide to mess with his hair. You'd pull away after a moment and he'd rumble out a little, "Don't stop."
Now that you KNOW he can talk, it's even more annoying when he refuses to answer you.
He finds it amusing when you get frustrated with him about it. He can't help it. The whole time you're grumbling or ranting at him, he's just staring at you with his stoic face... thinking about how cute you are.
Feel free to give him a name. Not like he'll argue with whatever you pick-
But really, please call him something other than "the destined one". He'd never really needed a name before, but he'd treasure whatever you decide to call him.
He probably has a nickname for you too, he just only says it in his head...
Will click his tongue at you to get your attention. (Absolutely does the 'tsk tsk tsk' thing people do to call their cats)
Speaking of getting your attention- ^ remember how monkeys show affection by just kind of grabbing each other and squeezing and pressing their head against each other?
Yeeeeah. He's a touchy monkey. He won't ask for affection, so he kind of just does it himself. Will rub his head on you, not unlike how cats or rabbits do to mark things they like. Except he's just doing it to be affectionate.
Gets cuteness aggression and WILL just grab you.
If it wasn't obvious, his love languages are physical touch and quality time.
Doesn't need help putting armor on, but if you want to help he won't stop you. (The closeness makes his heart beat fast)
If you were ever both in a bad spot- being threatened and not in a place to put up a good fight, he'd cover your body with his and bare his fangs at whatever was trying to hurt you guys to intimidate it. (It probably wouldn't work- but it's an instinctual response.)
If your feet got cold in the snow in the New West he'd pick you up and let you rest on his back for awhile.
Likes when you rely on him like that, it makes him feel stronger. And besides it just "being his destiny", knowing you'll get hurt if he loses helps him focus during fights.
Terribly jealous individual.
The glare he would give someone is straight up deadly. Watch out for how his tail flicks around when he's irritated too 🤭.
Absolutely adores the sound of your voice, it could bring him out of a coma fr.
Doesn't mind being little or big spoon, he just likes cuddling. Wraps his tail around you when you do.
Always always makes sure you eat before he does, even though he's the one doing all the fighting.
Will let you win play fights (most of the time).
Hearing him laugh is the cutest thing ever I swear- It probably took you off guard the first time you manage it.
Doesn't know how to take compliments.
Probably short circuited the first time you complimented his appearance.
Very gentle, slow kisser. Likes having you in his lap, but will grab cheeky kisses every now and then too. Will tilt your chin up when you kiss, every time.
Art by @marcu-bug
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