AtomicGlitterBomb!!

"मेरे दिल का हर रास्ता तुम तक आता है।" “Every road in my heart leads to you.”

[atomicglitterbombb]

Masterlist's

©️Atomicglitterbombb.

Hi lovelies, Please don't plagiarize, repost, translate any of my works!

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Damian Wayne

[livanavier]

clack!

"..."

"..."

more movements and rustling until your squinted eyes meet the squinted eyes above you. the intrusive bright light from the night stand almost blinding.

"..what you *yawns* doin' down. there?"

you open your mouth to answer but rafayel makes inscrutable noise only drowsy, sleepy people would.

"cutie?" he adds.

"it's comfortable," whispering, you tug your blanket higher, covering yourself from his surprisingly intense gaze.

rafayel looks offended by that answer? comfortable? you sleeping on the floor beside his luxurious and plush king-sized bed?

he blinks repeatedly, trying to wake himself up and process if this is all even real at 2am.

"you mad at me? did i do something?"

"no. i promise it's just comfortable, raf."

"it can't be. 's not comf." a miserable huff leaves his jutted lips.

it's like he's glaring at you from above, on the edge of the bed. but barely trying. you calmly watch his next move, knowing he's likely refusing to sleep without you within his radius but contemplating if it's worth waking up with a sore back sleeping on the hard floor.

finally he grunts and slides off the edge of the bed. dragging his massive, shirtless figure off the bed. his arms bracketing your sides on the carpeted surface to stabilise himself as half of his body hangs off the bed. smooth like a snake following each of his knees.

one down. another down. then he plops right on top of you.

sighing in relief when he gets to inhale your scent, the tip of his nose drags across your warm skin as you giggle sleepily.

"stop." you scoot to make space for him. inviting him closer when you raise the blanket. rafayel happily invades your long gone personal space. now you're both covered in a shared blanket, shielded from the cold of the night.

"things i do for you," he mumbles, cuddling you tightly, his leg thrown over yours. "not that comfy, by the way."

"go sleep on the bed," you truly mean it. he doesn't have to trouble himself. it's just one of those nights where you need a quick change of pace. just because.

"shhh, sleep. 's late, cutie."

every part of your body calms, soothed in his warmth as his palm mindlessly pats your side. your mind ease back as the current of the sleep gently carries your consciousness away.

[mariiee568]

Someone PLEASE write for adult zuko

he looks too good in the movie

[distantlydreamingofwater]

Do you think when Talia sent Damian to live with Bruce she packed a masala dubba? Or just said "nah, you get salt, pepper and sadness".

[vivalabunbun]

On the complexities of relationships and words

Summary: For two people that love to read, words seem like a complex. 

Word Count: 13k (yeah… this is slow burn, might want to get a drink and snack)

Tags: Alhaitham x Fem!Reader, Slow Burn, Smut(r18+), NSFW, MDNI, Fluff, Angst kind heavy?, Modern AU, Omegaverse AU, A/B/O relationships, slow fic, marriage, arranged pairing, dubcon, themes about not liking yourself, TW: gender dysphoria (you don’t like your secondary gender), TW: Very vague and brief mentions to possible past domestic trauma, Jealous!alhaitham, slight yandere!alhaitham, mutual pining, miscommunication, breeding, biting, ruts, Alpha!alhaitham, Beta!reader. You agreed to the pairing due to tax benefits. A lot of references to literature. 

Authors note: This is my first attempt at slow burn and yeah… I got carried away. I want to explore how slow alhaitham would open up and how love can come from the mind instead of the heart. Enjoy.

Side Note: here is a little dabble 

Keep reading

[atomicglitterbombb]

The Thing About "Fine" (4)

OLDER! DAMIAN WAYNE X F!ALIEN!READER

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯  Summary: You've grown up with Damian, a have a bit of a crush on him. What happens when your best friend suddenly starts dating him after you told her you liked him?

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯  Damian & reader are 18+, NSFW (I mean it this time!!! this chapter has smut my loves!), Angst (but its lowkey word vomit) domestic fluff, Damian Speaks in Arabic (a LOT this chapter), reader speaks in Hindi like twice?, hurt/comfort.

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 Word Count: 4.7k Words.

Part 3 Masterlist Part 5

A week passes the way storms pass over the ocean.

Not all at once—but everywhere.

You learn, quickly, that grief can wear lipstick. That betrayal can smile back at you in fluorescent hallway light. That the body keeps score in places you didn’t know it could count: in the tightness of your throat when someone says dating, in the way your ribs ache when laughter lands too close to the bruise.

So you become good at fine.

You become devastatingly good.

You show up to training with your hair tied neat and your jokes sharpened bright enough to blind. You spar like nothing is wrong. You greet Rachel like you aren’t swallowing glass. You nod at Damian like the world didn’t tilt on its axis the moment he stood beside her and called it truth.

And the worst part is this:

Damian doesn’t stop watching you.

Not openly. Not in a way anyone could accuse. But you feel it— the way you feel heat near flame.

A presence. A line of attention pulled taut.

Sometimes you catch him looking when he thinks you won’t. Sometimes you catch him looking and he doesn’t look away, it feels like a dare—like he’s asking you to name the wound out loud.

You don’t.

You do what you’ve always done when the universe gets cruel.

You perform.

On day two, your cup shatters in your hand.

Not dramatically—no explosion, no heroic spectacle. Just a quiet, ugly crack as your fingers tighten around ceramic and your power answers the way it always wants to answer:

Break it down. Separate it. Solve it.

The mug becomes pieces like obedient little truths, and everyone laughs like it’s a party trick.

You laugh too.

Because laughter is what you do when your chest feels like it’s filling with sand.

Kori watches you after that. Softly. Like sunlight that refuses to abandon you even when you’re standing in shadow. Dick watches you like a man who knows what survival looks like because he’s lived it in too many shapes.

And Rachel—

Rachel watches you like she’s waiting for you to throw something.

You don’t.

You don’t throw anything except jokes and smiles and the occasional bright, harmless “I’m fine!” that lands a little too perfectly.

Damian speaks to you less than he used to.

But every time he does, the nickname slips out like a sin.

 “يا قلبي.” (yā qalbī — My heart.)

It’s always quiet. Always like he forgets the room exists. Like he forgets the world has rules.

And every time, it hits you somewhere behind the sternum— somewhere private.

You still don’t understand Arabic.

But you understand that it isn’t casual.

And you understand, with the dull horror of someone reading an omen correctly too late, that he hasn’t stopped calling you that even now. Even after her. Even after the announcement.

Like he’s either cruel—

or desperate.

By day five, you’re exhausted in a way sleep can’t fix.

Your body is doing the thing it does when it’s hurt: it tries to become useful enough to be unbreakable. You volunteer for extra patrol shifts. You organize supply drawers. You help M’gann with mission reports. You let Roy poke at you for entertainment and you laugh because it’s easier than letting silence ask questions you don’t want to answer.

And at night, when the Cave dims and the Tower settles into its hum, your thoughts become louder than your footsteps.

You tell yourself you’re over it.

You tell yourself you’re not the kind of girl who falls apart over a boy.

You tell yourself you are not a comet, desperate to be caught.

And then—because the universe loves irony like it loves war—

the Alfred invites you to dinner at Wayne Manor.

'Miss Y/N, it has been far too long. Please do give us the joy of your company for dinner at this old manor. Master Bruce won't admit it, but he misses you. As do I.'

— Alfred Pennyworth.

Not mandatory. Just… tradition. A ritual of family pretending the world isn’t always ending somewhere.

You go because Wayne Manor has always been safe.

Because Alfred’s tea tastes like mercy. Because the halls know your footsteps. Because Bruce’s quiet nods have always been their own kind of affection. Because Tim will argue with you about movies like it’s sacred duty. Because Jason will steal food off your plate and call it love.

Because you were raised by legends, and this place is one of the few corners of Earth that ever made you feel… cared for.

So you go.

You laugh at the table. You tell a story that makes Dick choke on his drink. You let Kori braid your hair at the end of the night like you’re still small enough to believe gentleness fixes everything.

And when the house starts to quiet, when everyone drifts to their rooms, you wander the hallways with a cup of Saffron Milk— a quiet comfort.

You turn a corner.

And your feet take you somewhere without permission.

A door. A familiar stretch of corridor. A muscle-memory path worn into you from years of being allowed to exist here.

Damian’s room.

You stop so abruptly it feels like you hit glass.

Your hand is already halfway raised— to knock, to tease, to slip inside the way you used to when you were younger and braver when the world hadn’t taught you this particular kind of cruelty.

You stare at the door like it’s a trap.

You shouldn’t be here.

You shouldn’t—

The handle turns.

The door opens.

And Damian stands there like the house conjured him on your mistake.

He’s barefoot. Hair damp like he showered and didn’t bother drying it properly. A black t-shirt clinging to his shoulders like the fabric knows it’s lucky to be there. The soft light from his room catches the sharpness of his face and makes him look unfairly human.

Unfairly beautiful.

He freezes when he sees you.

For half a second, something like relief flashes across his expression so fast you almost convince yourself you imagined it.

Then his gaze drops—automatically—to your hands.

To your wrist.

To your face.

To your eyes, like he’s searching for a crack in your smile he can finally name.

 “يا قلبي.”, he says, and it is quiet as a confession (yā qalbī — My heart.)

Your breath catches on the word.

You are so tired.

So tired of pretending the universe didn’t just make a joke out of you.

So tired of pretending your closest friends didn't betray you.

So, so tired of keeping up this lie.

You try to step back. You try to leave with dignity.

“Oh—sorry,” you say, brightness snapping into place like a mask you’ve worn so long, it won't come loose. “I didn’t mean to—habit. I was just—walking. Sleepwalking. Spirit-walking. Whatever.”

You turn.

His hand shoots out—fast, controlled—catching the edge of your sleeve.

Not your wrist. Not the bandage. Like he remembered not to touch where you hurt.

to late, he already punched a hole in your heart.

“Do not go,” he says.

It isn’t a request.

It’s a crack in the wall.

You stop anyway, because your body has always listened to him before your pride can argue.

You don’t look back yet. You keep your gaze forward, jaw tight.

“Damian,” you say carefully, “you’re dating Rachel. This is… inappropriate.”

Silence.

Then, from behind you—close enough that you feel heat—

“I am not,” he says.

You blink, and laugh comes out of you—one short, broken thing.

“Okay,” you say, forcing lightness into your voice like it won’t shake. “Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.”

His grip on your sleeve tightens by a fraction.

“Turn around,” he says.

You do.

And there it is: the way he’s looking at you like he’s been starving for a week and you’re the only thing on the table.

It should make you feel powerful.

It makes you feel terrified.

“Why are you calling me that?” you blurt suddenly, because anger is safer than heartbreak and you are running out of places to put the ache.

Damian’s brows knit. “Calling you what.”

“That,” you snap, gesturing like you can swat the nickname out of the air. “ قلبي (Qalbi). I looked it up.”

His expression goes still.

Dangerously so.

And something bitter twists in your throat because of course you would look it up—of course you would try to translate the one thing he gave you that felt private.

And now you’re standing here, eyes blazing with the kind of fury that only comes from pain you refuse to admit.

“It says,” you continue, voice rising despite yourself, “that you’ve been calling me your dog.”

Silence.

Then—so faint, so unbelievably out of place you almost miss it—

Damian blinks.

Once.

Twice.

And something like a sound almost happens in his chest. Not laughter. Not quite.

More like disbelief—caught between annoyance and the strangest, reluctant amusement.

“…No,” he says slowly.

You fold your arms, defiant, even as your throat burns. “Yes. Kalbi. you've been calling me that. no?” You, bite. Venom in your words.

His jaw tightens.

“It is قلبي (qalbi),” he corrects, clipped. “With a ق (qaf). Not a ك (kaf).”

You stare.

He steps closer, just enough that you have to tilt your head back to keep eye contact, just enough that the air between you becomes an intimate thing.

“كلبي (Kalbi) is ‘my dog,’” Damian says, voice low and precise like he’s teaching a lesson he never wanted to give. “قلبي (Qalbi) is—”

He stops.

Like the next words are dangerous.

Like saying them out loud will turn them into something irreversible.

Your heartbeat stutters.

His eyes hold yours, unflinching, and when he speaks again it’s quieter—rougher around the edges.

“My heart.”

The hallway goes very still.

You feel it—the way your body reacts before your mind can file it away. A warmth under your skin that has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with recognition.

You swallow hard.

“That’s… dramatic,” you whisper, and you hate how small your voice becomes.

“I am not dramatic,” he says immediately, which is a lie so obvious it almost hurts.

Your laugh comes out thin. “Right.”

His gaze flicks to your mouth, back to your eyes—like he’s warring with himself.

“You should not have had to search,” Damian says, and something in his tone shifts. Not stern. Not teasing.

Regret.

“Then you shouldn’t have said it like you were allowed,” you shoot back, and the mask cracks—finally, finally. “You shouldn’t have said it and then—then stood beside her like—like it meant nothing.”

His face tightens.

“Do you think it meant nothing,” he asks, quiet, “when I said it to you?”

Your throat closes around the answer.

Because that’s the problem.

It never meant nothing.

Not when he said it. Not when he looked at you like a vow. Not when he touched your bandage like he was memorizing your pain.

Not when he chose her in front of everyone.

You hate the tremor in your breath.

“I told her,” you whisper, anger curdling into something raw. “I told Rachel. I trusted her. I told her that I—”

You stop, because saying it out loud makes it real in a way you can’t undo.

Damian’s eyes sharpen.

“You told her?” he repeats, like the words are a key turning in a lock.

you whisper— like if you were say it any louder, it becomes real. "that I liked you."

Something flickers in Damians expression that you can't quite name. " You—"

Your laugh turns bitter. “Yeah. Because she’s my friend. Because I thought—” Your voice breaks, and you shove it back into shape with sheer will. “I thought she wouldn’t do this.”

Damian’s expression shifts—minute, precise.

Hurt. Not at you.

At himself.

“Rachel did not ‘do’ this to you,” he says, controlled. “I did.”

You stare, stunned by the admission.

He takes a breath like he’s bracing for impact.

Then he says it, finally—each word like a stone dropped into water.

“Rachel and I are not real.”

Your brain stalls.

The hallway tilts.

Your pulse pounds so hard you feel it in your teeth.

“What,” you say, and it doesn’t even sound like a question. It sounds like your body forgetting language.

Damian’s jaw works once.

He looks… angry.

Not at you. Not at Rachel.

At the world. At fate. At himself for having to say it this way.

“It is a ruse,” he says, too sharply, and then—like he realizes how that lands—his voice lowers. Softer. Still controlled, but less cruel. “A performance.”

You blink.

A laugh tries to climb out of your chest and dies in your throat.

“A—” You swallow. “A performance for what? For fun? For entertainment? Because Roy needed a hobby?”

Damian’s eyes flare.

“No,” he snaps, and then catches himself, shoulders tightening like he’s restraining a storm. “Because I needed certainty.”

The words hang between you.

You stare, mouth dry.

He continues, voice low, steady, like he’s testifying.

“You are warm to everyone,” Damian says. “You smile as if smiling is a law of nature. You touch people’s arms, you laugh, you tease—” His gaze cuts into you, unyielding. “And you do it so effortlessly that it makes it impossible to know when you are sincere.”

Your chest tightens.

“That’s not fair,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says immediately, like the admission costs him blood. “But it is true.”

He takes a step closer.

You don’t move.

You should move.

But you don’t.

“I asked you,” Damian says, voice quieter now, almost rough. “I told you I did not know if you meant it with me.”

Your throat burns.

“And I said—” you start, furious, “I said you were my friend—”

“And you said it,” Damian cuts in, sharp as a blade, “too quickly.”

Silence.

He exhales through his nose, and when he speaks again the anger has turned inward.

“I have been trained my entire life to anticipate threats,” he says. “To read deception. To measure loyalty.”

His eyes drop for a second—just a second—before lifting again.

“But you… are not a battlefield. You are not a tactic. And still,” he admits, voice low, “I treated you like one.”

Your heart twists.

Because you want to hate him.

You want to slam the door in his face and call it justice.

But this is Damian— the boy who learned art because you loved it, the boy who watched you like you were sunlight he didn’t deserve, the boy who called you my heart when he thought you wouldn’t understand.

“You used my friend,” you whisper.

Damian’s face tightens.

“Rachel agreed,” he says, careful, “because she believed it would force the truth into the open. She thought it would spare you uncertainty.”

A bitter laugh slips out of you. “Spare me?”

Damian’s eyes flash. “It was an error.”

A pause.

Then, quieter—almost like he hates that the words are gentle—

“I did not anticipate,” Damian says, “how much it would wound you to see me stand beside her.”

Your breath shakes.

“Because you don’t think about me,” you snap, the truth sharp enough to cut the air. “Not really. Not the way I—” You stop, because the rest is too naked.

Damian’s voice drops.

“I think of you constantly.”

The sentence lands like a prophecy.

You freeze.

His gaze holds yours like he’s finally decided cowardice is worse than pain.

" I think of you from the moment I wake to the moment I rest. I think of you and your brilliant smile, your vibrant eyes. I think of your voice, when you speak to me."

All that was on Damian's mind this week was you. You. YOU.

“I did not know how to ask for you,” Damian says, and there is something ancient in the confession—like a prince admitting the curse he’s lived under. “I did not know how to survive the possibility that you would say no.”

Your throat tightens.

“So you chose strategy,” you whisper. “You chose control.”

“Yes,” Damian says, brutal in his honesty. “And I was wrong.”

Silence stretches.

You stare at him, chest heaving, because your body wants to fall apart and your pride is holding it together with shaking hands.

Damian steps closer again—slow, deliberate. Giving you every chance to retreat.

You don’t.

He stops just short of touching you, like he’s afraid to take what he hasn’t earned.

“Tell me what you need,” Damian says, voice low. “I will do it.”

You laugh, wet-eyed. “I need you to undo it.”

He flinches—almost imperceptible.

“I cannot,” he says quietly. “But I can—”

His gaze flicks to your mouth again, and you hate that your body reacts to it.

“I can be honest now,” Damian finishes, rough.

Your heartbeat stumbles.

“Say it,” you whisper, because if he’s going to wreck you, you want it clean. You want it true.

Damian’s eyes narrow, like he’s choosing the blade that will hurt least.

“Rachel and I are not real,” he repeats. “And we never were.”

A pause—thin, trembling.

Then he speaks like he’s naming the only truth he trusts.

“I want you.”

The world goes quiet.

For one heartbeat, you are not a hero or a princess or a weapon in training.

You are simply a girl in a hallway at night, staring at a boy who has always been there like gravity, admitting he has been afraid of you in the only way that matters.

Your laugh comes out broken.

“You’re so unfair,” you whisper.

Damian’s gaze softens—just a fraction, just enough to feel like the sky cracking.

“I know,” he says. “But I am yours in the ways I am capable.”

Your throat aches.

You step forward before you can stop yourself.

Damian goes still—like he’s bracing for a slap.

Instead, you grab the front of his shirt and yank him closer, furious and shaking and so, so tired of pretending you don’t want him.

Your mouth crashes into his.

It isn’t gentle.

It isn’t careful.

It’s a collision—two storms deciding to become the same weather.

Damian’s hand comes up to your jaw, slow enough to be permission, careful enough to be reverence. He doesn’t deepen it until you do—until you tug him closer like you’re the one making the choice.

When you break apart, you’re both breathing like you’ve been running.

Damian’s forehead rests against yours for a second—too intimate to survive daylight.

“يا قلبي.”, he whispers again (yā qalbī — My heart.)

This time you understand it.

This time it hurts in the best way.

You swallow, voice trembling with the last scraps of anger you’re not ready to let go of.

“You’re going to fix this,” you say. “With Rachel. With everyone. With me.”

“Yes,” Damian says immediately.

“And you’re going to stop trying to manipulate the universe like it’s a chessboard,” you add, because you need to say it out loud.

His mouth tightens. “I will try.”

You huff a laugh through your nose, eyes stinging. “Try harder.”

Damian’s gaze drops to your lips again.

Then back to your eyes—steady, dark, devoted.

“Come inside,” he says, voice low. “Please.”

You hesitate, because the hallway is full of ghosts.

Because you can already imagine the morning. The explanations. The consequences.

Damian’s thumb brushes your cheek—gentle, grounding.

“I will not take what you do not give,” he says quietly. “But if you stay… I will not let you be alone with this.”

Your chest caves in on something soft.

You nod once—small.

Damian steps back just enough to open the door wider.

And when you cross the threshold, he closes it behind you with a sound that feels like fate choosing a different ending.

‎⋆⋅·༻𐫱༺·⋅⋆ ─────────────

His mouth finds yours with the same discipline he wears like armor—measured at first, as if he’s afraid of taking too much and being hated for it.

You take his lower lip between your teeth and bite, just enough to remind him you’re not fragile, not porcelain—just bruised in places no bandage can cover. Places, that will fix with time.

Damian’s breath stutters against your mouth.

“Say it,” he murmurs, voice rougher than you’ve ever heard it. “Tell me you want this.”

You swallow, eyes burning with everything you’ve swallowed for days, weeks, years. “I want you.”

His pupils flare like you’ve struck a match in a room full of gasoline.

“Again,” he demands—softly, lips trailing along your jaw dangerously. Not because he didn’t hear you. Because he needs to.

“I want you,” you repeat, and the words come steadier this time. “I’m here. I’m choosing.”

His forehead presses to yours for half a second, like a prayer he doesn’t believe in but can’t stop making.

“يا رب…”

he breathes. (yā rabb — Oh Lord…)

Then his hands slide to your waist—warm, sure—and he lifts you the way he moves through combat: controlled, precise, no wasted motion. He settles you back on the bed, and the mattress dips with his weight as he kneels between your knees, gaze locked to your face like he’s memorizing it.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” Damian says, and the tenderness in it makes your throat tighten. “Tell me to stop, and I stop.”

You nod, mouth parted, heart thundering. “Okay.”

His fingers hook under the hem of your shirt—slow, asking—and he pauses.

“May I?”

The question lands like reverence. Like worship. Like he’s undoing every brutal thing he’s ever been taught about taking.

You lift your arms.

“Yes.”

Damian exhales like it costs him restraint and slides the shirt up and off, eyes tracking every inch he reveals, as if he’s learning you anew. His gaze drifts down your body—not greedy, not dismissive—devout. He lowers his head and kisses the inside of your thigh, then higher, then higher still, each kiss placed with deliberate patience.

You shiver, hands fisting in the sheets.

He looks up at you from between your legs, lashes dark, mouth too close to where you’re already aching.

“Look at me,” he orders softly.

You do. Of course you do.

Damian’s thumb brushes along your hipbone like he’s tracing a boundary, and his voice drops—an admission he can’t quite swallow.

“يا قلبي…” (yā qalbī — My heart…)

The words hit you right under the sternum.

You catch his wrist and pull him up, like you can’t stand the distance, like you need to see him when he wrecks you.

Damian climbs over you, bracing himself on one elbow so he doesn’t crush you, and kisses you again—deeper this time, hunger finally allowed to be hunger. His hand cups your jaw, and his other hand slides down your side, over your waist, pausing at your thigh as if he’s still asking.

“Tell me,” he murmurs into your mouth. “Do you want my hand? My mouth? Or—”

“Don’t make me pick,” you whisper, breathless and half-laughing with nerves you can’t afford anymore.

Damian’s mouth twitches, almost a smile—gone as fast as it appears.

“تبّاً…” he exhales, like he’s cursing himself for how much he wants you. (tabban — Damn it…)

Then his hand slips between your thighs.

You gasp, hips lifting on instinct, and Damian stills immediately, eyes snapping to your face.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “Breathe.”

He spreads you open with the gentleness of someone handling a wound, not taking a prize—two fingers gliding through your slick, warm and slow. His thumb finds the sensitive point that makes your entire body jolt, and his gaze stays glued to yours as he learns you in real time.

You make a sound—small, broken—and Damian’s jaw tightens like he’s holding back violence, the kind that would be turned toward anyone who ever made you feel unwanted.

“Is this okay?” he asks, and his voice is strained, like asking is torture.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes—Damian—please.”

His name on your tongue does something to him. You watch it happen: his control slipping by degrees, his breathing going rough, his hand moving with more certainty—still careful, always careful, but no longer hesitant.

“Tell me what you like,” he murmurs. “قولي لي.” (qūlī lī — Tell me.)

Your nails dig into his shoulder through the fabric of his shirt. “That. Keep doing—Ah!—exactly that.”

Damian’s eyes darken, and his mouth drops to your neck, teeth scraping lightly over skin before he kisses the sting away. His fingers keep working you open, slow at first, then deeper—pressing into that perfect angle that makes your back arch and your breath turn into a plea.

“Damian—” you gasp, voice breaking. “I’m—”

“I know,” he says, voice low and wrecked. “I feel it.”

He watches you come apart like he’s never seen anything more beautiful, thumb relentless, fingers steady, mouth murmuring soft, filthy encouragement that feels like permission to stop pretending you’re okay.

When you finally shatter, you do it with your eyes open—staring straight into his.

Damian freezes for half a beat, like the sight hits him in the chest.

Then he curses, shaking.

“يا الله…” (yā Allāh — Oh God…)

He pulls his hand away slowly, like he’s afraid of overstimulation, and presses his forehead to yours while you tremble beneath him.

“Breathe,” he whispers. “I have you.”

You’re still chasing air when you catch his wrist and tug him down, needy and furious and soft all at once.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper. “Please.”

Damian’s throat works. He looks at you—really looks—and then his gaze drops, as if he’s checking that you’re still with him, still choosing.

“Condom,” he says, voice tight. “Wait—just—wait.”

He moves quickly, controlled even in desperation—reaching into a drawer, tearing open the foil with the impatience of someone who has never wanted anything this badly. He comes back over you, bracing himself again, careful not to jostle your bandaged wrist, like he remembers every place you’ve been hurt.

He strokes himself once, twice—then pauses at your entrance, breathing hard.

“Tell me,” he demands, eyes fierce. “Tell me you want me inside you.”

You swallow, still trembling. “I want you inside me.”

The words are barely out before Damian presses in—slow, slow, slow—like he’s terrified of hurting you, like he’s savoring the fact that you’re real and warm and here.

You gasp, hands clutching at his shoulders, and he stills immediately.

“Too much?” he asks, voice shaking with restraint.

“No,” you whisper, breathless. “Just—just… give me a second.”

Damian’s eyes soften, and he kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth—gentle little anchors while your body adjusts.

“Good,” he murmurs. “You’re doing so well.”

Then, when you nod, when you lift your hips like a yes he can feel—

He starts moving.

Not frantic. Not sloppy. Controlled thrusts that build like a storm you can’t outrun, each roll of his hips measured to the sounds you make—each little gasp, each shiver, each desperate “Damian” like a compass.

“You’re so—” he grits out, voice breaking. “So—beautiful.”

You laugh weakly, teary and wrecked. “You’re such a liar.”

His eyes flash. “I do not lie.”

He kisses you hard, like he needs you to believe him, and the bed creaks beneath the rhythm of him—steady, relentless, devout. His hand slides down between you again, thumb circling with the same precision that made you fall apart the first time, and you choke on a sob.

“Damian—”

“Look at me,” he orders, and there’s something pleading under the command. “Look.”

You meet his gaze, and it’s like staring into a vow.

“Mine,” he breathes, then catches himself—jaw tightening like he’s about to apologize for wanting you. “If you want to be.”

You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him deeper.

“I do,” you whisper. “I want—you.”

That does it.

Damian’s control slips. His thrusts turn harder, hungrier—not careless, never careless, but finally allowed to be desperate. He buries his face in your neck, breath shaking, and the Arabic spills out like a prayer he can’t stop.

“يا قلبي… يا حبيبتي…” (yā qalbī… yā ḥabībatī — my heart… my beloved…)

Your body tightens fast, the pressure coiling low and sharp, and you clutch him like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you loosen your grip.

“I’m gonna—” you gasp.

Damian’s hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye like he’s catching tears before they fall.

“Yes,” he whispers. “Come for me.”

You do—hard, shaking, your whole body pulling taut. Damian groans, bitten-off and broken, and drives into you through the aftershocks like he can’t stand the distance even for a second.

Then he chokes on a curse, hips stuttering.

“لعنة…” (laʿna — damn…)

He comes with your name like it’s a confession, like it’s the only truth he trusts.

For a moment, he goes still over you, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours, as if he’s holding himself together by sheer will.

Then the softness returns—immediate, almost startling.

Damian eases out carefully, disappears just long enough to dispose of the condom, then comes back and pulls you into his arms like he’s building a shelter around you. He tucks you close, hand splayed over your stomach, thumb tracing slow circles like a lullaby.

You’re trembling, spent, heart loud.

Damian kisses your temple.

“Are you alright?” he asks again—quiet, sincere.

You laugh, faint and wrecked, and press your face into his shoulder. “I’m… yeah. I’m good.”

His grip tightens, protective and warm.

“Good,” Damian murmurs. Then, softer than breath—soft enough it feels like a secret just for you: “يا قلبي.” (yā qalbī — my heart.)

‎⋆⋅·༻𐫱༺·⋅⋆ ─────────────

Part 3 Masterlist Part 5

‎⋆⋅·༻𐫱༺·⋅⋆ ─────────────

Taglist! (Don't hesitate to ask if you'd like to added ☺️):

@jaydensluv , @cattleray , @crueltyincups , @chevelledahuman , @ohiamdefpanicking , @starlight100 , @tediouslyboredoflife , @kooquetre , @stargirlcore75 , @mikyapixie , @leilei1907 , @fawis-theone .

[atomicglitterbombb]

The Thing About "Fine" (3)

OLDER! DAMIAN WAYNE X F!ALIEN!READER

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯  Summary: You've grown up with Damian, a have a bit of a crush on him. What happens when your best friend suddenly starts dating him after you told her you liked him?

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯  Damian & reader are 18+, NSFW, Angst (but its lowkey word vomit) domestic fluff, Damian Speaks in Arabic, reader speaks in Hindi like twice?, hurt/comfort.

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 Word Count: 2.3k Words.

Part 2 Masterlist Part 4

The briefing room helps.

It's cooler here, edges clean. A place designed for order, where everything becomes reportable, measurable, and therefore survivable. In this room, feelings have no clearance level. Facts are the only thing allowed to pass.

Kaldur moves through mission notes with that steady cadence he carries like a spine—calm not because he lacks emotion, but because he refuses to let it steer the ship. His voice turns chaos into sequence. Cause into effect. A beginning and an end you can live with.

Zatanna and M’gann trade quick, bright murmurs beneath their breath, as if humor is a charm against what might linger. Conner sits forward, attention taut as a drawn bow—like focus is a vow he takes personally. Roy tries to interrupt twice and gets clipped back into place twice, swatted down with practiced impatience.

You contribute when you should—fast, clean, useful. You hand over what’s needed and keep the rest behind your teeth.

Rachel speaks only when required. Precise. Anchored. Her words land like stones dropped into deep water: no splash, just weight.

Damian speaks less. But when he does, each sentence arrives stripped to bone—no ornament, no softness, nothing wasted. Not sharp for the sake of sharpness. Sharp like a blade that has never been allowed to dull.

They don’t look at each other often.

They don’t have to.

Some bonds aren’t built on glances. They’re built on alignment—quiet, effortless, already decided.

You keep your eyes on Kaldur. On the screen. On your notes.

Anywhere but the pattern your mind keeps tracing in the margins, connecting points it has no right to connect.

Kaldur finishes with a simple nod. “Good work.”

Chairs scrape. People exhale. The room loosens—like everyone was holding themselves together by the same thread and someone finally cut it.

Gar is on his feet immediately, all restless energy and teeth. “Training bay?”

You brighten on instinct, grateful for motion, for impact, for something that doesn’t require you to sit still inside your own skull. “Absolutely.”

“Partner drills,” he says, already stepping backward like he’s luring you into a better kind of distraction. “You’re with me.”

“Always,” you chirp—light, easy—anything to help the pit in your stomach.

The room begins to empty in a slow spill of bodies and noise. You’re halfway toward the door when Rachel’s voice catches you—soft, close, just behind your shoulder.

“Hey.”

You turn with your smile already assembled, like a reflex you polished until it shone. “Hey!”

Rachel’s gaze is the kind that doesn’t blink around things. It doesn’t chase expression. It reads the air you’re breathing.

“Can we talk?”

“Of course,” you say—too smooth, too quick. Like agreement can outrun consequence.

She steps into the hall. You follow, light-footed, bright.

The door clicks shut behind you, and the corridor swallows the noise like a mouth closing over a secret.

‎⋆⋅·༻𐫱༺·⋅⋆ ─────────────

Rachel doesn’t make a speech. She never does.

She stands there with a steadiness that isn’t dramatic, isn’t performative—just present. Like a guard at the gate, like an anchor dropped into dark water.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

You laugh, soft and airy. “Yeah.”

Her gaze doesn’t move. “You don’t sound like yeah.”

Your smile stays.

You don’t know how to take it off without feeling naked.

So you tilt your head and switch into Hindi as if it’s casual, as if language can be a curtain you draw between yourself and pain.

“तूने बताया नहीं.”

(tūne batāyā nahī̃ — you didn’t tell me.)

Rachel holds your gaze. There’s a pause—small, dense, full of unsaid things.

Then she answers, low, in Hindi, as if the words are a hand on your wrist.

“नाटक मत कर.”

(nāṭak mat kar — don’t be dramatic.)

Something sharp flashes up in your chest—an ugly, angry spark.

Don’t be dramatic, but you— You push it down before it can become a blade.

No. Rachel is your friend. You will not let jealousy turn you into someone you don’t recognize.

“I’m good,” you say, still smiling. “Promise.”

Rachel’s expression shifts—not into accusation, not into anger. Into something quieter. Something almost regretful. Because she isn’t trying to hurt you.

She’s just standing in the aftermath with you.

“I didn’t want you to find out like that,” she says softly.

Your throat tightens, quick and treacherous.

So you brighten again, like brightness can cauterize. “It’s fine.”

Rachel’s eyes soften, but she doesn’t let you slip away on charm. “You told me.”

Your heart drops—clean, sickening, like a trapdoor.

You keep your voice light anyway. “I tell you a lot of things.”

Rachel studies you, and you can feel the moment where she chooses restraint. The hallway is too public for grief. Too narrow for honesty.

“If you want space,” she says, “I’ll give it.”

You shake your head immediately—too fast, too desperate. “No. I don’t want space.”

Rachel holds your gaze like she’s committing it to memory. Then she nods once. “Okay.”

And then, without warning, your skin prickles.

Not because Rachel moved.

But because someone else arrived.

“Raven.” Damian’s voice cuts down the corridor, clipped and controlled. “Training bay. Now.”

Rachel doesn’t look surprised. She only nods. “I’m coming.”

Damian’s gaze flicks to you—brief, assessing, the way he looks at threats and variables that might become problems.

It lands on your smile and hesitates for the smallest fraction of a second.

Then he looks away like he despises the fact that he noticed anything at all.

It shouldn’t sting.

It does.

You brighten harder, because pride is a shield and you’ve worn it long enough to know where it fits.

“Training bay!” you sing. “Perfect timing.”

Rachel gives you a look—quiet, questioning.

You answer it with a wink, too cheerful to be wise. “Don’t take too long, lovebirds.”

Your mind chants, relentless: I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine— even as your ribs disagree.

“Kidding,” you add quickly, hands lifting in surrender. “I’ll see you in there.”

Damian’s jaw tightens, like he’s bitten down on something he wants to say. His voice is flat when it comes.

“Do not.”

You blink, still smiling. “Do not…?”

His eyes lock onto you—sharp, irritated, too direct. Like you’re a problem he didn’t plan for and doesn’t know where to put.

“Don’t make this into a joke,” he says, and the words sound costly, like they had to be dragged past teeth.

Your smile holds.

It trembles for one blink—just one—and you mend it so quickly it might pass for effortless.

“Copy that,” you chirp, breezy. “No more jokes. Scout’s honor.”

Damian looks like he’s reached a dead end and hates it.

Rachel steps past him first. You fall in beside them, light and bright and easy—

as if you aren’t walking back into a room full of people with a bruise no one can see, one which no one would know how to name if they did.

‎⋆⋅·༻𐫱༺·⋅⋆ ─────────────

The training bay is alive in the same way a storm is—motion everywhere, heat rising off bodies, and the air full of the clean, sharp scent of effort.

Bart is doing laps because Bart does not understand the concept of stillness—a blue-white blur with a voice loud enough to qualify as a siren. Cassie is wrapping her hands, knuckles snugged into place, smirking at something Tim has just said. Tim looks offended in that particular, practiced way that means he’s pleased with himself.

Kori crosses toward Cassie with a bright warmth and is immediately caught in the orbit of a “show me that move” conversation, hands already gesturing, eyes lit like she loves the language of bodies in motion.

Gar claps once—sharp, commanding. “Alright, sunshine. Partner drills.”

You pivot to him with a grin that arrives before you do. “Lead on, coach.”

“Agility circuit,” he says, bouncing lightly on his toes. “Two-person timing. Callouts, catches, reaction.”

He tosses you a small weighted ball. You catch it clean, hands sure—like your body remembers competence even when your mind is busy being haunted.

“Nice,” Gar says. “On my count.”

“Your count?” you tease. “That’s a terrifying level of authority.”

He grins, wicked with it. “Three—two—one—go!”

You move.

It’s good. It’s clean. It’s the kind of drill that asks for your attention in crisp slices—step, catch, pivot, pass, duck, recover—no room for thought, no space for the ache to rise and speak.

Perfect.

Your body does the work so your heart can stay locked behind its teeth.

“Left!” Gar calls, and you slip left.

“High!” and you catch.

“Behind!” and you pivot, laughing—

because laughter is easier than breath when you’re trying not to break.

Mid-turn, your foot clips a cone.

Not dramatic or cinematic. Just stupid—one careless inch, one small betrayal of balance. Your momentum stutters, you drop a hand to the mat to steady yourself, and the ball pops loose, thudding to the floor with an ugly finality.

For half a second, your chest tightens—embarrassment flaring quick and hot.

Then you straighten like nothing happened, grin already back in place as if you can outpace consequence with charm.

“Wow,” you announce brightly, “ten out of ten. A masterclass in athleticism.”

Gar snorts. “Poetry.”

Up on the catwalk, Nightwing’s voice drifts down, amused and warm. “Real smooth, Starshine.”

You shoot him a quick salute, bright as a flare. “I do my own stunts!”

Roy, from the wall, calls, “She’s method acting as a catastrophe!”

Artemis throws something at him, again. Without even looking.

You scoop the ball up, reset, keep moving.

Because if you stop moving, your mind will sprint right back to the one thing you’re trying not to touch.

Gar tosses again. “Focus, sunshine.”

“I am focused,” you chirp—and you are: on the rhythm, on the next pass, on the next step, on the physics of catching—

on anything but the quiet, sickening arithmetic of them.

“Hey.” Tim’s voice cuts in closer, dry as sand. “You wanna spar?”

You light up too quickly, grateful for a different kind of focus. “Yes.”

Tim’s mouth twitches. “Three rounds. Light.”

You gasp, scandalized. “Tim. I’m wounded.”

He gives you a look that could file taxes. “You should be.”

Gar points between you two. “Don’t break anything. I need her for the rest of my circuit.”

“I’m delicate,” you say to Tim sweetly.

Tim snorts. “You’re a hurricane in lip gloss.”

You laugh, delighted. “That’s the kindest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

You step into the ring and take your stance—bouncy, bright, sharp. A posture you know by heart. A language your body speaks fluently.

Tim moves first. Quick feint. Clean footwork.

You answer on instinct. You’re fast. You’re good at reading bodies—the shift of weight, the angle of a shoulder, the lie a stance tells before a strike.

It’s fun.

It’s easy in the way pain is not.

Tim feints again and your guard drops a fraction—

—and your power answers faster than you can.

A crackle at your fingertips. A ripple in the air, like static looking for somewhere to bite.

Tim’s eyes widen; he steps back hard. “Hey—”

You blink, startled, and clap your hands once like you can shake the spark right out of your skin. “My bad.”

Nightwing’s voice snaps down—firm, not loud. “Easy.”

You glance up and flash a quick thumbs-up. “Got it!”

Then you refocus on Tim, grin still pinned in place like a medal. “Round two.”

Tim studies you a beat longer than teasing requires. “You sure?”

You tilt your head, bright. “Tim, don’t get sentimental on me.”

“I’m not sentimental,” he deadpans. “I’m alive. Thank god.”

You laugh, and you go again.

From the corner of your eye, you see Damian shift—one step closer to the ring.

You do not look.

You do not allow yourself the indulgence of noticing his stupidly perfect profile, with his stupidly perfect nose, makes the world seeming arrange itself around his silence.

Because thats the thing, 

He still hasn't said anything to you. 

You who he confided to when he was missing his mother.

You who he came to when his father was disappointed.

You, who he had movie nights with, the both of you laughing at the stupidity of the characters on screen.

His eyes are on you, but are you sure his mind is?  

Rachel’s gaze lifts too—quiet, steady before moving to Damian.

Her hand touches his shoulder.

You still don’t look.

You keep moving. Keep smiling. Keep your guard up.

Because if you don't, you're not sure what you end up doing.

You love Rachel, you truly do.

But right now, you envy her to the point of nausea. 

And over the scuff of shoes and the soft thud of gloves, you catch Damian’s low voice to Rachel, his face dipped towards her ear.

And you try, you try so damn hard to not focus.

To not focus on him, him, him.

‎⋆⋅·༻𐫱༺·⋅⋆ ─────────────

Love is nothing if not a labyrinth the gods built for sport—and its cruellest trick is how it waits until the witnesses are gone.

It does not always strike at the moment of impact.Sometimes it is merciful enough to let you stand.

It lets you hold the room together with bright hands and brighter teeth. It lets you balance cups of water like a good girl, like a soldier, like someone impervious. It lets you laugh at Roy’s blasphemous jokes, trade barbs like coins, spar with Tim as though your ribs are not slowly learning the shape of a blade.

It lets you be useful.

And then it follows you back to the quiet.

It pads after you like a faithful curse, slipping beneath the door with the dark, settling into the corners of your room as if it has always lived there. It takes the shape of everything you refused to name—every glance you pretended not to see, every syllable you swallowed until your throat went raw with restraint.

It does not shout.It does not rage.

It simply reaches—two fingers, light as a blessing, precise as a verdict—and presses against the softest place in your chest.

Now, it says, without words. Feel it now.

Part 2 Masterlist Part 4

[shisuni]

Older Damian Wayne is so fine brah like yes king copy Dick’s hair style!!

bro grew out of the spikes and high fade lol

THE DIMPLEEE AHHHH

[atomicglitterbombb]

The Thing About "Fine" (2)

OLDER! DAMIAN WAYNE X F!ALIEN!READER

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯  Summary: You've grown up with Damian, a have a bit of a crush on him. What happens when your best friend suddenly starts dating him after you told her you liked him?

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯  Damian & reader are 18+, NSFW, Angst (but its lowkey word vomit) domestic fluff, Damian Speaks in Arabic, reader speaks in Hindi like twice?, hurt/comfort.

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 Word Count: 2.6k Words.

Part 1 Masterlist Part 3

‎⋆⋅·༻𐫱༺·⋅⋆ ─────────────

Damian ends up being called away for a task shortly after your walk. You end up making your way to the kitchen on your own.

Roy is already in the kitchen, rummaging through drawers like the Cave owes him a stipend.

“You know what we never prioritize?” he announces, voice bright with the conviction of a man about to be insufferable. “Post-mission cuisine. Debrief deserves snacks.”

Artemis ghosts in behind him and plucks whatever he finds first with the casual efficiency of a thief who calls it “necessary.”

“That’s because you treat ‘debrief’ like it’s a seasoning.”

“It is,” Roy says, offended you’d question his expertise. “A complex profile. Notes of triumph. A hint of trauma.”

Gar collapses onto the couch like he’s been struck down by a melodramatic god, limbs flung wide, eyes to the ceiling.

“I’m never leaving this building again,” he declares. “I’m taking up photosynthesis. I will be a potted plant.”

Zatanna flicks her fingers, amusement sparkling like stage light. “Then we’ll have to rotate you so you don’t grow lopsided.”

“I’m low maintenance,” Gar insists, immediately reaching for a soda with the urgency of someone who is, in fact, high maintenance. “Mist me occasionally. Compliment my leaves. I’ll thrive.”

You laugh—easy, bright, practiced—letting your shoulders unhook the way they do when you pretend you’re not still carrying the mission behind your ribs.

Koriand’r crosses the room like sunlight deciding where it wants to be, and she pulls you into a hug that smells like warmth and safety and a world that hasn’t learned cynicism yet.

“You did so well!” she says, proud and glowing.

You grin up at her. “I do my best to be charming and useful. It’s a difficult burden.”

Kori’s smile turns soft and knowing, and she tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that makes something in your chest loosen.

Across the room, Nightwing speaks quietly with Kaldur—voice low, hands moving like he’s smoothing the air itself. You catch his eye. Two fingers lift in a silent, You good?

You give him an airy thumbs-up.

He smiles.

And then—

Rachel steps in.

Not first. Not last. Just… present, like a shadow deciding it belongs in the light.

Damian is half a step behind her, close enough to be a choice, distant enough to be deniable.

They don’t touch.

They don’t smile.

It’s nothing you can circle and underline and call proof.

It’s smaller than that—more dangerous, because it’s quiet.

It’s the way they enter like they’ve already agreed on where they’ll stand. It’s the way Damian angles his shoulder so Rachel doesn’t have to slip past Roy’s sprawled legs. It’s the way Rachel’s gaze flicks to him—brief, checking—and he shifts without looking, like he heard the thought anyway.

Your smile doesn’t change.

It just tightens at the edges, like a ribbon pulled too hard.

Rachel wouldn’t.

She wouldn’t— it doesn't even make sense. The mission must have overfried your brain.

You hate yourself for thinking it, because you told her. You told her like the confession was a sacred thing. Like naming it could make it safe.

She wouldn’t— she's one of your best friends.

Roy, of course, notices immediately. Roy notices everything that can be turned into a spectacle.

His eyes dart between them—too close, too aligned, too something—and his grin sharpens into a weapon.

“Well, well,” he sings, delighted. “Is this new? Did I miss the formation of a terrifying power couple?”

Rachel’s eyes slice to him, flat as a blade. “Roy.”

Damian doesn’t react.

Which, unfortunately, is its own kind of reaction.

Gar sits up like a dog hearing a treat bag crinkle. “Power couple? Wait—are we doing romance? Because I love romance.”

Artemis makes a sound that means I’m not touching this with a ten-foot pole.

Zatanna’s eyes glitter.

Kori’s gaze moves between them, curious but careful, like she’s reading a weather change.

You laugh lightly, because laughter is what you do when your chest feels like it’s filling with sand. “Roy, can you stop lighting matches in a room full of gasoline?”

“I’m not starting a fire,” Roy says, hands up, innocence worn like a joke. “I’m starting a conversation.”

“A conversation you will lose,” Rachel murmurs.

Roy barrels on anyway. “I’m just saying—you two have been… weird.”

Silence. A thin, sharp beat.

Damian turns his head a fraction—slow, precise—like a blade deciding where it wants to land.

“We have done nothing.”

Roy’s grin widens. “That’s what they all say.”

Rachel’s expression doesn’t crack, but her fingers tighten around the hem of her sleeve—once, quick, controlled.

Damian notices.

Of course he does.

He shifts—still not touching her, just enough to place himself between her and the room without making a show of it. A small movement. A nothing movement.

A something movement.

Your laugh comes out again—bright, pleasant—like a bell with a hairline fracture you’re praying nobody hears.

“Okay,” you chirp, stepping forward like you can steer the room with sheer charisma. “If we’re hosting commentary hour, I motion that Roy be banned from public speech indefinitely.”

“Cruel and unusual,” Roy says, delighted.

Gar points at them, practically vibrating. “No, but seriously—are you guys—”

“Gar.” Nightwing’s voice cuts in gently from the side, calm enough that it makes people stop without realizing they obeyed. “Don’t.”

Gar’s mouth snaps shut.

Roy, naturally, is unstoppable.

“You’re telling me you haven’t noticed?” he says, to Artemis, to Zatanna, to the ceiling. “They show up together, disappear together, stand together—”

Your brain stops.

Is this why he's been acting so weird recently? 

“We do not disappear,” Damian snaps—sharp enough to still the room.

And there it is.

Not flirtation.

Not romance.

Just Damian—controlled until he isn’t.

Rachel inhales—quiet, steady. Her eyes flick up to him, a silent question shaped like restraint.

Damian’s jaw works once.

He looks at Dick. Then Kaldur. Then the room—measuring the distance between rumor and reality, deciding which he despises more.

“Enough,” he says.

Roy’s eyebrows climb. “Oh?”

Damian doesn’t look at Roy when he speaks again.

He looks straight ahead, voice clipped, almost formal—like he’s submitting evidence to a court he never wanted to attend.

“Rachel and I are together.”

The room reacts like a wave breaking.

Gar makes a small, strangled noise of pure shock. Zatanna’s eyes go wide. Conner blinks like he’s recalculating everything. M’gann’s hand flies to her mouth.

Kori tilts her head, slow—processing.

Dick goes still in that particular way he does when he realizes he misread something important.

And Rachel—

Rachel’s face stays composed, but she steps half a pace forward, beside Damian now, not behind him.

“We’re dating,” she says calmly.

Just the words. No flourish. No performance.

Your lungs forget their job for one idiotic second.

Because your brain does what it always does when something doesn’t fit: it tries to force the world into a shape that hurts less.

Rachel wouldn’t.

Damian was just—

But they’re standing there.

Side by side.

Like it’s been true longer than you can bear to imagine.

Your smile is still on your face.

You can’t even feel it.

“Oh,” you say—bright, effortless, as if your body is performing joy on instinct. “That’s… that’s wonderful!”

Your laugh slips out, light and airy, and you hate how well you can fake it. Like you’ve been practicing this exact kind of survival your whole life.

“You two—” you add, tilting your head like it’s easy, like it doesn’t cost you anything, “you make a gorgeous pair.”

Gorgeous. Pretty. Safe words. Words that don’t break.

Rachel’s eyes meet yours.

For a heartbeat, her composure falters—not guilt, not quite. Just something soft, unsettled. A shadow of apology that doesn’t know where to land.

You don’t let yourself hold it.

You step forward, because you are supportive. You are bright. You are the kind of person who claps at other people’s happiness, even when your own throat is burning.

“Congratulations,” you say, voice warm like honey poured over glass. “I’m really happy for you.”

True enough to not be a lie.

Carefully untrue enough to keep you standing.

Damian’s gaze flicks to you—quick, unreadable—

then gone.

You pivot toward Roy with a grin that shows teeth. “Not one more word from you.”

Roy opens his mouth anyway.

Artemis elbows him so hard he wheezes.

Kori drifts closer to your side, like she’s felt the shift in your frequency even if she can’t name it. Her hand hovers near your back—present without pity, steady without asking.

You keep smiling.

You keep being you.

“Okay!” you chirp, clapping once like you can reset the room with rhythm alone. “I’m grabbing water—does anyone want anything?”

Gar raises his hand weakly. “A new personality.”

Zatanna points at him. “And a support group.”

You laugh, because laughter is an excellent disguise.

And you leave before anyone can see your eyes betray you.

‎⋆⋅·༻𐫱༺·⋅⋆ ─────────────

The corridor is quiet in the way a cathedral is quiet—too wide, too clean, too holy for the kind of mess you’re carrying.

The Cave behind you feels like its own weather system: bright voices, clattering bottles, Roy’s laughter ricocheting off metal like it owns the place. Out here, the silence presses close, intimate as a hand at the nape of your neck.

You walk like you’re not bleeding anywhere important.

Your steps are light. Measured. The sort of control you practice until it becomes instinct—until you can hold yourself together on muscle memory alone.

The water station hums softly. A small, ordinary sound. An anchor. You reach for a cup, then a second, because giving other people things is easier than admitting you want anything at all.

You fill them.

Your hand betrays you at the last second—just a tremor, barely there, but enough to send rings across the surface. The water shivers like it knows something you don’t.

You stare at it as if it might offer an answer.

Rachel wouldn’t.

Except—she did. Or she didn’t, and this is some ridiculous misunderstanding you’ll laugh about later, and you’ll feel silly for letting it sink its teeth into you—

No.

Your thoughts keep returning to the same bruise, prodding it like a tongue finding a chipped tooth. Again. Again.

Maybe it’s not what it looks like. Maybe Roy pushed too far and they decided to play along. Maybe—

But Damian doesn’t perform. Not for an audience. Not for a joke.

And Rachel… Rachel doesn’t say things she doesn’t mean. Rachel doesn’t stand beside someone and let the room build a story around her unless she intends to live in it.

And you—

You told her.

You told her, softly, carefully, like you were placing something precious in her hands and trusting she wouldn’t drop it. You told her you liked him, and you tried to laugh it off, tried to make it sound small enough to survive.

Your throat tightens with the delayed cruelty of realization, sharp and sudden—like your body is finally doing the arithmetic your mind’s been avoiding.

You take a sip anyway.

The water tastes like nothing. Like metal and air. Like a neutral thing that refuses to take sides.

You swallow it like swallowing could make you steady.

Down the hall, laughter rises again—Roy’s, probably—bright and careless, the sound of someone who hasn’t just had their ribs rearranged by a sentence.

You breathe out, slow. A controlled exhale, as if you can coax your heart back into behaving.

Then you pick up the cups.

You turn back toward the noise like you’re returning to a stage, like you know your marks, like you can wear “fine” the way you wear lip gloss—shiny and convincing and easy to reapply.

Your smile starts rebuilding itself before you even reach the doorway.

Brick by brick. Pretty. Practical. Unforgiving.

‎⋆⋅·༻𐫱༺·⋅⋆ ─────────────

You return with the water the way soldiers return from burning fields—upright, steady, smiling as if the smoke never found your lungs.

As if your world hadn’t just been tipped, clean off its axis, in front of an audience that would call it entertainment.

Cups balanced in both hands. Shoulders relaxed by sheer force of will. A brightness arranged over your face like a veil.

“Hydration,” you sing, lifting the cup like a ceremonial offering. “Come receive your blessings. Who among you intends to be virtuous today?”

Gar’s arm shoots up with the urgency of a man auditioning for sainthood. “Me. I’m virtuous. I’m the picture of responsibility.”

Artemis doesn’t bother looking at him. “You announced—out loud—that you were retiring from society to become a houseplant.”

Gar points at her, scandalized on behalf of all potted life. “And what do plants require to thrive, Artemis? Water. Love. Occasional praise.”

Roy steals your extra cup like the kitchen is his inheritance. “I’m responsible too,” he declares. “Responsible for team morale and the ongoing cultivation of chaos.”

“You’re responsible for my premature crow’s feet,” you chirp, sweetness sharpened to a blade. “I’m going to invoice you.”

Zatanna leans toward M’gann, delighted and theatrical. “She’s lethal.”

M’gann’s smile blooms, unabashed. “I adore her.”

Kaldur arrives with the inevitability of tide and duty, voice smooth as a gavel. “Debrief in five.”

The room answers with a chorus of outrage, as though he’s asked for blood instead of accountability.

Roy collapses onto the counter like a prince exiled from his own court. “Kaldur,” he laments, “how can you be so elegant and so merciless?”

Kaldur’s expression doesn’t shift. “Thank you.”

It lands perfectly—dry, precise—and laughter ripples through the room, real enough to make everything briefly resemble normal.

In the movement, Kori glides close, warmth threaded through the chaos. She doesn’t ask you anything. She doesn’t make a spectacle of kindness. She simply presses a neatly wrapped protein bar into your palm like a secret, like a lifeline.

A small mercy, disguised as nothing.

You tuck it away with a bright little gasp. “You’re a saint.”

Kori’s smile softens, sunlight filtering through shutters.

Above, on the catwalk, Nightwing rests his forearms on the railing, gaze sweeping the room with that easy vigilance—watchful without hovering. When your eyes flick up, he gives you a glance that feels like a silent hand at your back.

A quiet check-in.

Good. Still standing. Still you.

And then—because your eyes have always been traitors and your mind has never known peace—you see them again.

Rachel and Damian, farther back, where the noise thins into edges.

They aren’t touching. They aren’t putting on a show. There’s nothing to point at and brand as proof.

It’s smaller than that.

It’s the way they occupy the same pocket of air like it belongs to them. The way the space between them looks… claimed. The way quiet becomes a kind of intimacy.

Your smile stays in place anyway.

Because your smile is an old habit—stubborn, well-trained, almost indestructible.

Roy notices, of course. Roy lives for the fault lines in other people. He tilts toward you with a grin that begs to be punished.

“Should we chant for it?” he stage-whispers, bright with menace. “A kiss, perhaps? For morale?”

You beam, all sugar and threat. “Roy, I will staple your mouth shut and call it community service.”

He clutches his chest like you’ve wounded him mortally. “Violence in the common room?”

“Accountability,” Artemis corrects, and flicks a towel at his face without breaking stride.

Roy catches it, grinning like that was the reward.

You laugh with them. You always do.

Because laughter is easier than bleeding in public.

Part 1 Masterlist Part 3

[atomicglitterbombb]

The Thing About "Fine" (Masterlist)

Older!Damian Wayne x F!Alien!Reader : The Thing About "Fine"(Masterlist)  Summary: You've grown up with Damian, a have a bit of a crush on him. What happens when your best friend suddenly starts dating him after you told her you liked him?  Damian & reader are 18+, NSFW, Angst (but its lowkey word vomit) domestic fluff, Damian Speaks in Arabic, reader speaks in Hindi like twice?, hurt/comfort. (0) , (1) , (2) , (3) , (4) , (5) ,

[atomicglitterbombb]

The Thing About "Fine" (1)

OLDER! DAMIAN WAYNE X F!ALIEN!READER

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯  Summary: You've grown up with Damian, a have a bit of a crush on him. What happens when your best friend suddenly starts dating him after you told her you liked him?

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯  Damian & reader are 18+, NSFW, Angst (but its lowkey word vomit) domestic fluff, Damian Speaks in Arabic, reader speaks in Hindi like twice?, hurt/comfort.

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 Word Count: 2.3k Words.

Part 0 Masterlist Part 2

‎⋆⋅·༻𐫱༺·⋅⋆ ─────────────

Your phone buzzed twice—quick, insistent—like whoever was reaching for you had never believed in the mercy of a single text.

You didn’t look right away.

Not on purpose, but because you were sitting on the edge of your bed with your forearms on your thighs, staring at the bandage around your wrist like it had committed a personal offense.

It hadn’t even been a bad spar.

Not technically.

But “not technically” didn’t stop pain from blooming when you flexed your fingers, and it didn’t stop the scene from looping behind your eyes like a curse that loved its own repetition: the moment your balance slipped, the moment you overcorrected, the moment the world tilted— and your power, faithful as a bad habit, tried to solve the problem in the only way it knew how.

Break it down. Separate it. Reduce it.

Easy.

And if you hadn’t been staring at that stupid boy, at those infuriating green eyes bright like—

Your phone buzzed again. DING.

You exhaled through your nose, like patience was something you could measure in breaths, and finally checked.

DICK 💙: u alive 🤨 DICK💙: please say yes i hate paperwork DICK💙: also before you get dramatic, “alive” includes “mildly annoyed” and “tired” AND “hair wash day”

A smile threatened to bloom on your face. You let it—barely. Harping on your injury will do you no good.

You typed with your good hand.

YOU: I’m alive YOU: Unfortunately YOU: What do you want? 🤨

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared—like he was pacing on the other side of the screen, rehearsing chaos.

DICK💙: Wow. that’s the spirit. DICK💙: Okay. A brief call? two minutes. promise. DICK💙: (if i lie you can kick me in the ribs during training. fair?)

You stared at it a beat too long, thumb hovering. Because the careful part of you—the part that counted outcomes like rosary beads, prayers you didn’t believe in but recited anyway—heard ‘during training’ and immediately pictured the bay: the mats, the scoreboards, the familiar burn in your lungs, and the way your heart always got too loud when a certain emerald gaze followed you.

He’s been acting weird, avoiding you.

You told yourself you were fine, Cool as a cucumber. It didn't mean anything, he might just be busy.

It couldn’t possibly—

You hit call.

The line connected on the second ring.

“Hey, trouble,” Dick said, voice warm in that maddening way that made annoyance feel like a costume you couldn’t keep on.

“Ew,” you answered on reflex. “Don’t call me that. I’m super helpful, thank you very much.”

“You’ve earned it,” he said, amused. “You know how many times I’ve had to convince Bruce that recruiting you was a good idea?”

You rolled your eyes, but your shoulders loosened—just a fraction, like your body recognized him as safe before your pride could argue.

A smile cracked through. “What’s the reason for the sudden call?” you asked, trying for sharp and landing somewhere closer to soft.

Dick hummed, like he was flipping through a mental file he’d already labeled Disaster. “Okay, sunshine. Two minutes. Ready?”

“Mhm.”

“Mount Justice in twenty. Briefing got moved up. Kaldur wants a clean sweep—quick in, quick out. No heroics.”

You snorted. “We’re literally heroes.”

“Yeah,” Dick said, grinning through his voice, “and that’s why it’s a rule.”

There was a beat—footsteps in the background, a door, the low murmur of comms like distant thunder.

Then Dick’s voice dropped, still playful, still chaotic—just quieter, like he knew exactly where to press without bruising you.

“And before you ask,” he said, “yes. A certain wayne may be waiting for you when the job's done~.”

Your grip tightened around the phone without permission. You didn’t move your wrist, it was still furious with you, but your fingers curled anyway, like your body wanted to hold onto something it wasn’t allowed to name.

“I didn’t ask,” you said, too quick.

“I know,” Dick replied coyly. “You never do.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you shot back, “Let’s get this over with.”

And you hung up, cheeks fuming. 

‎⋆⋅·༻𐫱༺·⋅⋆ ─────────────

The zeta-tube spits you out like an afterthought—blue light, heat, and that brief, weightless moment where your stomach forgets gravity exists.

The mission wasn’t a disaster. Nobody’s bleeding out. Nobody’s dead. Nobody’s name will be etched anywhere permanent.

But it wasn’t clean, either.

It’s the kind of “fine” that clings to the skin. The kind that leaves adrenaline in your veins and makes everyone talk just a fraction too loud, as if volume could bully the unease into leaving.

You step off to the side with your notes, head down, shoulders loose by force of will. You read. You tally. You file the mission into clean lines: beginning, middle, end. Because if you can make it orderly, it can’t be haunting.

Just as you finish, you feel it: a presence behind you.

Not loud. Not announced. Not the kind of attention that wants applause.

A shadow that knows you.

 “يا قلبي.” (yā qalbī — My heart.)

The words are unfamiliar—soft consonants, warm vowels—spoken like a habit that slipped free before it could be caught.

You don’t understand the language.

But you understand the way it lands.

Not as command. Not as critique.

As something intimate, you've always assumed it was familial to some degree.

You turn, already smiling.

“Damian!” you beam, relief bright and immediate. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”

He’s there the way he always is—too composed to be casual, too quiet to be harmless, as if the universe sharpened him on purpose and then set him down among ordinary people to see who would bleed.

His eyes flick over you once, fast as one would draw a blade.

Your face. Your posture. Your hands.

They pause, microscopic—at the bandage on your wrist.

Then his gaze lifts again, and his voice is clipped enough to pretend it isn’t worry.

“It has not been ages.”

You scoff, offended on principle. “It has been forever. Gotham Academy Damian would never abandon me like this.”

His mouth tightens.

Not a smile.

But the ghost of something that almost qualifies.

“Gotham Academy Damian,” he says, dry, “was burdened with your constant commentary.”

“Excuse you,” you gasp, clutching your chest like you’ve been struck in a duel. “My commentary is a gift. A public service.”

“A natural disaster,” he corrects, eyes narrowing like he’s measuring you and finding you unsafely familiar.

You lean in, grin sharpened with mischief. “Oh my god. You missed me.”

“I did not say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” you sing. “Your face did.”

His gaze hardens—reflexive, automatic—like your ability to read him is an insult to his entire brand.

“You are imagining things.”

“Sure,” you hum. “And you definitely didn’t just say something in a language I don’t speak like you were—what—casting a spell?”

His eyes go still.

For one half-beat, something flickers—annoyance, maybe, or the faintest edge of being caught doing something human.

Something, he wasn’t supposed to do.

“It was nothing,” he says.

You tilt your head, playful. “Mm. You say it to me all the time. Plus—It sounded pretty.”

His jaw works once.

Then his gaze drifts past you, just briefly, to the room beyond, where people are moving and laughing in tandem.

You follow his glance without thinking, because your eyes have always been curious. Hungry to see the world from his view.

And you catch it—him watching her.

Raven?

You blink, the smile still on your mouth because you’ve trained it there.

“Anyway,” you say, too bright, “how have you been? You’ve been acting weird.”

His eyes snap back to you.

“Weird,” he repeats, as if tasting the word and finding it beneath him.

“You know,” you press, cheerful as a knife in silk, “avoiding me. Vanishing. Appearing only in the distance like a tragic prince in a painting.”

“I have not been avoiding you.”

You lift your brows. “Damian.”

He doesn’t flinch.

You take one step closer, grin widening. “Damian Wayne.”

His gaze narrows like you’re a tactical problem.

“You are dramatic.”

“I am accurate,” you correct sweetly. “And I have missed you.”

That last part slips out softer than you intended—still bright, still you, but threaded with something honest enough to make your throat feel too small.

His eyes hold yours.

A second.

Two.

Like he’s weighing something.

Then—very quietly, as if he hates that he’s about to ask—

“Are you injured?”

You blink, startled by the directness.

“Oh,” you laugh, waving your bandaged wrist like it’s a party favor. “This? No. Barely. Just—stupid spar stuff. I’m fine.”

His gaze drops again, sharp and unsparing.

“Show me.”

You freeze, half amused, half affronted. “Show you—what? My wrist? Mister Wayne, at least buy me dinner first.”

His eyes lift, flat. “Do not.”

You grin, because you can’t help it. “There it is.”

“There is what.”

“That tone,” you say, delighted. “The one that makes everyone in the room instantly behave. I forgot how bossy you are.”

He doesn’t answer that.

Instead, he steps in—close enough that your breath catches without your permission—and reaches for your wrist.

His fingers are careful.

Not the way a medic is careful.

The way someone is careful when they’ve memorized what hurts you.

His thumb brushes the edge of your bandage, light as a whisper.

Your pulse jumps. Annoying. Unasked-for. Treacherous.

You swallow, still smiling because you don’t know what else to do with your face.

“Damian,” you murmur, playful but quieter now, “it’s really not that bad at all.”

His eyes lift to yours, and something in them tightens—not anger, not cruelty.

Something else.

Something that looks an awful lot like restraint.

“You are always ‘fine,’” he says, voice low. “Will you continue to play pretend even when you clearly are not? You are injured.”

Your grin wobbles.

You patch it fast.

“I’m fine,” you repeat, breezy. 

He releases your wrist as if letting go costs him discipline.

Then he says, too casually to be casual—

“Is that how you are with everyone?”

You blink. “Huh?”

He doesn’t look away.

“Like this,” he clarifies, each word clipped clean. “Smiling. Teasing. Acting as if nothing can reach you.”

Your laugh comes out easy, because you’re good at easy.

“Damian,” you say, fond and baffled, “I’m like this with… air. I’m like this with plants.”

His gaze doesn’t soften.

It sharpens.

“Answer.”

You stare at him, suddenly aware that your joking isn’t landing where it usually does.

You tilt your head, trying to keep it light. “Why? Are you taking notes? Trying to learn how to be personable?”

His mouth tightens.

A pause—thin, taut, dangerous.

Then he says it, finally, like it’s a confession he hates that he has.

“I do not know,” Damian admits, quiet, “if you mean it with me.”

The words hit like a thrown blade—clean, precise, impossible to pretend you didn’t feel.

Your breath catches.

Your smile holds on by habit alone.

“Mean what?” you ask, and you hate how small your voice goes around the edges.

His eyes flick down, then up again—like he refuses to let himself be cowardly.

“Your warmth,” he says. “Your attention.”

You stare.

For one moment, you are not a comet pretending to be a normal star.

You are simply a girl standing too close to a boy who has always been there—quiet as gravity, constant as a vow. And realizing, the universe has been cruel in ways you never prepared for.

You manage a laugh. It’s soft. Not very convincing.

“Damian,” you say, trying to sound like yourself again, “you’re… you’re my friend. Of course I mean it.”

Something shifts in his expression—minute, almost invisible.

Relief?

Or something that looks like it, from a distance.

Then his voice turns sharper again, like he’s furious with himself for letting anything show.

“Friend,” he repeats, as if testing the word’s weight.

You nod, too quickly. “Yeah! Friends. Besties. Childhood trauma survivors. Movie critics. Art snobs.—duh”

His gaze holds yours.

And then—so quietly you almost miss it—

“Alright,” Damian says.

The single syllable lands with the inevitability of a door locking.

Before you can ask what he means, he leans in a fraction, and his voice drops lower—private, intimate, dangerous in a way you don’t have language for.

“Walk with me,” he says.

You blink. “Where?”

“Anywhere,” Damian replies, clipped. “Before someone interrupts.”

As if on cue, a burst of noise rises behind you—voices, someone laughing too loud.

Damian’s eyes flick over your shoulder.

“You’re always speaking to someone,” he says, measuring. “Always surrounded.”

You brighten again, reflexive. “I’m beloved.”

“You are distracting,” he corrects.

You grin. “Thank you.”

His stare doesn’t break.

“Do not flirt with everyone,” Damian says, like it’s tactical advice.

You laugh, startled. “Excuse me?”

He leans closer, voice like a blade slid into velvet.

“Or,” he adds, quiet, “at least be certain they know it means nothing.”

Your stomach flips.

Your heart does that loud, stupid thing again.

You swallow hard and force your smile wider.

“Damian Wayne,” you say, saccharine, “are you—jealous?”

His expression goes deadly calm.

“I do not experience jealousy,” he says, which is exactly what someone jealous would say.

You beam. “Oh my god.”

He exhales through his nose, impatient.

Then his voice drops again—almost too soft for him.

“Come,” Damian says.

And without waiting for permission, he reaches for your wrist again—not to examine it this time, not to scold it—

to guide you.

His hand is warm.

His touch is careful.

And whatever he called you in that language you don’t understand sits between you like a secret you can feel but can’t name.

You let him lead you anyway—

because you have always followed him in small ways, and because some part of you has always wanted him to ask.

And as you move, you catch the faintest edge of a smile on his mouth.

as if he’s decided to set something in motion.

As if he’s decided the only way to make you speak the truth…

is to tempt it out of you.

Part 0 Masterlist Part 2

[atomicglitterbombb]

The Thing About "Fine" (0)

OLDER! DAMIAN WAYNE X F!Alien!READER

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯  Summary: You've grown up with Damian, a have a bit of a crush on him. What happens when your best friend suddenly starts dating him after you told her you liked him?

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯  Damian & reader are 18+, NSFW, Angst (but its lowkey word vomit) domestic fluff, Damian Speaks in Arabic, reader speaks in Hindi like twice?, hurt/comfort.

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 Word Count: 707 Words.

Masterlist Part 1

‎⋆⋅·༻𐫱༺·⋅⋆ ─────────────

The complexity of love is nothing short of confounding, a riddle the gods never bothered to solve.

It turns the fragile into iron and the mighty into dust—lending courage like a blessing, then stealing certainty like a charge. For it, kingdoms have knelt and crowns have cracked; for it, fires have been lit so bright they’ve outlived the hands which sparked them, and monuments have risen where grief refused to stay buried.

It is the kindest mercy and the cruelest calamity in the same breath—faithful as a vow, fickle as the wind. One moment it steadies the trembling; the next it topples the sure-footed, and the fall is always beautiful from a distance.

Love does not simply arrive.

It happens—like prophecy, like plague, like war—and when it is gone, even the survivors feel haunted.

‎⋆⋅·༻𐫱༺·⋅⋆ ─────────────

You met Damian when you were still small enough to believe the universe played fair.

It didn’t.

It dropped you out of the sky like an unsent letter—too late, too far, addressed to a world that no longer existed. Crash-landing isn’t exactly the storybook beginning you would’ve picked for yourself, but life rarely consults the girl before it changes her. One second you had a home; the next, you had a memory and the sharp, dizzying certainty of being alive anyway.

The Justice League found you and did what legends at times do: they made room. Not because it was easy, but because it was right. A princess from another planet; an orphaned one, really, wrapped in language no one spoke and grief no one could fix. 

They took you in, and they watched you grow.

They watched you learn the soft, strange rituals of humanity—the way people say “I’m fine” when they mean “please stay,” the way laughter can be medicine, the way kindness is often the bravest thing in a room. They watched you find your place by accident. With stubbornness and sheer, glittering will.

They watched you nearly dismantle the Justice League HQ the first time you got the hiccups, because your panic response has always been the same: break it down, separate it, solve it. And it was almost funny— once the alarms stopped screaming, that is.

Almost— Hal won't let you live it down. 

They watched you fight, really fight to earn your spot amongst the young heroes, as if belonging could be won with bruised knuckles and a bright smile. And when you finally wore them down, when “no” turned into “fine,” it was Dick who stepped forward.

He trained you like family does: close, steady, teasing when you needed air and stern when you needed spine. He knew the difference between discipline and punishment. He knew how to make you laugh without letting you dodge the hard parts. There was no better option than him—because he didn’t just teach you how to move. He taught you, you were allowed to stay.

Somewhere in all of that, you turned into something radiant: bright-eyed, bubbly, too generous for your own good, a heart that seemed to believe love was a renewable resource.

And Damian—Damian was there through all of it, quiet as a shadow that never meant you harm.

He was there when you first walked into Gotham Academy beside him, pretending you weren’t nervous, pretending you weren’t a comet trying desperately to look like a normal star. He was there when you tasted ice cream for the first time—cold sweetness shocking you into laughter, and his eyes narrowing like he’d just discovered the world contained small joys worth guarding.

He was there the day art found you.

Not in some grand, cinematic moment—more like a match struck in a dark room. A pencil pressed into your hand. A book opened to a painting. A simple, offhand correction about light and line, delivered with the same certainty he used for combat stances and battle plans. Suddenly you were seeing it: color, form, beauty—proof that creation could be an answer, too.

You didn’t fall in love all at once.

You learned him the way you learned Earth: slowly, painfully, tenderly— as if the universe had finally decided to give you something that wouldn’t burn away in your hands.

‎⋆⋅·༻𐫱༺·⋅⋆ ─────────────

Oh how cruel the Universe is. 

‎⋆⋅·༻𐫱༺·⋅⋆ ─────────────

Masterlist Part 1

[atomicglitterbombb]

✶ Older!Damian Wayne x F!Desi!Reader : Stolen Kisses, Plausible Denial.

Summary: You and Damian are professional....right? RIGHT?

Damian & reader are 18+, suggestive content, domestic fluff, language teasing (Hindi + Arabic w/ romanization), secret relationship!

✶ Older!Damian Wayne x F!Alien!Reader : The Thing About "Fine"(Masterlist)

 Summary: You've grown up with Damian, a have a bit of a crush on him. What happens when your best friend suddenly starts dating him after you told her you liked him?

 Damian & reader are 18+, NSFW, Angst (but its lowkey word vomit) domestic fluff, Damian Speaks in Arabic, reader speaks in Hindi like twice?, hurt/comfort.

[vivalabunbun]

As You Are, I Am Too

Summary: If we compare people to magnets, opposites attract and sames repel, so why are two stoic faces paired as soulmates?

Word Count: 15.4k (why are you surprised at this point, get some snacks)

Tags: Alhaitham x Fem! Reader, Smut(r18+), NFSW, MDNI, Modern AU, Soulmate AU, Mutual Pinning, Fluff, Slow Burn, Slow fic, Perfectionist! Reader, angst, arranged pairing, TW: Toxic family, unhappy childhood trauma, child of strained marriage trauma, TW: Themes of self-loathing, themes of infidelity(misunderstanding), toxic work environment, slight workplace harassment, pushy boss, slightly yandere! Alhaitham?, Soft! Alhaitham, second chance romance?, slightly bratty! reader, Dom! Alhaitham, Degradation, Heavy adult themes, attempts at comedy

Author Note: This is experimental, I want to explore if two same sides of a magnet can still attract. I want to explore the fumbles and mistakes of love.

Side Note: Here is a continuation

Do you believe in soulmates?

It’s nothing to be ashamed of if you do. Because who doesn’t want to believe in it? The concept of an ‘other half’, a missing piece that completes you. Someone who loves you and only you unconditionally.

Who doesn’t want to experience that? 

To be loved, to be accepted, and to feel whole are all natural human desires. So it’s no surprise society, regardless of the century, culture, or demographic all obsessed over finding that other half.

To find a hand that fits perfectly within the gaps of one’s own. 

The greatest minds in all of Tevyat came together, analyzing each pattern, quantifying each data point, and testing each hypothesis until their magnum opus was created: The Akasha System.

Taking the work out of fate’s hands and into a large database. 

What criteria did this wonderful system use to piece together two halves of a whole? Who knows, it’s a black box. However, the machine was quite smart, quite quick, and quite accurate.

So much so, there was no reason not to use it. 

Humans, no matter how much some might deny it, despise being lonely. They fear it so much they’d rather hold a hand which strangles theirs with an equally crushing grip.

That’s why people rush toward their soulmates the moment the Akasha finds them, they fear being alone. 

But do you believe in soulmates?

“No.” Alhaitham puts down his drink.

“But you still used the Akasha??” Kaveh juts a finger in the direction of an ashen-haired man.

“And?” Disinterested eyes glance at the time displayed on a clock in the rowdy bar.

“And?! What do you mean and? You just said you don’t believe in soulmates!” The slam of Kaveh’s palms on the table made a bit of beer lap over the edge of his cup.

“I don’t believe in soulmates, but I’m not ignorant to the benefits of marriage.” 

“Huh?” 

“It’s convenient.” The blunt statement rolling off Alhaitham’s tongue as he motions for the tab.

“Ugh, you know what, forget it.” Kaveh chases his heavy sigh with a hearty swig of his cup.

“Well then, I’ll call it a night.” He’s stayed out long enough.

Placing a handful of mora on the table to cover his tab, Alhaitham bids goodnight to his two workplace acquaintances and former college roommate.

He swiftly strides towards the creaky tavern door, swinging it open as he steps into the warm Summer evening. Tomorrow is another workday, better to get an adequate amount of rest.

“Still the same even after a full year with her, huh,” Kaveh sighs dryly.

“Did you really think he’d change after marriage, Kaveh?” Cyno finally chipped in from the sidelines. 

“I should’ve known, someone as egotistical as Alhaitham practically married himself.” 

“Now, now, his wife is nowhere as egotistical as him,” Tighnari says over the rim of his glass. 

Cyno and Kaveh paused for a moment, sharing a glance as they considered Tighnari’s observation. With a shrug, they concluded: you weren’t nearly as egotistical as Alhaitham.

Still, the great mystery remains. 

“How is he the first to marry?” The blond bachelor slumps further on the tavern stool. 

“Life is full of wonders.” The ebony-haired bachelor gave a few comforting pats.

———————————————————————————

Unlocking the solid oak front door, Alhaitham steps into the serenity of a quiet house. Good, his ears were slightly buzzing from the boisterous conversation in a crowded bar.

Taking a few more steps into the entranceway, the man shuts the door behind his body.

The dull gossip over a few rounds of drinks made their influence known to him, he just wants to go to bed. Thus he takes a few more steps toward his bedroom.

“Place your shoes into the closet, I just mopped the floors.” A level voice called out from the living room. 

Alhaitham’s movement halts, quickly glancing down at the Oxford shoes still on his feet, taking note of the spotless floorboards.

Wordlessly, Alhaitham unties the laces allowing him to kick them off with ease, placing them onto the shoe rack just behind a closet door. 

It’s a habit that slips his mind every now and then despite a year of marriage; Surprisingly unsurprising when you take into consideration his busy mind.

However, times were different now, he’s no longer a kid, free to be lost in thought. He’s now a homeowner of a spacious house, a space he shares with you, and you liked things clean. 

Not a speck of dust lingered on surfaces, no plates left in the sink, and books pristinely placed on organized shelves. Qualifications that he deemed exceptional for a life partner.

Now with slipper-clad steps, Alhaitham makes his way through the house, peering into the living room to spot your curled figure reading on a sofa. The warm glow of a floor lamp illuminated the soft curves of your cheek. 

“Is something the matter?” You didn’t look up from the page as you addressed him. 

“No, just heading to bed.” 

“Okay, goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

The start and finish of tonight’s conversation, after all, you valued a quiet house as much as he did. His colleague’s words weren’t without merit, even Alhaitham isn’t stubborn enough to deny the obvious.

Hobbies identical to each other, books upon books lined up along numerous shelves, preferring to stay within the walls of this house unless dragged out by friends. 

Your indecipherable gaze and stiff lips rival his own stone face. Perhaps that’s why the Akasha paired the two of you together. Two beings with stoic faces only another stoic would bear for a life partner, like two sides of the same coin. 

Alhaitham stops unbuttoning his shirt behind his shut bedroom door, reanalyzing the previous statement. Actually, that isn’t a very good analogy.

It'd be more accurate to compare you and him to a double-sided mirror that reflected only one view. 

“I don’t believe in soulmates.”

The man sitting across from the cafe table, introduced as Alhaitham, bluntly states, interrupting your sip of coffee, warm beverage just barely touching your lips. 

Placing your cup back down on the coffee shop table, your gaze observed the stranger who just met you moments ago - a  meeting in a small cafe arranged by Sumeru’s Ministry of Human Relations, the government body tasked with delivering the Akasha’s verdict. 

After a few breaths, you decided to humor his abrupt statement with a response. Staring straight into his teal-orange eyes, you say,  “What a coincidence, neither do I.”

————————

So then why did two nonbelievers follow the verdict handed to them? It’s simple really.

Two salaries combined can buy a sizable house. Two pairs of hands get chores done faster. Two signatures on a certificate save tax money. Life is simpler with a partner to bear some of the burden. 

Young professionals and fresh graduates aren’t known for their financial independence; a boy eager to move out of a cheap flat and away from an infuriating roommate, a girl trying to escape a noisy environment.

The circumstances had aligned. 

And that’s how it’s been for two years now, a nice quiet house. Although, you’d be lying if you weren’t thankful that the Akasha paired you with someone as handsome as Alhaitham. Silver hair, broad frame, and beryl eyes with a hint of ochre -  maybe he’s an apology gift from some fickle god.

He’s a well-rounded and capable man; perceptive enough to know not to cross boundaries drawn in the air, apt enough to not disrupt the serenity, and able to take care of himself.

Although, he could learn to launder better. 

Your lips tug down as your eyes scan over the deep wrinkles crimping the fabric of a freshly washed button-down. It looks too rumpled to look professional, even on him. A sigh falls from your lips.

The presence of slow steps make your head turn in their direction, connecting with Alhaitham’s neutral eyes, quirked gray eyebrow questioning your purpose. 

Two bodies, two rooms, and two beds.

The only time you or he crossed into the private haven of one another was when the floors needed to be mopped or shelves dusted. Owning a house means owning up to tedious chores and dividing up responsibilities spares one’s sanity from the tediousness. 

It’s best to point out the critiques now to spare your own clothes from the same fate. Picking it off the back of his chair, you show him the shameful state of the garment. 

“Leaving your clothes in the dryer for too long will create stubborn wrinkles.” You advise. 

Teal eyes glance at the shirt in your hands before they flick towards the closet rack, your own gaze follows, noting the numerous other shirts in a similar state. Another heavy sigh escapes you, it's obvious Alhaitham attempted to do laundry yesterday.

Wordlessly, you begin gathering each wrinkled garment. 

“I’ll rewash them and hang them outside, it’s the best way to smooth them out. Heat isn’t recommended for your fabrics.” You swiftly walk past him with your arms full. 

“Thank you, I’ll clean the floors then.” He takes hold of the mop against the wall.

This seamless switching of responsibilities is done with less than two sentences, the efficiency of which is only possible between two people such as yourselves. 

Button-downs are much more fickle than a casual t-shirt, using the wrong detergent or leaving it unattended for too long will cause unsightly wrinkles.

Alhaitham’s laundering skills have improved in the last two years… perhaps the singing of the dryer still slips past his preoccupied mind. 

The two of you are working professionals. Crucial insight you’ve learned from your parents: A nicely ironed shirt, neatly brushed hair, and elegantly tied ties are all it takes to make others believe in the white lie of a put-together life. 

Alhaitham was raised by his grandmother, a detail you recall from a passing conversation some time ago. It shows.

The amateur attempts at chores, the books strewn about a desk absent-mindedly, and the afternoon naps spent on a couch underneath a sunlit window are secrets only seen behind closed doors - all telltale signs of being well-loved.

‘How nice it must be.’ You thought, clipping his freshly washed button-downs to the clothesline, allowing the Sunday morning rays to shine down upon them.

A stone-faced man was once a beloved grandson. Maybe his juvenile attempts at chores were too endearing for an elderly lady to correct. 

Hidden from everyone but the audience of swaying fabric and a curious star, a bittersweet smile tugs at stiff lips. 

The clinking of forks against porcelain plates accompanies the evening news. Your eyes starring indifferently towards the TV just around the corner from the dinner table; looks like tonight's topic was the annual metrics of the Akasha.

With each passing year, these metrics only climb higher and higher, a machine learning to calculate better and better. 

“What’s your theory behind the Akasha?” you blurt out the question without looking away from the screen. 

A pair of utensils halted their movements as Alhaitham glances at the evening news. He takes a moment to wipe the corners of his mouth before humoring you.

Technically, the two of you have yet to fill your daily conversation quota. Might as well do it over dinner. 

“It’s all mathematics, the Akasha system. Pairing individuals based on collected data. Demographic, interests, and dispositions, are all factors in a pairing,” he explains in his baritone voice. 

“Mmm, then again it's all just a black box, we can’t be certain unless they choose to reveal it.” You ponder aloud. 

“Correct. Those factors are all key when it comes to compatibility. The Akasha simply uses probability. However, there’s the element of human variability.”

“Meaning it can’t always be right.” You know this, live it even.  “Is that why you don’t believe in the concept of soulmates?” Pivoting to an adjacent question, you return your attention back to the man across the table. 

“Yes, it’s an unrealistic belief.” Alhaitham sips on his wine.

“Such a brilliant conclusion, what an astute mind you have.” Honeyed-voice mimicking awe over a glass of water.

Narrowed teal eyes honed in as his glass returned to its place on the lacquered surface, unamused by your quip. 

“How about you? What theory brought you to hold the same brilliant conclusion?” 

“Do you know phenylethylamine? PEA?” Glancing up from your glass.

From his idle gaze and unmoving lips, you take his silence as a “no”. 

“It’s a stimulant that causes your heart to beat abnormally, released when you’re around a special someone. It causes what people describe as the ‘rush’ or ‘fever’ of love.” 

He says nothing, waiting for you to continue.

“But then your brain gets used to it, and the abnormality in your chest corrects itself.” You take a sip before continuing, “Nothing last forever, so why do people think love is an exception? That only one person ever will cause their hearts to flutter till the end of time?” 

A dry giggle follows the clink of your water cup against the wood. 

“How insightful.” Alhaitham takes another sip of wine to chase his sarcasm.

Maybe it was the amusing quip or how tonight’s butter chicken turned out to be exceptionally delicious, but a subtle smile curls at the edges of your lips. With today’s conversational quota fulfilled you focus your full attention back to the awaiting dinner. 

You remain ignorant to the gaze of teal eyes, oblivious to how it fixates on the faint smile complimenting the soft curves of your cheeks and plush lips. 

“...” 

The front door shuts and locks behind you, your shoes are halfway into the closet before a familiar scent beckons you towards the living room.

Quickly getting into your slippers, you trek through the entranceway and round the corner. The vivid hues of pale blues and gentle violets with pops of bright yellow catch your eyes, confirming your speculations: it’s a bouquet. 

The bundle of flowers were placed into a long-forgotten vase. Turning away from the blooms, you face the man currently thumbing through a book on the couch -the only other person with access to this quiet haven.

Turning back to observe the blooms, you note each species of flower. The Sumerian Rose, Kalpalata Lotus, and…Padisarah.

You observe how the pollen of the Padisarahs dusts the radius of the surface around the vase. It’s a fickle flower after all.

A fickle and potent-smelling flower. 

A scowl twists your face despite your best efforts, the sickly-sweet fragrance of the capricious blooms assaults your senses. 

“Please open a window.” your hand comes up to shield your nose. 

“Is something the matter?” 

“The smell is giving me a headache.” 

A headache forms from within the deepest depths of your mind, the same visceral reaction to the heavy perfumes that plagued your childhood walls. Your mother believed the saccharine scent could cover up her infidelity if she sprayed enough.

Compared to that artificial perfume, fresh Padisarahs were much tamer, but still enough to make a bitter taste appear at the back of your tongue. 

“I see.” Alhaitham sets his book down, getting up to allow the Autumn breeze in. 

Swiftly, you trudge away from the vase and its potent blooms and down the hall, eager to find an untainted corner of the house. It’d be best to sleep the headache off. 

In the morning when you round the corner back into the living room, you notice the vacant vase and table wiped clean of any speck of yellow pollen. Passing through into the kitchen, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafts in the air.

As you pour yourself a cup, you take note of how the trash has already been taken out, a fresh trash bag lining the bin. 

Good, flowers were a hassle to keep around the house.

———————————————————————————

“Chocolates?” You study the box of sweets left out on the kitchen table. 

“I picked them up while getting ingredients for dinner,” Alhaitham answers, busy chopping carrots. 

“You can have some.” 

You return your gaze  back to the intricately designed package in seasonal Winter colors. It’s not often that you indulge in such elegant treats, you couldn’t refuse such an offer. 

Delicately picking up a piece, the glossy dark chocolate shine looks inviting, you can see the quality in these sweets. Placing the small chunk onto your tongue, savoring the rich flavor. Not too sweet and not too bitter. 

Using your tongue to maneuver it towards your teeth you bite into its center, only for your tastebuds to be assaulted by a foul flavor. The distinct and sharp tang of alcohol and the revolting aftertaste of bourbon spoils the sweetness. 

Refusing to allow the detestable flavor to remain on your tongue, you briskly swipe up a few napkins, spitting the foul sweet out. You frown at the stubborn tang of bourbon which threatens to ruin your appetite for dinner. 

“You can have the rest.” You throw out the crumpled napkin. 

“Are they of poor quality?” The tapping of the knife paused. 

“They’re just not to my taste.” 

“In that case, I hope tonight's dinner is.” Alhaitham resumes his task. 

Taking a glass out from the cupboard, you fill the cup with fresh water before gulping it down, washing the foul tang of alcohol from your tongue, and even fouler memories of the stench of sour wine and crushed cans.

Wiping the escaped droplets off with the back of your hand, you go for a second glass. Hopefully, you can cleanse your palate. 

———————————————————————————

“Do you have plans tonight?” Alhaitham’s words make you stop in the middle of the hallway. 

You have a book ready in hand for a night of reading on the sofa under the soft glow of the floor lamp. You know his eyes can see that,  gaze questioning his intentions. 

“I was given two tickets to a movie, would you like to accompany me?” He holds out the slips of paper. 

As your eyes pass over the printed font, you recognized the title, a name picked up within the chatter of coworkers at the office. It’s An adaptation of a famous light novel from Inazuma, and the reviews seem positive. 

“Sure.”

You could get out of the house a little more. 

…

It seems like everyone wants to see a movie tonight, the theater lobby is filled with bustling crowds, families with excited kids, and couples holding hands.

And then there’s you and Alhaitham. Standing side by side, his hands carrying two carbonated drinks, your hands holding an overpriced bag of popcorn, walking toward the room printed on the tickets. 

“C5…C6, looks like we got good spots.” You settled into the plush seats, careful not to spill the bag. 

Alhaitham hums in response, placing your drink in the cupholder. More and more people filed into the screening room, waves of ‘excuse me’s and ‘sorry’s rolling through the space until all the seats were finally filled. The lights begin to dim as the opening logo booms through the sound system. 

The cinematography was beautiful, the musical scores accompanying the plot pleasing to the ears, and the popcorn perfectly seasoned.

It’s been a while since you’ve last gone to a movie theater, maybe you should go more often. As you brought a few more pieces of popcorn to your lips, your eyes travel toward Alhaitham.

His arms crossed as the light of the silver screen reflects onto his skin, noticing your stare, his teal gaze connects with yours. 

Moving the striped bag closer to his frame, you offer him some popcorn, he paid for the refreshments. It'd be a shame if he didn’t get to enjoy them too.

His large hand reachs over and takes a handful, your curiosity wanting to see his reaction to the snack. However, a piercing shrill snaps your attention away. 

Just a few rows away, a woman stood up from her seat, throwing a bag of popcorn at the man sitting beside her. Screaming words you couldn’t quite make out as they merges with the onscreen dialogue and equally furious shouts of the now popcorn-covered man.

Their thunderous voices were only amplified by the acoustics of the theater. 

They’re both standing now, still hurling insults and grievances one after another. There’s a ringing in your ears, their faceless silhouettes in the dim theater replaying a scene you’ve seen many times before. It’s as if they’ve finally developed a conscious, now aware of the stares and glares thrown their way.

Oh, look they’re leaving now, still fighting the whole way out of the screening room. 

With the disturbance now cleared, a low wave of murmuring swept through the audience before dying out. The dialogue and soundtrack were audible again, the atmosphere reverting to how it was.

You didn’t feel like snacking on the popcorn anymore. Gaze focus on the fluffy puffs for the rest of the movie. 

“Did you enjoy the film?” An indifferent voice resounds from your right side. 

Walking out as the credit rolled in the background, following the flow of traffic toward the exit. You were walking by Alhaitham’s side, but your mind was elsewhere, a subtle frown etched on your lips. 

“It was fine, just crowded and loud.” Your voice was just as flat. 

“Oh.”

Tossing the unfinished bag of popcorn way into the nearest trash can, the two of you continue on the silent journey home.

Perhaps, it’s best if you just stayed curled up with a book. 

“Eh? It’s been three years and you’ve never gotten your wife flowers? I knew you were cold-hearted, but not to this extent. Here, a quick bouquet of some fresh flowers I picked.” 

“You should gift her some sweets, maybe then you two can talk a choco-lot… Did you get the joke?”

“Are you serious?! Almost four years and you never took her on a date?? You’re hopeless! Take these tickets and take her to the movies. By the way, you’ll have to pay for them.”

Alhaitham wasn’t sure what made his colleagues so invested in his marriage, maybe a projection of their own lack of one. To his colleagues, you were just as much of an enigma as the ashen-haired man.

Any passing comment, no matter how vague or curt, would bring forth an onslaught of unsolicited advice. And it was for that very reason within the walls of your home these details shall stay. 

Alhaitham isn’t sure which was more irksome, the uninformed guidance of bachelors, or the fact he was the one who actually tested each suggestion. Regardless, at least these trials were fruitful in the sense he can gauge your dislikes now. 

You despise flowers for their fickle messes and scent. You’re revolted by overpriced chocolates. You detested rowdy theaters and subpar films. 

Four now going on to five years, and these were his results. Frankly, he didn’t have to subject you to such experiments for these results, because they aligned with his own preferences.

A waste of time, disturbing your peace for the sake of his own curiosity. 

A heavy sigh falls from his lips as he sets the bucket of water down, one hand holding a mop as the other turns the knob of your bedroom.

It’s a Sunday, meaning the floors needed to be mopped. Your door's hinges sing as they swing open only to be abruptly silenced as Alhaitham stood motionless under the door frame. 

Oh. He should’ve knocked.

You were in the midst of getting dressed in front of your floor-length mirror, glimpses of smooth skin peeking out from under baggy fabric. Before he could stop, teal eyes followed the dark fabric reaching just down to the middle of your thighs and draping low on one shoulder. Your fingers were in the middle of buttoning the clearly oversized shirt as you turned back to focus on him. 

Blank gaze traveling up your soft lips set in a neutral position and meeting your deadpan stare, Alhaitham’s conscience restarts.

Today was Sunday, which meant it was laundry day yesterday, and it was the ashen-haired man’s turn to wash and dry the clothes. Somehow, his button-down got mixed in with your blouses, leading to your unamused reaction. 

“I’ll be more mindful next time, did my shirt dull any of your whites?” Forcing his eyes to avert, a late attempt at respecting your privacy. 

“It’s fine, fortunately, the dye didn’t bleed out during the wash.” You turned away as your hand pulls the draping fabric up your shoulder. 

“Just place the shirt over the chair in my room, I’ll take care of it later.”

“Okay.” 

Once more your door sings as he shuts it on the way back into the hall, deciding to clean the floors of his room first and allowing you to change into your rightful clothes. It was early noon and a weekend, meaning there was no reason for Alhaitham to brush out his sleep-tousled hair. Hopefully, messy gray locks were enough to conceal burning ears. 

———————————————————————————

“The Evolution of Everything.” His eyes scan over the title held out in front of him. 

A newly published scientific journal filled with freshly collected data, the book's spine still in mint condition. Alhaitham takes note of the identical copy held in your hand. 

“You seemed interested in this genre, so I picked up a copy for you.” You motion for him to take it. 

There wasn’t a rule etched in stone that forbade the sharing of books within these quiet walls. The books on your shelves have been more interesting than his as of late. A pattern of folded corners inflecting more and more pages of the books lining your bookshelves, evidence of a certain man’s meddling.

 The warning glare every time you smoothed out a creased page directed his way didn’t seem to be enough to stop the unconscious habit of his hands.

It looks like you’re trying out a new solution, getting him his own copy to prevent the infection from engulfing each and every corner of your bookshelves. 

“Thank you, I’ll read it soon.” He accepts the peace offering. 

With that, you made your way back to the sofa. Flipping open your own copy, fingers gently making sure to not crumple the delicate pages or crease the pristine spine. Alhaitham compares it to the book currently held in his own hands.

An older book, while not falling apart or tattered, it’s obvious the man has thumbed through its pages. A well-loved book as his grandmother would’ve described it. 

Alhaitham needs to stop this practice he never corrected in childhood. 

———————————————————————————

“Alhaitham.” You greet him at the entranceway. 

Said man is currently placing his outside shoes away into the closet, returning from an uneventful day at his office. You usually got home before him, but this was the first time you’ve waited for him at the front door. He notes that you seem to be holding something behind your back. 

“Here.” Bring your arms out from your back, the distinct crinkling of plastic was heard.

Teal eyes study the gift basket filled with bath products, body wash, shampoo, conditioner, and lotion all nicely packaged with a satin ribbon. 

“It’s to thank you for helping me with errands lately,” you explain. 

Recently, you’ve been asking him to accompany you to the cluttered streets lined with stalls and haggling merchants. With his towering frame and larger hands, he could carry heavier bags and part a path through the pushy crowds easier. You were using your resources to maximize efficiency. 

“There’s no need to trouble yourself with this, I’m just doing my part. But thank you.” He takes the basket from your hands, eyes remaining collected. 

Just as the basket leaves your hands, the distinct chime of your phone goes off as ‘Bahram’ flashes across the screen. The name of your boss. 

“Excuse me, I have to take this call. Dinner will be ready in half an hour.” Turning away, you walk toward the kitchen. 

The he hums in response, slipping into his inside shoes. With brisk steps, he covers the distance from the front door to his room, closing then leaning against the solid oak.

Sharply inhaling as one hand balancing the basket of toiletries and the other holding his head. 

You’ve always prefer to maintain the serenity of the house. Resolving strife with proactive actions or brief comments. Not once in these past five years did you ever nag him, you’re too pragmatic for that. At times it’s a curse more than a blessing, evidenced by the gift basket staring back at him mockingly. 

Although Alhaitham was messy at times, he knows the importance of hygiene. Teeth brushed twice a day, a shower taken every day before dinner, and deodorant applied daily.

However, the temperatures this Summer were at record highs, even for Sumeru. The packed market streets pushing the two of you closer than usual, perhaps he’s no match for the heat this time. 

Washing his hair twice and his body thrice, Alhaitham finishes his prolonged shower by gurgling some mouthwash for good measure. Walking into the kitchen in a fresh set of clothes and his hair still damp. The table set with potato boat and some steak. Impassive eyes met inscrutable eyes as you motion for him to take a seat.

Your nose remained relaxed, meaning you were probably satisfied with his efforts. 

Alhaitham makes a silent reminder to research some cologne after he finishes washing the dishes. One that isn’t overbearing nor too weak to linger. 

How embarrassing it is, five years in and the stoic prodigy known as Alhaitham is still testing the bounds of his wife’s patience. Selfish experiments and habits he can’t seem to correct conflicting with your wishes for a clean, serene, and quiet home. 

The entire reason why you bothered signing your name next to a stone-faced man who said ‘I don’t believe in soulmates’ before asking ‘How are you?’.

  

Flowers, chocolates, and movie tickets.

You weren’t oblivious to the sentiment behind these arbitrary actions. In a way, it was expected. A husband wants to get closer to his wife, it’s simple chemistry.

The human mind craves connection, oxytocin, dopamine, and serotonin released at the sight of gifted blooms, crafted sweets, and from simply sitting within each other's presence.

A chemical cocktail the mind gets drunk on. 

Alhaitham isn’t immune to it and neither are you. Even if you were able to stiffen your lips, steady your gaze, and hide those flushed cheeks. Nothing you did could quell the abnormality in your chest, was Alhaitham having the same issue?

There comes the first hurdle, the unknown which hung in the air formed over years of peaceful silence. The thought of two stoic faces peering into each other’s eyes as two monotonous voices stated the obvious would make any romantic keel over and die.

It’d be too embarrassing, especially when it’s already been awkward. 

Headache caused by sickly sweet blossoms, spitting out pricey sweets, and dulled reaction to a critically acclaimed film. None of this was Alhaitham’s fault, how can you blame someone for something they don’t know?

He never asked, you never told.

No one knew what happened within that noisy house with empty bottle-covered floors of two ‘soulmates’ who refused to release their crushing grips. All except the three unfortunate souls trapped within its Padisarah-scented walls. 

Still, his keen eyes didn’t miss those details, reassessing his actions before ultimately channeling more of his energy into chores around the house instead of frivolous gifts. What a proactive husband. 

A sting of guilt felt as you recall his sincere attempts at trying to cross an icy bridge. What should you say? ‘Thank you, you tried.’ Sounded far too condescending, it could even lead to a huffy fight. Something you’ve been good at avoiding these past five years. 

Marriage is filled with compromises, meeting each other halfway along the road of life, side by side. So you tried this time.

Curiosity guiding you as it did a naive hero towards the brilliance of a red star. 

———————————————————————————

Your first attempt was inspired by an article that popped up on your phone’s feed, something about wearing your partner’s shirt to make them flush, nonsense known as the ‘boyfriend shirt’.

You still gave it a try. Swiping up one of your husband’s black button-downs one Saturday night, only building up the confidence to put it on the next morning. 

Your original plan was to just casually wear it around the house as you got the Sunday morning chores done, but that got thrown out when Alhaitham suddenly opened your door when one-third of the buttons were still undone.

A moment of tense silence followed, impressively you managed to maintain a cool facade. Grasping the opportunity to leave this stale silence with an expertly crafted response. 

———————————————————————————

In the end, he just wanted his shirt back. So for your next attempt, you toned it down, no longer taking advice from nonsensical articles. 

Recently, Alhaitham has taken more of an interest in your bookshelf. More of the once pristine edges of your books folder here and there. If it was anyone else, you’d make them buy you a new copy immediately, but for now, you simply smoothed out the paper.

If he wants to read the theories and studies that muse you, why don’t you read them together?

However, two bodies pressed together on a sofa trying to read the small print along pages at the same time is simply uncomfortable. Plus, Alhaitham reads much faster than you. 

To ensure a pleasant reading experience for both of you, two copies were the best solution. 

He read it after you. 

———————————————————————————

Your next attempts used thinly veiled excuses to get Alhaitham to accompany you to the bustling markets of Sumeru City. In a way, trying to make up for that lackluster movie experience.

Only for it to soon turn into using Alhaitham to carry arm fulls of bags as he shielded you from the push and pull of the busy crowd. 

Perhaps you should stick to gift-giving, to spare your husband from working like a Sumpter Beast in this weather.

But besides books, what should you give him? He’s just like you, if he sees something he wants, he’d just buy it with his own money. 

On the way home from work, you caught sight of a shop, one which displayed handmade soaps and fancy lotions. Huh, Alhaitham often takes your lotions, maybe you should get him his own. A bell ringing overhead announces your entrance into the cozy store. 

“Welcome!” A bright voice chirped as a shop assistant with vibrant red hair and an equally vibrant smile bounded toward you. 

“I’m Nilou, how may I help you today?”

“I’m just looking for some lotion.” You politely responded, trying to ignore the faint fragrance of Pardisarahs. 

“We’ve got plenty of hand-made ones, for you or for someone else?”

“For my husband.”

“Oh? What does he like?”

You paused for a moment, lips pressed together in contemplation before deciding. 

“Something fresh and not overbearing, nothing made from Pardisarahs.” If he liked using your lotions, then he must have the same scent preferences. 

“We just got this new lotion that fits the criteria! Oh! But it pairs very well with this body wash… actually this shampoo and conditioner set is also a good fit. Oh! What if we bundle them?”

What was supposed to be a simple lotion turned into you leaving the small shop with an entire gift basket. A sigh leaves your lips, looks like you’re not as immune to sales tactics as you originally thought. 

That night you handed the ribbon-wrapped basket to Alhaitham. Even if he isn’t interested in expensive handcrafted soaps, he’ll still use them out of necessity, they were a gift after all.

However, it doesn’t seem you had to worry about that. He used up the fancy soaps and lotions. 

The opulent scent lingering on his skin and towel-dried hair, looks like your gift made you discover a new side of your husband.

He enjoys really long showers, evidenced by your rising water bills. 

Still, the vast expanse of uncertainty didn’t shrink, not even one bit. Just like the distance between an outstretched hand toward the sun. 

Books, lotions, and walks through a market, looks like it was all for naught. 

The mutual agreement to not lock eyes, these cold halls, these awkward dinners filled with nothing but the clattering of silverware and plates. Where have you seen these patterns before?

Oh, you’ve seen these in your childhood home. 

Ah, was this a curse passed on to you? What an awful wedding gift from uninvited parents to a courthouse office. 

Clutching the straps of your bag tighter, your legs quicken their pace, wanting to get out of the crowded streets filled with the mumbles and pushes of people freshly off the clock.

With each stranger knocking into your shoulder another drop is added to a bottle. White knuckles gripping on your straps as a pressure rises within the bottle’s glass body, threatening to shatter it.

You can’t let this continue, the mounting pressure will sooner or later detonate into a hideous mess. Best to avoid that scenarios. Eyes catching sight of a small reprieve from the crowd, you direct yourself there.

 The small store front provides you with some shelter for your lungs to breathe. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. The pressure subsides just a bit. There’s still room in there, you can suppress a little more, you can endure a little longer. 

Eyelids fluttering open, you recognized the name of the shop. It’s the fancy soap shop, one with the vivacious sales assistant.

Peering through the glass you searched for that brilliant shade of crimson. And you found it, right next to glimmering silver hair. It’s like your body forgot how to breathe. 

From the rumbling of the late evening rush, all you could do was read their lips from behind a thick glass door.

Petite pink lips giggling behind clasped hands as Nilou looks up at Alhaitham, tilting her head to the side as if she asked him a question. His lips remained stiff, but teal gaze reflected crimson as they softened. Something you never witnessed within the quiet walls of your home. 

Looks like you found the cause of the rising water bills, perhaps Alhaitham likes the smell of Padisarahs. 

Your bottle couldn’t contain the ocean anymore. 

It wasn’t an Earth-shattering catastrophic event, no tidal waves crashing down, no flood flood devastating everything in its path. Only a defeated ‘pop’ and its pathetic echo as your bottle finally overflowed.

Bitter sea-foam fizzled out as it made an unseen mess. 

Listlessly, you rejoined the rolling crowd, letting the eb and flow of its movement carry you all the way to the front door of a false haven. Systematically inserting the key, placing your shoes into the closet, and shutting your room door behind your back. Staring at the clean floor with its intricate wood grain. 

However, your mind weren’t processing any of it, busy with its calculations.

When did his fever start? That one Autumn night with a chaste bouquet. What day is it now? The cusp of Summer. How long has it been? In a few months, it’ll be three years.

A lecture from an inescapable past resurfaces.

————————

“Hey, kiddo.” 

Slurred words made you stop in your tracks, small hands tightening their grip on your backpack straps.

You weren’t quiet enough, the careful steps of your feet were rendered useless when it came to the creaky wooden floors of this house. Your lungs burned for air, but you didn’t want to breathe in the stench which permeated this air. 

The aroma of cheap perfume, sour wine, and cheap beer. The source of this foul smell? The freshly awakened man laying on the couch just a few inches away: a man known as your father.

Still trying to reserve your stored supply of oxygen, all you offered the drunkard was a firm hum. Not that he’d care, judging from the crushed cans and empty bottles littering the path, he’s probably too far gone. 

“Did you know love is a chemical? Something called ‘phenylethylamine’?” A hiccup interrupts his sentence, but he continues, much to your dismay. 

“Haha, it makes your heart beat faster and your cheeks flush because it’s considered an amphetamine, one of the most powerful drugs.” His stumbling hand blindly reached for another can, knocking over empty shells until it found one with just a bit of liquor. 

“Too bad the high can only last three years.”

Your disinterested gaze trailed off down the empty hall, legs itching to break away from the lecture you’ve heard numerous times before. Lungs begging to inhale the untainted air of your room, the only sanctuary this hollow home held.

Just a few minutes was all you needed, then you’ll start mopping these foul floors. 

A clink of aluminum hitting the wooden boards draws your attention back to your father who had finished moisturizing his throat with another swig of beer. 

“Stay away from that drug, kiddo” A sloppy grin stretched across his face as he stared up at a blank ceiling. 

The sight made your arms bristle, seeing a smile on your father’s face was uncanny. Something you’ve never seen at the dinner table, just silent scowls and disgruntled glares constantly exchanged over a subpar meal. 

Wanting him to finish this one-sided conversation, you gave another firm hum, every now and then glazing back toward the hall. 

“Or you’ll end up like this old man.” He wraps the conversation up with a bitter laugh, one which resonated off the blank walls. 

————————

Maybe you should’ve heeded your father’s words. A brilliant scholar to the public but a pathetic drunk when within the confines of a cluttered, noisy house is still a brilliant scholar. 

This was your punishment for straying away from your beliefs. You reached your hand out towards the fire despite knowing it’d  hurt, and you fell in love. Now look at where you are. 

How utterly laughable, you, the ever-bright Ms. Perfect, who’s broken love down to its base form of chemical compounds, fell victim to the addiction that was love.

So blindsided by it.

The fog of love is slowly running its course through him. Once the trees abandon their vibrant greens for shriveled browns in the Autumn, his fever will be over. There’s no such thing as an endless Summer.

How did you not see this coming? Covering your eyes with ignorant hands, blatantly ignoring the signs right in front of your nose.

No more flowers, no more chocolates, and no more movies. 

Turning back around, you took note of a figure in a floor length mirror. Indifferent gaze identical to how your husband looks at you.

Two sides of the same mirror, what’s what you and him are. What’s the use of that? Shiny surfaces point off in opposite directions, yet only ever reflecting one view. What’s the point of having two sides then?

You don’t intrigue him, you can’t show him his blind spots, and you can’t reflect to him a view he’s never seen. Same perceptions, same hobbies, same expressionless faces, how stale it must be. 

It’s much more interesting to have a wife who’ll smile at receiving flowers, a wife whose eyes light up at chocolate, and a wife who’d blabber on about a movie as Alhaitham listens intently. The beating of his heart is starting with someone new.

Emerging out of your thoughts, you stare directly at the person in your mirror.

Dull eyes stared right back, light dimmed from years of staring at a bright star grasping at its warm rays in substitution of a cold house, only for your fingers to slip pass right through.

Idiotic girl, you can’t touch the sun, not even Icarus did. 

An unlovable child grew into an unlovable adult. Add that to your footnote, so you’ll never forget this lesson again. The fool in the mirror finally looks away. 

It didn’t matter if Icarus smiled or laughed as he tumbled from the sky. Silly girl, did you forget what happens in the end of that tale? He drowned alone. 

Drowning isn’t like what the movies show. The thrashing of limbs against cold waves, the garbled screams under the water, all accompanied by the ominous soundtrack crafted by a sound master. It’s all dramatized for the silver screen. 

Muscles pushing through the cold exhaustion, mouth agape but prioritizing large and fast gulps of oxygen over cries for help, followed by the melodic lull of water lapping over eardrums until the head disappears under its surface. Never to breach it again. 

It’s possible for a person to drown in a pool full of people. Just like how it was possible for you to feel alone despite having your husband just across the lacquered expanse of the dinner table. Forks and knives clacking porcelain plates.

It’s a silent death. 

For once you’re grateful to attend a nugatory dinner hosted by your company. Venue filled with superficial smiles and handshakes all over food served on sliver platters. Even if the heels are killing you, you’d rather not wallow in a quiet house.

A heavy sigh leaves your lips, catching someone’s attention. 

“What a heavy sigh, here have some wine to ease the burden.” A glass filled with fragrant wine was held out in front of you. 

Your eyes travel up the hand which offers the vile beverage to you, sights landing on the face of your boss, Bahram. Pushy as always, always testing the limits of your loyalty to a nice pension and dental insurance.

As always you politely push the glass away, uttering a firm “no thank you.”

“Oh c’mom Ms. Perfect, you look like you could use a drink.” He pushes the glass closer. 

 Stares from all around the formal dinner table hone in, the weight heavy on your shoulders. Stakeholders and coworkers turn away from their shallow conversations to watch the brewing spectacle just across the table.

That’s right, you have to be professional, where was your crafted mask? Make use of all those years observing the masters of deception you knew as your parents. 

So you accept the vile glass.

Before the aroma could register on your palate, you emptied the whole glass. Not a single drip escaped past your lips. It took all your strength to no scowl at the sweetly bitter and alcoholic flavor. 

“Oh? Ms. Perfect is drinking tonight?” Some nameless coworker mused. 

Ah, the name lightly tossed around at the office with oblivious chuckles and ignorant smiles. You despise being called that, but not as much as you despise being told ‘you’re just like your father’ and ‘you’re acting like your mother’.

Better to be Ms. Perfect, so disgruntled ‘soulmates’ can’t compare you to their flawed counterpart.

“Do you like this wine? Have some more.” Eagerly, your boss fills the glass once more. 

Staring at the beckoning liquid swirling in the glimmering cup, as the weight of those stares force your hands to accept it once more. 

Maybe you should’ve just stayed home. 

“I should really be trying to sell you our products but… I think you’ll find a better gift at another store. Here, I’ll write the address down for you! They have the best jewels, I’m sure you’ll find something for your wife there!” Hastily the shop assistant scribbles on a notepad before pushing the slip into his palm. 

“Just don’t tell my manager.” Clasping her hands in front of her mouth, signaling to him to keep a secret. 

Alhaitham simply nods, examining the address in his hands. He hasn’t tried jewelry yet, but a ring would look nice on your hand. Maybe you’d think so too.

“You really love her, don’t you mister?” Nilou notes how attentively his hands smooth over the address. 

Pausing for a moment, Alhaitham envisions the softness of your cheeks shifting as that tender smile spreads across your lips. Yours eyes reflecting the light off the polished and cut gem as he slips it onto your bare finger. 

“I do.” Unable to stop the softening of his gaze. 

———————————————————————————

A ring still left in its miserable black box, stowed away in the depths of a drawer. A sigh slips out of him just like how he let another opportunity to place the jewel on your finger pass. You’re attending a company dinner tonight, a rare occasion requiring you to dress up.

The dress draped over your figure and curves just right and highlighted the contours of your body. He wanted to tell you this earlier as you were leaving, too bad he was occupied with swallowing ‘stay home’. 

There’s an annoying itch in the deepest depths of his mind. Covetous hands crawled up his spine, they tried to convince his own fingers to grasp around your wrist and pull you back into the house.

Alhaitham shakes that itch away, refocusing his attention onto your bookshelf in front of him.

You have a life and responsibilities outside these walls, he can’t overstep the boundary to block you from your individuality. Running a finger along the tops of the neatly lined books, searching for something to redirect his impulses.

Momentum halting when his finger sunk into pages when he expected the firm edge of a spine. The force crumpling the paper, immediately he pulls it into his hands, smoothing out the folded edges. Title catching his attention. 

The Lifespan of Love, the only book where the spine wasn’t facing out. Flipping it to the back, Alhaitham scans the blurb, noting the portrait of the scholar who authored it.

A familiar face, a professor who’s lectures he barely attended. A distinguished researcher and mentor in the eyes of his old university.

The sight of his face made Alhaitham recall a scene he once witnessed. 

————————

The halls of the Psychology department were desolate, as they always were. A much-appreciated reprieve from crowded foyers as a quiet student walks to his next exam in the department next door. 

Just as his hand reached up to activate his headphones, two voices caught his attention, the high shrills of a woman and the raspy shouts of a man leaking out from an office door left ajar.

It has nothing to do with him, Alhaitham know this, but he still had 30 minutes to kill before the exam.

Teal eyes peer through the gap between the oak doorframe.

A man the student recongizes, but the scowl and flush of rage twisted his face into an unrecongizable mess. The professor juts his finger towards the woman as foul names left his mouth, the same mouth which lectured the brightest minds of Sumeru. 

The woman screams back equally loathsome words, tears leaving mascara trails down her red cheeks. Suddenly, she grabs a lamp off his desk and hurls it to the floor. 

For a brief moment, the scholar pauses as his eyes scanned over the broken debris scattered along the floor. Then his fist slammed into the solid oak of his desk, thud so forceful the office ratted with the poor furniture.

His shouts resume, volume escalating by the minute. 

Alhaitham backs away from the door, turning on his noise-canceling headphones. He’s satisfied his curiosity enough, walking off to his exam. 

————————

A peculiar sight behind the superficial mask of a respected professor with his jolly grin and light hearted jokes with students. Inspecting the name printed just underneath the portrait, a furrow forms between his brow as he scrutinizes the spelling closer.

The professor’s last name was spelled the same way as yours. 

Oh. So this is the source you were citing back then. Numbers and figures published by a notable name backing your rebuttal to the societal notion of a soulmate. Inquisiveness rearing its impatient nose, inciting his hands to choose this book as his subject tonight.

You never told him, so he never asked. This was a chance to peer into a view sealed behind your closed lips.  

To study, dissect, and analyze the resources which congergated together to form the you of today. Alhaitham isn’t going to deny such an opportunity.

Teal eyes glance at the ticking hands of a clock, he’s got a good few hours of reading before you return.

The distinct rumble of an engine leaking in through the living room window interrupts his peace, the slam of car doors causing Alhaitham to promptly fold over the corner of the page he has yet to finish.

The dinner must have ended.

Getting up from a cushy couch, Alhaitham makes his way toward the entranceway.

His keen ears picking up the unmistakable hearty chuckle of a man, Alhaitham stills for a brief second before continuing to the door. 

Before the chime of the doorbell had the chance to sound throughout the home, Alhaitham already pried open the front door.

Teal gaze darkening as they examine the display on the front steps. 

Your arm around the shoulder of another man while his arm was snaked around your waist, pressing your body against his as he supports you up the steps.

The sound of the hinges directs the man’s attention to the homeowner currently staring at him, oblivious to the way Alhaitham’s grip threatens to crush a metal handle behind solid oak. 

“Oh! You must be Ms. Perfect’s husband. I’m Bahram.” The man greeted.

Alhaitham already knows him. He’s seen that name flash up enough times across your phone. He’s seen you pick up no matter the hour and step out into an empty room.

A new habit of yours which started some months earlier.

“Haha! She drank a bit too much tonight.” The jovial man continues, his hand still resting on your hip.

Drank? You drank? You don’t so much as glance at Alhaitham’s wine cabinet at home, yet you drank with this man? The begins of scowl start to set into Alhaitham’s face. 

“I’ll bring her inside for ya.” Bahram takes a step forward only to be blocked by a towering frame topped with ashen hair. 

“I’ll take it from here.” Alhaitham barely bit back a pointed tone, forcibly smoothing it over to make his voice pass as neutral. 

Prying that hand off your hip and your arm from Bahram’s neck, Alhaitham’s strong hold supports your slumping figure against his own body.

Pulling you across the threshold of the front door, finally putting some distance between you and that damn boss of yours. 

“Have a goodnight.” Venomous lie rolling off Alhaitham’s tongue as he firmly shuts the oak door, not bothering with any more pleasantries. 

It didn’t take much effort to carry you into the living room. Setting you down on the sofa then kneeling down with dexterous fingers, Alhaitham freed your feet from the chokehold of those heels.

You make a mental note to throw them out tomorrow morning. 

“Thank you,” you breathed out, relieved to finally be home. 

Your husband doesn’t respond as he walk away to place your shoes into the closet. The lingering taste of wine churns your stomach, you needed some water to wash it out.

Carefully, you amble into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with fresh water. Praying it can finally rid you of that foul flavor. 

After three glasses of wine, your stakeholders and coworkers finally turned their attention elsewhere. You’ve entertained them enough.

Granting you the freedom to push away anymore glasses your boss offered, only getting him to stop after you agreed to his offer of driving you home.

What a troublesome night, your mood sourer than it has been for the past few months. 

As you fill up your glass again your ears catch the pattering of Alhaitham’s steps as he trails into the kitchen, stopping only a few paces away watching you glup down your second glass. 

“Did you enjoy yourself tonight?” His husky voice resounds from behind you as his finger taps against the marble countertop. 

“No.” You fill rinse out the cup, the stubborn grip of wine not releasing your tastebuds just yet. 

“Oh? It sure looks like you did.” 

Your body stiffens as your turn the faucet off, glancing over your shoulder with eyes narrowing. 

“What do you mean by that?” Your tone a bit more sharp than you’d like it to be. 

“I’m certain you know exactly what I mean.” Alhaitham stops his tapping as he lays his palm flat on the table, teal eyes boring straight into you. 

“Well, well looks like your assumption is wrong.” 

“I doubt it, stop mincing your words and just say you enjoyed a few drinks with your boss.” 

Your body turns around fully, glaring stare connecting with his teal one. Ticking of a clock sounding throughout the quiet kitchen.

So that’s why he’s behaving like this, partners with wandering eyes tend to project their hypocritical insecurities onto the other after all. 

“Then why don’t you say you’ve been enjoying your visits to Nilou?” Something more venomous than sour wine drips off your words. 

“How is she related to this conversation?” His eyes narrowing at you, unlike the same teal irises that reflected the scarlet of her hair. 

“You know exactly what I mean.” You spat his own words back at him, maneuvering around him as you make your way back to your room. 

At this point you weren’t sure what was the cause of the headache threatening to form.

The wine? This deafening silence? Or the thought of Padisarahs?

You don’t care, you want to go to bed. The thuds of his steps weren’t far behind yours as you trek through the halls.

“Our conversation hasn’t concluded.” His deep voice ringing in your ears. 

“Yes it has.” Your room was just in sight.

“No it hasn’t.” His hand encloses around your wrist.

There you were, halfway through the doorframe of your room with the pull of his hand preventing you from getting the rest you want.

There’s no longer any space left in a shattered bottle, just a rippling ocean getting rougher and rougher with each deep breath. 

“Can’t you be honest?” His ironic, paradoxical words causes the tide to crush against each other. 

“Can’t you be honest? Do you think I wouldn’t notice your showers right as you come back from ‘work’? You’ve been driving the water bill up with your cover-up efforts.” Glaring right into those damn beryl eyes, frown breaking your stiff lips. 

“Cover-up? What a bold accusation coming from the same person who awaits a call everynight.” He mirrors your scowl. 

“Maybe its because work offers better company than this stifling house.” 

Alhaitham grip tightens on your wrist as his lips press into a firm line, indecipherable stare weighing down upon your frame. His broad shoulders rise as he takes a deep breath. 

“Strip,” he commands.

“Have you gone mad?” You snap back, unable to budge in his hold. 

“Yes, furious even.” 

It didn’t take much effort for him to make his way into your room, pulling you in as well. You could barely keep up with it all, glaring at him but it didn’t affect him one bit.

The movement causes your dress to shift. Glancing down you realize a strap of your dress slipped off, leaving one side of your breast dangerously exposed. 

With swift strides, he arrives at the edge of your bed. It’s rare for you to dawn such attire, applying a lovely shade of crimson to those plush lips, and tying your hair up so nicely. Did you get all dressed up for Bahram? Why couldn’t it be for his viewing only? 

Tsk, noisy nonsense is cluttering his mind, those the claws of a green-eyes monster digging into his last shred of restraint. Seizing his rationality in its ugly, greedy hands tighter and tighter the longer your soft thighs pressed against his tense body.

Crashing into those crimson lips of yours, one hand positioning your face to allow his tongue to catch yours by surprise. Letting the two muscles dance together as his other hand explored the expanse of your body, pulling up the silky fabric to grant his palm the pleasure of gracing your soft thighs. 

‘Oh, so this is what he wants,’ you thought as your lips moved against his.

‘Fine, might as well experience what he’s been doing behind your back.’ The fingers of your free hand tangling themselves into his hair, tugging at ashen locks with disregard. 

Unfortunately, the pesky need for oxygen made Alhaitham release your lips. Chest panting as his darkened gaze observed the state of your lips. Crimson smeared over the corner of your glossy lips. You put so much effort into painting them, making sure they were nicely defined. 

However, it felt so cathartic to know that he’s the one who messed them up, no one at the party saw them like this. Only him. 

“I’ll ask you one last time, strip now.” Not letting go of your face. 

“Go to hell,” you spat out. 

And the last chain broke, dignity and self-control reduced to nothing more than ash as his hunger commanded him. Go to hell you say?

“Then I’ll take you with me,” he sneers through clenched teeth, pushing you into the mattress face down. One hand restraining those disobedient hands of yours behind your back.

Before protest could leave your lips a rip resounds through the hot air.  Alhaitham knows he should be delicate with it. That he should carefully pull the zipper down your back, letting the fabric naturally drape off your frame.

 However, a man who starved for six years now knows nothing about patience. 

You feel the silky fabric slip off, leaving you in nothing but your panties. Teal eyes honing in on the darkened patch on the thin fabric, a dry chuckle leaving his lips.

“Wet just from this? Or were you wet during dinner too?” He pulls the fickle fabric off. 

You wiggle in his hold, face flushed with frustrated embarrassment at your current predicament. However, in terms of strength you’ll always lose to Alhaitham. A violent flinch jolts your body as he runs a finger runs along your glistening slit. 

“What a lewd thing, has he seen this slutty hole of yours?” Alhaitham watches the way your cunt quivers with each stroke of his digit. 

“Do really you think I’d sleep with my boss?” Your voice slightly muffled by the sheets as you turn your face to the side. 

“I need to confirm it.”

With two fingers, he spreads your soft pussy lips apart, keen eyes observing the trail of slick starting to drip down from between them. He sees the muscles of your entrance clenching around nothing, he glides a digit in, feeling your slick walls clamp around it. Clear essence drooling out. He hums in satisfaction before sliding his finger out, you bite into the sheet to silence any sounds. 

“Enjoying this?” He muses, fingers spreading your cunt again. 

You don’t respond, but the glare you’re sending his way makes his lip curl into a smirk. For once he could read the emotions behind your stoic eyes, he wants to see more.

Trailing his fingers up your slit until they bump into a hard nub making your body twitch. Softly pinching your clit between two fingers, he slowly rolls the senesitve bundle of nerves as you bite harder to stop your moans. 

Cunt slick but unstretched, clit throbbing but not swollen, only your essence coating his fingers. Looks Bahram hasn’t gotten the chance to taste you yet.

Calming the thrashing of a green-eyed beast just slightly. However, this wasn’t enough. Alhaitham feels the parchedness of his throat as his eyes scan over your glistening slit.  

Alhaitham once believed that the touches exchanged when his fingers brush against yours while passing plates, when you pull a blanket up his napping frame, or when your bodies briefly pressed against each other as he helps you hang the laundry out was enough to satisfy him. That he could sustain off just borrowing your lotions. 

Such a false assumption, a foolish one even. As the heat radiating off your body melts away another restraint he imposed on himself. Alhaitham realizes just how much he’s been starving himself. 

Thumb rubbing firm circles into your clit, the pleasure making your legs close together, trying to shut him out but the grip of his hand stops your attempt. 

“Tsk, stay still.” His strength pinning your legs apart, showing you just how ‘feeble’ he was. 

In retaliation, he pushes your legs further apart. Exposing more of yourself to him, it was embarrassing enough to almost make your lust-hazed mind care.

Thick fingers gathered up drops of slick leaking out from your dripping cunt as your lewd hole unable to contain its greed. Allowing him more access, feeding into his greed further.

Two fingers tracing the rim of your entrance before it slowly pushes through. Instantly, your gummy walls clamped down on his fingers, making him hiss through clenched teeth.

“If you’re grasping my fingers this much, how will you take something larger?” His breath ghosting over your cunt. 

Your toes curled in the air as a kiss was pressed against your throbbing clit, almost enough to let a gasp escape you. Biting back a drawn out moan as his tongue traced your leaking slit, starting with your sensitive numb then traveling up to lap at the essence escaping your stretched hole with the smooth muscle then back to flick at your clit.

You never realized just how pent up your body was until whines and moans just fell from your lips like water. Turning your head away, pressing your face into the mattress in hopes it’d catch those sinful sounds. 

“Tsk.” Alhaitham escalated the pace of his fingers. 

A sharp slap against your puffy clit, shooting white-hot pleasure up your core. With a gasp you pulled away from the sheets, unable to stop the moan which tumbled out. Hastily, you tried to muffle your voice again, only for a warning squeeze on your still pinned wrist stopping you.

You’ve enjoyed your silence, he’s been deprived of those sultry moans, so for tonight let him enjoy them to the fullest extent. 

Your back arched, hips bucking in the air. Your little pussy finally rewarded his hard work with a rush of slick soaked the sheets and his face further. Swiftly removing his fingers again with a disgraceful squelch, only for his tongue to dip into the cavern they left. He slurped and lapped up every drop of your nectar, quenching a thirst he never knew he had. 

Overstimulated clit trying to flinch away from each nerve-frying lick while your weeping walls beckoned his tongue to go deeper. The tightness in his pants was painful now, engorged tip rubbing against the fabric and soaking it in precum.

With his unyielding hold, his half-lidded eyes, and his unrelenting tongue lapping up all of your essence while bullying your poor nub, you were powerless. Unable to hide from his hungry gaze, nails digging into his unflinching hand, and chest heaving with the mounting pleasure in your core.

Scowl long replaced by a loose expression, the pleasure ripping through every fiber of your being. Shooting up from your curled toes to the eyes seeing only the back of your head, the edge growing closer and closer-

Alhaitham pulls away, your slick dripping down his chin glistening in the moonlight illuminating the room. Cruelly pulling back from the edge before you could taste true euphoria. No, he doesn’t think you deserve it yet. Flipping your body effortless on your back, wrists now pinned above your head.

His teal eyes drank the sight of your breast bouncing with each pant, puffy cunt clenching desperately, and the glimmering tearful eyes rivaling the stars themselves. A sight so sinful the devil is writhing in envy. 

“What the fuck?!” You thrashed in his hold again, mourning the lost of the orgasm your body was denied. 

“With this attitude, you should be grateful for what you got. I’m tired of waiting.” Alhaitham sneers next to your ear, chest pressed against yours before his warmth pulls away. 

Tugging his pants and boxers down his thighs with a hand still coated in your nectar, trailing kisses and red splotches in the valley of your breast as his precum and your slick mixed with each stroke of his shaft. The wet sounds even reached your ears.

Making the mistake of looking down, your eyes widened as they comprehended his length and girth. Your restless pussy twitching but your legs closing as to preserve the last of your ego. Something thick pressed against your dripping pussy making your hole quiver and legs freeze as his tip threatens breach your entrance.

“Trying to be coy now? When you were moaning like a whore mere minutes ago.” Smug teal eyes peering down at you. 

Another frown breaks onto your face at his pointed words. Your tongue is just as sharp, best to remind him of that fact.

“What a practiced line, you say the same things to her as well?” A mocking smile curling your lip as a scowl tugs down at his.

Too self-satisfied with your small victory to notice his large hand gripping onto your hips, aligning himself with you. With a sinful squelch, Alhaitham snaps his cock fully in. Your lips thrown open with a gasp as your back arches off the mattress.

“I. Never. Had. An. Affair. So, instead of spewing out anymore nonsense, why don’t you just moan instead?” Puncuating each word with thrust of his hips, feeling the vibration of each syllable in his chest pinned against yours. 

Jagged words ready at the tip of your tongue, yet you couldn’t form a single sentence. With a broken moan your back slowly descended back onto the sheets.

Tearing a hiss from his clenched teeth and a breathless moan from you, gummy walls contracting down tighter and tighter with each girthy inch pushed as his balls slap against the slick down your ass. Nothing could’ve prepared him for this. Alhaitham stays there, tip pressed against the deepest part of you, a furrow between his brows.

Alhaitham knows he should be gentle. He knows he should allow your walls to grow accustomed to his girth by slowly rolling his hips against yours. 

However, you just won’t stay still. Mewling and whining against his frame, nails clawing at his hand as your legs fluttered in the air. Each movement makes your pussy slurp around his stiff cock, lapping at the girth as if trying to pull him deeper than he already was. 

Tempting his hunger like a lunatic testing a starved beast, it’ll only be so long before the hunger bends the iron bars containing it and devours you. 

“AH!” A sharp slap of his hips rips a moan from your lips. 

Alhaitham pulls you off his cock until the tip threatens to slip out, then thrusts it all back in one fluid motion. Instinctively your teeth clamps down on your disobedient lips, desperately trying to bite back those lewd noises. The slurping of your greed welcoming him over and over was embarrassing enough. 

What a selfish move, trying to deprive him once more of your pretty moans. Provoking that ugly appetite within the pits of his stomach again. If you won’t behave, Alhaitham decides to fuck the stubborness out of you. 

Each thrust of his hips into yours rocking the sturdy bed, bullying your poor sensitive pussy still recovering from a ruined orgasm. Hands and hips held within bruising grips. The pitched gasps every time he railed into a certain spot didn’t escape his keen ears, his hips now angled to bully that spot with each thrust.

How helpless you were to the devastating rush of dopamine, endorphins, and oxytocin. Unable to ground yourself on anything, your last wisps of sanity swept away by the waves of pleasure. 

A groan reverberates deep in Alhaitham’s chest, the sudden convulsions of your slick walls trying to milk him. It was almost impossible to move with the way your pussy just kept clamping down.

Unfortunately, his hips couldn’t seem to care, operating solely on selfish desire.

Fortunately, a fresh wave of arousal aided in his rhythm, relentless slams bouncing your body and bed. 

Strength long leaving your arms Alhaitham releases his hold on them in favor of supporting your limp hips, a breathy chuckle leaving his lips as lust-hazed eyes honed in on the frothy white ring forming on his shaft.

All your lips could do was babble out nothings as the headboard continued to beat the poor wall. Cunt thanking his cock with a contraction every time his tip knocks against your weakness. 

The sweet moans caressing his ears, the filthy slaps echoing through the room, and your walls pulling him deeper and deeper, Alhaitham was at his limit.

There was nothing separating you two, he had enough sense left to know that. Reeling in the reins of his greed, he pulls back, fingers digging deeper into your plush skin. Well, he tried to pull back, but your locked ankles behind his back foiled this plan. 

He felt so hefty in you, heavy balls slapping against your ass as his girth and length tore apart your sensibility. Something deep inside your cunt pleaded to be fed, to be filled, pushing your limp legs to lock ankles.

He feels a bit too far for your liking, blindly your hands groped at his body. Finally, reaching his face, cupping it roughly, you crash his lips down onto yours. Tasting yourself on his tongue still, but you couldn’t care less.

As your tongues tangled together, Alhaitham reached his limit. Pressing his thick tip as deep as it’d go, thick ropes of cum start to coat your walls with each twitch of his cock. His shaky moans swallowed up by your kiss.

The slurping of your pussy milking his still throbbing cock only prolonged his hunger. 

Dropping his head into the space between your neck and shoulder, he relishes in what he’s been depriving himself of. Feeling the faint shiver of your neck against his face.

Something was fogging up his mind, Autumn breeze doing nothing to quell the heat burning him.

–

“Ah! Mmmh! A-ah Ah!” 

The first rays of dawn breaking through the navy sky, the light so flushed by the scene it witnessed, it’s pink hue illuminated skin into the room heavy with lust and the slap of wet skin. 

“N-no more… too m-Ah!-much-ch.” Intoxicated brain sputtering out broken sentences. 

 It really was too much, you’ve cum too much to bother remembering, from the creamy drops dripping onto the soaked sheets, he’s also cummed too much.

Pussy overflowing and spasming with each thrust pushing more milky seed out.

Cock rubbing its red tip rawer with each quiver of your gooey walls. 

Six years of starvation will make any man forget gluttony is a sin.

“Too much? No More?” A husky pant between each word as Alhaitham continues with his punishing rhythm. 

“If that’s the case… then why is your pussy refusing to let me go?” His chest pressed against your back, caging you further as his breath tickles your ear. 

Unable to form a sentence anymore, your head pathetically shook side to side, stubbornly denying the obvious. Looks like he hasn’t fucked out of you yet, better change that. Large fingers digging further down on bruised hips, as the pistoning of his thrusts escalated.

Bed frame pushed to its limits.

Each smack of his hips against your limp body further drowning your pride out in a flood of dopamine. It’s mounting again, that familiar pressure building up in your core, making your toes curl in painful arches.

There’s a sudden flick at your swollen clit, walls flinching as his fingers encircles around the abused nub. 

“Who’s making you feel this way?” His husky voice too close to your ear.

Groundless pride preventing you from unsealing you lips, refusing to feed into his ego anymore than your wanton moans already did. 

“Who are you showing this shameful face to?” There’s an edge to his voice again, why must you be so stubborn?

Once more you refused to answer. Making Alhaitham’s jaw clench and his fingers roll your clit harsher, making your bruised hips thrash.  

“Who’s shape is engrained into this lewd body?” Voice dangerously low as he pushes his thick tip deeper against your beaten and painted walls, fingers never stopping their torment on your little nub. 

The edge was getting closer, you knew you’ll fall off it soon, you’ll dive head first into the euphoric sea of dopamine, endorphins, and oxytocin and drown.

“Ah-ah Al-mmh!” You try to collect your breath.

Alhaitham quickens his fingers on your clit, feeling your greedy cunt clamp down on him again, walls suckling his twitching tip as his balls tighten. He’s close, but he needs you to say what he’s been waiting to hear all night. 

“Alh-ah a-a…” Your hips shaking violently in his hold now. 

Lust-glazed eyes staring straight into equally hazed teal eyes. Shaky hands slowly weaving themselves into his damp ash locks, gently pulling his ear closer to your lips, your hoarse voice just barely audible.

“A bastard.” 

Self-satisfied smirk plastered over your loose face as your tear blurred vision catches the stunned expression on his handsome face. 

The heat of his touch, the chemical stirring in your brain, and the pleasure frying your nerves made a delirious smile grace smudged lips. Your sight so hazed by lust you couldn’t see where your smile was even directed to.

Alhaitham wanted to etch the sight of your debauch face, smeared makeup and glazed eyes rolled back, into his memories forever.

Too caught off guard by your response to remind his hand to stop its movement before it was already too late. Eyes seeing the back of your head, back arching under his frame, you fell back into the all consuming waves of pleasure. 

A hard earned victory in this veiled battle of two egos. Exhaustion seeping into every fiber of your being. The pale pink of twilight dimming in your vision as the dark hands of sleep covers your eyes.

Somewhere in the middle of drifting off into a blank nothingness, you feel a hand tenderly guiding your head to rest on a soft pillow. 

Your eyelids twitch and brows furrow as the brightness of the room crept its way behind your shut eyes. Unable to retreat back into the dark embrace of sleep, you begrudgingly open your heavy lids.

Greeted by blurred shapes and fuzzy colors, you slowly blink your unfocused eyes. Gradually, the shapes and colors merge into distinguishable objects: a mug left on your bedside table with vapors rising from its rim. 

“It’s morning-after tea.” A husky voice followed by the distinct flip of paper tenses every muscle in your body. 

Alhaitham’s still here. You wish he wasn’t, you wish he’d realize last night was a mistake created from the clashing of egos, you wish the other side of your bed was empty.

So why did the tightness in your chest melt away with the mere sound of his voice?

You drag your sore body up from the sheets, shaky hands supporting the weight of numb legs and throbbing hips. Your sealed lips refusing to give him the satisfaction of any audible ques of your current state.

Sitting at the edge of your bed, back bare of anything but your hair draping over the marked skin facing him, you took the warm cup into your hands. 

A harmony of methodical sips and soft turns of pages fill the room, an open window washing away the haze of lust with an Autumn breeze. Just as the last bit of tea slides down your throat a gentle slap of a book snapping close brings an end to the heavy silence. 

“It’s unreliable,” Alhaitham announces. 

Peering over your shoulder with a quirked brow, freezing as you recognize the book clutched in his hands. Not waiting for a response, he continues. 

“Anyone with eyes can see how his biases exude through each sentence. He only studied 15 couples, not an appropriate sample size for a world filled with millions of pairs. His experiments have yet to be replicated, it seems his status is what got this nonsense published.” He sets the book down. 

“What are you trying to say?” Your eyes narrow in suspicion. 

“Your theory of phenylethylamine having a shelf life is based on nonsense.” His eyes connect with yours with that familiar indifference. 

A frown twists your face, so he still wants to argue huh. Of course, what else did you expect? You and him have long gone down the bitter circular path you’ve seen travled before.

Irritation rising in your chest, like Alhaitham had jabbed his finger into a wound you’ve yet to heal. 

“Oh, then your theory must be the intrinsic truth, huh?” Words leaving an acidic aftertaste on your tongue. 

“I never-”

“Look at you, so correct with no data to support your vague mathematical thesis.” You cut him off, anger replacing the soreness of your legs. 

Cup knocking against a bedside table as your hand casts it to the side, getting off the bed you march into your closet, pulling a random shirt on without regard of your movements wrinkling the fabric.

You just needed to leave this room, just being by his side is making your blood pressure rise. Your bed creaks as Alhaitham gets up as well, but your back was already through the door. 

Two sets of steps trekking through the halls, paces mismatched as one tries to take quicker steps to counter the broader strides of the other. Alhaitham keeps pace with your escalating march. 

“It’s a critique of his research, not you,” he voices. 

You didn’t want to hear it, sharply pivoting into your home office, but you weren’t fast enough to stop Alhaitham from following you in.

Now a husband wants to spend time with his wife, where was this before? 

“It’s an experiment conducted at the Akademiya, how is that not reliable enough? You think you can do better?” Your body whipping around with a glare directed at him, your hideous ego showing its face again. 

“Are you listening to yourself right now? Do you even believe in such a shallow analysis?” He mirrors your glare. 

“I’d rather believe in something with actual quantifiable numbers.” 

“Fine, you want quantifiable numbers? Care to calculate along with me? Or is your mind still recovering from last night?” Alhaitham folds his arms in front of his chest. 

“Go for it,” you say through gritted teeth, accepting his challenge, wanting to shush that snooty tone of his. 

“The Akasha bases its pairs off demographic, interest, and dispositions, all variables we can calculate,” he states. 

You straighten up your back, staring him in those teal eyes with your head held up high.

“Sumeru city is home to roughly 1 million people. Only 1/3 are around my age.” Alhaitham begins his trail.

“That brings that number down to about 333,333.” No delay in your response.

“Only 1 in 10 people have a personality I can tolerate, then suppose only 1 in 20 of those people can withstand mine.”

“ Rounding up that leaves about 1,667 candidates.” You tsk at his estimations, that number should be far greater than 20. 

 “Next comes shared interest, only 1 in 4 people have touched a physical book in the past year.” 

“417 left.”

Perhaps the gods didn’t think cheating you out of a childhood was enough, out of 417 people you had the misfortune of staring at his stony face. 

“Having to arrange 417 separate meetings at a small cafe would be much too burdensome for the Department of Human Relations. The scope needs to be narrowed further.” Alhaitham takes a step forward.

“Only 1 in 16 will have the patience to teach a grown man how to avoid wrinkles in his button downs.” Baritone voice losing its pointed edge. 

“26 left.”  You take a step back to preserve the space, hating how your skin craves the heat of his. 

“Only 1 in 8 of those people will allow me to borrow their books even when they know the edges of the paper will be creased when its returned.” He takes another step.

As you take another step backwards, the edge of your office desk prevents you from retreating further. The sensation of the cold wood distracting you momentarily from your calculations. 

“Then only 1 in 6 people will drape a blanket over a body that hogs an entire couch for a nap, placing a pillow under my head to ensure I don’t wake up with a sore neck.” Alhaitham doesn’t stop. 

Reaching an arm out, he firmly sets his palm on the expanse of your desk, caging you between the wood and the risk of your skin feeling the heat radiating off his body. 

“How many people are left now?” His breath ghosts the shell of your ear.

“ 0.543,” You blurted out.

A deep furrow appears between your brows, something must’ve gone wrong in your calculation, it’s impossible to have half a person. In the context of the Akasha, one person, a whole person, is matched to another.

Once more your mind ran the numbers over again, then again, and then thrice trying to recompute the figures. 

Each time the same number came back: half a person. 

“Are you mocking me with those groundless fractions? Where did you even get those statistics from?” Your pointed gaze still directed at him, did he intentionally lead you down this illogical trail? 

“Logic is neither an art nor a science but a dodge.” He peers down at you, teal gaze back to its neutral state. 

“Ha! Says the man who places logic and rationality on a pedestal, what caused such a change, Alhaitham?” You laugh dryly, not bothering to decipher the most brainless qoute you ever heard him use. 

No change in his expression as his shoulders rise with a deep inhale, exhaling slowly as he leans his face in, his finger digging his palm against lacquered wood. 

“Instead of wasting time citing subpar research, you should’ve just been honest. Then maybe I’ll give you what you want and sign those damn papers you hid away in this desk.” Voice low but steady as his gaze never leaves your frame. 

It was a strange phenomenon, the chirping of the crickets had halted as two bodies remained unmoving, not even a single grain of dust dare move. If it weren’t for the faint ticking of a hallway clock, it would’ve seemed like time had stopped.

How long has he known about the divorce papers neatly stacked away a desk drawer?

Alhaitham slowly backs his body away from yours, hand returning to his side, freeing you from the cage it created. Teal eyes carefully observes your downcast stare and stiff shoulders as guilt suffocated him.

All the emotions he bottled up, all the fervor he held back, all the desires he swallowed down. It all came tumbling out, spilling out into a murky, repulsive mess. 

“Wife.” If he had spoken any louder than a breathy whisper, that word would’ve crumbled on his tongue. 

“I love you.” Alhaitham finally allows the words which have been clinging on his tongue for years now to fall out of his mouth. 

Every inch of you froze at those three words, the weight of his stare heavy on your shoulders.

“Do you really feel nothing from those words?” Baritone voice beckoning an answer from you. 

You don’t dare lift your head, gaze downcasted and frozen. Because you know you’ll have to stare at your reflection in his eyes. 

Phenylethylamine, oxytocin, dopamine.

All these hormones and chemicals should’ve ran their course through your body. The haze should’ve faded and the abnormality of your chest should’ve corrected itself. It’s been three years at this point.

So, why is your chest aching?

The wood grain of the floor began to blur together as bitter tears compensated for the painful stinging of your irises. There it is, your brain finally short-circuits as the logic which once held up your sanity has crumbled away. 

Finally, you met his gaze, staring right at your reflection in teal irises. 

“It’s suffocating to be with you… it’s so lonely in this quiet house… it burns me like fire to touch you… yet… and y-yet see-”

“Seeing you leave will kill me, ” Alhaitham spoke the words just about to fall from the tip of your tongue.

The last piece of evidence that shattered the hypothesis he cultivated for all his life. If soulmates don’t exist, if the concept of an ‘other half’ doesn’t exist, then why is he feeling the same agony as you?

Looks like both theories were wrong in the end. Mathematics and chemistry unable to solve the enigma known as love. 

“I… I want to love… but I’m drowning… Alhaitham.” You were finally honest, you’ve been drowning all your life, thrashing hands searching for something to hold onto.

Would you be oh so kind enough to grab that pen just behind you and stab its steel nib into his chest? Alhaitham’s certain that it would hurt less than the words that left your trembling lips. 

A gentle hand cradled the back of your head as he pulls you closer. Letting those bitter tears strain his shirt and burn his skin.

No one, but the audience of a curious star and capricious gods peering down behind their blanket of clouds into this quiet house. 

Alhaitham once thought of himself as a good husband. Doing his fair share of chores and paying his half of the bills.

However, seeing your broken figure barely clinging onto his stiff frame, it’s clear that his overconfident assessment was a grave error. 

A  good husband would’ve been more attentive. A good husband would’ve noticed the tide slowly sweeping you away into the rough sea. A good, loving husband would’ve never let you sink alone in salty tears.

“Then I’ll drown with you.” His other hand grasping onto one of yours, slowly easing it away from his wrinkled shirt with soft caresses. 

Only monsters live in the deep cold sea, the only creatures able to survive the saltine waters and the pitch black nothingness. But as long as your fingers wove themselves into the gaps between his, he’ll be warm even as he sits on the sandy bottom of the murky ocean. 

Maybe that’s where the two of you belonged, two unromantic and prideful fools sitting at the bottom of the ocean.

Hand in hand so that the stupidity contained between the two of you won’t pollute anyone else. 

Gradually, those aching hiccups of yours faded into nothing more than muffled whimpers. Allowing silence to creep its way back into the gaps. The cause of this mess in the first place.

He has to remedy this, but what should he say? All those encyclopedias and journals he had thumbed through were all for naught. For Alhaitham’s mind couldn’t recall one fact from those pages.

One hand patting a slow rhythm into your back, trying to buy the man some time.

When logic and reasoning fail to explain the unexplained, folklore takes its place.

“According to legends, people used to have two pairs of hands, two pairs of feet, and two faces pointed in opposite directions.” He began.

“Back then, humans were powerful, powerful enough to threaten the gods who created them. So the gods split them in two. Cursing humans to a cruel search, desperate to be whole again.” His other hand still toying with your fingers.

You peer up at him, head still resting against his chest, feeling the soft beating of his heart. Blinking away the tears, listening to his telling of a myth. 

“That’s the origin of a soulmate.” He finishes.

A soft giggle leaves your lips, a mixture of confusion and disbelief from Alhaitham quoting a fairytale. 

“And you believe in that?” Amused gaze connecting with brilliant beryl eyes. 

“Yes…because I found you.” Alhaitham tenderly brings your hand up to his lips, pressing a kiss against your fingers as a glint catches the sunlight. 

With a foreign sensation hugging a finger, your brows furrow. Holding your hand out toward the light again. Blinking eyes finally identify the gem which coyly appeared on your ring finger.

So that’s what he was doing, your tear stained cheeks shifting up as a smile stretches your once stiff lips.

Burying your head in the chest of the most unromantically romantic idiot you’ve ever known, a radiant laugh bubbling in your chest as it resonates off quiet walls. 

But as he is, so are you: An unromantically romantic soulmate in love. 

~Fin

©️vivalabunbun DON’T PLAGIARIZE, REPOST, OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS. 

[atomicglitterbombb]

𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬, 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐚𝐥.

OLDER! DAMIAN WAYNE X F!DESI!READER

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯  Summary: You and Damian are professional....right? RIGHT? 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯  Damian & reader are 18+, suggestive content, domestic fluff, language teasing (Hindi + Arabic w/ romanization), secret relationship!

𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 Word Count: 2.9k Words.

‎⋆⋅·༻𐫱༺·⋅⋆ ─────────────

The house never really sleeps.

It quiets down, the way a blade quiets in its sheath—still there, still ready. Simply, dormant.

Light slips through tall windows in pale bands, casting itself along the polished room. In the quiet, sits a book, proud on a desk of deep mahogany, open as if someone had intended to return to it, yet failed.

You wake, body heavy in a slow, satisfied way that makes you appreciate the soft essence of morning. Blinking bleerily, the sheets are soft and cool to the touch, all but encouraging you to stay curled on your side with Damian behind you.

His arm is looped heavily around your waist. His hand rests low on your stomach, steady and unyielding in a way that’s almost infuriatingly calm. Even asleep, he holds you like he’s taken you and refuses to let anyone steal you away. 

You shift, careful, trying to slide away without waking him.

His hand tightens instantly— enough to stop you in your tracks.

You smile into the pillow, murmuring softly.

“शुभ प्रभात, जान.”

(shubh prabhaat, jaan — good morning, love.)

A beat.

His mouth finds your shoulder. One kiss. Then another, placed with careful intention, like he’s counting.

You turn your head just enough to look back.

His eyes are open.

Green, sharp, softened only by sleep. His hair is a little messy at the edges, lashes dark against his skin in a way that always feels unfair. His gaze drifts to your mouth and stays there, as if he’s trying to decide whether or not to be good.

He chooses quickly.

Damian shifts, smooth and controlled, rolling you onto your back in one clean movement. He braces himself above you on one arm, the other hand settling at your hip, claiming its space there.

Your breath catches. His gaze flicks to your lips once more.

A beat passes, and his lips are on yours.

Not rushed. Not careful. Measured and thorough, like he has time and intends to use it. His hand stays at your hip, steady pressure that turns your spine warm. When he pulls away, his breath brushes your lips, and for a second, the air stills — both of you at a standstill, determined to see which will loose.

Damian however, has concluded that even the gods couldn't hold him back from you. 

For you are to him, how Alcestis is to Admetus — a love he simply cannot bear to relinquish. 

He dips his mouth to the edge of your jaw, pecking along it.

“يا رب…” (ya rabb… — oh God…)

A soft sound escapes you before you can stop it—half laugh, half gasp.

Damian pauses. Emerald irises lifting to meet yours.

“What,” you whisper, smiling.

“Nothing, you must know” he says flatly, the mirth in his eyes betraying his feeble attempt at stoicism.

You take your hands and rest them against his chest. Not pushing. Holding. Feeling his heartbeat under your palms— steady, present.

“So bossy,” you murmur, hands moving up his chest to grip the collar of his haphazardly buttoned shirt.

“Do not provoke me.”

“I’m not.”

Your smile, not bothering at all to hide the white lie spewing from your lips. His eyes narrow, already anticipating this sorry attempt at deception. 

So you decide to make it worse in the most unfair way possible. Your voice is sweet, with soft eyes pretending you’re only curious.

“तुम बहुत सुंदर हो.” (tum bahut sundar ho — you’re very handsome.)

Damian stills for half a second.

Not because he doesn’t understand. But because he's registering.

His mouth returns to yours like a prophecy. The kiss deepens, slow and consuming, until your hands curl into his shirt and you forget to be clever.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“فتنة,” he murmurs. (fitna — temptation.)

You smile with your eyes half-lidded. “You’re so poetic when you've just woken up.”

“I am not.”

You hum softly. “Liar.”

Damian gives you one more kiss; short, firm—then shifts away with practiced control, sitting up as though he’s reassembling himself.

It's not long before he looks composed again, irritating.

You sit up too, hair falling over your shoulders, skin warm, mouth still tingling. Damian’s gaze drops, briefly, traitorously, to the line of your collarbone. Then he looks away like he’s punishing himself. You giggle at his antics. 

You slip out of bed and pad toward the bathroom.

Behind you, his voice is low, clipped, still slightly rough.

He looks composed again, which is irritating.

You sit up too, hair falling over your shoulders, skin warm, mouth still tingling. Damian’s gaze drops—briefly, traitorously—to the line of your collarbone. Then he looks away like he’s punishing himself.

You slip out of bed and pad toward the bathroom.

Behind you, his voice is low, clipped, still slightly rough.

“Showering?”

“Obviously” You glance back, brows lifting. “Care to join me?”

His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes do.

He huffs, “If I do, we’ll be hours.”

Your breath catches as you tear your eyes from his, cheeks flushed and in a hurry to close the bathroom door.

‎⋆⋅·༻𐫱༺·⋅⋆ ─────────────

The shower is hot enough to turn the room into a soft haze.

Steam curls over the mirror until your reflection blurs. You step under the water, letting it run over your shoulders, down your back. Body relaxing, you exhale a breath that sounds like it's been pending for over a year.

Under the showerhead, your hair goes heavy and slick, dark against your hands. You tilt your head under the stream, letting it rinse the last warm edge of the morning off your skin.

When you step out, you wrap a towel around yourself and blot your hair with another. Your skin is dewy, warm from the heat. You catch sight of yourself in the fogged mirror and lean in, wiping a clear streak with your palm.

There’s a faint mark under your collarbone and you huff a laugh.

You don't waste time, applying vanilla scented lotion before skincare. 

Once done, you make a beeline to your shared closet. Closing the door, you hear the shower turn on.

Sitting down at the vanity Damian had somehow known you needed before you even moved in a few weeks ago— you grab the concealer in the drawer, using it to make the faint mark disappear. You finish your makeup and your gaze shifts on the vanity table. 

Perfume comes last, soft and close: rose and saffron— the scent enveloping.

You’re humming under your breath while you do it—something catchy and bright, romantic.

The closet door opens without a knock.

Damian leans in the doorway like he belongs there.

He’s freshly showered, hair damp at the edges, a towel draped low around his waist. He looks irritatingly clean and composed for someone who had you pinned beneath him less than an hour ago. His gaze catches the mirror, toothbrush in his mouth as he takes you in. He watches the way you apply lipgloss, your bare shoulders, the towel at your chest before his eyes flick away as if they are disciplining themselves. 

You watch him, amused, because he’s very good at pretending he isn’t affected.

You speak lightly, in Hindi, as if you’re discussing the weather.

“क्या?” (kya? — what?)

Damian’s jaw tightens—tiny, almost imperceptible. He walks back to the sink, you follow him, also beginning to brush your teeth.

He rinses, wipes water from his mouth with exact care, then steps closer behind you. His hand lifts, and his thumb brushes a bead of water from your chin like it was bothering him.

“كفاية.” (kifāya — enough.)

“Enough what?” you ask softly, eyes bright.

He holds your gaze in the mirror for a long beat, then looks away like staring any longer would be a mistake.

“Enough,” he repeats, voice controlled.

You angle your head, playing coy. “Are you angry?”

“Of course not.”

He looks as though he's trying to keep his control from slipping off the counter and shattering.

Before you can react,

Damian’s hand settles at your waist, fingers spanning the curve like he’s testing how easily you move.

You tilt your head again, and your voice stays sweet.

“मुझे क्या मिलेगा?” (mujhe kya milega? — what do I get?)

Damian’s eyes narrow.

Your head stays tilted as you speak, a smile showing in your voice “for leaving you alone, what do I get?” 

He leans in, mouth near your ear, and answers in a voice that makes your knees buckle.

“Later,” he says, simply, hands travelling to your hips.

Then, quieter—under his breath, like a promise he expects himself to keep:

“بعد الاجتماع… سأعطيك ما تستحقين.” (ba‘d al-ijtima‘… sa-u‘ṭīk mā tastaḥiqīn — after the briefing… I’ll give you what you deserve.)

You go still for half a heartbeat.

Damian’s fingers tighten at your hips once, a small squeeze that feels like punctuation. He releases you and steps back as if nothing happened, as if he didn’t just tilt the room.

You turn your head slightly, eyes sparkling.

“Fine,” you murmur, and the word comes out far too pleased.

Damian’s gaze flicks to your mouth.

He leaves the bathroom, stepping into your shared closet without another word.

You stare at the mirror for a second and feel your cheeks warm.

‎⋆⋅·༻𐫱༺·⋅⋆ ─────────────

You enter the kitchen changed into comfy clothes, smiling softly at the sight that greets you. 

There’s a bowl of fruit on the island—berries, sliced mango, pomegranate seeds scattered like jewels. Eggs in the pan, soft-scrambled with herbs. A plate with tomato and mozzarella dressed simply with olive oil and salt. Coffee ready, tea steeping.

He sets a mug down in front of your seat in the exact place your hand would reach without thinking.

You sit in front of your plate, humming, and sip.

Damian doesn’t look up when you smile at him, but he does walk by, kissing your cheek as he moves to his seat across from you. 

You take a bite of mango, sweet and bright, and glance at him over the rim of your mug.

He smells like cologne, a blend of ouds and musks. A cleaner scent rests underneath, it's as if it lives closer to his skin than cologne ever could.

“You smell good,” you say, coy— a smile in your voice.

Damian stills for half a beat, then resumes sipping his coffee, as if he's immune to your whims.

Yet, under his breath, quiet enough that it’s almost for himself:

“لا حول ولا قوة…” (lā hawla wa lā quwwata… — there is no power nor strength…)

Your eyes brighten immediately. “Are you praying because of me?”

“I am not praying.”

“You’re literally—”

“That is not the point.”

You grin, delighted.

“क्या हुआ? शर्म आ रही है?” (kya hua? sharm aa rahi hai? — what happened? Are you getting shy?)

Damian’s gaze flicks toward you—sharp.

“لا تلعبي.” (lā tal‘abī — don’t play.)

Your gaze meets his and you smile, legs kicking in the air beneath you.

“मैं तो खेलूँगी.” (main to khelū̃gī — I’m going to play.)

A long beat.

Damian sets his cup down, rising from his seat and making his way towards you. He approaches you from behind, hands settling at your waist again— grounding.

He leans in just enough that his breath warms your ear.

“When we return,” he murmurs, “you will wish you had ceased this scheming."

Your stomach dips.

You keep your voice bright on purpose. “Promise?”

His mouth brushes your neck—barely there, a kiss placed so carefully it’s almost polite.

“Promise,” he says, before returning back to his seat, beginning to eat

You drink your tea trying not to look too pleased.

‎⋆⋅·༻𐫱༺·⋅⋆ ─────────────

The Batcave is its own climate—stone cold, air always moving, screens humming with a light that feels fluorescent.

You arrive first.

Gold suit catching the overhead lights cleanly, crisp seams snug enough to move. Domino mask in place. Your hair falls down your back in waves.

Jason is there, perched like he owns the place.

Dick leans against a console, casual brightness like he’s smuggled sunlight into a land of concrete.

Tim is at the screens, focus sharp. Stephanie sits nearby, comfortable. Cass stands quietly at the edge, still as a shadow, not absent but watching.

Bruce is… well Bruce.

Jason’s head lifts as you step in. His eyes scan you with the same intensity he uses on threats, which is annoying, because you’re clearly not a threat— and if you were you’d have turned this place into a glitter bomb already..

You raise a brow. “Don’t.”

Jason ignores you. “You look… pretty cheerful.”

Dick’s mouth curves. “She usually is.”

“Not like this,” Jason says, pointing at you like you’re guilty. “This is… new. How the hell did you get even happier sunshine? you got an upgrade or something?”

Tim glances up once, eyes flicking over you like he’s reading a chart and pretending it isn’t personal.

“You’re humming,” Tim says.

You blink. “I always hum. Plus, I got good rest last night.”

Tim’s gaze lingers for half a second longer, then drops back to the screen. “Not like that.”

Jason snaps his fingers. “THANK you.”

Stephanie laughs quietly, warm. “Leave her alone.”

Jason scoffs. “I’m not doing anything. I’m observing.”

“You’re being weird, you oaf,” Stephanie says looking at him so deadpan.

Jason points at her. “I’m always weird.”

Cass’s gaze shifts from Jason to you, calm and steady. She looks at you, listening to your posture— the way you hold your shoulders, the rhythm of your breath.

Bruce clears his throat once.

The room tightens into work.

Screens shift. Maps, patterns, incidents. Tim speaks first, clear and measured. Dick adds context. Jason throws in commentary that is half useful and half Jason. Stephanie listens sharply. Cass stays still, eyes tracking.

You contribute where it matters—routes, timing, angles. Efficient. Calm. You don’t talk too much, and you don’t soften your voice, because this isn’t the place for softness.

The sensors flick.

Robin enters the Batcave, late.

Jason clocks him instantly.

Dick’s smile changes slightly. Tim glances up, eyes narrowing a fraction. Stephanie’s brows lift, curiosity flickering.

Dick glances his way, "you're late.” 

Damian doesn't stutter, “Father sent me to gather information about a matter before I arrived.” 

He receives a hum from Dick

Damian’s gaze sweeps the room. When it lands on you, it holds a hair too long.

Then he looks away.

Jason leans back like he’s been handed entertainment.

“Oh,” he says, bright with malicious joy. “You look well rested.”

Damian doesn’t blink. “Adequate sleep improves performance.”

Tim, automatically: “Facts.”

Dick grins. “Okay, but you also don't look like you want to stab someone today, any reason?”

Damian’s expression remains neutral. “I always wake up ready to stab someone, whether I care to or not isn't of concern.”

Jason makes a pleased sound. “There he is.”

Stephanie covers a smile with her hand like she’s being polite.

Jason’s eyes narrow, delighted. “Alright. Here’s what’s happening.”

Bruce’s voice cuts in sharply. “Todd.”

Jason ignores him. “You got laid.”

Damian’s head turns with knife-clean precision. “No.”

Jason beams. “Sureeee.”

Tim doesn’t look up. “You literally have no evidence to back that Jason.”

Jason points at him without looking. “Tim, be so serious right now.”

Tim, flat, rolling his eyes: “I am serious.”

Jason nods like that proves his point. “Exactly.”

You keep quiet, expression professional.

Jason’s eyes flick to you again.

“And you,” he says, narrowing his gaze like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he doesn’t have the pieces for. “You’re smiling too much.”

You blink. “I’m always smiling.”

“Not like this,” Jason repeats, eyes narrowing impossibly further.

Dick laughs softly under his breath. “Jason—”

“No, no,” Jason insists, leaning forward. “You definitely slept—”

Tim finally looks up, tired. “dude we established that, she looks well rested.”

You lean on the table with perfect poise. “Yeah, Jason, I just had a good morning.”

Bruce is looking at them all incredulously “Is this even important?”

Jason points at him again. “It is to me.”

Stephanie shakes her head, amused. “You’re impossible.”

Jason grins at her. “Thank you.”

Bruce redirects the room back to the map before Jason can build a conspiracy board out of pure audacity.

Work resumes.

You’re sharp. Damian is sharper. Tim is methodical. Dick is bright but focused. Jason is useful in spite of himself. Stephanie asks the right questions. Cass watches the route lines like she can feel the movement of a fight in the shapes.

When the meeting breaks, everyone moves—stations, screens, gear.

You leave when you’re supposed to.

Damian leaves when he’s supposed to.

Bruce ends up dimmising you both at the same time, gruffly telling you both to head to your respective homes.

Jason watches both of you go with an expression that says he’s going to be unbearable later.

‎⋆⋅·༻𐫱༺·⋅⋆ ─────────────

As you both enter your shared home, Damian murmurs something low—half to himself, half thrown into the air like he expects it to stick.

“يا ساتر…” (ya sātir… — oh Protector…)

You don’t look at him. You keep walking, calm and precise, and answer in Hindi in the same tone you’d use to comment on traffic.

“बहुत अच्छा.” (bahut acchā — Great.)

Damian’s jaw flexes once.

‎⋆⋅·༻𐫱༺·⋅⋆ ─────────────

Still in the cave, Jason’s voice carries, delighted and completely wrong:

“Oh my God. This is incredible.”

Stephanie groans. “Jason—”

He keeps going anyway. “They both got laid, insane.”

Dick laughs once, helpless. “You’re disgusting.”

Jason spreads his hands like he’s innocent. “I’m correct.”

Tim mutters, dry: “You’re loud.”

Jason points at him like that’s a compliment. “And you’re jealous.”

“I literally have a boyfriend?”

Cass says nothing.

Jason is already spinning theories.

Dick is laughing.

Tim is pretending he doesn’t care.

Stephanie is trying to keep the peace.

Bruce is pretending he didn’t hear any of it.

‎⋆⋅·༻𐫱༺·⋅⋆ ─────────────