Get to know me: I'm Verena, and I'm 21 years old | she/her pronouns | I'm from Thailand and currently living in the UK with my aunt | college student | DC fans since forever
Author notes: English is not my first language, but I try my hardest to improve my skills! You can talk with me, I also happy to make some friends too <3
My work: every DC character x fem!reader (could be both mlw or wlw) You can request me for any character you like too! I may use some AI (ChatGPT, Grammarly, etc.) to help me translate my story to English since I’m not fluent enough
Important! I use some AI to help me translate some part of my story from Thai to English so if you don’t like it feel free to scroll down or exit! (It’s much better than Google Translate that’s why I’ve no choice TT)
Imagine this—one day, you’re sitting down with your nine and eleven-year-old kids, and they ask you the classic question like ‘Mom, how did you meet Dad?’
It sounds like it should be a sweet, classic love story. You take a deep breath, ready to tell what sounds like a typical love story. But then you pause… because the man you’re talking about is Damian Wayne. So no, it’s definitely not.
And it all began thirteen years ago.
The library was quieter than usual that day.
Sunlight filtered softly through the tall windows, casting long, golden streaks across the wooden floors. You sat alone at the far end of the literature section, surrounded by stacks of poetry anthologies, your half-empty coffee already gone cold beside your elbow.
Even with a scholarship, studying abroad didn’t come cheap. Between the rising cost of food, transit, and overpriced printing credits, you’d become something of an expert at stretching every cent. So when someone cleared their throat beside your table, you expected it to be a librarian, not… him.
You looked up, and almost dropped your pen.
Damian Wayne.
There was no mistaking him. Impeccably dressed in a fitted black coat, school tie half-loosened like it offended him to wear it in the first place. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow with calculated ease, every movement sharp but controlled, like he was always ready to cut and walk away.
And right now, he was staring straight at you.
You’d seen him before, once or twice. Usually late to class, never taking notes, answering questions only when the professor was about to dismiss the lecture. People whispered about him—mostly nonsense. That he was a Wayne, yes, but also that he once stabbed a classmate for cheating off his exam, or that he lived alone in the east wing of the Wayne manor and had a sword collection that was probably not for show.
You hadn’t believed half of it.
Now, seated at your quiet corner of the literature section with ink smudges on your fingers and a headache blooming behind your eyes—he was very real. And he was approaching.
His gaze didn’t waver as he stopped at your table. Calm. Calculated. Like he was assessing a risk.
“…You’re Y/N L/N.”
It wasn’t a question. His tone was flat, certain, and unfriendly. You blinked, disoriented by how sharp his presence felt in the middle of your otherwise boring day.
“Uh… yeah?”
His eyes flicked down once—just enough to take in the mess of papers and books on your desk. Shakespeare’s Tragedies, a Sylvia Plath collection with your handwriting in every margin, and the essay you’d just finished: The Metaphysics of Desire (which had taken you three espressos and a small existential breakdown to complete).
A corner of his mouth lifted. Not quite a smile. Not quite anything. Then, without a word, he pulled out the chair across from you and sat down like he owned the whole damn building.
You stared.
“…Can I help you?”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers steepled.
“I have a proposition.”
Your brows pulled together, heartbeat thudding with the sharp instinct that told you this wasn’t normal. “Sorry… do I know you?”
“No,” he replied smoothly. “But I know enough.”
You paused, already wary. He began ticking off facts with clinical precision, as if reading them from a file.
“You’re on a full international scholarship. Literature major. You work part-time in the library archives and tutor first-years on Thursdays. And—”
His eyes flicked down again, this time to the frayed strap of your backpack, the faded ink stain near the zipper.
“—you could use the money.”
You stiffened.
“Wow. Subtle,” you said, instinctively hugging your arms. “Are you stalking me, or do you just have the university’s payroll hacked?”
He didn’t react to the sarcasm.
“I pay attention,” he said simply. “It’s a survival skill.” A beat passed. He didn’t elaborate, and that made it feel even stranger. Like he was telling the truth, and had no intention of explaining himself to you or anyone else.
“…Okay. Assuming you are sane,” you said slowly, “what kind of proposition are we talking about here?” He tilted his head, like this was the part he expected to take longer.
“I need someone to act as my girlfriend,” he said, casually, as if discussing lunch. “In exchange, I’ll cover your rent, your books, and provide a monthly stipend. Consider it a temporary, mutually beneficial arrangement.”
Your brain short-circuited for a full three seconds.
“Back up—what?”
His tone didn’t shift. “Fake dating. For appearances. You’d play the role for as long as necessary. You’re sharp, articulate, and clearly capable of holding your own in social situations. That’s what I need.”
You stared at him.
“…You’re serious.”
“Entirely.”
“And why me?”
He leaned back slightly, folding his arms.
“Because you’re not one of them,” he said simply. “You don’t chase attention. You don’t post every meal on social media. You read books without making a show of it. You exist quietly, and you don’t try to win anyone over. Which means you’re real—and no one would ever suspect you of wanting to be part of my family’s circus.”
There was no flattery in the way he said it. It sounded like the highest compliment he could give.
You swallowed, your mind racing. The offer was insane. Absolutely, royally, insane.
And yet— You thought about your landlord. The unpaid balance on your meal card. The unread email about a deadline you couldn’t afford to miss.
“…Let’s say I believe you,” you said slowly. “What do you get out of it?”
He exhaled once through his nose, as if this was the part he hated most. “My father is trying to negotiate a merger by matchmaking,” he said. “With someone I want nothing to do with.”
“If that’s how you’d like to phrase it,” he said, dryly. “Yes.”
You let out a soft laugh. The kind that came from nerves and disbelief more than humor. “…You know this is the weirdest job interview I’ve ever had, right?”
“I wasn’t offering a job,” he said. “I’m offering a contract.”
You looked down at your ink-smudged hands. Then back up at his unnervingly steady eyes.
“…Fine. But if I’m going to pretend to be your girlfriend, I’m not changing anything to impress you or your famil. I also need my salary before the month ends”
A pause. The faintest quirk of his lips.
“Deal.”
You met him again two days later—same library, different table. This time, he wasn’t wearing the school uniform. Black turtleneck, tailored coat. He looked like a boy who had just stepped out of a noir film.
The table between you was cluttered with papers. He had printed out a contract. A contract, for god’s sake.
“So…” you began, flipping through the pages. “You seriously drafted a legally binding fake dating agreement?”
Damian leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “It’s a standard NDA and term outline. If we’re going to make this convincing, we need boundaries. Rules.”
You stared at him. “Are you always this… romantic?”
A dry pause. “It’s worked so far.”
You glanced down again. The contract had bullet points—Public appearances three times per week. At least one joint social event per month. Physical affection allowed within reason. Your eyes widened at that one.
“Define ‘within reason’.”
He raised an eyebrow. “No one’s asking you to kiss me in the rain, if that’s what you’re imagining.”
You tried not to blush. “I wasn’t.”
You were.
He tapped the table. “The point is, she needs to believe it. My father needs to believe it. Which means we’ll need to be seen together regularly.”
“She?” you echoed.
“Vivienne.”
You hummed, of course. Vivienne LaCriox, heiress to Rothchild Pharmaceuticals. Smiled like a debutante, glared like a knife. She looked down everyone.
“She doesn’t strike me as someone who takes rejection well,” you muttered.
“She doesn’t,” Damian replied flatly. “Which is why I’m giving her a distraction.”
You tilted your head. “And I’m the… what, emotional decoy?”
“You’re more than that,” he said, then caught himself. “I mean—you’re believable. Normal. No one would expect it.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Is that a compliment?”
He shrugged. “Take it however you want.”
For a beat, neither of you spoke. The library light flickered slightly above your heads, humming soft and sterile.
“…You really think this’ll work?” you asked finally.
Damian leaned in just a little, elbows on the table. His voice dropped low and quiet. “It’ll work if we make it work.”
And for reasons you didn’t understand, you nodded.
It was just past nine in the morning when the two of you walked through the arched gates of Gotham University. It shouldn’t have felt like a spectacle, but it did.
The moment Damian Wayne stepped onto campus grounds with you beside him, a hush fell over the courtyard—followed by a murmur of curiosity, of disbelief.
"Is that…?"
"No way. That’s Bruce Wayne’s son"
"Wow, he's so handsome!"
"Wait—who’s the girl?"
You could feel the stares clinging to your skin like static. Heads turned. Conversations faltered mid-sentence. Even a professor nearly dropped his coffee. You kept your chin up. Shoulders straight. But your fingers curled tightly around the strap of your satchel.
“…Are they always like this?” you muttered under your breath. Somehow starting to regret accepting that agreement.
“Atrocious,” Damian said curtly, his jaw tense. “I should’ve used the back entrance.”
“They’re staring like you brought home a unicorn,” you murmured, trying to keep your tone light. “A nerdy unicorn with bad posture and student loans.”
He glanced sidelong at you, unimpressed. “You’re not that hunched.”
You blinked. “…Was that a compliment?”
“No.”
You smothered a grin. Despite the tension threading your spine, something about walking beside him—tall, unreadable, dressed like the shadows had tailored his coat—felt oddly… cinematic. The two of you didn’t look like a couple. Not yet. It wasn’t enough.
So you did something reckless.
Without warning, you reached down and laced your fingers through his.
Damian flinched like he’d been burned. His hand jerked instinctively, trying to pull away but you held fast, keeping your expression neutral.
“Don’t,” you whispered through your teeth. “If you yank away like I have the plague, this whole charade is dead before lunch.”
His eyes narrowed at you. “You didn’t ask.”
“You didn’t say I couldn’t,” you shot back quietly, forcing a smile for a group of freshmen gawking at you from across the fountain. “This is your plan, remember? I’m just making it believable.”
He didn’t respond, but he stopped trying to pull away. Progress.
Then, for good measure, you leaned in ever so slightly. “Now,” you murmured under your breath, “do me a favor. Tuck my hair behind my ear.”
Damian looked at you like you’d asked him to commit a felony. “Absolutely not.”
“Do it,” you said through clenched teeth, still smiling sweetly for your audience. “Or people are going to start thinking you paid me to be here.”
He muttered something in Arabic under his breath. Then, with all the enthusiasm of someone petting a venomous snake, he reached up and brushed a lock of hair behind your ear.
It wasn’t gentle. But it was… careful.
You looked up at him, blinking slowly. “See? Was that so hard?”
He glanced down at you, eyes dark and unreadable. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re terrible at fake affection,” you whispered with a smirk. “We’re gonna need to work on that.”
His lips twitched—barely. And then he looked away as if regretting every decision that had led him to this moment.
You kept walking, still hand in hand.
The show had only just begun.
The classroom was already half full when you and Damian stepped through the doorway, still side by side. Heads turned almost instantly. Whispers followed like shadows. After all, it wasn’t every day Damian Wayne, the elusive, sharp-tongued heir to Bruce Wayne, walked into class with someone. A girl, no less.
You could feel the attention pressing down on your shoulders like invisible weights. Damian, on the other hand, looked thoroughly unimpressed by the spectacle.
“I told you, this is ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath, eyes scanning the room with cool disinterest. “They act like they’ve never seen two people walk together.”
You offered a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “It’s only going to get worse.” You slowed your pace and finally stopped beside your seat, turning to him. “I’ll see you at lunch?”
He gave a curt nod.
“Don’t bail,” you added quietly, as if to remind him this was still part of the plan. “We’re supposed to look like we’re dating, remember?”
Damian rolled his eyes but said nothing.
You parted ways then, stepping toward your usual table where your group of friends sat, all wide-eyed and mouths slightly agape. The moment you dropped into the seat, they swarmed in.
“Was that—was that Damian Wayne?”
“Are you two…?”
“What just happened?!”
You tried to play it cool, but your hands betrayed a nervous twitch as they gripped the edge of your desk. “We’re, uh…” You hesitated for dramatic effect, or maybe just to buy time. “We’re seeing where things go. I guess.”
The words had barely left your lips when a new wave of murmurs swept through the room. Even students from the neighboring rows were visibly eavesdropping, some failing miserably at hiding it.
Behind you, a few seats down, Damian sat with John, Wally, and Steph—his unofficial circle. They looked more stunned than anyone else, exchanging bewildered glances like they were trying to decode an alien language.
“Dude…what?” John whispered across the aisle.
“Are you guys seeing what I’m seeing?”
“Holy shit! Who the hell is that gorgeous girl with Damian?” Wally said, completely stunned.
Damian didn’t bother looking at him. Arms crossed, expression unreadable, he leaned back in his chair with an air of supreme indifference. But the slight tick in his jaw betrayed his mood.
He was annoyed.
Not by you, of course, but by them. And the questions. And the stares.
Still, while his mouth stayed shut, his eyes refused to do the same. From where he sat, he had a perfect view of you, and he used it freely. His sharp gaze lingered on your profile—your smile, the nervous way your hand tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the soft curve of your lips as you answered your friends with growing discomfort.
You didn’t notice the way he watched you, not then. Too busy deflecting questions with vague laughs and awkward shrugs.
But he noticed everything.
Lunchtime came quickly, and you were in the middle of unpacking your lunch with your friends when it happened.
Damian Wayne walked straight toward your table.
Conversation died mid-sentence. A fork dropped. One of your friends let out a small gasp. He didn’t say anything as he approached, just came to a stop beside you with his hands in his pockets, surveying your group like he was calculating things.
You looked up, blinking. “You came.”
“I said I would.” His voice was low, calm and measured.
There was a pause before someone scooted over to make room. He sat beside you without another word. Your friends were too stunned to speak. They stared openly, jaws slack.
From across the room, John, Wally, and Steph gawked from their own abandoned table. Wally mouthed something that looked suspiciously like “Are you serious?” while Steph simply buried her face in her hands.
Damian ignored them all.
He leaned slightly closer to you, just enough to invade your space, just enough to make it believable. His thigh brushed against yours under the table. You couldn’t tell if it was intentional or not.
But his voice was softer when he spoke next, meant for your ears alone.
“You owe me for this.”
You glanced at him sideways and smiled with just enough teasing to hide your nerves. “More like you owe me”
He didn’t smile, but there was something in his eyes—quiet, unreadable amusement. Something that looked suspiciously like he wasn’t entirely regretting this plan anymore.
The next day, whispers spread like wildfire across campus. Word had it that Vivienne LaCriox, Damian’s would-be fiancée, had shattered several vases worth hundreds of thousands after hearing about you and Damian during the days she’d been away sick.
Rumor had it she’d sent people out, demanding to know exactly who you were.
Since that first hand-holding incident at the university gates, things had only escalated—exactly according to plan.
You and Damian began appearing together more and more, a slow but steady routine forming beneath the surface of your fake dating arrangement. You showed up to classes side by side, walked the shaded paths back from lectures together, waited on campus steps for one another before meals. Sometimes you’d sit beside the training ground while he practiced. Other times, he’d find you first, wordlessly tugging you along toward the cafeteria as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
By the third day, Damian had moved his lunch tray to your table permanently.
By the end of the week, his friends had followed suit, reluctantly at first, then noisily. Whatever tranquility you once had during lunch hour was gone in a flash of bickering, competitive banter, and half-serious debates. Still, no one questioned why the youngest Wayne chose to sit beside you, or why his gaze would flick in your direction whenever someone teased too hard. They didn’t have to. The entire university had already drawn their own conclusions.
For two full weeks, the buzz of speculation only grew louder. You’d hear your name whispered in corridors, catch curious looks between classmates who had never acknowledged your existence before. And naturally, there was no chance any of it would escape the notice of the older Waynes—not when the tabloids had already begun to nibble at the story.
Tim, Jason, even Dick… and of course, Bruce Wayne himself. But curiously enough, none of them said a word.
Not yet, anyway.
As much as you wanted to pretend everything was going smoothly, something inside you couldn’t quite settle. Because this wasn’t just some harmless rumor anymore. And it wasn’t Damian’s family you feared.
It was the girl who made this whole scheme necessary.
You and Damian had been walking side by side down the long, echoing hall of the humanities building that afternoon, your conversation a casual rhythm of banter and biting remarks. He was, as usual, complaining.
“The pasta was overcooked,” he said flatly.
You rolled your eyes. "You don't have to eat it if you don't want to, you know."
“I didn’t say I didn’t eat it. I said it was overcooked.”
You could’ve argued. And maybe you would’ve — if your mind wasn’t too busy replaying the events that led up to this particular argument.
That night he showed up at your dorm, unannounced.
There was a knock on the door. And when you opened it, there he was, standing in the hallway like it was the most normal thing in the world, hands in his pockets, gaze unreadable.
“I’m staying here tonight.”
That was all he said.
Your roommate nearly screamed. She fled the room the moment Damian stepped inside, her eyes wide like she’d just seen a panther stroll into a petting zoo. You hadn’t even gotten the chance to explain anything, and your, technically, fake boyfriend, didn't bother to do anything about the upcoming rumors too.
So, you let it go. You’d talked about a lot of things that night — how his family already knew about the relationship now, how the rumors were starting to swirl. And somewhere in between the talking, somewhere in that quietly intense space where his eyes lingered on yours just a little too long, something in your chest stuttered. You just realized you didn't wear a bra, all this time. Your heart beat fast.
You panicked, of course.
You offered to cook lunch the next day just to fill the silence. He agreed and showed up the next morning without a trace of hesitation. That night he slept on your bed while you slept on your roommate's bed.
It's not like you didn't want to sleep with him— no — it's not like that. What are you trying to say is that it's fake, nothing is real, so you weren't really need to sleep with him.
Well, that was the beginning of the argument after all.
You were mid-sentence, about to give your best comeback regarding the pasta — you were flustered, okay? You didn't wear a bra, and somehow he just kept staring, too long. It made you forgot to set the timer — when it happened.
“Dami!”
A voice, high and unmistakably familiar, pierced through the corridor behind you. Somehow that annoying voice just made you come back to your senses.
Before you could turn around, a pair of delicate arms wrapped themselves around Damian’s neck from behind. A slim figure with long blond hair practically launched herself at him, her laugh annoyingly sweet as she leaned close and pressed her cheek against his shoulder like they belonged together.
You froze. Everyone did. Even Damian stiffened. But your stomach had already sunk. You didn’t need to look twice.
You knew who she was.
The moment you saw her, the air shifted.
It wasn’t the kind of chill that brushed the skin—it sank deeper. Into bone. Into breath. Into whatever fragile thing pulsed behind your ribs.
Damian was already irritated, his jaw tight, steps sharp. He yanked his arm free from Vivienne’s grasp like she were something sticky clinging to his skin, and without a word, strode to your side. You didn’t miss the way his shoulder brushed yours.
Vivienne LaCroix didn’t even flinch.
Her gaze flicked to him, calm and composed, lips still painted in a soft, practiced smile as if his blatant dismissal meant nothing.
“Oh, Dami,” she said sweetly, voice silk over ice. “You’re still so impulsive when you’re upset. I was only missing you.”
He didn’t even look at her. “You’re not. And stop calling me that”
Vivienne blinked, just once, slowly.
“I see,” she murmured, as if he’d just misunderstood her tone, not rejected her outright. “Still sharp as ever. I almost missed it.”
“Vivienne,” Damian’s voice cut cleanly, his tone devoid of warmth. “Go away.”
And then he turned, back straight, standing beside you like a wall. He looked at you like a sign to get off of here. You nodded slightly, about to turn around and walk away.
For a breath, you thought it would end there. But Vivienne’s attention slid toward you, and settled.
You didn’t speak—not yet. You just met her gaze, quiet and unmoving. It felt like staring down a perfectly carved porcelain doll, one whose smile never quite reached her eyes. Her voice, when she spoke again, was soft—too soft, too annoying.
“So,” she said, with a tilted head and a hum that was far too pleasant, “you’re the reason he’s been so… distracted lately.”
You blinked, once.
Vivienne’s eyes flicked down, then back up. A precise, surgical motion. “You’re… different,” she continued thoughtfully. “Not what I expected. But then again, Damian always had a strange taste for strays.”
Your spine straightened instinctively.
“I suppose it’s sweet,” she mused, “how he wants to fix broken things. Though sometimes I wonder if it’s pity or just… boredom.”
There it was. The smile. The poison beneath the sugar.
Your lips curled, not in a smile, but something close. Something sharp. “It’s always the ones with nothing real to say that hide behind metaphors,” you said quietly.
“But I understand. It must be hard watching someone you thought you owned walk away with someone he truly loved.”
Vivienne’s eyes narrowed, only slightly, but it was enough. You’d struck a nerve.
You tilted your head, voice still calm. “Tell me, is this how you talk to every woman he stands beside? Or just the ones he chooses?”
Her smile remained, but the muscles in her jaw tensed like piano wire. You weren’t sure what the feeling in your chest was. Heat? Satisfaction? Something strange and twisted that curled under your ribs like a challenge met.
Maybe it was anger. Maybe it was pride.
Maybe it was nothing at all.
You weren’t trying to win, not sure. You just didn’t like the way she looked at you as if you were disposable, temporary. Something she’d wipe off her shoe and forget.
Damian stood silent between you both, arms folded, watching you. Not interfering. You wondered if he was letting it happen on purpose. Letting her see exactly where she stood now. Letting you show her.
And God, it felt good.
Even if your heart was beating a little too fast. Even if part of you wasn’t sure why.
“Confident, aren’t you?” she continued, her voice as sweet as honey. Almost enough to hide the venom curling beneath it.
“Go ahead, hold your head high. Just be careful… the day he tosses you aside, you won’t even notice when you’re being stepped on.”
The words hit you harder than you’d expected. It was as if everything you’d just felt came crashing down in an instant. Reality hit you hard, cold and merciless. The truth was undeniable, by the way, none of this was real.
It had always been just a deal. A convenient arrangement to keep her away from him.
He never truly liked you.
It wasn’t that you’d forgotten, not really. But something about the way your chest tightened now, something you couldn’t quite name, made you bite down gently on your lower lip.
And she seemed to notice, because that was when her lips curled into a slow, satisfied smirk. But before Vivienne could muster another retort, a voice cut clean through the tension like a blade.
“Enough.”
Damian’s tone was cold, final. He didn’t spare Vivienne a glance as he stepped between you and her, his body language drawn and tight. Protective, without even trying to be.
“She’s not your concern,” he said flatly. “And you’re wasting your breath.”
Vivienne opened her mouth, but Damian had already turned his back to her, unapologetically, unbothered. He reached for your wrist. His touch was brief, firm, grounding.
“Come on.”
You followed without thinking, your steps guided by his as he led you through the corridor and out of the suffocating air behind. And just like that, the haze of strange, inexplicable irritation that had clung to you just a moment before, one you couldn’t even name, lifted the moment his skin brushed yours.
You glanced up at him as he walked ahead, sharp features set in that usual quiet storm of his. You should’ve been annoyed. You weren’t.
Instead, something unfamiliar bloomed in your chest. A warmth. Not loud, not dramatic, just… steady. A kind of safety you didn’t know you’d been missing. And for a second, just one fleeting second, you allowed yourself to wonder,
What would it feel like… to stay close to someone like him, more.
It was a quiet Saturday morning when you heard a knock at your dorm room door.
You weren’t expecting anyone, still in your oversized sleep shirt, you shuffled toward the door, opening it with a half-yawn—only to freeze.
Damian Wayne was standing there, one hand tucked in the pocket of a dark hoodie, the other holding his phone like he had simply been bored and decided to drop by. No blazer. No pressed shirt or tailored coat. Just a black hoodie, a white T-shirt underneath, and jeans that made him look… normal.
Well, normal for anyone except him.
There was still something unmistakably sharp about the way he stood, like he didn’t quite belong in the casualness of the outfit. Yet somehow, that contrast made it even worse. Or better. Depending on how you looked at it.
You blinked. “Uh....”
Your roommate’s shriek cut you off. “Is that—? That’s—!”
You turned to see her mouthing Damian Wayne like she’d just seen a celebrity, which, technically, wasn’t far from the truth.
“I’ll bring her back before curfew,” Damian said smoothly, ignoring your roommate entirely. “Back from what?” you whispered as he turned on his heel, fully expecting you to follow.
He glanced back, eyes lazy but knowing. “Go change,” he said, as if it explained everything. "I will wait outside"
It didn’t.
But your feet moved anyway.
Gotham City’s Midtown district was unusually bright this afternoon. The clouds had pulled back just enough to let a few rays of light warm the sidewalks, and the usually intimidating skyline seemed less harsh when reflected in the glassy windows of cafés and boutiques.
If you weren't in a fake relationship with him, you wouldn't think someone like Damian Wayne could had friends he casually hung out with.
But here you were, walking beside him, dodging the weekend crowd, while Jon Kent waved excitedly from across the street with two iced coffees in hand. Stephanie Brown was there too, sunglasses pushed into her hair, and Wally, of course, already halfway through a chili dog he’d clearly bought from a stand two seconds ago.
You already knew most of them. After all, you’d shared enough lunches together at the campus cafeteria. But this would be your first time actually hanging out with them.
“Wow, you look amazing today,” Wally was the first to greet you as you approached the group.
You smiled and returned the greeting to everyone politely.
“Oh, come on, Damian. You didn’t have to bring your girlfriend,” Steph teased with a sly grin. “What, did you forget how to be alone or something?”
Damian rolled his eyes with an expression full of disdain, muttering under his breath,
“Shut up.”
You figured he was already annoyed, but well, he had to bring you, didn’t he? The whole point was to make sure people saw the two of you together. Especially today, in public.
“How are you doing, Kent,” you said, turning to one of Damian’s friends who’d been staring at you for quite a while now.
He blinked and let out a soft, awkward laugh.
“H-Hey,” he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm fine, thanks"
You smiled warmly, unfazed. John, clearly flustered, then offered you a cold coffee. “Want one?” he asked, holding the cup toward you with a friendly smile.
You looked at it, amused, then let out a small laugh. He really was kind of cute.
But before you could even answer, his arm was sharply swatted away, the drink nearly slipping from his grip. Startled, you turned to see Damian, expression dark as a storm cloud.
“Back off, Kent. She’s mine.”
The words stunned everyone,including you.
Then, Damian shot you a sharp, unreadable look before turning on his heel and walking off ahead, leaving you standing there with your heart racing and his friends exchanging looks behind him.
“Yikes. Someone’s jealous,” Steph whispered.
“Dude, what were you thinking messing with Damian’s girl?” Wally muttered, smacking John lightly on the back of the head. While John just looked genuinely confused, like he had no idea what he’d done wrong.
The rest of the day passed in a quiet sort of blur. Most of the time was spent wandering around, checking out stalls and grabbing snacks here and there. You didn’t really buy anything, not because you didn’t want to, but because everything was just a little too expensive for your wallet.
So you just walked along quietly, listening to Wally chatter on beside you.
What you didn’t notice, though… was the way Damian kept glancing your way the entire time.
Some time had passed, and you hadn’t even noticed he’d disappeared. Then, out of nowhere, he returned, with ice cream in hand, causing surprise to ripple through the group.
You blinked, startled. “Oh… thank you,” you said, touched by the small gesture. Your cheeks grew warm before you even realized it.
Then, he handed you something else.
“What’s this?” you asked, confused as you took the small bag from his hand.
“Open it and find out,” he said offhandedly, his tone casual, almost disinterested.
You raised a brow in curiosity, handing him your ice cream without a word. He took it wordlessly, without complaint. Slowly, you opened the velvet box.
Inside was a delicate necklace, tiny silver beads strung together with an emerald-green pendant at the center. It was unmistakably the one you had admired earlier at the store, the only one you truly liked. You had decided against it, though, because the price was far too high. Even with the money you earned from working for Damian, it had seemed impossible.
“Wait… did you buy this for me?”
“Obviously,” he replied as if the answer were the most self-evident thing in the world. “But it was expensive…”
He made a sound deep in his throat, clearly unimpressed. “I could buy you a hundred of those. It’s not even expensive.”
His words were laced with irritation, and the way he said it made him sound arrogant—typical Damian. But the frown on his face and the blunt honesty in his voice made it clear he meant every word.
You were stunned, and so was everyone else. No one had expected him of all people to do something like this. Not Damian. You smiled gratefully, fingers brushing over the pendant as warmth bloomed in your chest.
“Thank you. I really love it,” you said softly, and slipped it around your neck. Oddly enough, it suited you perfectly. You already assumed that he did that just to make his friends believe in our fake relationship.
For a second, you couldn’t help but envy whoever got to date him…real.
After that, the atmosphere shifted significantly. His friends started looking at you differently, throwing you question after question with renewed curiosity, clearly trying to understand what the hell just happened. You fumbled a bit—not because you didn’t have answers, but because you were too flustered to speak straight.
Too flustered… because of him.
You barely had time to be offended before a sudden hand wrapped around your wrist, not harsh but firm. Damian pulled you a little closer and muttered,
“Ignore them. They’re children.”
“And you’re not?” you teased under your breath, still trying to catch up with everything.
Instead of answering, he glanced at a storefront up ahead. A small photo booth nestled between an ice cream parlor and a bookstore caught his eye. “We’re going in there.”
“Wait—what?” You blinked as he all but dragged you toward it.
The booth was tiny, barely enough room for two. He didn’t even hesitate before stepping inside and patting the seat beside him with all the enthusiasm of someone forced to endure public interaction.
“You sure about this?” you asked as you sat down.
“No,” he replied. “But I don't wanna hear their voice, it's annoying. Maybe I could have a break for my ears in here” you just hummed in response, then tilled your head.
"How about me? Is my voice bothering you?"
He glanced at you. "Yes, and you’re the worst."
You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you.
When the camera started counting down, you both turned back at the camera. You instinctively reached for his arm. Maybe it was the tight space. Maybe it was the way the booth seemed to seal off the outside world. Either way, your hand wrapped around his sleeve and stayed there.
He didn’t pull away.
Instead, he turned slightly, letting your shoulder rest against his. Snap. The first photo was awkward, the two of you stiff as cardboard.
Snap.
The second showed you mid-laugh while Damian looked away, a rare, amused smirk curling at the corner of his lips.
Snap.
The third, your head on his shoulder, his fingers brushing lightly against your hand. Your heart skipped. He didn’t move, and neither did you. You didn't realise how big your smile was in that picture.
Meanwhile, outside the photo booth, while you tried to calm your racing pulse, Jon leaned in and whispered, “You know, he never lets anyone touch him.”
Steph also raised a brow. “He bought her ice cream and a necklace too”
"Didn't any of you notice that he just smiled!?"
Later on, when the sun began to dip behind the skyline and the air took on that golden hue only Gotham could pull off without looking romantic on purpose, you found yourself walking side by side again, your pace slower this time. Damien's friends have already gone their separate ways.
Then, out of nowhere, he stopped. And pulled something from his pocket.
A small bouquet, just three tiny, delicate daisies tied with a single black ribbon. It was so unlike the grand gestures you were used to seeing in movies or from people trying too hard.
“You said you liked wildflowers,” Damian said, voice low. “So…”
He held it out, not quite meeting your eyes.
You stared.
Then flushed.
Words caught in your throat, your heart skipping so violently it might’ve stumbled right out of your chest. All you could do was nod and take the flowers with a quiet, “Thank you.”
You don't know whether to be surprised when he brings you homemade bouquets or when he remembers something you said out of nowhere at lunch.
As your fingers brushed again, something inside you shifted. All that remained was warmth.
He didn’t have to pretend to be nice to you anymore—not now that his friends weren’t around to see it.
You glanced at him from the side as he began walking again, his back straight, gaze sharp as ever. But maybe it was just the soft glow of the setting sun hitting his face... because for a second, you swore you saw a faint flush rising on his cheeks.
Your heart pounded so hard, it nearly burst from your chest.
Something had changed, you just know.
And maybe you didn’t quite understand it yet. But for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you had to.
You pushed your way through the packed crowd at the edge of the stadium, weaving between excited onlookers as the sound of clashing blades echoed in the air. Today was his fencing tournament, and there was no way you’d miss it for the world.
A subtle chill clung to the open arena, but the buzz of anticipation more than made up for it. You adjusted the hoodie clinging to your frame, the fabric soft and familiar, embroidered with the unmistakable symbol of his name Wayne stitched cleanly across the back in dark, assertive lettering.
On the front, over the left side of the chest, there were small black letters, delicately printed just above the logo. It read, clearly and unmistakably Damian Wayne.
“Hey! Over here!”
Your head turned instinctively. A familiar hand waved at you above the crowd—Jon Kent. He was smiling as always, genuine and bright, and you couldn’t help but smile back.
“Thought you’d be here,” he said when you reached him. “Come on, we saved you a spot.”
Squeezing past a few people, you joined him and the rest of the usual crew, Wally, Steph. You also noticed Colin, and Duke who nodded politely in your direction. You greeted them all like you always did, settling into the space with practiced ease, until someone caught sight of your hoodie.
“Hold up,” Colin said with a teasing grin, his gaze dropping to your chest. “Is that his name on your shirt?”
The others turned in unison. Jon raised a brow, amused.
“Didn’t think Damian did that kind of thing. Custom merch for the girlfriend?”
You laughed, but it came out a little sheepish. “Well… I mean, if you’re gonna cheer for your boyfriend at a tournament, you gotta do it right. Right?”
“Wait,” Duke leaned in with mock offense, “He gave that to you?”
You hesitated a beat. The truth was, you’d pestered him endlessly a few days ago until he finally caved and tossed the hoodie at you with an eye roll. “Just wear it and don’t make a scene,” he’d said, but you did the exact opposite.
Honestly, how can you not make a scene when you're wearing his hoodie with his name on it?
You cleared your throat and offered a smile. “Totally. He gave it to me.” Not technically a lie… more like a gentle bending of the truth for dramatic effect.
And then, the moment shifted.
The crowd hushed slightly as a new competitor stepped onto the floor, drawing all eyes forward. Your gaze followed instinctively, and there he was.
Damian emerged from the sidelines in full fencing gear, the uniform tailored to perfection, every line of it sharp, efficient, and commanding. His helmet hung loosely in one hand as he strode forward, posture immaculate, every step full of quiet precision. You had seen him in training ground, but something about seeing him here, under a spotlight, in front of strangers and expectation… it made your breath hitch.
There was no hesitation in him. No showmanship. Just pure, relentless focus.
Wally leaned over, eyes practically glowing with excitement.
“This is gonna be good,” he said. “That guy’s a national-level fencer. Like—real Olympic potential. That’s why everyone’s packed in today.”
"Do you think he's going to win?"
Steph shook her head slightly. “I don’t know… I think it’s hard for him.”
Her answer made your heart skip in a way that unsettled you. You turned to look back, not catching what they whispered after that.
“Yeah, well, more like it’s hard for him not to kill someone on sight.”
Your heartbeat fluttered, matching the buzz of the crowd as your gaze locked on the center of the arena. Please win, you found yourself thinking. Please show them you can do this.
The whistle blew.
Steel clashed against steel, a crisp echo that rang across the stadium. Every move Damian made was surgical, fluid. Like he wasn’t just fighting, he was dancing. Your breath caught in your throat as you watched him pivot, parry, lunge, his opponent barely keeping up.
He was mesmerizing.
And then, cutting through the din of the crowd like a sharp edge
“GO DAMI! YOU’VE GOT THIS, HONEY!”
Your head snapped around instinctively. So did dozens of others.
Vivienne. Of course it was her. Standing near the side railing, far too close to the front row for someone who wasn’t family. Her voice rang out again, all honeyed sweetness and exaggerated enthusiasm that made your skin crawl. She waved like she was in a beauty pageant, so gracefully artificial it hurt.
Your eyes narrowed before your brain could stop you.
Then you saw it, her shirt.
Not the same as yours, not an official team jacket like Damian’s, but unmistakably personalized. Embroidered across the back in bold thread. WAYNE.
It hit you like a jab to the ribs.
The pit in your stomach grew tighter, heavier. You weren’t even sure why. It wasn’t technically your name. But it had felt like a claim. Something you wore with pride because it came from him. Now it felt like someone had mimicked it, on purpose.
From beside you, Colin muttered something under his breath.
“She’s so obvious it’s embarrassing.”
Steph leaned closer and bumped your shoulder lightly. “Your face is doing that thing again,” she whispered teasingly. You forced a thin smile, but your fingers curled slightly against your knees.
You tried to ignore her.
Tried to shut her voice out like static, like background noise you could pretend didn’t grate against your skin.
But it was hard.
Vivienne had a way of speaking that made everything sound like a challenge, like she owned the room just by being in it. And right now, she was loud enough to make your teeth grind. Still, you swallowed the irritation. Pressed your lips into a thin line. This wasn’t about her.
Your focus snapped forward to the strip, to him.
Damian.
The clash of steel was sharp, fast, rhythmic. Controlled chaos. His posture was clean, movement fluid, but something was off. Just barely, but enough that his opponent started to press in harder, take risks.
And they were landing.
Point by point, it added up. You felt it in your chest first, tight, cold. The crowd shifted. There was a murmur among the audience, a sense of unease even among his teammates.
Your hands clenched into fists inside the oversized hoodie sleeves, the fabric warm where it touched your palms. His name was printed in bold letters across your back, stitched in the team’s deep green.
You were trying not to get emotional, really. Trying not to let your heart hammer too hard or your stomach sink every time that beep went off and the referee signaled red—not white. Not him.
The bell rang again, signaling the end of the round. The tension in the air seemed to thicken, no one seemed to relax. And then, maybe it was the silence between points. Maybe it was how the lights caught on his mask as he adjusted it, that brief pause before the bout resumed.
Maybe it was just you—sick of keeping quiet.
Your voice broke through the tension without warning, strong and clear.
“You can do it, Damian! Don't you dare lose this match in front of me!”
Every head turned. Even Vivienne froze mid-word. People couldn’t help but stare when they saw another girl shouting for the Wayne heir. Unlike the other one, this girl wore a hoodie with his full name embroidered clearly on it, drawing even more curious eyes her way.
Your breath caught, but you didn’t regret it. Not when you saw him glance your way. Not when, for just a second through the mesh of his mask, his body stilled, and his shoulders lifted in a soft, unmistakable breath.
Then he smiled.
Just a little.
Small and fleeting under his mask, but so startling that even his teammates blinked at one another like they’d imagined it. Some of them exchanged wide-eyed glances. A few laughed under their breath, more surprised than anything.
Instead, there was a strange hush before the bell rang.
Then focus.
Damian turned back to his opponent like someone had flipped a switch inside him. His stance rebalanced, sharper now. Shoulders squared. He adjusted his grip with newfound precision, and when the next round began, the first strike was his.
Unbeknownst to you, a few seats away from Vivienne, Bruce Wayne sat silently, his expression unreadable save for the slight narrowing of his eyes as they settled on you. Beside him, his older sons leaned toward one another, speaking in low tones only they could hear.
“Is that her?” Tim murmured, adjusting his gaze.
Jason let out a low whistle. “Didn’t know he had a type, but she’s gorgeous.”
“She’s wearing his jacket,” Dick added, his brows raised with a faint smile. “Ballsy move.”
Back on the strip, the match had reached its final stretch. Each clash of blades echoed with a sharpness that sliced through the crowd’s breathless silence. You found yourself on your feet now, knuckles white around the railing, heart hammering against your ribs. The score was tied, just one point away. One second. One opening.
You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until a flash of silver crossed your vision, then a deafening beep of the final strike registered.
The crowd erupted.
You froze. Time stilled around you. The scoreboard lit up with one name. Damian Wayne – Winner.
For a second, you couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Then your eyes widened, mouth parting in disbelief. Heat rushed to your cheeks, and to your surprise, your vision blurred, eyes stinging with unshed tears.
You gripped the top of the railing and leaned over, voice rising above the chaos with a kind of joy that felt too big for your chest.
“That’s my boyfriend!” you shouted.
The words burst out of you without thought, pure instinct, and pure pride. A few people turned, startled or smiling. But the ones who mattered, his friends, stood just behind you, watching in stunned silence. Then they grinned.
On the strip, Damian pulled off his fencing mask, dark strands of hair damp against his forehead. His chest heaved with the weight of the fight, but his eyes lifted. Right to you.
Your eyes met. The noise faded, the crowd vanished.
And for one fleeting heartbeat, it was just the two of you.
A flush rose to your cheeks as your mind caught up with what you’d just done. God. You really screamed that in front of everyone? You were blushing so hard it hurt,but when he smiled at you, slow and rare and real, you knew you’d do it all over again.
As the final cheer still echoed faintly through the coliseum, the crowd began to thin, people slowly shuffling out in excited, noisy waves. But your eyes didn’t move from him, not even for a second.
Down below, Damian was saying something to one of his teammates. You couldn’t quite make out the words, but you saw the way his brows were pulled together, how his hand gestured briefly, sharply, and then fell to his side as if whatever he said had been final.
Then, without warning, he threw his protective gear aside. The blade he had wielded so precisely not moments ago clattered to the ground, discarded like it meant nothing. He was unbothered by the shouts or curious glances from the remaining spectators. You watched, heart still thudding from the match, now skipping at the unfamiliar expression on his face.
Determined. On you.
You leaned over the railing instinctively, eyes widening. He was heading your way. You thought he might take the stairs, that he’d appear moments later beside you, calm and unreadable as ever. But then—gasps erupted around you.
Damian leapt effortlessly onto the narrow edge of the wall, pushing off a support beam and springing with deadly precision toward the highest tier of the stands. His boots hit the ground beside you with feline grace, the impact barely a whisper.
You stared, stunned.
So did his teammates, still frozen down below. So did the Wayne family, who were watching from the opposite side of the arena, their expressions a mixture of disbelief and dawning amusement.
“Did he just—?”
“Of course he did,” came Tim’s exasperated mutter, somewhere beneath the din.
But you were barely breathing.
“What—what the hell was that?” you asked, breathless, eyes scanning him from head to toe as if to confirm he hadn’t broken anything from that jump.
Damian’s chest rose and fell, sweat still clinging to his skin under the black mesh of his training gear. He raised a brow, clearly amused by your expression.
“I heard you,” he said simply.
Your stomach flipped.
“What?” you whispered.
He stepped closer, his tone low but unmistakably smug. “That ridiculous yell of yours. ‘That’s my boyfriend’?” he repeated, imitating your voice with just enough exaggeration to make you want to melt into the floor. “Subtle.”
Your face flushed so quickly it made your ears burn. “I didn’t think you’d— I mean—there were a lot of people—!”
He cut you off with a rare, lopsided smirk. “I liked it.” And just like that, it happened.
That smile, genuine, brief, and utterly disarming, spread across his face like a crack in armor. For the first time in public, he looked not like the famous Damian Wayne, heir to Gotham’s most powerful name, (secret assassin prodigy), or even champion duelist. He looked like a boy. A twenty years old boy who had just won something that mattered.
The gasps weren’t just for his stunt anymore. Whispers rippled across the stands about the girl in his jersey, about the look on his face, about the way his eyes softened only when they landed on you.
Even Bruce, now standing with his arms crossed, narrowed his eyes in quiet contemplation.
“He’s smiling,” Dick muttered to Jason, nudging him with a sharp elbow.
“He doesn’t smile,” Jason replied flatly.
“Exactly.”
Back beside you, Damian added coolly, “You should wear my name more often."
Somehow, that word affected you in a way you’ve questioned yourself for a while now. His glances still on you. Your face changed color.
"It suits you.”
Your heart jumped into your throat. Again.
You weren’t exactly sure when it became a routine, Damian dropping by your room to work on assignments together, but it had become one. Oddly comforting, really. Even your roommate had stopped being shocked at his arrival. Today, though, she was out. Which meant it was just the two of you, and that should’ve felt normal by now, but it didn’t.
Not since the fencing match.
Not since the way he walked straight up to you, unbothered by the stares, and yet made something in your chest ache.
You took a deep breath, shaking the memory out of your head just as you heard the soft knock on your door.
When you opened it, he stood there with his usual composed expression, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair just slightly tousled like he’d run his hand through it on the way here, relaxed. Effortlessly so. And unfairly attractive.
“You’re early,” you said, keeping your voice light. He gave a single shrug. “You said seven.”
“It’s 6:53.”
“I round down.”
You rolled your eyes, stepping aside to let him in.
He walked past you with quiet familiarity, dropping his bag beside your desk and settling into your chair like it belonged to him. His movements were unhurried, but there was a certainty to them, like he’d done this a hundred times before. Like your room, your space, had already made space for him.
And maybe… it had.
You tried not to think too hard about that.
You sat down on the edge of your bed, notebook in hand, attempting to ignore the way your heart skipped the tiniest beat every time your gaze flicked toward him. That stupid hoodie, his posture, the concentration already settling in his eyes as he opened the laptop—You weren’t supposed to feel like this.
Not when all he was doing was showing up the way he always did. Not when he looked this… casual.
“Where’s the essay?” he asked without looking up.
You blinked. “Oh. Right. Um...here.”
You passed him the printed sheet with your notes scribbled in the margins, hoping he wouldn’t notice how sweaty your palms were.
He took it with a nod and started reading, his brows furrowing slightly. You watched in silence, willing yourself to focus on anything except the shape of his hands or the sharpness of his jaw or the faint crease between his brows when he was analyzing something.
He leaned over your shoulder slightly, scanning your half-finished paragraph with that same stoic intensity he wore like a second skin. The words were there, well, most of them. But the tangled mess of academic phrasing, and your frustration with misusing dichotomy again for the third time, made it difficult to focus. Still, you weren’t stupid. You had a good grasp of ideas, just not always the most elegant way of saying them.
Damian caught the misuse instantly.
“You’re confusing ‘dichotomy’ with ‘juxtaposition’ again,” he said, tone flat but not mocking. “They’re not interchangeable. One implies mutual exclusivity, the other contrast within coexistence.”
You blinked, a little caught off guard by the clarity. “Oh. That… makes sense, actually.”
He tapped his finger once against the screen, pointing to your sentence. “Rewrite that. You’re trying too hard to sound academic. It’s clouding the argument.”
He was right. He was always infuriatingly right.
While he turned back to his notebook to scribble something, probably notes for his own assignment, you caught yourself staring. Again.
He was in a simple, dark hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, veins tracing along the lean strength of his forearms. Everything about him was sharp. His jaw, his nose, the shape of his brows, like someone had carved him out of restraint and precision. There was a restless grace in the way he moved.
And yes… you were drawn to him.
Maybe it was the way he never said anything he didn’t mean. The way he listened when you spoke, even when he pretended he wasn’t. Or the rare flickers of softness, like the time he offered you his scarf without a word when you forgot yours. They were subtle. So subtle you weren’t even sure they were real.
But the feelings were.
Lately, being near him made your pulse stutter. He didn’t have to say anything, he just had to exist—near you, around you. You found yourself thinking about him when you weren’t supposed to, wondering if he thought of you too. Your skin warmed at the thought, even now, even though you knew it was fake. This was all supposed to be pretend.
Just a deal. Just acting. Just for the money.
You reminded yourself of that again, harshly, dragging the thought like a blade across your chest because it had to cut deep enough to work.
And that was when Damian turned his head.
His eyes, that usual steely green, landed directly on yours, sharp, unwavering, unreadable. You startled slightly, snapping out of your spiraling thoughts and glancing away too fast, heat crawling up your neck.
“S-Sorry. I was just… zoning out.”
He arched a brow, pausing mid-note. “You do that a lot lately.”
You laughed nervously, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Must be the academic pressure.”
He didn’t say anything right away. Just kept looking at you, like he wasn’t entirely convinced. Like he knew.
Then he went back to his writing. “Fix that sentence,” he murmured. “You’re smarter than this draft.”
After that, you’d finished your half of the project faster than expected, perhaps spurred on by the low hum of his voice beside you, or the slight furrow between his brows when he corrected your misused Latin phrasing. Either way, your fingers hit the final keystroke with a sense of quiet pride, and you leaned back with a soft exhale.
Damian was still at work, frowning in concentration as he fine-tuned the final section with maddening precision. You rose quietly, stretching, and padded toward the corner of the room where your small coffee setup sat. The sound of the kettle bubbling was oddly loud in the stillness, almost too domestic for whatever strange tension threaded the air.
You brought the mug to him, a simple cup of black coffee, the way he always took it. He didn’t look up at first, but the moment you set it down, his eyes lifted.
He was watching you. Not just looking, watching, like he had been for some time now.
You froze slightly under the weight of that stare. It wasn’t lecherous. If anything, it was unreadable calm and cool. But something about the way it lingered, trailing from the slope of your shoulder to the curve of your waist, made your skin feel too warm, like the fabric you wore was thinner than it should be.
And then, just as you began to question whether you were imagining things, his gaze flicked upward, meeting yours without hesitation.
“You should put something on,” he said flatly, his voice low but clear.
You blinked. “What?”
He didn’t elaborate. Instead, he reached behind him, grabbed the hoodie he’d discarded earlier and tossed it toward you. It landed across your arms with quiet finality.
“I’ve been trying to ignore it,” he said, turning back to the screen, as if that were the end of the conversation. “But I can’t think when you’re dressed like that.”
You stood there, heart pounding in your chest, the fabric of his hoodie warm against your arms, still smelling faintly like him. Like leather, steel, and something unplaceably sharp and clean.
There was a pause. You could say something, tease him, argue, laugh it off. But your throat was dry.
So you slipped his hoodie on.
And when you sat back down beside him, you didn’t say a word either. But your fingers trembled faintly against the keyboard.
And he noticed. Of course he did.
You sat in silence, his hoodie now wrapped snugly around your frame. It was far too big, the sleeves swallowing your hands whole, its length covering your upper thighs—but it was warm, and that warmth wasn’t just from the fabric.
You tried to focus on your screen, pretend like it was nothing. Just a hoodie. Just a passing comment.
But your mind wouldn’t let go of his words. “I’ve been trying to ignore it.” What exactly had he been trying to ignore? The way the strap of your top slipped too easily over your shoulder? The line of your collarbone every time you leaned forward? The hem that rode just a little too high when you curled one leg under the other?
You’d worn it without thinking. It was comfortable. But now it was like every inch of your skin was suddenly loud. Your cheeks burned again.
You turned slightly to glance at him, subtle, careful, as if afraid he’d catch you looking. But he wasn’t even typing anymore.
He was staring at your mug.
Specifically, at the small doodle you’d unconsciously traced onto the paper sleeve while waiting for the kettle. It was nothing, just a little cartoon version of him with his usual deadpan expression and a tiny sword stuck in a croissant.
And then— “Is that supposed to be me?” he asked, eyes still on the cup.
You startled. “What? Oh. Uh, maybe. A little. I was bored.”
A beat passed. And then, with the softest upward curve at the corner of his lips, so quick you might’ve missed it, he said,
“…The croissant is accurate.”
You blinked. And then laughed. It bubbled out of you before you could stop it, high, breathless, more from surprise than anything. He didn’t laugh with you. But he did look at you again, really look at you, and the expression on his face was something softer than you’d expected. Something careful.
Then he reached out slowly, and tugged at one of the sleeves of his hoodie that was hanging off your wrist.
“It suits you,” he murmured.
Your breath caught. “What does?”
“My hoodie, my shirts, everything.”
A silence bloomed between you again. But it wasn’t heavy this time. It was warm. Electric. And just when you thought that was it, that maybe he’d turn back to his work, he added without looking at you.
“You can keep it. Just stop drawing me with baked goods.”
You bit your lip to hide the grin, but it's too late. He saw it. And this time, he didn’t look away.
Time passed quietly, with the two of you working side by side under the warm dim light of the desk lamps. The sky outside turned to ink, and somewhere along the way, your head grew heavier, your thoughts slower.
You didn’t realize you had fallen asleep.
Damian looked up from his work at last, only to find you slumped slightly on the couch, your hand resting on your lap, the faintest rise and fall of your breathing barely audible. A soft exhale. Peaceful.
He set his pen down and stood, expression unreadable. Without a word, he walked over, plucked the light blanket off the armrest, and draped it over your shoulders.
Then, as he stared down at you, something in his chest shifted.
He didn’t know when it had started. When he’d begun to care enough to notice when you looked tired. When he started holding back sharp comments just because he didn’t want to see that look on your face. When he started memorizing the way you wrinkled your nose when confused, or the way your fingers always tapped against your mug when you were thinking.
And now… now he was reaching out, fingers brushing a strand of hair behind your ear without even realizing what he was doing. He caught himself only when your lips moved in sleep.
“…Don’t,” you whispered faintly. “Don’t fall for him…”
Damian froze. His eyes flicked to your face, still peaceful, still unaware. “…You’re not supposed to like him…”
His breath caught.
For a moment, he didn’t say or do anything. Just stood there, taking you in, the corners of his mouth slowly softening into something that was not quite a smile, but wasn’t far from it either.
“Tch,” he murmured almost fondly. “You’re an idiot.”
And yet, he sat beside you quietly, keeping watch over your sleeping form. Just in case you needed him there.
You were officially screwed. And not the kind you could brush off with a drink and a fake smile. Like always.
"Oh my gosh, I'm so fuck up"
"No, you're not"
"Yes, I am"
Standing at the grand entrance of the Wayne Foundation’s annual gala, you inhaled deeply in a desperate attempt to steady your nerves. Your fingers trembled slightly, the silk of your dress feeling like ice against your palms. The air was thick with anticipation and perfume and power.
Beside you, Damian stood like a sculpted shadow in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, stoic, unreadable, and, of course, infuriatingly calm. It was hard to believe this was the same man who had spent the past two days grumbling and scowling as he was dragged, quite literally, into preparing for this event.
Bruce had forced him to attend. No excuses. No evasions. No batarangs involved, surprisingly.
And because showing up alone would have been a bigger headline than a Joker sighting in Metropolis, Damian had brought you along…his fake girlfriend.
Which, apparently, also meant you had to dance. Publicly. In front of Gotham’s elite. You had two days. Two days of crash-course waltzing with a partner who moved like a predator and had zero patience for missteps. Your ribs still remembered the death glare he shot you the first time you tripped.
Now, as the orchestra swelled and the glittering lights bathed the marble floors in gold, you weren’t sure what terrified you more, the cameras, the crowd, or the fact that you might very well step on the heir to Wayne Enterprises in a pair of newly bought heels.
God help you if you did.
The moment you stepped past the threshold, the air changed.
Golden chandeliers bathed the ballroom in soft opulence, casting flickering halos across rows of velvet-draped tables and tall champagne flutes glistening like crystal stars. The music, delicate, timeless, lilted from the grand piano at the corner, threading elegance through the laughter and idle gossip of Gotham’s most elite.
And then, everything slowed.
Eyes turned. Heads subtly tilted. Conversations hitched, if only for a second, as people caught sight of him. Damian Wayne, notoriously untouchable, emotionally unavailable, Gotham’s sharpest and youngest heir — walking into a ballroom with a woman who… wasn’t Vivianne LaCroix.
You could feel their stares like heat against your skin.
You, in a dress that clung just right and shimmered with each movement, were the anomaly in their carefully written social script. You weren’t from old money. You weren’t a polished debutante. And yet here you were, your hand gently looped through Damian’s arm, walking beside him like you belonged.
Vivianne , somewhere in the crowd, probably looked like she was ready to implode. You didn’t dare search for her.
Instead, you kept your gaze forward, your steps deliberate, following Damian’s lead until he guided you to pause near one of the marble columns flanked by a rose-gold candelabra. The scent of peonies mixed with champagne, but you could barely breathe.
Your voice was quiet, laced with nerves as you leaned in just slightly. “…They’re all staring,” you murmured.
He didn’t look at you, didn’t flinch. His eyes scanned the room like a panther taking inventory.
“Let them,” he said simply, clipped and cold as ever.
You swallowed. “Are you sure this is… going to work?” He finally turned to you then, eyes sharp — too sharp for someone your age should ever have to meet in a ballroom setting.
“You’re beautiful,” he said flatly, almost annoyed that it needed to be said. “They’re already talking. Which means we’ve done our job.”
Your heart gave a very real, very stupid flutter at that.
“…You could try saying it like you mean it,” you teased, a nervous laugh slipping out as you clutched your clutch tighter. His lip twitched — not quite a smile. But not not one, either.
“I don’t lie. You’ll get used to that.”
And God help you, you weren’t sure if that made things better or worse.
“Is it too obvious that I’m panicking?” you muttered under your breath, forcing a smile as your fingers lightly gripped his sleeve.
Damian didn’t look at you, but his voice was low and calm. “Your posture’s stiff, but your smile’s convincing enough. Don’t overthink.”
You bit your lip, trying not to sigh. “Easy for you to say. You’re used to all this…”
“I don’t like it either,” he said. “But we do what we must.”
Before you could reply, the air shifted. The crowd seemed to part instinctively as if gravity had rearranged itself, and suddenly, Bruce Wayne himself was striding toward you, his presence commanding attention even in a room already filled with Gotham’s finest.
Beside him was a striking woman in a crimson gown, Vivianne. Regal, composed, and radiant with the practiced smile of someone who had been groomed her entire life for nights like this. And next to her, her father. A man whose eyes held the kind of shrewd calculation that made your stomach twist.
You tensed instantly, and Damian felt it. His hand subtly brushed against your back, grounding you.
“Mr. Wayne,” Vivianne’s father greeted first, but his eyes were locked on you, assessing, judging, dismissing. Bruce’s eyes flicked briefly to your hand on Damian’s arm before settling on his son.
“Damian,” he said smoothly, though there was a firmness underneath. “They’ve been waiting to speak with you. Don’t keep them.”
Damian’s jaw tensed. “I’m with someone—”
“It won’t take long,” Bruce interrupted, polite but unyielding. “They’d appreciate the courtesy.”
You saw the silent conversation that passed between father and son, something strained, layered in decades of expectation. Damian turned slightly to you, gaze unreadable.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said simply, but there was something reluctant in the way he said it. Almost apologetic. Then he was gone, walking toward Vivianne and her father. The three of them falling into step as if they belonged to the same orbit.
And you… were left behind.
The music swelled. Laughter and conversation surrounded you like distant echoes. But your world had shrunk down to the empty space beside you, and somehow the words Vivianne had said just days ago when you accidentally ran into each other's rang in your mind like a poison-tipped bell.
“He’ll always come back to what he truly belongs to.”
You lowered your eyes and clasped your hands in front of you to hide the slight trembling. Why did it feel like you were already losing something that had never truly been yours?
Your heels clicked softly against the polished marble as you turned on them, unable, unwilling, to remain there any longer. Your chest felt tight, breath shallow, vision blurring slightly as the world around you began to twist with that awful pressure of embarrassment, disappointment, and something more fragile, something quietly breaking.
You hadn’t noticed Bruce was still watching you. His keen eyes hadn’t strayed, following your every step like the shadow of consequence itself.
But you didn’t see him.
Your eyes caught instead on the immaculate arrangement of wine glasses displayed across the nearby table, tall, glinting, filled with ruby-red liquid like temptation itself. You never drank. Not really. A few sips here and there at best. But tonight, the warmth of wine felt like a shield you suddenly needed.
Your fingers curled around the delicate stem of a glass, cool and perfect in your grip. You tilted it back, the wine slipping past your lips in one smooth motion, swallowing it all as though you could drown the ache rising in your chest.
And that was when it hit—the sting behind your eyes, the tear that had dared to breach the corner before you could stop it.
You didn’t even notice the approaching footsteps over the quiet symphony in the background or the gentle murmur of the crowd. Your attention was too caught in the bitter warmth of the wine and the heaviness curling in your chest. The moment felt thick, your eyes stung, your breath trembled, and just when that first tear dared to fall down your cheek—
A smooth, velvety voice interrupted from just behind you, calm and magnetic.
“Now that’s a face too beautiful to be wearing heartbreak.” Startled, you turned.
And there he stood.
Tall and poised, the man in the midnight-blue tuxedo seemed to command the light around him. His smile was kind, genuinely so, but there was a glint in his deep blue eyes that carried mischief, like he’d seen too much of the world and chosen to laugh at it anyway. His jawline was sharp, his hair slightly tousled in that effortless way that never looked anything less than deliberate. There was a warmth to him, easy and open, that contrasted so deeply with the cold tension you’d just escaped.
You knew exactly who he was.
Dick Grayson.
The first son of Bruce Wayne. The one people called the heart of the Wayne-family. And somehow, even though you’d never spoken before, it was as if he understood.
You quickly wiped your tear away, embarrassed, adjusting your posture, but he didn’t stare too long or too hard. No pity in his gaze. Only a calm, steady presence that somehow anchored you.
“Don’t worry,” he said gently, offering a tilt of his head. “You’re not the first person to get caught in a Wayne-family storm. Comes with a few lightning bolts and an unnecessary amount of press coverage.”
You blinked, lips parting in surprise at his casualness.
He took a sip from his own glass, then looked out toward the sea of people with a thoughtful hum. “You handled that better than most would. Gracefully, even. And in that dress? You’ve already won tonight.”
You chuckled despite yourself, the sound catching you off guard. The compliment landed smoothly, without expectation, and for a moment you forgot about the heaviness in your chest.
“You don’t even know me,” you murmured, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion.
He grinned, boyishly charming, yet undeniably sharp. “No. But I’ve got good instincts. And… my brother’s taste might be questionable in a lot of things, but tonight? Not in this.” Your cheeks flushed despite the wine. He laughed softly, leaning just a little closer, close enough to share space, but never close enough to invade it.
“Besides,” he added, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “I think the whole room’s a bit upset that you showed up with him and not me.”
That earned a full, genuine laugh from you. The music swelled around you again, the chandeliers glittered like stars, and for the first time that evening, the weight began to lift, just a little.
The gentle hum of conversation around you faded into the background as Dick Grayson stood by your side, his presence calm and comforting without being overbearing. His eyes clear, kind, and sparkling with a knowing light. He studied your expression for a moment before he spoke again.
“You know,” he said lightly, his voice a soft baritone with a boyish charm lingering in it,
“It’s not every day someone manages to make standing alone with a wine glass look like the centerpiece of a gala.”
You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you, half surprise, half amusement. “That might be the kindest way anyone’s ever told me I look miserable.”
Dick grinned. “I didn’t say miserable. I said cinematic.”
The warmth in his tone wasn’t pitying, but inviting. You felt your shoulders slowly relax as the weight in your chest lightened, if only just a little.
“You’re not the first person to feel out of place at one of these things,” he added, tilting his head slightly. “Hell, I grew up in them and still sometimes feel like the floor might just swallow me whole.”
You gave him a sidelong glance. “Somehow, I doubt that.”
“What, you don’t believe I used to hide behind potted plants as a teenager?” he asked, feigning offense. “It was either that or talk to investors who still thought I was someone’s valet.”
You chuckled, genuinely now, and he smiled like he’d just won something.
“I’m Dick, by the way,” he added casually. “Though I suspect you already knew that.”
“I did,” you admitted. “The magazines kind of make it hard not to.”
“Guilty as charged,” he said, raising a brow. “Though they don’t usually capture my best side. You should see my left profile. It’s criminally underrated.”
You laughed again, the sound catching even you by surprise this time. He beamed.
For the first time all evening, you forgot the weight in your chest, the sharpness of Vivianne’s words, the pressure of eyes that always seemed to find you when you least wanted them to. Dick’s charm wasn’t suffocating, it was light, effortless, like sunshine filtering through a canopy of leaves. He made you feel seen, but not scrutinized. Heard, but not judged.
You were just about to respond with some half-witty retort when—
“Enough.”
The single word sliced through the air like a blade.
You turned and found Damian standing there, seemingly materialized out of the crowd. His jaw was tight, eyes storm-dark, and every line of his body radiated tension. His gaze flicked between you and Dick with something bordering on fury.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be, Grayson?” he said, his tone sharp as glass.
Dick sighed, as if this wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last. “And here I thought you might be in a good mood for once.”
“I’m not in the mood to watch you flirt with—” Damian cut himself off, jaw locking again. “Go.”
Dick raised both hands in mock surrender, stepping back a half-pace with a faintly amused smile. “Relax, Little D. We were just talking.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” Damian muttered under his breath before turning to you. “You just love making things worse for yourself, don’t you?” he bit out, low and angry, though something vulnerable flickered behind the irritation.
You squared your shoulders, defiance rising to meet him. “Excuse me?”
“This is a public event. And you’re—” he gestured vaguely in Dick’s direction, “—laughing like it’s a damn carnival.”
Your chest tightened with disbelief. “So I’m not allowed to talk to anyone now?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, but you sure implied it,” you snapped, voice rising. “God, you’re impossible.”
“And you’re reckless,” he growled. “Do you have any idea—?”
But just then, the orchestra swelled, the beginning of a slow, sweeping waltz. The kind of song that signaled one thing and one thing only, dance.
“Well,” Dick said behind Damian, smirking.
“If you’re not going to ask her to dance, I certainly will.”
Damian shot him a look sharp enough to kill. “Over my dead body.”
Without waiting for permission or perhaps exactly because he didn’t need it, he stepped forward and seized your hand. His grip was firm but not cruel, his expression still thunderous.
“You’re unbelievable,”
you muttered under your breath as Damian guided you. Well, it's more like he dragged you into the middle of the dance floor. His hand settled firmly at your waist, the other grasping your hand with a grip a little too tight to be considered polite. “What exactly is your problem tonight?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Damian replied coldly, his green eyes sharp beneath the soft shimmer of the chandeliers. “First you disappear. Then I find you laughing at Grayson’s jokes like he’s your date. Didn't you see how much he wants you?”
“He was cheering me up,” you shot back, nearly stepping out of rhythm as you turned. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“It is my business,” he growled under his breath, “when you’re standing there looking like you’re ready to cry and then letting him touch you like that—”
“Like what?” you interrupted, incredulous. “He touched my shoulder, Damian. It’s called being friendly. You should try it sometime.”
His jaw tightened. “Don’t push me.”
You narrowed your eyes, focusing on the movement of your feet just in time to step forward—and unintentionally stomp down hard on his foot.
“Ow.” He hissed through clenched teeth, his glare darkening.
You looked up and wanted to apologise to him at first but couldn’t help it. You laughed. It started as a soft chuckle, then bubbled out of you in full, glorious relief. His expression was so offended, so theatrically outraged that you couldn’t hold it in.
“Serves you right for manhandling me.”
“I wasn’t manhandling you,” he replied, but the edge in his voice had softened.
“Could’ve fooled me,” you said, shooting him a wry look. Then you quickly ask the question that's on your mind. This whole time. "What were you two even talking about, anyway? You and Vivianne.”
His mouth quirked at one corner, that infuriating smirk returning.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
You raised a brow. “If it was important, you’d tell me. If it wasn’t, then I have to assume you’re just trying to make me jealous.”
“Jealousy seems to be tonight’s theme,” he said with a dry chuckle, twirling you just slightly as the music swelled.
Around you, the ballroom glowed golden under the ornate chandeliers. Candlelight danced off glass and crystal, casting soft halos across the parquet floor. Couples twirled and swayed with practiced elegance, laughter and clinking glasses weaving into the swell of the string quartet’s melody. The air was perfumed with floral arrangements and faint hints of champagne.
“You’re impossible,” you said, but you were smiling now, despite yourself. “And yet,” Damian said, his gaze softening just slightly as he looked at you, “you’re still here.”
“Only because you dragged me here.”
“Dragged you? I believe Grayson threatened to steal you if I didn’t act fast.”
“He was doing a better job at making me smile.”
“Yeah, clearly see,” he murmured. But the way his hand tightened gently at your waist told you he was still just a little jealous. And maybe, just maybe, a little nervous, too.
The music swirled through the air soft, lilting notes that filled the ballroom like floating threads of silver. Light from the chandelier caught in the folds of your dress as you turned in Damien’s arms, a step behind the music but close enough to pretend otherwise. He was still scowling.
Of course he was.
"Oh, come on"
You raised a brow, voice laced with dry amusement. “Are you going to keep glaring like that all night, or will you eventually relax those thick-brows of yours?”
Damian let out a faint scoff, his jaw tightening as his hand at your waist flexed with barely concealed irritation. “Sorry I’m not your charming, golden prince."
"My what?" You looked at him, unbelieving in his words. "He's your brother, Damian. You need to be more relaxed. Nothing was happening back there."
"Maybe I’ll relax when Grayson learns how to keep his hands and his eyes to himself.”
You paused a bit, then chuckled softly, head tilting just a little. Your eyes suddenly sparkled with joy and amusement. “Okay, so you're just saying that you were watching me this whole time, while you were having a conversation with your fiancé?”
He immediately responded, "She’s not my fiancée." You just hummed in response. Somehow he didn't deny your statement.
“I’m not blind,” he muttered, eyes glancing away before flicking back to you with a look that was more pout than glower.
“And he was—smiling at you.”
Does he realize how jealous he sounds at the moment?
Your lips twitched. “Damian, people tend to smile at people they’re talking to. It’s this wild little social custom.”
“He was flirting.”
You shrugged innocently. “Maybe. He’s good at it too. Unlike some people who just storm into conversations and chase others off like an overgrown guard dog.”
His eyes narrowed. “I am not a dog.”
You beamed at him. “No, you’re more of a grumpy alley cat. One that hisses when someone gets too close to his favorite sun spot.”
That earned a reluctant huff from him, one corner of his mouth quirking upward, just barely. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?”
“I think I’m right,” you said smugly.
There was a beat of silence between steps, the two of you circling one another in rhythm with the soft, classical swell. His grip on you gentled, just slightly. His shoulders lowered a fraction.
“…She wanted to talk,” Damian said finally, and the sudden change of subject made your gaze flick to his. “Vivianne. It wasn’t anything.”
You blinked. “Really?”
He gave a small nod, then added dryly, “Mostly about how I’m making a mistake.”
Your brow rose. “Charming.”
“She’s not wrong. I am making a mistake.”
The words hit like a small thud in your chest, but before you could respond, he smirked faintly.
“Because I haven’t kissed you yet.”
You blinked again, caught completely off guard—and then laughed, half-shocked and half-exasperated. “You’re impossible.”
“Maybe. But at least I’m not dancing with Grayson.”
You rolled your eyes at how suddenly he had started to dislike his favorite brother. The tension between you had lessened. The music continued to play as you both danced across the floor, and although your steps weren't always perfect, the way he held you—slightly too close and slightly too protective—somehow made everything feel… right, in its own stubborn, chaotic way.
“Don’t worry,” you murmured. “I’m not going anywhere, especially with your brother. Even if you scowl at me through the next three songs.”
He glanced down at you, the corner of his mouth twitching again. This time into a real smile. “Then maybe I’ll scowl a little longer.”
Your fingers rested lightly in his palm, the rhythm of the waltz guiding your steps while the orchestra played something soft and sweeping. Laughter and murmured conversations wove through the air like silk, but you barely noticed any of it, not when he was this close.
Then, out of the corner of your eye, you caught it.
Vivienne LaCriox.
She stood on the far side of the ballroom, arms crossed, lips pressed in a thin, venomous line. Her eyes dark and sharp, burned into you with barely contained hatred. But what truly made your breath catch was the figure standing farther back.
Bruce Wayne. He wasn’t smiling, not frowning either. Just watching. Observing. And you had no idea what that silence meant. You blinked, trying to school your expression, willing your breath to even out. You were fine. This was fine.
But of course he noticed.
Damian’s arm tensed ever so slightly at your back. His gaze flicked over his shoulder just for a second, and met Bruce’s across the sea of people. You could feel it even without looking: the silent exchange, the weight of a son being watched by his father.
Then he turned back to you.
And those emerald green eyes, sharp yet magnetic, found yours.
“Ignore them,” he said, voice low and velvet-smooth as his fingers gently squeezed yours. “They’re just jealous they’re not dancing with someone worth remembering.”
Your breath hitched again, this time for a very different reason. Not from nerves. From the way his words sank beneath your skin and lit something deep inside you.
You knew he was probably just saying it to make you feel better… and yet, the way his voice didn’t waver, the look in his eyes—it made you foolishly believe he meant every word. That it wasn’t just a line. That he wasn’t pretending.
A smile teased the corner of his lips, subtle and devastating. His gaze didn’t waver. The kind of smile that looked like trouble and temptation all at once. His gaze didn’t waver, heavy-lidded and entirely focused, like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.
“You look like trouble,” he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear. “But I think I’ve made peace with that.”
You felt heat bloom in your chest, creeping slowly to your cheeks like a slow sunrise. You opened your mouth to speak, but your thoughts tangled. Your words evaporated somewhere between his smirk and the intensity in his eyes.
He leaned in then—just a little, just enough to feel the air shift between you. His voice dropped softer, like a secret only meant for you. The kind of secret that curled around your ribs and refused to let go.
“I said I’d regret not kissing you,” he whispered. “But tonight?”
A pause. A heartbeat.
“I don’t think I’ll have to.”
And before you could reply, before your heart could even decide between racing or stopping altogether. He tilted his head and closed the distance between you.
The world blurred.
The orchestra faded into a soft hush. Light and color melted away until there was nothing but the warmth of his lips brushing yours, firm yet impossibly gentle. He kissed you like a promise, not rushed, not unsure, but deliberate, certain. Like he had waited for this.
His hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you infinitesimally closer, and your fingers curled against the lapel of his suit as if anchoring yourself in him. The scent of him warm spice and stormy wind wrapped around you, dizzying, familiar.
When he finally pulled away, just a breath’s distance apart, his gaze lingered on your lips before rising to meet your eyes.
“I won’t regret this,” he said quietly.
And for once, neither did you.
You felt sick to your stomach.
The university’s annual festival was in full swing—music echoing across the campus, laughter rising into the warm night air, and fairy lights strung overhead casting a golden glow across the bustling courtyard. It should’ve been fun. You should’ve felt excited. But instead, a sour churn stirred in your chest.
And the reason?
Of course. Like always. That bitc—
…Right. Vivienne LaCroix.
She had just strolled up with her perfect hair, perfect smile, and signed her name for the singing competition. The same one you had signed up for. Her eyes flicked toward you, sharp with mischief, and the smirk curling on her lips told you she wasn’t in it for the prize money.
“The winner gets one wish, right?” she said sweetly, cocking her head. “Then I’ll just wish for Damian to date me.”
You almost laughed. Truly, you wanted to laugh. You knew Damian wouldn’t say yes. You knew he didn’t like her—he never had, not even a little. But the smug way she said it, the confidence dripping from every syllable, made your blood simmer. And worse?
You weren’t sure anymore.
Ever since that night—since that kiss—your mind had been a mess. Yes, it had been beautiful. Yes, it had landed you front-page gossip status for two weeks straight. And yes, there was a part of you that blushed every time you remembered the way he pulled you in, like he meant it.
But that was the problem.
Did he mean it?
Was it just part of the act, a move in this fake relationship the two of you were still tangled up in? Did he kiss you because he wanted to, or because he thought he had to?
You didn’t know.
And not knowing made everything worse.
What had started out as a harmless entry into the competition, a way to save money, had somehow turned into something else entirely. This wasn’t about the money anymore. This was war. A battle of pride.
You weren’t going to let her win. Not now. Not ever.
And as Vivienne turned with a satisfied flip of her hair, you clenched your jaw and wrote your name down just a little harder than necessary. Because if she thought this would be easy…She had no idea who she was messing with.
“Are you planning to murder someone tonight, or you just want some sugar?”
You blink. Damian’s standing beside you, hands casually in his pockets, brows raised ever so slightly as he scans your expression.
You hadn’t even realized your jaw was clenched until Damian leaned slightly closer, his voice a low murmur beside your ear.
“I—what?” you stammer.
“That look,” he says, tilting his head. “You’ve been glaring holes into the grass like it personally offended you.”
You huff, crossing your arms. “Maybe it did.”
Damien gives a small huff of a laugh—the kind barely audible, but you can feel it like a warm breeze on your neck. “Let me guess. Vivienne.”
You shot him a side-eye glare without answering, arms crossed tightly as the two of you made your way through the festival. Around you, students laughed, chattered, hung posters for the upcoming competition. But it all felt distant—blurred background noise behind the heat rising in your chest.
He slowed his pace to match yours, hands tucked casually into his pockets, expression maddeningly calm. “What did she say this time?” he asked, like it wasn’t obvious.
“Or are you just furious at how pretty she is?”
You scoffed. “Please.”
Damian tilted his head, watching you with a sharp glint in his eyes. “So it is about her. What, did she threaten to out-sing you? Or is this about her little declaration to ‘win me over’ in front of the sign-up sheet?”
You halted mid-step, whirling to face him. “She literally said she’d wish for you if she won. Like you’re some… prize or something.”
The corners of his lips twitched, clearly entertained. “I am quite the prize.”
You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly fell out. “Ugh, you’re insufferable.”
“And yet here you are,” he said smoothly, leaning in just slightly, his voice lowering enough to curl right beneath your skin. “Still walking beside me. Still looking like you want to murder someone for thinking they could have me.”
You felt the flush rise to your cheeks so fast it made your ears burn.
"I do not"
“No?” He raised an eyebrow, the smirk slowly fading into something a little more serious. “Then why are you so upset?”
“I guess…” You hesitated, searching for words that didn’t feel too raw, too obvious. “It’s just… sometimes, this whole thing it feels like it’s spilling over.”
“Spilling over,” he repeated, watching you closely.
You gave a slight shrug, eyes fixed on some point ahead that wasn’t him. “The lines get blurry. What’s real, what’s part of the act. One minute we’re just playing the part, and the next…” You trailed off, heat creeping up your neck.
“The next?” he prompted, voice softer now.
You glanced at him, a flicker of something unspoken behind your eyes. “And then someone looks at you like you’re theirs to want, and I—”
His smirk returned, like he already knew the answer. “Like you want to set the whole room on fire?”
You exhaled a laugh, half-defeated, half-embarrassed. “Yeah. Something like that.”
Damian was quiet for a moment, his gaze unreadable. Then, very calmly, he stepped into your space, close enough that your breath caught. One hand reached up, fingers brushing a strand of hair away from your face in a way that felt too intimate to be fake. Too soft. Too real.
“If it helps,” he said quietly, “I wouldn’t have kissed you if I didn’t want to. Not even for the plan. And if she wishes for me?” He leaned closer, and your heart nearly gave out. “Tough luck.”
You blinked, dizzy from the proximity.
“Because there’s already someone I’ve got my eye on,” he added, eyes flicking down to your lips and back. “And she’s standing really, really close to me right now, looking like she’s about to pass out.”
“Damian—”
“You’re blushing.” He grinned, finally stepping back with a wicked glint in his eyes. “Cute.”
You wanted to melt into the floor. Or scream. Or maybe both.
He didn’t say another word—just walked ahead, leaving you standing there with your heart punching against your ribs and your head spinning like you’d just been hit by a damn meteor.
God, you must’ve completely lost it, because now you want to punch him and kiss him at the same time.
And maybe— actually, fuck—
…You mean— oh my god. What the hell is happening to you?
Time goes fast than you know. The lights dimmed slightly, and the emcee’s voice echoed across the campus courtyard,
“Up next… Vivienne LaCriox!"
Cheers erupted from the crowd. You could see her silhouette gliding onto the stage through a gap in the curtains, her floor-length crimson gown sparkling under the spotlights. The dress hugged her figure, dramatic and deliberate, with off-shoulder sleeves and a slit high enough to raise a few eyebrows, and possibly some heart rates.
The music began—slow, seductive chords of a classic jazz ballad reimagined in a sultry pop arrangement. “Wicked Game.”
Vivienne’s voice slipped into the melody like silk. Smooth, confident, soaked in yearning. She didn’t just sing; she performed, sending glances into the crowd that made even the front row blush. Her fingers grazed the microphone like it was a lover’s skin. Every movement, every note was polished, practiced, dangerous.
And the worst part? She was good. Really good.
Bouquets began piling at the foot of the stage before she even finished the second chorus. By the time she hit the final note, people were on their feet, clapping, cheering, some even whistling.
You could feel your stomach churn. Not from jealousy, no. That would be giving her too much credit. It was more like… stage panic. Rising. Fast.
You stood just behind the black curtain, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, trying not to pace. Why, out of all the possible line-ups, did they have to place you after her?
Your name was already on the list. There was no turning back now. But damn it, even your fingertips were trembling. Minutes passed like hours.
Your fingers twisted together, clammy with nerves as you stood behind the velvet curtain, listening to the thunderous applause fading from the previous performance.
The wait stretched like a string pulled taut, each second humming with the nerves that coiled tighter in your chest. You could barely hear the announcer’s voice over the pounding in your ears—until, suddenly, your name rang out across the square.
Your breath caught. Oh God. This was it.
You felt your feet move before your brain caught up, taking a slow, steadying step forward. The wooden floor of the temporary stage creaked under your weight, the overhead lights casting a golden halo around you. Beyond the rim of light, the crowd looked like an endless sea of blurred faces, shimmering beneath lanterns and fairy lights. Your heartbeat quickened in your chest, pressing painfully against your ribs. You weren’t just nervous—you were panicking. Slight tremors bloomed in your hands. Your throat tightened, as if it were closing around your own voice.
Why did it have to be after Vivienne? Why now? You clenched the microphone, swallowing hard.
And then—there he was
Just off-center, but still directly in front of you. Leaning against the metal railing with that casual arrogance only he could pull off, Damian stood in his black shirt rolled to the elbows, sleeves carelessly pushed up as if he were born looking like trouble. His dark hair tousled just enough to look effortless. His expression unreadable but his eyes…
Locked onto you.
His smirk was slight—barely there—but it lit something wild in your chest. You recognized it immediately, the way the corner of his mouth curved like he knew exactly what you were feeling, like he could see through you even from that distance. And yet… somehow, it steadied you.
His gaze just screamed "I’m here. I see you. You’ve got this." To you.
You exhaled once, slow and deep, and then lifted the microphone with both hands.
“Hi,” you began, voice stronger than you expected. “I… I chose this song for someone. Someone who probably doesn’t even realize what he’s doing to me. But I thought… maybe if he heard the words, he’d understand.”
A few whistles rose from the crowd. A laugh. But you didn’t care. Your eyes flicked once—just once—toward Damian. His smirk widened, slow and knowing, like a spark catching fire.
As the melody of 'Dress' began to pour from the speakers, soft and sultry like a whispered secret, your lips parted instinctively, and the first note escaped you like a sigh.
At first, the world remained blurred around the edges, every detail lost in the bright lights and pounding of your own heart. But the moment your voice touched the air, something inside you clicked into place.
It was like stepping into a dream.
The crowd, once a faceless sea of noise, became a tide of wide-eyed wonder. Their excitement was palpable, infectious — a collective breath held, then released with a cheer that trembled through your bones.
“Our secret moments in a crowded room. They got no idea about me and you…”
As the first verse poured out, something shifted. The nerves didn’t vanish but they melted, molded into something electric. Every lyric felt too close, too true. Like the words wrapped around the very thoughts you couldn’t say out loud. Especially not to him.
“There is an indentation in the shape of you. Made your mark on me, a golden tattoo…”
You weren’t performing anymore.
You were confessing.
The spotlight bathed you in gold, but your eyes only saw one person. Damian hadn’t moved—still leaning, still watching—but something in his posture had changed. His eyes burned now. Focused. Unflinching. Your chest felt tight again, but not from panic, from him.
And when you reached the chorus, the words felt like wildfire on your tongue.
“Only bought this dress so you could take it off…”
You sang as your body swayed gently, your movements laced with a subtle seduction, never too obvious, yet impossible to ignore.
Your eyes stayed locked on him, catching the faint gleam in his gaze, something unspoken flickering there. Your hands traced lightly along the curves of your own frame, draped in a striking red mini dress paired with sleek black boots, an ensemble that made the song feel even more mysterious, even more dangerous.
Someone in the crowd gasped. A few people screamed. But all you heard was the rushing in your blood.
You swore—he smiled then. Not a smirk.
A smile.
And God help you, your knees nearly gave out.
You sang like the words were etched into your skin, like every note had been waiting for this exact moment to come alive. Your voice danced soft, deliberate, laced with that ache of longing and want.
They rose in a wave, cresting over the edges of the stage as people began to shout your name. You saw flashes of movement — hands raised, phones held high, flashes going off like starlight — and then came the flowers. Dozens of them. Red, white, even deep violet. They flew over the edge of the stage like confessions tossed into the wind, petals scattering like promises you hadn’t asked for but somehow earned.
Something in your mind, some buried longing you’d never had the nerve to act on, surged forward with reckless clarity.
You didn’t know where the courage came from. Maybe it was the music. Maybe it was the warmth of the crowd, the wild chorus of voices shouting your name, the storm of flowers now strewn across the stage like some fever-dream garden.
Or maybe it was just him.
You took a shaky breath, your heart thudding like war drums in your chest. Then, without thinking, without hesitating, you stepped forward.
Your boots crushed petals beneath you as you crossed the stage. The spotlights dimmed just slightly. The melody softened, like it knew it needed to make room for something else. Something real.
Damian stood just beyond the edge of the platform, one hand gripping the front barricade, the other tucked into the pocket of his dark jacket. He was smiling, but not like before. Not teasing. Not casual.
There was something quieter in that look—something that saw you.
And God, he looked unreal in the light. Like a secret you didn’t know you were allowed to want.
You dropped to one knee in front of him.
He didn't even blinked. His mouth opened like he was about to say something—but whatever it was, it would have to wait.
Because in that moment, the feeling that had been coiled so tightly inside your chest finally snapped free.
You reached for his collar.
You pulled him down.
And then you kissed him.
You kissed him—without permission, without shame, like it was the only language your body remembered how to speak.
His lips met yours in startled stillness, but only for a breath—just one. Then he kissed you back like gravity didn’t matter. Like the crowd, the noise, the chaos, none of it did.
All around you, the world reacted. A collective gasp. Then cheers wild, echoing, unstoppable. The noise rose like a wave, crashing over you both as people screamed, clapped, whistled, and stamped their feet. Flashing lights exploded like fireflies in a frenzy. Some were taking pictures. Others just watched, hands pressed to their chests, mouths open in disbelief or joy or both.
But all you could feel was him.
His hands had found your waist. His forehead pressed against yours as he finally breathed out a laugh that was equal parts surprise and awe.
“Wow,” he whispered, voice husky and close.
You grinned—giddy, breathless, drunk off something far more dangerous than any song. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.
I’m currently working on finishing up three stories before my midterm exams, so I can post them for you to read while I’m away studying! 💻📚
I also wanted to ask—if any of you have ideas or specific pairings you’d like to see, feel free to drop a comment or message me! I’d love to hear them. 💬✨
Here’s a tiny spoiler for the three stories I’m working on right now:
• Teacher’s Pet
• Our Secret Moment
• Pretty Please (?p)
Most of my stories tend to focus on male characters, especially within the Batfamily 👀 but feel free to request anyone you’d like to see!
he’ll wake up, feel you lax beside him, and just stare until he’s had his fill.
your blissful state brings so much peace to his muddled mind. eyes closed, lips apart to breathe in and out. your hands are under your pillow to preserve the crisp, cold pocket of air. it’s a habit you’ve had since childhood and it reminds him yet again of just how much you haven’t changed.
he’ll kiss your forehead in routine to start his day.
first things first, your breakfast. he knows you have long days ahead, why not be a good househusband and save you the trouble of making food?
ah, that’s right. jason todd’s a househusband now! he made good on his promise and dropped being the redhood unless it was absolutely necessary.
jason flips those delicious chocolate chip pancakes and drizzles just the right amount of syrup and adds everything you like on top. just as he adds the finishing touch, he feels yours on his arms and abdomen.
your head lays on his naked back and you close your sleepy eyes at the refreshingly cold feeling of the muscular form.
“morning, sleepy head.”
you hum and he turns around in your embrace.
placing both hands on your hips, he pulls you in for a kiss and you're jolted awake. your hands fly to your mouth and he looks at you amused.
“umm... what are you doing?”
“you can't kiss me yet! haven't brushed my teeth.” your muffled words reach him and he's smiling, finding you so cute.
“if that's what you want.” jason shrugs, tapping your hip twice before planting a loving kiss on your forehead. your eyes instantly close at the contact, opening them only when his lips move away.
you lean up to kiss his cheek and feel him melt. smiling, you quickly turn on your heels to brush your teeth so he can kiss you all he wants. “be right back!” your voice rings through the hallway.
you come home early from work and decide to do a little grocery shopping. jason has already compiled a list before you can say what you need.
he fishes it out of his pocket and hands it to you, like he's betting on knowing everything you could need to restock.
you don't look at the list but you do kiss him silly. there's just something about a man making your life easier that gets you going.
he drives, pulls out the cart, checks the expiration date before grabbing two of everything.
you playfully ask why you're here since he's doing all the work. he simply holds your hand and says, “because my days are well-spent with you, regardless of what we do.”.
you never question being useless in his presence ever again.
after he holds all the bags and securely places them in the car, you beg to be the one to make dinner.
“at least let me do this much! pleaseee.” you bat your lashes at him theatrically and that heart-stopping smirk he gives, lets you know you’ve won.
he’ll gladly lose to you anytime you want.
you make his favorite. it’s become a comfort food for you as well because of how much joy and comfort he gets eating it.
you suppose love does that— makes people fond of things that excite their loved one(s).
jason didn’t get to help out this time, you told him to “sit still and look pretty.” while you cooked. he obliged, amusingly so but if there’s anything he’s excellent at— it’s doing as he’s told by you.
he watches intently from the dining table with his chin resting on his palm. you walk in the confines of the kitchen and pull out all sorts of seasoning and spices and additional ingredients that make this food so good.
you measure it with your mind and let him taste-test. he says everything’s perfect but you know he’s only saying that cause he trusts your judgment better.
“i shouldn’t have asked you.” you jest. you add a bit more salt having tasted the lack thereof.
jason’s eyes have hearts in them as you set the table and his feelings are all of a sudden way too heavy to keep bottled up in his chest.
he stops you mid-turn with a hand wrapped delicately around your wrist and you peer up at him, confused. “what’s wrong?”
nothing’s wrong, that’s the problem. but how does he tell you that without sounding weird.
he’s come a long way from being skittish and hyperaware of his presence next to yours. jason todd has finally allowed himself to be tied to something pure, something permanent.
“nothing.” he says it anyway despite his inner monologue. “i just wanted to say thank you.”
you soften up like butter. “of course.” you kiss his cheek and he grins shyly.
jason doesn’t bother letting you know he’ll be cleaning up but that’s okay because you don’t fight him on that.
he does the dishes while you clean the counters and table.
you climb into bed with your husband not too far behind.
everyone’s tired and ready to see the sun but jason sees it all the time when he looks at you.
his nights start with your name echoing in the beating of his reborn heart.
The sound of heels clicking against polished marble echoed through the towering lobby of Wayne Enterprises.
Heads turned, some out of curiosity, others out of quiet awe. As a woman in her early twenties strode past the reception with all the elegance and confidence of someone who had long stopped asking for permission to exist in spaces like this.
Dressed in a sleek, short black dress that hugged every curve with effortless grace. The subtle shimmer of the fabric caught the light as she moved, while the daring neckline and bare shoulders whispered a confident invitation, bold, elegant, and undeniably captivating.
You didn’t bother hiding the soft smirk curving your lips as you passed familiar faces.
The front desk didn’t dare stop you. The security guard offered a polite nod. You’d been here too many times before, always unannounced.
After all, Bruce Wayne had made it clear that you never needed a visitor’s pass.
But how could anyone here possibly know just how much trouble the beautiful young woman at the front was about to stir—well, anyone except for the select few employees secretly paid off by you, who now watched you walk past with their heads bowed and shoulders tense. They know the reason you were here.
They looked at you with quiet dread.
The famous heiress with the stunning face, smiling sweetly as ever, known far and wide in this building for her tantrums, her demands, her sharp tongue wrapped in silk.
They all knew what she was capable of.
And if anyone dared to look deep enough into her eyes, they’d see something truly unnerving flickering there.
This wasn’t a friendly visit, and everyone knew exactly why.
Bruce Wayne wasn’t in the building today.
And if anyone had half a brain, they’d start wondering. Why on earth would the darling of the house show up here herself, when she already knew her dear step-father wasn’t around to see her?
The elevator chimed open as if it, too, knew who you were. You stepped in, your reflection multiplying in the golden walls of the lift. The number to the top floor was already lit.
You didn’t rush.
You didn’t need to.
Every movement, every step was deliberate. The sway of your hips. The arch of your brow. The way your eyes lingered on your own reflection a second too long, lips slightly parted as you fixed your lipstick with the pad of your finger. You were perfectly aware of the effect you had. You cultivated it.
The elevator stopped with a soft ding. The doors slid open to reveal the private executive floor, silence. You adjusted the strap of your handbag and stepped out.
Without forgetting to stop by the new coffee machine just outside the office, a sleek addition that must have only recently been installed. You let your eyes drift toward the desk nearby.
A few scattered belongings sat neatly atop the polished surface, unmistakably feminine in nature.
It’s the new secretary’s desk,
...though it won’t stay new for long.
You poured hot water into a delicate porcelain mug with deliberate slowness, not in any particular rush.
Then, with practiced fingers, you lifted your expensive phone and quickly tapped out a message to one of the senior staff stationed just a few floors below. You slid the phone back into your clutch and picked up the mug once more, heading toward the only private suite on this entire floor.
The one place you frequented more than you should.
The one place that held the man you loved with all your wretched heart.
The sharp clack of your high heels echoed through the sleek hallway, each step measured, every sway of your hips deliberate. Your face betrayed nothing, unreadable.
But no, you weren’t heading to his office. Not today.
You knew full well Bruce wouldn’t be at work right now, or soon.
Instead, you walked farther, deeper into the shadows of the hallway, toward a room that was always locked. The door was carved from dark teak, ornate and regal, almost out of place in this high-tech tower of glass and steel. And yet it stood beautiful, commanding, impossible to ignore.
Your eyes landed on the door, slightly ajar. A single red bra hung off the doorknob like a sick joke.
Your gaze darkened.
Your manicured fingers pushed the heavy door open with a faint creak. You stood still, taking in the familiar sprawl of the luxurious suite. Bruce’s private quarters within the workplace.
Something inside you cracked open, quietly.
Your eyes traveled toward the grand bed in the center of the room, now hidden behind drawn curtains. The golden lamplight behind them cast just enough shadow to reveal a silhouette. A woman’s curved figure reclining lazily, provocatively.
Soft laughter spilled through the veil of fabric, fake, flirty.
You clenched the steaming cup tighter in your hand, your knuckles white.
You walked forward, each step gliding past the trail of discarded clothes littering the floor like breadcrumbs. Lacy things. Expensive things. Cheap intentions.
You are angry—so angry you could feel it bubbling up your throat like venom.
Because that bed belonged to Bruce.
And that desperate little thing behind the curtain clearly didn’t know her place. Didn’t know he wasn’t hers to touch.
“Mr. Wayne…”
Her voice, breathy and saccharine, drifted out from behind the curtains. Fragile and sweet, but laced with the kind of seduction only the shameless dared to perfect.
A wicked smile curled on your lips as you yanked the curtain aside with a dramatic flourish.
There she was.
A pretty blonde woman with a model’s slim figure, sprawled indecently across the bed, stark naked. Her legs spread like an invitation, her eyes dripping with seduction. Until they flicked up to meet yours.
And then… terror.
Her sultry look vanished in an instant, replaced by a ghostly pallor. She screamed. The new secretary shrieked and scrambled, hands flying to cover her bare body, voice trembling.
“M-Miss! Miss Wayne!?”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.
Your hand reached out and seized a fistful of that gleaming golden hair, dragging her off the bed without a care for her yelps of pain.
She staggered to her feet beside you, clutching her head with both hands.
“Ah! What are you doing?!”
“What does it look like?”
Your voice was ice and fire all at once.
“Handling bitches who like to fuck other people’s men.”
And with that, the mug of scalding hot water in your hand flew right into her shimmering hair. The sugary, seductive tone in her voice from earlier was gone—replaced by shrill screeching and curses.
She clutched her head, nails digging into her scalp in panic, but you didn’t flinch. You grabbed a fistful of her hair, no longer dripping with scalding water and yanked her forward. She stumbled along, powerless, dragged behind you as she spat venom at your back with every step.
“Let me go, you spoiled little brat!” she shrieked. “What the hell is wrong with you?! You psycho...!”
Your grip only tightened with fury, knuckles white from the force. You hauled her across the room until you reached your office desk, not far from the elevator.
Just then, the elevator chimed.
The doors slid open with a soft hiss, revealing three or four senior staff members top-tier employees you’d summoned.
“Oh! Miss—!”
They began to greet you with bright smiles, only to freeze mid-step, their voices caught in their throats.
The sight before them was nothing short of chaos. You standing there with a fist tangled in the hair of a naked woman, her limbs trembling, her skin flushed and wet with lingering steam.
Gasps, shrieks, and shocked whispers filled the air. But none of them asked who she was. They already knew.
And their minds connected the dots faster than words could form, this secretary had tried what so many before her had. Seduce Bruce Wayne.
It wasn’t a secret that some women applied for positions with hidden agendas, hoping to get close to the handsome, powerful man of Gotham.
But what they didn’t know, what none of them ever really understood—was that there was already a woman at his side.
Beautiful. Untouchable.
And even if she wasn’t his wife, even if she was just his adopted daughter on paper, you never acted like that was all you were.
You never let people think they could compete with you.
Rumors had always swirled around your relationship with Bruce, whispered behind hands in hallways. But those whispers always died the moment anyone dared speak them out loud, unless they wanted to lose their job.
You glanced at the woman still hurling insults at you, eyes blazing with disdain. Then you yanked your hand back, releasing her with a sharp, deliberate tug.
She stumbled backward and slammed lightly against the new desk behind her, gasping. Her face was now twisted in rage like a mad dog cornered.
She lifted her chin and hissed,
“You fucking little cunt! Think you can humiliate me? Just wait until Mr. Wayne hears about this! You’ll be out of here before—”
Smack.
Your palm collided with her cheek, hard.
Then again.
Her head whipped to the side with the force, lips parting in a stunned silence as the entire room held its breath.
A ripple of murmurs swept through the senior staff watching in stunned awe. She wasn’t done yet. Trembling, red-faced, she hissed through clenched teeth,
“Do you think you’re special? That he actually cares about you?! You’re just a pet! A spoiled, daddy’s little—”
But you didn’t need to listen anymore. You turned with calculated grace, your expression unreadable, and addressed the senior staff standing frozen at the scene.
“Get security. Have her escorted out immediately. And someone bring her resignation papers.”
Your voice low and unshaken, sliced through the heavy silence like a blade through silk. The blonde woman, still scrambling to cover herself, gasped in disbelief, her voice shaking as she shrieked
“You can’t do this! You have no right—”
You cut her off without even a glance.
“Oh? And who do you think I am?” you asked, each word dipped in disdain. “Better yet, who the hell are you, to stand there naked in someone else’s office and bark at me like a stray dog?”
You turned back to the senior staff with a snap of your fingers. “Now.”
Then, without hesitation, you walked back to her and slapped her—once, then again, and again. The sound echoed like thunder in a chapel. No one dared speak. Eyes widened. Mouths hung open.
“Let me make something very clear,” you said, voice cool and venom-laced. “At this moment, in this building, I hold the highest authority. And I’m telling you...get this pathetic little thing out of my sight. Now.”
You turned to the stunned, half-naked woman, eyes raking over her like you were surveying something foul on the sole of your heel.
“Throw her out as she is, if you must. She seems to enjoy flashing what’s not hers to begin with"
And just like that, you turned on your heel, spine straight, chin high, your presence sweeping across the room like a final decree.
But just before you exited, you paused.
“Spread the word,” you said without turning back. “Let everyone know exactly what happens to those who try to climb by crawling into someone else’s bed"
And with that, you left.
Evening settled quietly over Wayne Manor, its vast halls bathed in golden lamplight. But in a modest sitting room tucked into the west wing, peace was… relative.
“Wait—seriously?”
Damian’s voice, low and edged with disbelief, cut through the stillness. He leaned back lazily against the sofa, arms draped over the cushions with a casual arrogance that only someone like him could pull off. His sharp green eyes flicked toward you, brow raised in that ever-skeptical expression he wore like armor.
“You actually did that?”
You rolled your eyes. “Why would I lie?”
“She insulted me first, by the way. Honestly, I should’ve slapped her harder.”
Damian let out a quiet snort. “You? You wouldn’t hurt a mosquito unless it insulted your outfit.”
“Hey,” you shot him a glare, “don’t underestimate me.”
You were seated close to him, closer than anyone else would dare get to the notoriously prickly Damian Wayne. Your shoulder brushed his as you curled your legs onto the couch, posture relaxed in the way that only came from years of shared chaos.
The two of you were, against all odds, inseparable. Maybe it was your mutual stubbornness. Or the fact that neither of you trusted anyone else enough to let your guard down like this.
“She’s lucky I didn’t throw her out the window,” you grumbled, arms crossed, voice dripping with contempt.
“The nerve strutting into Bruce’s office like she owns the place, stripping down on his damn bed like it was some sleazy hotel.”
Damian smirked without looking at you. “You’re just pissed because you’ve never been in that bed.”
You scowled instantly. “That is not why I did it.”
“Right,” he replied, clearly unconvinced. “You just needed an outlet for your emotional instability.”
“I’m not jealous!”
“Mm-hm.” He hummed, obviously amused.
You fell quiet for a beat. Then, more quietly:
“But what am I supposed to do? He keeps pushing me away like I’m just… some kid.”
Your voice dipped into a softer tone, not weak but weighted with frustration and something unspoken. And Damian didn’t mock you for that. Not this time.
It was almost routine now, these nights. You two, tucked away from the world, ranting about Bruce, the city, the irritating people who circled both.
Tonight, you were in your usual nightwear—a deep red satin tank top that clung to your curves, paired with matching shorts that had been rolled up dangerously high. You had no shame. You liked soft fabrics, short hems, and making sure anyone who looked knew you were worth the attention.
Damian, as always, dressed like he didn’t care but still somehow looked infuriatingly good. Black shorts, red hoodie, socked feet resting on the edge of the coffee table like he owned it.
Your head tilted to lean against his shoulder, your bare arm brushing his. He didn’t shrug you off. You were the only one he let this close.
“Not worried that pap’ll lose it when he finds out what you did?” he asked eventually, side-eyeing you.
“He’s not that old,” you muttered defensively.
Damian blinked. “He’s fifteen years older than you.”
You coughed. “He’s aged well!” He gave you the most exaggerated grimace imaginable.
“What do you even see in someone like him?” he asked, utterly exasperated. “He’s emotionally repressed, constantly brooding, and allergic to physical affection.”
“He’s your father,” you teased, glancing up at him with a smirk.
“And you,” he said flatly, “are someone who wants to jump my father so badly it’s actually kind of sad"
You smacked his chest with the back of your hand, not even trying to deny it.
“Well, who wouldn’t want him?” you finally muttered, tone half-playful, half-exasperated.
Damian let out an audible groan of disgust, rolling his eyes so hard you thought they might get stuck.
“I’m convinced your taste is clinically alarming. You need help. Like… professional help.”
“Asshole,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes and giving him a sharp glare. As always, affection between the two of you came wrapped in barbs.
A slow, sly smile crept across your lips. “Hmmm… wait, so does that mean—if I actually manage to get with Bruce you’d have to call me Mom?”
That made Damian freeze.
You batted your lashes innocently, voice syrup-sweet. “Or better yet… Mummy.”
His reaction was instant and violent. “Ugh. What the hell is wrong with you?” he grimaced, like you’d just said the most vile thing imaginable. “Seriously, are you insane? That’s disturbing on so many levels.”
You couldn’t help the amused chuckle that bubbled up. “But technically, Bruce is your father. And if I win him over… that would make me your—”
“Don’t say it,” he warned.
“—stepmother,” you finished triumphantly, teeth flashing in a grin. “So come on, say it. Say Mummy.”
Damian looked like he was two seconds from committing a felony. “No. Absolutely not. I’d rather swallow a Batarang whole.” He shoved your face away with one palm, holding you at arm’s length like you were radioactive.
“You, as a mother? That would be the end of Gotham. Honestly, I feel bad for any kid born into that nightmare.”
The deadpan sincerity in his voice somehow made the insult even worse.
You batted his hand away, scowling. “Excuse me? What did you just say, you little punk?”
“I said,” he replied coolly, “I don’t want a mentally unhinged narcissist for a mother. I’m already emotionally damaged enough, thanks.”
A sharp, indignant squeal escaped your throat. Without thinking, you launched yourself at him, hands outstretched like you were about to wring his neck.
Damian didn’t flinch. He caught your wrists mid-air, smirking like the little demon he was. “See? This is exactly what I mean. Violent tendencies. You’d traumatize any child within a three-mile radius.”
“Don’t act like you’re not worse!” you snapped, pushing forward until the two of you nearly toppled off the couch.
The sofa groaned beneath your weight as you both struggled, tangled in a mess of flailing limbs and verbal warfare.
“I’m just saying,” he went on, voice infuriatingly calm as he pinned your wrists, “if I ever had to call you Mom, I’d file for emancipation the next day.”
You glared up at him, eyes blazing. “Well good, because I wouldn’t want a demon-spawn like you as a son anyway!”
Silence.
Then—“Fucking rude,” Damian muttered, still holding you down.
You both paused, breathless, staring at each other. And then, without even realizing it, you both burst into laughter dry, sarcastic, unapologetic. Just the way it always was.
Because this was your normal.
However the air in the room turned still as though the walls themselves were holding their breath. A sharp drop in temperature sent an involuntary shiver down your spine. Both you and Damian instinctively turned toward the source of the shift.
There, framed by the doorway like a shadow stitched into the fabric of reality, stood Bruce Wayne.
He was striking even in his stillness. The dim light from the hallway painted his figure in stark relief: a tall, broad-shouldered man in a deep charcoal robe that hung loose around his frame, exposing the defined plane of his chest still glistening faintly with drops of water. His damp black hair fell in careless strands across his forehead, a testament to a shower interrupted.
And his eyes.
Those glacial, cutting eyes of Atlantic blue usually distant, usually unreadable, were now dark with something unmistakable.
Your breath caught before you realized it. If Damian hadn’t shifted away from you and sat up, you might’ve remained frozen under the weight of Bruce’s gaze, one that skimmed the room like a predator evaluating every movement, every breath, every threat.
He didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, arms folded across his chest, exuding the kind of quiet authority that didn’t need to announce itself to command attention.
You, who half-lying on the couch in nothing but a thin tank top and pajama shorts that had ridden up scandalously high—noticed, a second too late, where his gaze lingered. A heartbeat passed, and his eyes flicked down, just once, over your legs, over the bare skin exposed by the way you shifted to sit up straighter. Something unreadable flickered in his expression. A narrowing of his eyes. A subtle flare in his nostrils.
Then his focus cut to Damian sharply, without pretense.
And in that glance, there was no mistaking the tension that roiled beneath the surface.
You didn’t catch it. Not fully. But Damian did. His jaw locked.
He rose to his feet with the practiced grace of someone ready to fight if needed. Arms crossed over his chest, mirroring his father, chin lifted in that familiar, unyielding way.
“Is there something you want?” Damian asked, voice flat, dry as gunpowder. No welcome. No warmth.
You lit up the moment you saw Bruce.
It had been an entire day without him, and even just the sight of his familiar figure stirred something warm and restless in your chest. The sharp lines of his suit, the stoic calm in his eyes. He was the calm in your chaos, and right now, he was walking toward you.
“I need a word,” he said simply, gaze fixed on you. “Alone.”
Damian stiffened at once. His arms folded. His brows knit together in a scowl that was all too familiar. Suspicion flared in his eyes as he stepped closer, like a guard dog not ready to yield.
“Why?” he asked, voice clipped. “What do you want with her?”
You, however, seized the moment like a gift. This was your chance. You barely let Bruce answer before cutting in with a falsely sweet smile. “Don’t you have something better to do, Damian?” you cooed, already steering him toward the door with both hands on his shoulders.
He resisted at first, eyes narrowing, but your hands were firm. “Out,” you added with a light shove. “Now.”
And just like that, the door clicked shut behind him. Damian felt betrayed by you for the first time.
No sooner had the silence settled, you turned and flung yourself into Bruce’s arms. You leapt up, wrapping yourself around him with a delighted gasp like gravity was optional. You’d always been tactile with him—teasing, affectionate, shameless in the way you adored him. Your arms locked around his neck, hoping he’d catch you like he always did.
But Bruce didn’t return the embrace.
His large hands caught you by the waist, not to pull you closer, but to hold you steady as he gently lowered you back to the floor. The warmth you’d expected wasn’t there. His expression didn’t soften, not even a little.
The shift in his demeanor hit you instantly. You blinked, heart skipping a beat. Something was wrong.
And you didn’t like it.
His expression darkened. The warmth he usually held for you however was nowhere to be found.
“What did you do today?” Bruce asked, low and sharp. You blinked, thrown off by the sudden shift in his voice.
“What do you mean?”
“The secretary,” he said flatly. “You started something again.”
Of course it was about her. “I didn’t start anything. She was waiting for you on your bed, naked. She was ready to throw herself at you, Bruce! I—”
“You’ve done this before,” he cut in, voice calm but laced with edge. “You’ve chased off every assistant I’ve had, just because you couldn’t handle your jealousy”
“It’s not jealousy!” you snapped back, eyes wide with heat. “I saw her. I know what she wanted. I did it for you”
His silence only fanned your frustration. You clenched your fists. “Fine. If you don’t want drama, then stop hiring women. Problem solved.”
His brows twitched almost imperceptibly, but his mouth remained a thin, unreadable line. “That’s not how it works.”
“That's how it works for me!” you burst out. “You don’t need any of them! You have me! If you need them to...help you, I'm here"
You didn’t mean to sound so raw, so exposed—but the words tumbled out before you could hold them back. And he didn’t soften. If anything, his gaze turned colder.
“She’s the niece of one of my investors,” he said. “And now, that side is threatening to pull out.”
You scoffed, hurt and confused and angry all at once. “Why do you care? You’re Bruce Wayne. You’re already rich. You don’t need to beg anyone.”
The argument was slipping into a spiral. Your voice rising, his staying maddeningly level. He never yelled. He never got loud. He didn’t need to. His calm was punishment enough.
“That’s not the point,” he said, shaking his head, weary in a way that made it seem like he was simply tired of you.
“It’s about how you keep doing things without thinking about the consequences.”
You swallowed hard, jaw tight. “I was protecting you.”
His voice almost cold. “You're not just embarrassed her. You embarrassed me and the rest of us.”
You stepped forward, fists clenched at your sides. “She deserved that, all of women that tried to crawl into your bed and hooked up with you!”
“You’re overstepping.”
“I’m doing what I believe is right!”
His brow furrowed, eyes narrowing slightly, not in anger, but in something quieter. “That’s not your burden to carry.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
“Don’t make this any harder than it already is.”
He exhaled slowly, steadying himself as if gathering strength from the weight of his own words.
“You’re my step-daughter, Y/N. Nothing else. You have no right, no say, in who I choose to be with”
The air shifted. The weight of the room seemed to crush your ribs.
“That choice,” he said firmly. “like every other decision in my life, belongs to me and me alone.”
Your breath caught in your throat. For a moment, you couldn’t even feel your heartbeat. You felt it instead in the sting in your eyes, in the hollowness blooming inside your chest.
You had no words.
“You know how I feel,” your voice cracked, small and fierce. “You’ve always known, right.”
He didn’t deny it.
Instead, he stepped closer, his eyes dimmed with something far more painful than anger—guilt, perhaps, or pity. He reached out, gently cupping your elbow, but you flinched. The distance between you had never felt so vast.
“I’m your legal guardian,” he said slowly, carefully, as if speaking to a wounded creature. “This isn’t right.”
“But it’s not wrong either,” you snapped, though the strength in your voice betrayed the tremble underneath. “I’ve never asked for anything from you. Never needed your money. Never needed anything but you. And you—”
“I can’t be that person for you.”
You shook your head, eyes burning. “Why not? Because of what people would think? Because you’re scared?”
“No,” he replied, a bitter smile ghosting across his lips. “Because I don’t see you that way.”
A pause. Then another.
That was the line that completely shattered you.
“You’re lying,” you whispered, denied.
He didn’t answer that.
Instead, he sighed again, this time deeper, more resigned. “You’re young and emotional. You’re not seeing this clearly.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m some girl with a crush,” you spat, voice rising. “You know this isn’t just in my head. You know"
You were crying now, silently, angrily. You hated yourself for it. Hated the way he still looked at you with soft eyes.
You had always known he didn’t see you that way. Never. but you couldn’t help but hope. You hoped that everything you’d done, everything you were, might one day make him look at you differently.
But the truth you were given shattered you.
The belief that you could handle it, that you were strong enough to accept whatever answer came was a lie. A beautiful, stupid lie.
You couldn’t take it. Not really.
It hurt more than anything else ever had. Like something deep inside you was being torn apart, piece by piece.
For the first time, it was Bruce Wayne—the man who once saved your heart—who had completely crushed it.
“Agh, please! You can’t keep doing this!”
Tim’s voice rang out, exasperated, as he caught sight of you slouched at his kitchen counter, cradling yet another bottle of wine. Your cheeks were flushed, eyes glassy from the alcohol, head drooping from the weight of your own exhaustion. He wasn’t even sure how many bottles this made. You’d stopped counting—and so had he.
“Don’t start,” you mumbled, voice slurred and thick, already lifting the bottle for another bitter mouthful, only for Tim to dart forward and snatch it from your hands.
“This isn’t helping you,” he said, sighing.
He looked tired. Tired of this ritual, tired of watching you unravel night after night, showing up at his place just to drown yourself in liquor until morning light dragged you back to the manor like nothing ever happened.
It had been two weeks of this now.
You sat in silence for a moment, staring at the empty space where the bottle had been. The burn in your throat wasn’t just from the wine.
“Maybe it’s helping more than you think,” you said quietly, not quite meeting his eyes. “At least I don’t dream of him when I’m passed out.”
Tim leaned his weight against the counter, arms folded across his chest. “You say that like forgetting is the goal.”
You exhaled shakily, a breath that felt like it dragged the weight of your chest down with it. “Isn’t it?”
Tim watched you for a long moment, his voice softer now. “You’ve got to move on. This… all of this isn’t fair to you.”
You laughed, bitter and hollow.
“Move on to what, Tim? He's my everything.”
“He isn't"
“He is" Tim went silent, as if stunned by the weight of your words. He didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at you like he wasn’t quite sure how to respond.
You took a quiet breath, steadying yourself before speaking again.
“Did you really think I didn’t know?” you asked, voice low but unwavering. “That he never saw me that way? That he didn’t feel the same?”
Your gaze didn’t falter. “I knew. I’ve always known.”
You paused only for a second before continuing, firmer this time. “But just because he said something cruel doesn’t mean I’m going to give up on him. Or on what I feel.”
“I’m not someone who gives up that easily.” Your hands clenched softly at your sides, and your voice dropped to a whisper of quiet defiance. “I won’t hand over the person I love that easily. Not to anyone. Not without a fight.”
“Isn’t that just going to hurt more?” he said, a quiet disapproval in his voice. “You’re too stubborn for your own good sometimes.”
He sighed, not harshly, more like someone who’d seen this pattern before and didn’t want to see you go through it again.
“Just don’t end up drunk and crying on my couch again, alright?” he added with a small, wry smile. “Though honestly, someone like you could find someone new in a heartbeat.”
You laughed softly and shook your head, the sound easing some of the weight in the room.
“Who knows,” you said playfully, “maybe next time you’ll be the one crying at my wedding, if I actually manage to win him over.”
“Yeah, yeah. Unless you plan to bind him and brainwash the vows out of him, there’s no way he’ll mean a single word.”
“Guess I’ll have to go find Zatanna, then.”
“Let her go,” he muttered, rolling his eyes.
That earned you a soft chuckle. He shook his head slowly, as if he couldn’t quite believe you. But somehow, he still found you endearing.
He knew better than to try and stop you. Even if he did, you wouldn’t listen. So instead, he gave you what he could. The silence stretched between you for a long while, gentle and unhurried, before he finally said,
“I think anyone who gets to be loved by you must be incredibly lucky.”
“You really think so?”
He hummed softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips, as if lost in thought about something only he knew.
“Just love him the best way you know how,” His tone quiet and steady. “As much as your heart can take, and if someday it feels too much, just walk away. Don’t look back. I’ll be here for you.” He looked at you with that quiet stillness.
“With the wine, obviously.”
That earned him a soft slap on the arm.
“Fuck you,” you muttered with a crooked smile.
And somehow, in that moment, it didn’t feel like you were losing. Not really. Not when Tim was still here.
“And then what? Get myself drunk and ugly cry on your couch again?" He shrugged with a small grin, eyes warm. "Yes,"
“Then find something important, that isn’t him,” he said gently. “Find you again.”
You swallowed the lump rising in your throat. The wine had made it easier to forget. But somehow, with Tim’s words lingering in your ears… it felt easier to breathe.
You gave him a grateful smile,
and hope that one day when the time comes, you will be able to do it easily. Just like what he said.
It's definitely not going to be easy for you. At least not the process. You screamed at yourself inside your head, cursing your idiocy, every dumb decision, every reckless impulse that always struck when you were drunk.
Like now.
You had the brilliant idea, mid-stumble out of the bar, that you really wanted strawberry shortcake. And of course, your wine-sodden brain reminded you: Dick said Alfred made one for you and left it in the kitchen.
So what did you do? You got in a cab, half-laughing, half-crying, and made your triumphant, wobbly return to the Manor… for a cake, in the midnight.
You knew it was stupid. You knew. But you were drunk! And your drunk self had tunnel vision. Cake or die.
You cursed yourself in your head as you slowly, quietly pulled the cake from the fridge like a thief caught red-handed. God, you probably looked ridiculous.
And why were you even sneaking around? Hah! who knew? Maybe because you were way too ashamed to be seen like this. Too drunk to explain that, yes, you risked coming all the way back to the manor just for a piece of cake. Cake. God, you’re insane.
You tried to move stealthily through the kitchen’s shadows, preparing to slip right back out the way you came. You had your loot. The mission was nearly complete.
Your six-inch heels clicked ever so faintly with each clumsy, unbalanced step. The tight leather dress didn’t help either, especially not in your current state. Your hair was messily tied up, a clear testament to how little you’d thought this through. Everything about tonight made sneaking out nearly impossible.
You didn’t notice him at first.
Bruce stood silently in the corner of the room, arms crossed, watching the woman in his kitchen tiptoe around like a suspicious cartoon burglar, with a cake in her hands and guilt all over her face.
His expression didn’t shift. He didn’t speak, but the look in his eyes said everything.
It was in that moment your eyes met.
And you almost dropped the cake right there on the floor.
Because that gaze, soft and familiar, laced with a quiet fondness—caught you completely off guard. Even though his sharp, handsome face remained unreadable in the shadows, his eyes shimmered with an amused glint, as if he’d been silently watching your silly little heist the entire time.
Your heart thudded hard in your chest again.
You cursed yourself inwardly for still feeling like this, for still trembling just from seeing him again.
He had been so clear. He rejected you. He broke your heart. So why did a single glance undo all that? Why did he still feel like home?
“Is that my Strawberry Shortcake?”
His tone was casual, calm and smooth like he hadn’t just shattered you weeks ago.
You froze, heels clicking softly as you pivoted to face him properly. “…I thought Alfred made it for me.”
"No" he said "I told him to make it for you"
Bruce took a slow step closer, arms still crossed over his chest as he leaned against the doorway. The dim kitchen light caught in his eyes now.
“You weren’t at dinner,” he said simply, his voice lower now. “For a while now.”
You hesitated, gripping the edge of the counter like a lifeline, not quite meeting his eyes. He didn’t reply right away. Instead, his gaze flicked over you in that barely-there dress, your makeup smudged just slightly at the corners from the night.
You didn’t notice the way his face changed, just slightly. His brow furrowed, and for a fraction of a second, something flickered behind his eyes. Something unspoken.
You cleared your throat quietly and turned away from him, placing the cake gently on the marble counter. The silence stretched, heavy and thick like smoke, curling between your bodies.
You didn’t want him to see you like this. So, you smiled, ide and sweet, like it didn’t hurt.
"Relax Bruce," you said, voice light, teasing, like always. “I’ve just grown a little tired of the food at home lately, so I went out with some friends.”
That wasn’t true, not even close.
You adored Alfred’s cooking, and loved every single moment you got to share a meal with Bruce.
But how could you possibly say it out loud? That you’ve been going out drinking every night, just to gather the nerve to come back and play the role of the possessive, difficult girl who only ever seems to give him a headache.
You tried to act normal.
You reached for a fork from the drawer, the metallic clink too loud in the still kitchen. Your back was to him now, and you told yourself to breathe.
He didn’t respond right away. But you could feel his gaze, steady. Watching you, the way he always did. With a quiet sort of intensity that never quite let you breathe easy.
When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than expected.
“You’ve been drinking every night.”
So he knew.
You glanced over your shoulder, lips twitching into something that tried to be a smile. It didn’t quite get there.
“Are you keeping tabs on me now?” you asked, tone light but brittle, like a joke held together with old tape. "Cute"
Bruce didn’t blink.
“Someone should.”
You laughed under your breath—hollow, a sound with no real weight.
“Oh, how thoughtful of you to keep an eye on the aftermath, just in case I become a disruption once more.”
Silence followed. Thicker this time. It draped over the room like fog, dense and hard to see through. You turned to face him then, leaning against the counter, fork still in hand, expression casual, crafted. Like none of this got to you. Like his stare didn’t carve straight through you.
But he was still watching. Really watching.
You tried to hold his gaze. Failed, barely, when something shifted in his eyes, something unreadable. And damn you, but part of you wished it was guilt.
“I’m fine, Bruce,” you said, tone too chipper, too bright. You took a bite of cake like it meant something. Like sugar could cover up everything else.
“See? Just a girl—got a little drunk, grabbed something to eat, and now I’m heading to bed. No big deal”
He didn’t move.
He didn’t believe you.
“You’re not fine.”
You swallowed hard, the cake suddenly turning to dust in your mouth.
“So what?” you shot back, voice low. “You get to decide that now, too?”
His jaw clenched. He took a step forward, then stopped. Always the same with him, hesitation dressed as discipline, buried beneath walls he never allowed to crack.
“I never meant to hurt you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.
You froze.
Then stepped forward, closing the space between you. Your chin tilted upward, defiant. The usual mask of bravado faltered, revealing something far more raw underneath.
“I’m not a child, Bruce. Not some lost girl who needs protecting.I know what I want.”
You held his gaze. “And I wanted you. Since forever.”
The silence between you stretched, thick and heavy like the Gotham fog seeping through the windowpanes. Bruce hadn’t moved. His gaze was on you, shadowed and unreadable, as if he were working through every word you’d just spoken and still refusing to let anything show.
You exhaled slowly, forcing the weight in your chest back down.
“Can I ask you something?” Your voice was softer now, he said nothing, but his eyes flickered slightly, invitation enough.
“Do you want me to feel better?” you asked. “Even just for a moment?”
Something shifted in his posture. Barely. But you saw it.
You stepped closer. The distance between you shrank to something fragile, something charged. Your chin tilted up, defiance still in your spine—but your eyes told another story.
“Then let me ask for something selfish,” you said, barely above a whisper. “Here, now, just… kiss me.”
You saw it immediately, the way his jaw clenched, the way the flicker in his eyes turned stormy. His entire presence darkened, sharp with tension. It wasn’t anger, not truly. It was something else.
“No,” he said, his voice gravel and steel. “That’s not—”
“I thought you didn’t mean to hurt me,” you said quietly. “I thought you said you never wanted that.”
“I didn’t,” he replied, jaw tight. “But this — this — wouldn’t fix anything.” You took a breath, letting it shake through you.
“It would fix something for me.”
He shook his head, the darkness in his eyes deepening. “We’ve talked about this. It’s not the right thing”
“You keep saying that.” You stepped even closer, forcing him to look at you. “That it’s not right. That it’s not what should happen”
You pressed on, your voice gaining fire. “If you really feel guilty, if you really meant what you said then prove it. I’m not asking for forever. I’m not asking for promises. Just this. One moment. Let me have that.”
Bruce’s brows furrowed, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Anger, maybe. Or fear. Or some tortured, twisted form of longing.
You looked at him, your voice soft but unwavering.
“Just once, Bruce. Please.”
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted away from yours, jaw tense, as if trying to anchor himself against the weight of what you were asking.
Your gaze locked with his.
“Or I’ll never forgive you.” Something flickered behind his eyes, you stepped closer still, your voice barely a breath now.
“Just once. Let me feel like I was really yours. Not just someone you took care of out of duty.”
The silence that followed was thick, his face darkened, as though something inside him had just cracked wide open. When he looked at you again, there was no mask—just fire behind blue eyes and a tension wound so tight it hummed in the air.
“You’re sure?” His voice was hoarse now, gravel rubbed raw. “You’re sure you can deal with that when it ends and you’re left with nothing more than just a memory?”
You nodded. No hesitation.
"Please Bruce, my heart has been yours since the beginning, at least make me yours just once"
That broke him.
His hand rose slowly, fingers brushed against your cheek, warm. He let out a breath like he’d been holding it for years, then pulled you toward him.
His lips hovered just inches from yours, his eyes searching you one last time, giving you a chance to walk away but you didn’t.
Your breath hitched as he finally closed the distance. His mouth found yours—slow, deep, and full of something you had never felt from him before. It wasn’t hesitant. It wasn’t cautious. It was a storm he had kept bottled for far too long, and now it was pouring out into you.
Your hands curled into his shirt, needing something to hold on to as your knees threatened to give. He pulled you closer, crushing you against him, mouth moving over yours with deliberate, devastating control. Every brush of his lips, every shift of his hands against your back, felt like an answer to everything he’d ever refused to say aloud.
The world narrowed to nothing but the heat between your bodies, the slide of his breath against your skin, the silent promise in the way he kissed you like he’d never forgive himself for it—but still couldn’t stop.
A soft moan escaped your lips the moment his hand trailed along your body, slow at first, then more assured, more deliberate. His touch was skilled, each movement coaxing a reaction from you as if he knew exactly what to do to make you unravel. Heat sparked in your veins, rising fast like a fire catching dry kindling.
The sound of your mouths meeting, wet, echoed softly in the quiet kitchen, a rhythm of lips and breath and hunger. All you could feel was him, his presence overwhelming yours, pressing closer, harder.
"Bruce..."
Before you knew it, your back was against the counter and then, suddenly, you were lifted effortlessly, his grip strong, certain. He placed you onto the cold marble surface, the contrast sending a shiver up your spine. Your legs parted to make room for him, welcoming him between your thighs as if it were the only place he belonged.
You looped your arms around his neck, drawing him in. The fitted dress you wore had already begun to hike up from the friction, but now it bunched fully around your hips, revealing black lace beneath.
His gaze dropped—just briefly—but it was enough to make your breath hitch.
Then his hand moved. Large and warm, claiming the soft flesh of your inner thigh with a firm squeeze, dangerously close to where you ached most. The air was thick, charged, every inch between you crackling with need.
Your moans came without restraint now, falling from your lips in time with every subtle grind of your body against his.
Midnight should have been cold.
But here, between his body and the kitchen counter, the world was blistering.
And in that moment, you knew.
Even if it only ever happened once, you knew you would never forget how it felt to be his.
You knew this would only make things worse—knew it would tie you to him in ways you might never be able to undo. But you couldn’t stop yourself. Not even when every part of you warned it would end in heartbreak. Not even when the weight of disappointment already loomed on the horizon.
Because all you wanted—just once—was to be his. Completely. If only for a moment.
So that when the time finally came for you to walk away, you could at least say that once, the two of you had belonged to each other.
You glanced down at the unconscious man in the expensive suit, sprawled carelessly on the floor. In your hand was a small chip, no bigger than a thumbnail, its surface glinting faintly under the dim warehouse lights. Inside it held encrypted documents, confidential government files worth more than his life.
You twirled the chip between your fingers, satisfied.
Men like him were always the easiest. Flash a smile, play innocent, ask the right questions and they’d hand you their treasure like candy. None of them ever questioned why a beautiful woman would ask to meet in a place this deserted.
You barely gave him a second look.
Instead, you reached into your coat pocket and pulled out a single white lily. Carefully, you placed it on his chest. Attached was a small card, handwritten in graceful script: Truth never bleeds quietly.
Then you turned, melted into the shadows, and disappeared, just another ghost swallowed by the night in Gotham.
The name The Nocturne had become something of a whispered legend in recent weeks. A phantom thief, a shadow hacker, someone who could slip into the most secure systems of corporate giants and federal agencies without leaving a trace, except for stolen truths and broken silence.
And yes, that thief was you.
Twenty-five years old. Vanished from all records since the age of seven. You had no official name. No fingerprints. The government listed you as missing, dead, most likely.
But you had survived.
Your parents had been murdered in front of you for attempting to expose a massive human trafficking network, one that stretched its roots deep into international power structures. You’d been forced into hiding ever since, raised by ghosts in the underbelly of the city—hackers, spies, criminals. You studied, watched, learned everything about systems, firewalls, social engineering, manipulation.
Science and code became your language. Survival became your only law.
Now, after more than a decade of gathering names and evidence, you’d finally started stealing.
You sold the data to underground revolutionaries, rogue journalists, resistance cells, anyone brave enough to burn the truth into light. Not for glory. Not for justice. Just for survival. A price for truth.
And in Gotham, that made you a problem.
A threat to national security.
A target.
But it wasn’t the police you feared.
It was him.
Just thinking about him brought a smirk to your lips. You’d crossed paths with Batman a few times. Not many, but enough. Now you understood why criminals whispered his name with dread.
He was fast. Smart. Brutal. Relentless. A towering figure cloaked in matte black armor, a cape that swallowed the wind, a chest marked by the yellow bat sigil, sharp and proud like a warning. You never saw his full face. Just that tight, sculpted jaw and the eyes behind the cowl that burned with something cold. Calculating.
You liked to toy with him, to be honest.
Because why not? That's Batman! You flirted, teased, dropped cryptic lines that left him brooding in frustration. It was…fun. Dangerous, but fun. It was worth it to see that indifferent expression change a bit.
The glory dark knight of Gotham City. The one people are having faith in.
You’d thought about telling him once—just once-that what you were doing wasn’t just theft that it mattered. That it was bigger than you. But you knew his ties to Gordon, to the police, to the system.
You couldn’t trust anyone in that system. Not even him. You shook your head at the thought of the Dark Knight. It was fun, messing with him. Even if sometimes he scared the living hell out of you. But you didn’t really have the luxury of paying him too much attention.
You had work to do.
Elsewhere, not long after your escape, in a dimly lit warehouse in Gotham’s Narrows, police officers stood around the collapsed body of a prominent politician. Spread across the floor were freshly printed documents, leaked files from a classified government server. More proof of the human trafficking ring now becoming impossible to deny.
A single white lily rested on the man’s chest.
Beneath it, a note. An elegant handwriting. New evidence from the thief.
Commissioner James Gordon stood in the rain just outside the crime scene. A brown fedora soaked by mist, the collar of his long trench coat pulled up against the wind. He lit his final cigarette of the night and stared at the scene in silence.
This was her mark. Her signature.
There were no prints. No footage. Nothing but a new note and same flower. The name he heard echoing more and more in the alleyways and precincts alike. The Nocturne has made her move again.
The rain hadn’t stopped. Gordon stood on the rooftop of the Gotham City Police Department, the skyline spread out before him like a crooked smile full of broken teeth. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, watching the thin red ember flare against the wind before he let the smoke drift up toward the clouds. The city below pulsed, too alive, too damned quiet.
Behind him, the wind shifted. Just slightly.
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t need to.
“She left another one,” Gordon said without turning. His voice was tired, clipped.
“Not just flower. This time with a calling card, handwriting”
He held out the small card, the edges damp but the ink still sharp.
Truth never bleeds quietly.
A low voice answered from behind him. Steady. Cold. “She’s not hiding anymore”
“It seems so”
Batman stepped from the shadows, not arriving so much as materializing from the dark. Rain ran in silent lines down his cowl, his armor glistening faintly beneath the streetlamps. That yellow bat sigil burned like a warning on his chest.
Gordon sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose.
“These documents… they’re not just classified. They’re black-ops level. Clean-up teams are already swarming the Narrows. D.C. is furious. They want someone to blame”
He turned now, facing Batman fully.
“They want her”
Batman said nothing. His jaw tightened slightly, barely perceptible beneath the rain.
Gordon squinted at him.
“You’ve crossed paths with her, haven’t you?”
A pause.
“Sometimes”
His voice was low, almost reluctant.
“She’s fast. Smart. A chatterbox. Controlled. No violence unless necessary. Precise”
Gordon narrowed his eyes.
“That doesn’t sound like your average thief”
Batman looked away, eyes scanning the city below as if searching for something he couldn’t quite name.
“She’s not stealing for herself. Not completely. There's definitely something behind that”
“Then who for?” Gordon asked.
“That’s what I intend to find out”
The wind picked up. The city seemed to breathe beneath them. Gordon exhaled a cloud of smoke, watching it get torn apart by the wind.
“Be careful, Bruce”
He didn’t use the name often. Only when it mattered.
“This one… she’s not just another masked thief. There’s something else going on. The government’s acting nervous—too nervous”
Batman’s eyes narrowed.
“They’re hiding something”
“Exactly”
Another long silence stretched between them. The kind that says more than words ever could. Then Batman turned away, stepping toward the edge of the rooftop.
“She’ll strike again soon”
Gordon raised an eyebrow.
“How do you know?” Batman looked over his shoulder, his voice barely above the rain.
“Because I’ve been watching her too”
And just like that, he vanished into the night. A shadow chasing a ghost. Or maybe something more than that.
You’d gone quiet for a while, not out of fear, not even caution. Just patience.
Every move had been mapped long before the city even realized it needed watching. You knew the names, the faces, the links. Who to start with, and who had to wait until the very end. And you waited, letting the noise of the last incident fade. A whole week of pretending to be a harmless civilian, melting into the background of a city too loud to notice.
And now, it was time.
You’d spent the last few days surveying Artnexts—a sleek, private tech conglomerate that had risen far too quickly for comfort. Wealth and prestige don’t just happen overnight in Gotham. Not without blood in the foundations. The CEO’s name had surfaced in whispers, tied to the same trafficking rings you’d started ripping apart piece by piece.
But tonight? Tonight was a gift.
Word in the underground was that Deathstroke had been hired to eliminate one of Gotham’s old-money families on the other side of town. High-profile. Loud. Which meant Batman would have no choice but to prioritize that chaos over you. He’d chase a bigger monster. He always did.
So while the city’s eyes were somewhere else, you climbed the rooftop of Artnexts.
One press of a button, and your virus took root. The firewalls folded open for you like an obedient pet.
You hummed under your breath, relaxed, eyes glinting as screen after screen flashed and surrendered their secrets. Blueprints. Trade logs. Offshore accounts. Incriminating emails dressed up in corporate gloss. You stole every byte with a calm smile. By the time they noticed the breach, you’d be long gone.
Another night. Another takedown.
And this one was almost too easy.
You moved with graceful ease, humming to yourself as you adjusted the delicate white lily on the rooftop ledge. The note you left fluttered softly in the night wind, anchored just enough not to blow away. Satisfied, you stepped back, your smile feline, elegant, about to vanish into the shadows like always.
But then…
A heavy gust of wind followed something, or someone, descending behind you with unmistakable force. The subtle scrape of boots on concrete. A sound no ordinary person would notice, but your body reacted before your mind did. Your breath hitched. Your pulse spiked.
You didn’t need to turn around to know.
He was here.
You froze for a second, just a heartbeat. Then, slowly, purposefully, you turned, smile curling on your lips like silk. The city lights reflected off your eyes like embers.
“Well, well,” you purred, voice velvety. “Didn’t think you’d make it. I figured you’d be too busy babysitting Deathstroke tonight”
Batman didn’t answer. He stood about fifty feet away, cloaked in shadows, towering, silent. A specter in black. His cape billowed like wings, eyes glowing faintly beneath the cowl. He didn’t move, didn’t speak.
But he stared.
And you could feel it. That familiar, smoldering pressure, like his gaze was crawling under your skin, mapping every breath you took.
You tilted your head. “What? No dramatic speeches tonight?”
Still nothing. His silence was heavier than words.
You stepped forward slowly, hips swaying. “You’re quieter than usual. Did I finally leave you speechless, Bats?”
He finally spoke, voice low and gravel-edged. “You’re getting reckless"
You laughed softly. “You say that like it’s a bad thing"
“You left a calling card,” he said. “You never do that"
“I was feeling romantic"
“Don’t.” That one word was curt. A warning. But not a refusal. Not really. You giggle then took another step forward, closing the gap with deliberate care.
"Why? Are you worried about me?" You smiled wildly as you walked closer to him "That's so sweet darling"
He didn’t move, but you saw the twitch in his jaw. A flicker. Barely there, but you saw it.
“I’m not worried,” he said finally, voice rough like gravel beneath steel. But you make a face, clearly don't believe him.
"Hmm, that's a bit heartbreaking"
He stepped forward at last—just one pace, but it changed everything. The shadows clung to him like armor, and yet you saw how his eyes tracked your every movement.
“You’re chaos,” he said, low. “I've been watching you, Nocturne”
The way he said it made your skin prickle.
You cocked a brow. “So you have been thinking about me"
Silence again. But it wasn’t the cold kind.
You took another step. Close enough now to feel the electric charge between your bodies, the heat radiating off his suit. Your voice dropped, silken and dark.
“I can be a very good girl too, you know…”
You leaned in, your breath ghosting near the edge of his cowl. “But only when someone makes me behave”
The muscles in his neck tensed. He didn’t touch you, of course he didn’t. But for a moment, it felt as if he might. And if he did... You knew damn well you would let him.
You weren’t proud of this strange obsession, this pull he had over you.
But you liked it.
God, you liked it.
“You play a dangerous game,” he said.
“I don’t play,” you whispered. “Not unless I really want to”
Then you slipped behind him, letting your fingers trail through the space near his shoulder, but never quite touching. You paused behind him, voice low, teasing in his ear.
“We always knew how this would end. But some risks…”
You leaned just a breath closer.
“…are worth taking"
In a blink, so fast it stole the breath from your lungs, his hand shot out and clamped around your upper arm. The grip wasn’t painful, not quite, but it was unyielding.
You flinched, only slightly, just before your smaller frame was yanked forward, colliding hard with the solid plane of his chest.
Your heels struck the floor sharply, the echo ricocheting off the walls. And then you were looking up, face level with his chest.
Even in your heeled boots, he towered over you. His silhouette loomed like a shadow you could never outrun, swallowing you whole.
“You think you’re the one in control here, do you?”
His voice was low, gravel-dark and laced with something more dangerous than threat. It brushed against your face.
You let out a soft laugh.
The space between your bodies no longer existed, no air.
Your lips tilted upward as you leaned in, close enough for your nose to graze the sharp shadow of his jaw beneath the edge of the cowl.
“You haven’t pushed me away yet… or am I imagining things?” you whispered, velvet-sweet, laced with fire. The taunt hung in the air between you, delicate and daring.
His jaw clenched.
You could feel the tension coil in every muscle of his body, tight, controlled, like a predator barely restrained. Ready to strike. Ready to end this dance with teeth.
But something stopped him.
Restraint.
Batman always controlled the darkness.
“Don’t test my patience,” he growled, voice deep as thunder, the words vibrating against your skin. “I’m not the kind of man who plays these game without finishing them"
It was meant as a warning.
But it only made your smile deepen, rich with amusement, like you knew exactly what kind of fire you were playing with, and had every intention of getting burned.
“So why don’t we finish it then?”
Your voice came out as a low, silken tease, your lips curling into a soft, suggestive smile. Fingertips brushed the edge of his cape just for a moment. Then, in the next heartbeat, you leaned in as if to kiss him.
Batman froze.
He didn’t pull away, not exactly. But his jaw clenched, tight enough that the vein in his neck flared against the skin. That was all you needed.
In that breathless second of hesitation, you struck.
Your free hand slipped into the seam of your bodysuit, retrieving a small, flat device no bigger than a coin. And before he could react, you pressed it against the armored slab of his chest.
A sharp jolt of electricity surged.
It wasn’t enough to knock him out, but just enough to stun, to lock up those muscles for a split second. Long enough.
You twisted, yanked your arm from his grip, and pivoted sharply. Two steps back. Then you were gone, vanishing into the shadowed rooftop.
“Shit,”
His voice was a low, guttural snarl behind you.
You didn’t look back. But his frustration cracked through the silence like thunder—raw, unguarded. The kind of sound that made you grin.
Your boots hit the rooftop hard as you picked up speed. The heels barely slowed you down. You slipping through alleyways, leaping across crumbling rooftops and rusted pipes, ducking under low-hanging cables and billboards scorched by Gotham’s smog.
You couldn’t afford to let it end here.
Not yet.
You had work to finish, truths to reveal, monsters to unmask. No matter how fast your heart still thundered from the feel of his body against yours.
No matter how the scent of him still clung to your skin.
Focus.
You told yourself you didn’t have time to get swept up in anything else.
But then…
A heavy thud landed on the rooftop behind you. Metal groaned.
The flutter of a cape slicing the air. The quiet but unmistakable weight of boots pounding across stone and steel.
He was coming.
“Son of a—”
You cursed under your breath, cutting left through an alley, launching yourself across a rooftop gap. You rolled mid-landing, sprang to your feet, only to freeze.
He was already there.
Batman dropped down in front of you from above.
You skidded to a halt, breath catching in your throat. Eyes widened, lips parted.
You turned on instinct to run but he moved faster. In a blur, his arm lashed out and caught you.
“Hey! Let go!”
You snarled, twisting in his grasp, palms slamming against his armored chest. But he didn’t flinch.
His arms were steel, coiled around you with terrifying ease. You barely registered the shift of his weight before you were lifted effortlessly, and slung over his shoulder.
“Put me down! You asshole! Son of a bi—!”
You thrashed, cursed, kicked into the air, fists pounding his back, but he didn’t answer. He simply walked calmly, relentlessly back through the alley, back toward the city lights on the other side.
You were frustrated, and afraid.
For the first time, you’d been caught. Not just by him, but by anyone who had ever come after you.
You’d always slipped away before—vanishing through carefully laid plans and split-second decisions, your mind sharper than most and your instincts sharper still. Your ego was far too inflated to ever truly believe this day would come.
Now that it had, your thoughts were in complete disarray, clashing, spiraling. Pride, panic, disbelief… all colliding inside you at once.
And in that silence, there was something new. It wasn’t Batman's usual coldness. Not quite. It was something quieter, heavier, that you didn't notice.
By the time he reached the Batmobile, his sleek, jet-black beast of a machine, you were thrashing harder, fists pounding against his back in rising panic.
You know damn well where he would be taking you.
“Put me down!”
You didn’t expect what came next. Without warning, he threw you onto the hood of the car with ease.
Your body hit the cool metal with a soft thud, breath catching. Then, he was on you, his towering frame moving to cage you in, blocking the night and the city and everything else out.
His face came close.
Too close.
“What- what? Still want that kiss?” You tried to sound flippant. Amused. But your voice wavered just slightly.
There was no amusement in his eyes.
“Shut up,” he growled, voice low, rough.
Before you could respond, his hands gripped your shoulder and waist, spinning you over effortlessly. Your front pressed flat against the car’s hood, the cold of it shocking against your skin. Then came his weight, pressing down, not crushing, but immovable. The strength of him was undeniable. Inescapable.
You struggled, furious now. But it was like trying to push against a wall of solid steel.
And then your wrists snapped behind your back, locked in cold steel.
“Seriously? Are you actually cuffing me?!”
You barely got the words out before he hauled you upright again, one strong arm around your waist. The car door hissed open, revealing the dim, amber-lit interior of the Batmobile. He tossed you in, not hard, but unceremoniously. You tumbled onto the leather passenger seat, your hair a wild mess, boots flailing before you scrambled upright again.
“Hey! You can’t do this! I never agreed to—!”
He climbed in after you, the door shutting behind him with a dull thud that seemed to silence the entire world.
The cabin was too small.
Too close.
The heat of him filled the space.
He reached over, tapping something on the control panel. But in the reflective surface of the windshield, your eyes locked, two storms colliding in silence.
“Did you really think you could outrun this?”
His voice was graveled, quiet, cold in that way only he could make feel like a threat and a promise at once. You were breathing hard, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling rapidly from adrenaline, rage, and maybe something else.
“I don’t have time to be locked up, all right? Let me out of this car"
He didn’t answer at first. He just turned and looked at you, really looked.
And you could feel it. The way his gaze traced you, like he was memorizing the details he’d pretend later not to remember. His jaw clenched again. You saw it twitch beneath the cowl.
“You’re a thief,” he said simply.
“And what choice did I have?”
Your voice cracked, raw with something deeper.
“You think you know everything, but you don’t. You have no idea what I had to give up just to make it this far”
The silence after that was almost unbearable.
The space between you charged, thick, heavy with things neither of you could say.
You were in his world now.
Trapped inside his lines, within his reach, under his rules. And he was saying nothing.
He moved, hand hovering over the ignition, just enough to make you panic again.
“Wait! Please”
You softened your voice, pleading, sweet now, instead of defiant. Hope it would change his mind(knowing damn well it’s not)
“Can you please let me go?"
“No”
“Come on, Bats, just this time…”
“No”
“Then at least take off the cuffs?”
“No”
The same tone. The same finality. You inhaled sharply, frustrated to the edge of screaming.
Then you turned your body toward him slowly, deliberately, letting your eyes linger on his silhouette. You didn’t look at the windscreen anymore. You looked at him. Dead-on. Voice low, teasing, laced with challenge.
“Oh? Or maybe the real reason you won’t let go" you paused "The reason you’ve got me locked like this is because you like it. You’re afraid that if you let me go, you won’t get to see me like this again”
He moved sharply, turning to face you fully, eyes narrowing under the cowl. The shadow over his expression deepened. That's not what he wanted, but still asked.
“Like what"
You tilted your head, eyes lifting to meet his, defiant, teasing.
“Like this. Tied up, helpless, with nothing left to do but to beg you”
You gave him a slow, wicked smile.
“You like seeing me restrained, don’t you?”
A low, involuntary growl rumbled from his throat. He leaned in, closer, so close you could feel the heat of his breath against your skin.
“You have no idea what you’re playing with,” he warned, voice rough like gravel in a firestorm.
“Oh, but I do…” You whispered back, the words dancing off your lips like a promise, “and I happen to like it"
You shrugged nonchalantly, then tilted your body toward him, despite your wrists still bound, refusing to retreat even as your heartbeat pounded like thunder beneath your ribs.
Now, there was barely a breath of space between your faces.
“Or… would you rather prove it to me?”
You tilted your chin, teasing, taunting. “That Batman really is as good as the they say"
You caught the faintest twitch in his expression, just a flicker, but enough.
His eyes darkened.
“What did you just say?”
His voice dropped to a rasp that vibrated through you. His large hand came down to grip your thigh through the tight leather, fingers pressing in hard like he was anchoring himself, holding back something wild.
You doubted he even realized what he was doing.
You smirked, lips curling at the corners with delicious mischief.
“I just want to know" you murmured, your eyes drifting deliberately downward. Down to where the black armor betrayed him. Hard edges swelling, straining against the fabric in ways you weren’t supposed to notice.
But you noticed. And you let your tongue sweep slowly across your lower lip.
“I want to know,” you said, voice soft “If every inch of the man behind the mask is just as hard and just as impressive as the they claims”
You grinned even wider “I really wanna know… is that really his kind of thing?"
At those words, everything he’d tried to restrain shattered into nothing.
He lunged over you in one swift motion, his weight pressing you down as his mouth crashed into yours without warning. The breath was knocked straight from your lungs.
One hand slid around your back, yanking you flush against him as he devoured you with a brutal kiss, fierce, consuming, and relentless.
No room left to breathe. No space to think. His breath burned hot against your lips as he growled the words between gritted teeth,
“Keep running your mouth and you’ll see what happens when I stop playing nice"
You gasped, breathless, lips still wet from the kiss. But your eyes gleamed, defiant. Mocking "So you're really into that kind of thing," you paused a bit.
“And here I was thinking that was you being serious"
A guttural sound tore from his throat. The next second, your back hit the seat hard.
His hand pinned you down, your clothes slipping slightly from one shoulder as you writhed beneath him. He didn’t wait this time. Didn’t pretend anymore.
He leaned down again, like a storm come to swallow you whole, and kissed you deeper, harder, tongue slipping past your lips to steal the taste he’d been craving all this time.
There was nothing tender about it. His mouth claimed you, commanded you. Every kiss a warning. A punishment.
And yet, instead of pushing him away, you found yourself giving in.
Your lips parting willingly to meet his.
Your body betraying you with the way it arched and moved beneath his touch, chasing the heat. His weight pressed fully into you now, and you felt it, the fire pulsing through his skin, the restraint slipping thread by thread.
“Still got something smart to say?”
His voice was quiet, but it rumbled low in his chest, a dangerous sound that made your heart trip in your chest. The hand that had been gripping your thigh so tightly began to roam slowly, almost reverently.
Fingertips trailing along the curves of your body like he was trying to memorize every inch by touch alone.
His breathing hitched, uneven, as if holding back was costing him everything.
And you, you weren’t much better.
But it was clear now, he was running out of control.
The soft clink of your wrists shifting against each other filled the air as you twisted them within the restraints. Somehow, the lack of freedom only made your body burn hotter. The scent of leather, sweat, and him, so uniquely him, saturated the car. It clung to your skin, to your breath. But none of it compared to the heat in his eyes.
He was looking at you like he wanted to devour you.
And then he moved again, leaning in to whisper against your ear, his voice a searing breath of flame.
“Then sit still and shut up"
You forgot to breathe for a second, thinking he’d actually stop. That maybe, just maybe, he was pulling away.
Somehow you didn't want that to happen.
“So that’s it? You’re scared?” you murmured, your voice trembling with mockery and something deeper “Afraid to take it further? I knew it, you really are all bark and no bite, Batman"
You thought those words would make him mad. You thought he’d back off, or hesitate.
But instead, they lit the fuse.
He snapped back around and kissed you again, so suddenly, so forcefully, it stole your breath. You whimpered into his mouth, caught off guard as his lips crushed yours with the weight of everything he’d been holding back. It was rough, heated, and hungry.
He kissed you like a man who had finally lost control.
It was as if he’d finally run out of patience for her sharp tongue.
You didn’t have time to catch your breath. His broad body slid between your thighs, claiming the space like it belonged to him. One of your legs was lifted, wrapped around his hips as his hand slid deliberately up your inner thigh, igniting every nerve it passed.
The heat was unbearable. And only growing stronger. You could feel it, your own arousal, warm and slick against the tight leather pressed between your thighs.
You knew it was wrong.
And yet, the way your body trembled beneath his touch said otherwise.
While you were still lost in the haze, his hand slid down, bold and unrelenting, pressing firmly against your soaked center.
Thick fingers moved with a brutal rhythm, circling, grinding, rubbing into you with no mercy.
A choked moan escaped your lips as your hips twisted in search of relief, but his other hand clamped around your waist, locking you in place.
He felt it.
He could feel how drenched you were through the thin leather.
And when he realized it, his fingers pressed down harder, deliberately rolling over your swollen clit again and again until the heat became unbearable.
Batman broke the kiss, finally, and you gasped, breathless, your head falling back against the seat.
Your focus shattered.
You had been so close to unlocking the cuffs behind your back just moments ago, but now your arms dropped limp again, helpless, surrendering.
“B-Batman, wait- what are you...ah!”
His hand lingered against your core a beat longer. Then, without warning, both hands gripped the waistband of your skintight leather pants and ripped them down the middle with a vicious snarl. The sound echoed through the cabin. Loud. Raw. Brutal.
You gasped, eyes flying wide open as the sudden scrape of torn fabric stung against the sensitive skin below. You never imagined it would come to this. By now, panic was clearly flickering in your eyes.
“W–wait! What the hell are you...!?”
“Shut up,” he growled.
Same words.
Same voice.
But darker now. Lower. Rough with tension. The seat jerked beneath you as he yanked the recline lever, flattening it all the way back, and you tensed, heart pounding, as you lifted your head, staring up at him in shock and breathless disbelief.
“You...Ah!”
“So messy already"
His voice was muffled against the heat between your thighs, but you heard every word, low, dark, and teasing.
You looked down, and there he was, face buried in the part of you that ached the most, where the wetness had already pooled, your wet pussy. His tongue, hot and relentless, traced every sensitive curve with wicked skill, drawing helpless sparks of pleasure through your body.
When he felt you jolt, he doubled down. His broad tongue pressing, licking, circling, focusing on that swollen spot until your moans trembled out of you. Your back arched involuntarily.
He was far too good at this.
Each flick of his tongue was practiced, confident. You had no doubt he was well-experienced. And yet, you weren’t prepared, could never be, for just how completely he was unraveling you.
His sharp eyes looked up through dark lashes, catching your expression. Your skin was dewy with sweat, lips parted and quivering, breath catching like you were holding back a sob. For just a second, his mouth curved into a crooked smile.
“S-Stop. You’re...You’re being greedy"
Your voice trembled, cracking like you were on the verge of tears, but your words only seemed to excite him further. Without hesitation, he plunged his tongue deeper.
The slick sounds filled the enclosed space of the car, mingling with your broken gasps and shaking breaths. You tried to twist away, but he pinned your hips down firmly, holding you in place like a prey.
You were twenty-five, but you’d never done this with someone before.
Your life had always been about survival. It's all about hiding, running, escaping. Not once had you let yourself imagine this kind of raw, intimate contact. And now, here you were, writhing beneath him like fire was licking through your veins.
Batman pulled away slightly when he noticed how you kept writhing beneath him like someone entirely inexperienced. He straightened up, gaze locked onto the beauty in your tear-glossed eyes.
Your face was damp with sweat, lips parted and trembling, slick with saliva. Your whole body trembled under his touch, flushed and vulnerable.
His jaw clenched. Fists tightening at his sides. It was the first time he had lost this much control, especially in the middle of a mission. With a swift motion, Batman tore off his gloves and let them fall soundlessly to the ground. You, dazed and breathless, barely registered what he was doing until his bare hand returned to the slick heat between your thighs.
“W- wait Batman, are you...”
“You haven’t come yet,” he said flatly.
The shameless honesty in his tone made your heart thud wildly in your chest, so much so that you missed the flicker of desire in his usually unreadable face.
“But I…!”
“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “It’s not as big as mine"
“That’s not...!”
He didn’t let you finish. Without warning, his thick fingers slid into your soaked entrance, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips. Your walls fluttered in response to the sudden intrusion, and he grit his teeth as he felt the heat clamp around him. His own arousal pulsed heavily beneath his suit.
You really were dangerously good at riling him up.
He didn’t rush at first. He let you feel him, drawing slow, deliberate motions in and out of you, as though giving you time to adjust. You couldn’t look away from the sight of his strong hand working you open, your breath coming in short, needy bursts.
But his patience didn’t last.
The slow rhythm turned feverish. His fingers thrust deeper, faster, and the abrupt change forced a cry from your throat. Your head fell back, hips lifting in search of more.
Your body clenched around him, drawing him in again and again. Teary-eyed, you looked up at the man above you, breath hitching.
“Bat—ah! I-I… I can’t—”
A low sound rumbled in his chest.
“I know.”
Your voice trembled, pleading, breathless. Beneath the half-mask, your tear-streaked face painted a picture of helplessness that could’ve broken anyone’s heart. You looked like someone unfairly cornered. And yet, instead of showing mercy, he seemed perversely captivated by it.
His hand didn’t ease, it drove deeper, and you let out a choked sob, unable to stop yourself from flinching at the overwhelming sensation. When his touch angled just right against that unbearably sensitive spot deep inside, you jolted violently, half-rising just to clutch the hard armor covering his chest.
Then his eyes narrowed.
He’d noticed.
Somehow, you’d managed to slip off his handcuff without him realizing.
His next motion was deliberate, a rougher, sharper press against that vulnerable place, punishment disguised as pleasure.
“Batman! N-not there...please—”
Your protest cracked into a moan, your body betraying you.
“What happened to that sharp tongue of yours?” he murmured against your ear, voice low and dark, sending a shiver racing down your spine. “You had a lot to say a minute ago. And now you’re unshackling me behind my back?”
“I-I’m sorry…” you whimpered, trembling under him.
Each movement of his hand only made the tension in your core tighten. The sound of it wet, slick, indecent, echoed obscenely in the confined space, a cruel reminder that you were coming undone at the hands of the one who should’ve been your enemy.
And yet, it felt like the world was falling away.
You clenched around him, your body’s instinctive response to the wave that was cresting dangerously close now. Each time he found that exact spot, your walls tightened, hips arching helplessly as if trying to escape and chase the feeling all at once.
“Bat—I can’t...I’m close—”
Your hand reached up to cup the side of his jaw, needing to anchor yourself to something solid before everything inside you shattered. His eyes, so often hard and unreadable, met yours. And the sight of your dazed, tear-glossed expression made a deep, primal sound rumble from his chest.
The man above dipped his head and kissed you again deeply, fervently, without warning. His warm tongue tangled with yours, stealing your breath, even as his fingers below continued their merciless rhythm. If anything, he pushed harder, forcing your hips to buck up in response, chasing after the overwhelming pleasure without realizing it.
Batman let out a low sound in his throat, something between amusement and a groan at how horny you were, despite your inexperience. His tongue pressed and swirled, demanding more, until a sharp wave of sensation surged through you. Your hips jerked once, and a sudden heat flooded over his hand and onto the expensive leather seat beneath you.
Your cry was muffled, he didn’t break the kiss. If anything, he held your jaw more firmly, deepening the kiss further while keeping his fingers inside you, now still but possessive.
Only when he finally pulled away did you gasp for air, your breath ragged, your eyes glassy and dazed. He slowly withdrew his fingers from your trembling body, the sight of it making something dark flicker in his gaze.
Batman looked down at the aftermath with eyes that burned like coals, barely restraining whatever war raged within him. This wasn’t who he was. He never allowed things to go this far. And yet here he was.
“Batman…” you whispered his name, barely audible. He met your gaze, those piercing eyes catching yours.
“Well,” he murmured, his voice low, teasing, almost cruel, “now you know, don’t you? Was it worth the risk?”
There was something mocking in his tone, pride perhaps. Or a warning.
“Don’t test me again"
But instead of lying still, you reached for his free hand, the one slick with your warmth, and pulled it toward your lips. Slowly, deliberately, your tongue traced his fingers, tasting what lingered there. Your eyes never left his.
He froze.
The sight of you, soft, flushed, and staring up at him like that sent a jolt through his body.
“You don't have to be so cruel to me”
The words were simple, harmless even. But they struck a nerve. Something about them lit a fire in him, an anger that flared without warning. Whatever the reason, it burned hot and fast.
The tall man jerked his hand back sharply and snatched up the pair of handcuffs you’d managed to undo. Without a word, he snapped them back into place around your wrists. He didn’t think you’d be able to slip out again. Not in your condition. You were barely able to move.
With a low grunt, he adjusted the seat carefully, making sure you wouldn’t fall over during the ride. Then, without another glance, he stalked back to the driver’s side, his jaw clenched tight. One broad hand gripped the steering wheel as the other reached for the ignition.
A soft buzz from the dashboard caught his eye. A message from Nightwing: “All clear on my end. Don’t worry"
He ground his teeth, biting back a curse. His gaze flicked to your motionless form slumped against the seat. You were unconscious now—utterly still. And it left him alone, with nothing but his seething thoughts for company.
Without hesitation, he turned the key. The engine growled to life, and the Batmobile slipped silently from the shadows, tires humming against the damp asphalt.
But it wasn’t the GCPD he was heading toward.
The streets blurred past, a familiar route guiding him to the Batcave. He drove without a word, jaw tense, eyes narrowed.
There was still too much he didn’t know about you.
summary: some wild idea of your Bruce for the night ♡
warnings: full +18 content with a plot. minors do not interact, please
notes: hi, hi!!! ♡ may i present you this wild piece?? there are no limitations for young, husband Bruce and here we go again!! ♡ this can be a sequel to my this piece, but it still can be a standalone, too, i guess. happy reading, my loves!! thank you so much for your support!! kiss, kiss!!! ♡ ♡ ♡
Iceberg Lounge.
A place that you wouldn't cross alone nor did you ever want to be there for hours. According to the things you’ve heard, it was usually filled with Gotham’s double-sided face. Sometimes the higher ranks were wandering around with their glamorous suit and ties, sometimes it was a random thug in the name of working for the Penguin. Either way, it was still for the highest. The same word that involved both you and your husband.
It was not your idea to come here, on a Friday night in scorching July with your beloved Bruce — it was his idea since the beginning. He decided it was good to renew your appreances since the last three weeks, the opera house night. It was a good cover for Batman’s investigation on Oswald Cobblepot, in other representations he was referred to as the ‘Penguin’. There were some vulgar burglaries from Gotham’s highest and illegal trafficking on the Gotham port, and Bruce was cynical about the arrows leading to this peculiar man. Thus, Bruce was rigid about his date night with you and now you were here, your dazzling eyes wandering through the ‘icy’ interior as you strode to your reserved table with Bruce’s arm around your waist.
“What? Are you still angry with me?”
His lips brushed your ear. “You know, I can eat your anger out if you can be a good girl for me tonight.” he continued as he kissed the sweet spot below your ear. God, it drove you mad how he was sometimes nonchalant about his words.
You slightly pushed him with your hand on his chest, earning a stupid grin on his handsome face. He had no shame about the people of Gotham seeing how he was smitten with you, how he liked to show off his obsession, such as casually kissing your bare shoulders or neck as soon as he had a chance. You were still irritated with him since the last few days after his ‘friend’ incident — fucking you with great pleasure for his jealousy and you being confused about his non-existent explanation of the situation and the next morning nuzzling you like a puppy. As if he weren't the one who was responsible for the love bites with stains on your chest and shoulders for the next few days, and as if he weren't the one who was responsible for the soreness between your thighs.
It had been a few days since you’d been giving him a cold shoulder, refusing to interact with him out of necessity. And he was aware of that — aware of your rejecting his morning kisses or your nightly staying-ups for him through the night. He knew his fault with you, but he was slightly busy with Penguin rather than engaging with you. When he told you that you two are going for a date night, Alfred and you gave him cynical glances. It was too easy, wasn't it? But he also added that he needed to ‘look through’ Oswald Cobblepot, and the real picture was revealed.
“Oh, Sir, I thought you finally had a rational thought.”
Alfred was aware of the silent tension between you and Bruce, mainly your irritation, and he was on your side most of the time. And whatever was bothering you, was bothering him, too. Since he had seen Bruce’s devotion to you — Bruce’s eagerness in wedlock with you — and he was happy finally in his life after the darkness of years. But he was also aware of the two young lovers’ struggles during their early marriage years. He was afraid as a father to Bruce and you, that some trivial miscommunication or anything would happen and Bruce would lose his North Star, you, forevermore. It was well known how Bruce couldn't handle his beloved parents’ death, and it was a strangling thought for Alfred that something like that could happen again to Bruce, just him to be goner until the end line.
Bruce was angry and fueled, but he was also arrogant in his vision. Alfred could handle his son, but could you handle him even though he was the love of your life? Your dearest, young and confident Bruce? Alfred was scared, he had no chance at that time of tragedy, he had no power to halt the nightmare but he did have the capability now. And he was no fool for letting the similar darkness cover his son’s life again.
However, Bruce’s intention was really to take you out on a date with his detective vision. He loved you so much, and he was trying to fix his wrongdoing with this rational thought. He couldn't bear to see your lovely eyes avoiding him or your endless love halting to flourish for him.
You, at first, did not want to go out with him, truthfully. You just said ‘I am tired’ that day, well in fact, you were just making a chocolate cake with Alfred from his generational, Pennyworth recipes. It hurt Bruce to see your unwillingness; after seeing your lowered gaze from him to the chocolates in your hand. But he ushered you with his generous bouquets of your favorite flowers after a few hours, leaving you stunned.
“Oh, I think he is very serious about his offer, Madam.”
So, here you were, walking right next to him in your lovely silhouette as you two were accompanied to your table.
“Mr. Wayne and Mrs. Wayne, what a pleasure to see you.”
You and Bruce halted by the voice, turned to see no one but the one and only Oswald Cobblepot himself. Neither Bruce or you had the opportunity to speak to him before, nor Mr. Cobblepot. As he saw both of you, he took the chance to introduce himself to the Son of Gotham and his wife.
Oswald Cobblepot was a peculiar man. He was feared but also respected in Gotham, came from the real Gotham families like Bruce. He was a nobleman outside but inside? Your Bruce was thinking about him lately in his cave.
Mr. Cobblepot gave a courteous bow for both of you, and then asked for your hand. You let him politely and the next, your hand was brushed by his lips.
“We can say the same, Mr. Cobblepot. Thank you for your invitation.”
You withdrew your hand and felt Bruce’s hand giving a soft squeeze on your hip. “My wife was enthusiastic about a refreshment from the heat of Gotham. I thought one of your freezing nights could be a great gift for her.”
You smiled politely when Mr. Cobblepot’s gaze found yours behind his monocle. He gave you a satisfied smile, his eyes crinkling cheerfully. “We are delighted to hear about Mrs. Wayne’s preferences. I assure you that she will have a wonderful night here. I specifically gave the orders for your table, Mr. Wayne.”
He gestured with his hand for you to continue, “Please, do proceed and enjoy the night. I wish it would be marvelous for you.”
In the next few minutes, you were sitting opposite each other, your eyes looking down at the scene of the Lounge. It was crowded, filled with the specials of Gotham and a few notorious ones. Your eyes wandered through the people and the scenery of “icy” walls, the stage where there was a preparation for the singer of the night, and the ceiling from what you could see the gleaming night lights of Gotham and the slightly visible stars in the sky.
“Do you like it?”
Your attention was interrupted by Bruce as he took your hand into his and kissed your knuckles. He brushed his lips on your soft skin lovingly as his keen, bedroom eyes under his thick eyebrows looked at you. He kept his lips on your skin, expecting an answer from you. He knew how to get under your skin, bending your attention to him with his calm gaze.
“I didn’t know I was the one who was enthusiastic about a ‘frosty’ night out?”
You still pursued your stubbornness about your cold shoulder. He sighed and kept your hand in his on the table. “You were searching for every cold corner in the Manor.”
“How — Were you following me?”
You were, frankly, looking for it during the afternoon naps. Wayne Manor was spectacular to you in every sense and you loved to spend your favorite time in every corner of it. But when Gotham was burning, you chose to look for a comfortable corner in your home. And to your wonder, Bruce, as he was supposed to be either in the cave or in his fourteen hours of sleep after his patrols, was obviously aware of your little research. He gave you an unimpressed gaze, his thumb caressing your rings.
“God forbid if I look for you in our house.”
You did not answer his sarcasm, tearing your stare from him to the singer whose voice was now filling the chilly air of the Lounge. Bruce followed your eyes after a few seconds of looking at your features, thinking about how he could win you over.
Twenty minutes later, your drinks were served and you were sipping your mimosa, since you refused to drink alcohol as your husband, eyes on the band. Bruce, slightly opposite of you, swirling his wine spritzer as his eyes were locked on Mr. Cobblepot who was wandering with his ‘suit and tie’ right hand, seemingly discussing something. His blue eyes didn't leave any momentum of ‘Penguin’, watching him until he disappeared from his sharp eyes. It was a great opportunity to use his time, since you were also giving him no attention.
He placed the glass on the table and took your hand for a kiss. “I need to use the bathroom, my love. Will you be alright if I’m gone for a few minutes?”
Your fluttering gaze found his; you knew what he was referring to. You just nodded your head with a small ‘yes’. He gave you a small smile and squeezed your hand. Then, he left your table.
His ‘few minutes’ stretched out for a long, heavy time. You did not realize at first, but no lie, as much as you were irritated by him, even for a mere time — you were still in love with him heavily. Your lovely eyes wandered through the people, the poker tables, or the bar under your gaze. There was no sign of him. You waited for a few more minutes before you left the table.
You walked through the dim corridor of tables, filled with the notorious people of Gotham and the outsiders, drinking your vision with their eyes. You tried to keep your gaze on the way ahead since you did not want to engage with anyone. There were familiar faces at the tables, smiling and nodding at you as you repeated with the same ladylike effort.
Where was your husband? As you descended the stairs, you were thoughtfully blending through the crowd, thinking about where to look for him. You knew he could take care of himself, but hell, where was he? Every kind of high people of Gotham were there, and your lovely but uneasy eyes were looking for your husband. They indeed were the vultures, looking at the little bird of love with a great appetite.
“Would a pretty girl like you want a drink?”
Your eyes found the young bartender as you bypassed the bar. You shook your head with a small, uncomfortable smile as you dived through the crowd towards the washrooms — or you hoped. You did find the washrooms. But also a few, suited men looking for.. something? They passed over you in skepticism, as if trying to find someone that they were now hastily speaking to each other about. You were suspicious of something, turned to go way back to your table but you were interrupted there.
“Mrs. Wayne, are you lost?”
You turned and found Mr. Cobblepot who was staring at you with curiosity blended with irritation. He looked more terrifying when he was in that state.
“I,” you started as he approached you with his cane in his languid movements due to his physique. “I was-”
“There you are, baby. Want me to take you to the dance floor?”
Bruce’s sudden appearance from behind shook you and Mr. Cobblepot. His arm snaked your waist, pulling you slightly to himself as you turned your face to the side to meet his gaze. He looked so effortless, giving you one of his favorite smiles you adored, as your eyes gazed up at him speechless.
“I,” you murmured barely with your lovely eyes locked in his blue eyes, “Yes, please.”. Mr. Cobblepot was looking at you two in confusion but he did not bother to intercede since he was looking for the snitch who was eavesdropping.
“Mr. Cobblepot, you have a good place here. It is quite thrilling for us.”
“Glad to hear that, Mr. Wayne. Pardon me.”
With that, he left you two alone. You thought you were supposed to go to the dance floor but in the blink of an eye, Bruce guided you to the ladies’ restroom. He made sure that there was no one inside before pulling you in and locking the door after you.
“Where were you?” you asked him quietly before he pressed you to the door. He kissed your lips for a peck, murmuring the words on them.
“Me?”
“Yes.” you breathed out when his cold palms found your skin under your satin, thigh-length dress. He pecked your lips again with “Why? Did you miss me?”.
“They,” he pressed another kiss on your lips, “were looking for you?”. You let him kiss you as much as he wanted since he was only thinking about it as you realized. He slowly had his lips on you, sweetly taking every second. After a few seconds of his pleasure, you softly pushed him for both air and an answer.
“Were they looking for you?” you murmured to his lips as he gave you a disturbed gaze in the eyes. “Were they?” he muttered, eluding your inquiries before kissing you again. This time, he was a bit rougher with you. You let a softest moan to his mouth as his hand went higher than before.
You did not want him to have his way with you smoothly as always. You were supposed to be giving him a silent treatment; you were trying but it was challenging when he was orbiting around you like this. You did not let him touch you since that night, always slept away from him on the bed. But he was almost daring you in this situation. When he broke the kiss for a breath for you two, you whispered to him as he had pressed his forehead to yours.
“Bruce,” you breathed out, “Someone’s gonna come on us.”
“Don’t worry,” he muttered to your lips, ready for another kiss. “I’ll make no one will.”
Your attempts were futile. He kissed you as he longed for, over and over again with soft bites of your bottom lip. He let his tongue devour you, letting you melt in his mouth while his fingers fiddled with the waistband of your liliac, lacy panties under your dress.
His lips, after leaving you breathless, found your jaw, then your neck. He kissed every inch of your soft skin, breathing in your floral scent. Your fingers went to his shoulders, holding onto him. When he bit your neck, you hissed his name since it’d leave a stain without any concealing and that was the last thing you wanted this night. He just kissed the same spot and licked your skin next.
You were flushed, breathing in the mild air of the washroom, as he kissed your bare shoulders after pulling the straps off them. You thought he’d just fuck you for one round, then you’d leave this madness but no. A thought was spiraling in Bruce’s head for quite time during the day, to go on his knees for you.
He bit your throat and pulled back to take off his jacket. He just threw it on the countertop before coming back to your lips. He kissed you more before going down on his knees, looking up at you from his thick lashes. You were watching him with a warm face, uneasy about the spot you two were in. You just shook your head as a ‘no’, but that made him smile at your loveliness. His calloused hands gently went under your dress again as if he did not want to scare you off.
“Come on, baby, just let me take a bite of my dessert, yeah?” he muttered with a merry glint in his blue eyes, making you already wet from how he looked. God, he was almost unreal — his slicked back, dark hair was now slightly messy from whatever he did before you and his blue eyes were hazy with longing as he looked at you. You felt his fingers go upwards, just through the waistband of your flower-detailed underwear. He elatedly caressed his thumb on the elaborated material, just getting slightly hard in his pants. You were torn between his plea and the possible scandal but he deftly started to pull down your delicate piece.
“B-Bruce, we’ll-”
“Shh, baby, we won’t.” he muttered as he kissed your thigh, peeking up at you from the hem of your dress. “I’ll make sure we won’t.”
Your drip-covered panties slipped through your thighs and were freed from your legs next, finding a way into his pocket. He just put his hands back on your hot skin, under the dress of yours. He pressed kisses to your soft skin, just mumbling as his lips brushed it.
“Don’t you trust me, darling?” he urged you with his sweet tongue. “Me, baby? Your husband?”
His lascivious eyes found yours as he inclined his head slightly. “You know, I’d do anything for you.”
It was impossible to stay mad at him like this. When he was just on his knees to worship you. Your blurry mind was fighting for a notion to get him on his feet to leave here but your heart… It was just beating for him no matter what and he must’ve been aware of his spell on you. His precious girl, how could he not?
As he saw your torn expression on your lovely face, all blushed just for him, he quietly did what he wanted to do. He started to press kisses on your thighs as one of his hands went under your thigh to place your leg on his shoulder to dive into you. You softly gasped at his action and he successfully got you in the position he wanted. You felt his mouth closer to where you were wet.
“Just.. j-just once, baby.” you muttered to the air as your eyes were on him as he fisted your dress for not creating any distraction. “Mhm,” he hummed through your skin as you heard it barely. “Just once.”
Bruce did not waste any time as he reached his destination. He, at first, opened your legs with the help of your knee on his shoulder, then gave you small licks between your folds. You let out a breath, pressing your head against the wooden door behind you. He licked your wetness with a muffled groan and then slightly sucked the tender flesh with his mouth.
He spread you more by your thigh, diving his tongue more inside of your cunt which made you let out a breathy moan, and held your thigh in a grip that prevent you from losing balance. He started with his slow flickers of his tongue, tasting your hot juices in his mouth for good extended minutes. He prolonged his strokes, just filling you with his tongue. He then started to eat you out thrilled, thriving for every second of it. Your eyes were fluttering due to his mouth, and your hands were looking for anything to grip onto. Bruce roamed his tongue between your folds, up and down, some moments sucking them. You hid your mouth with the back of your hand to prevent your soft moans from reaching any possible person on the other side of the door.
The sweat started to form down your spine, as well as on Bruce’s temple as he was feasting on you between your thighs. You couldn't dare to run your ring-covered fingers through his hair to mess it up, yet it was already messy from his nuzzling there. For good minutes of eating you out in a languid way, he pulled your thigh to press your pussy more to his mouth, his slightly crooked nose stuffed in your wetness. He was licking, biting and sucking your soft flesh and fluids with his hungry appetite, making you dribble on his tongue lusciously. You were singing for him softly to the back of your hand.
Bruce gave your first orgasm with his tongue, just his finger on your clit to stimulate you, but his lips that you loved so much to kiss and sweet tongue were buried in your cunt.
You saw the stars, brighter than tonight's. You just remember the feeling so achingly at the moment. It was so thrilling, sending a jolt to your body. Thankfully, your husband was there to hold you because you were a mess from the pressure of his grip and the lazy strokes of his tongue. When you were breathing heavily with half-lidded eyes, looking down at him as he cleared every amount of your euphoric juices between your folds, you thought it was over. But in the next few minutes of Bruce’s good appetite, he wiped his thumb to clear your sweetness on his chin with his eyes on you. The vision of him was almost enough for you to be wet again, but your mind was blurry. Blurry that you couldn't realize his next motives.
Bruce pressed a few needy kisses on your lips, letting you taste your sweet flavor on his tongue, pulling you into his arms. Your arms found his shoulders for a balance but you realized he led you to one of the private stalls along with his discarded jacket. He just pushed you there before he entered and locked it after him. Your mind was too dizzy with him that you did not even realize him unlocking the main door of the restroom. So, it was open to anybody now.
Bruce tossed out his jacket in the corner before kissing you in the dense stall. He just handily altered your positions where he had you on his lap on the seat. He compelled you to straddle him as he kissed you, his hands under your dress on the bare skin.
“Be my good girl, yeah?” he murmured to your lips. “Let me see you ride.”
You were at the moment too messed up. Fucking in the some washroom stall was the last thing you thought he preferred to do. And you knew it was an effort to make him let go of the idea. You were just staring into his eyes with your pretty ones with uncertainty. He knew your inexperience in risky situations, for easing you, he was giving you his bedroom eyes that you couldn’t resist.
“Wasn’t it just… for once?” you murmured to him. He sighed against your lips, pulling you more to him where his lips brushed yours as he answered you. “I won’t leave this fucking room until we fuck.”
You were already flushed and his direct words were much for you, specifically with the fixed look in his eyes. He saw your quietness, so he leaned and kissed you softly. He knew you were scared of some ‘miscalculation’ but he knew better. He promised you about that, didn’t he?
You just let him kiss you, be intoxicated with you as he took his time. His thumb was caressing your bare skin, remembering the softness of it. He let you whimper into his mouth as he pushed his tongue in. You just loved him more when he was kissing so in love, gently coaxing you into him, softening you in his tongue as he liked. When you were breathless, you two broke the kiss, you drunk on him. You pressed your forehead against his with closed eyes, just to feel his proximity for extended moments. But he had other plans.
You felt him fiddling with his belt, the clicking sounds of it in your ears. You opened your eyes to look and found him with creased brows as he struggled to free himself. You sighed and gave in to his dangerous idea, your fingers working on the belt. It took your thirty-nine seconds to free his cock from his trousers, already hard in your warm palm.
He just breathed out a ‘Fuck,’ under his breath when you slowly rubbed the tip with your thumb. He let his head press back to the wall behind him with closed eyes as you grazed your finger on it. He slightly pulled you from your thighs to usher you to take him but you knew better. You just quietly played with his tip.
“Baby,” he muttered with a need in his tone. “Please.” he just simply continued his plea. One thing about him always surprised you that he wasn't playing any games with his requests or his pleas. If he needed you so fucking bad, he’d tell you straightforwardly. And he’d not try to dominate you into his plea. He’d be just good for you to take him however you liked. He was just yours.
“Will you do that for me, pretty girl?” he came back to your lips for a soft kiss. “Yeah?” he guided you with his lips.
“Yeah.” you whispered after one kiss. “Hm?” one kiss more, “That’s my girl.”
You two kissed until he helped you to be in a position to take him. You felt his tip between your folds, at your entrance. You softly moaned into his lips when he entered you. A few seconds of taking him fully gave you a familiar feeling you knew very well. You closed your eyes, letting your head fall on his shoulder as you exhaled quietly, his thickness filling you overly. He fixed the angles of his hips to be buried in you as much as he could, your pussy lovingly wrapping around him. He kissed your cheek before murmuring to your skin.
“Are you alright, baby?”
You hummed before finding his eyes. He gave you just a sweet smile of his and pecked your lips. As you started to move your hips, it was a bit of a struggle for you to find the pace. You started slowly, fully taking him, in and out, with your soft moans. He was just bare with nothing but his length inside of you pussy. It was so perfect, so right as you moved on his cock. He was quietly tensing his jaw for not to make any sound other than his occasional groans.
His hands were on your hips and thighs, holding you from falling as you rode him how you yearned for. You just started at a slow but steady pace, but he encouraged you to be faster with his blue eyes under his creased brows from the pleasure he was having as much as you were. Your scorching pussy had been squeezing him too flawlessly from thrusts, luring him for more of you. You tried to take him as much as you could with you needy state, moving your hips to hit your sweet spots.
Your breathing started to speed up from the movements of your hips before the main door of the washroom opened and a few girls came inside. You were too stunned, halting your hips immediately. But Bruce, God, he was just surprised for a few seconds before he turned back to his high feelings of your pussy clenching his cock without any mind. In fact, he was only surprised that it took so long for someone to use the restroom.
The girls were loud and ecstatic in their own world, not presuming what was happening behind one of the locked stall doors. Your mind was dizzy and alert at the same time but your Bruce knew how to handle you. He just started to press softest kisses on your throat and neck silently as he could (he was very sure that the girls wouldn't even notice your hushed actions, but he knew you were like a deer in the headlights. His lovely doe.), then soft whispers to your ear.
“I got you, baby.” he murmured barely as he skillfully inclined you to lift your hips. Your panicked eyes locked in his but he was effortless — like how he knew how to twist it to his will. That arrogant husband of yours. He, a few times, made you continue to ride him which resulted in your strained moans against his neck. The girls were speaking about a theme passionately to notice your sweetest, softened sounds.
The whole six minutes passed as one of the most dreadful moments in your life. You just prayed they’d leave and no one would enter until you two were finished. Bruce guided you unhurriedly in those minutes, nestling to your skin with his kisses, making you wrap your arms around his neck as he helped you to move your hips. He was pampered in his seat, his thumb brushing on the soft skin of your hip as he was sucking and biting throat, — blooming the faded spots again — while you were holding him dearly. And when the girls left and you were now alone in the restroom again, you caught his eyes. You were speechless but he pecked your lips and muttered, “I told you to trust me.”
You just sighed at his neck in disappointment and he only smiled at himself. He kissed your hair as you hid your face, murmuring a ‘please’ for you interrupted moment. You breathed out in peace, the quiet relief in your heart that you were actually out of sights. It took you a few moments but he got you just as needy as before with his words and kisses in the following minutes, to tutor you to ride him just like earlier.
“There you go, baby, just — fuck — just like that.”
You pressed your forehead against his as you moved your hips with a sheen on your temple as his. He was just burning just as you, in his white, tailor-made unbuttoned shirt in the heat, holding you skillfully as you were fucking him. A whole extended period of thrusting on his cock got you to the finish line. Your soft moans and mewls were filling the dense air between as your cunt was utterly tightening with his thickness over and over again. And when you felt the familiar pressure in your stomach, you just called his name into his ear.
He could feel how your pussy was clenching him, giving him his elated seconds. “Fuck, are you close?” he asked you as he pressed kisses on your neck. “Hm?”
“Uh-huh..”
You felt his fingertips on your clit, pressuring the exact spot got you breathless. “B-Baby..,” you breathed out to his neck. He knew the tone of your voice and the desperation of the moment and did what he usually does. It felt amazing, so dazzling when the euphoria blinded you. You just remember the tight clasp of yours around his neck and the deep inhale of air. The next thing you reminisce about was that you were in his arms, nuzzling into his neck with soft exhales.
You never fully remembered how he came but he did after you with the squeezing of your cunt as you came and your sweet calling out of his name. He came inside of you, his thick seed filling you and now, messy between your thighs. You two were breathless, pressed up against each other in silence.
You felt his fingers tangled in your hair later. He was serenely and contently running his calloused fingers through it. You felt his fingers then pushing your locks on your face, on your blushed cheeks before his hand found your face to angle you to him.
When your eyes met, you two smiled at each other. He softly traced your bottom lip, his blue eyes fixed on that. He then gently grabbed your chin between his fingers to pull you in for a kiss. You shared a few more kisses happily, appreciating them one by one.
“You are a mess.” you whispered as your eyes were lovingly carving his features into your mind. “Am I?” he muttered as his eyes slightly crinkled.
God, you loved him so much.
His hair was messy, his pale cheeks were tinted in the fluorescent light as yours and his stupid smile detailed on his mouth. He brushed your cheek with his thumb, pulling you in for the last kiss.
“We should better be gone, baby.” he muttered to your lips. You just hummed, sluggish in your reply. He just smiled at your mood and pressed a kiss on your temple. “We can cuddle in bed, come on. Unless you want to spend some time in here.”
You let him help you with taking himself out of you and pulling you up on your feet. You two were genuinely a mess, in any sense. It took you twenty minutes to be in ‘decent’ condition, after the refreshment of water and some kisses. Bruce had covered his jacket around you, for your disheveled dress and the love marks on your neck.
“Ready?” he murmured to your temple after a kiss as his arm circled you. You just nodded, thinking about how the hell you will leave before someone notices you two leave the restroom in that state. But as your Bruce said, he’d handle it.
You finally saw Jason and slowed to a stop right next to him. With a smirk, you flipped up the visor on your helmet and he rolled his eyes.
“Not in the mood, princess.” He said plainly, stepping closer. “Move.”
“And let you destroy my bike too? No thanks. You can be the backpack this time.” Your smirk widened at the power you had over him right now. When he didn’t move, you added, “Or you can walk home…?” He scoffed and rolled his eyes again, but reluctantly climbed onto the back of the bike, wrapping his arms around you. “Good boy.” You said smugly.
He suddenly reached up to grab the chin of your helmet and forcefully turned you around enough for him to see you. “Quit it.” He hissed, clearly losing his patience. Your smirk remained, but you relented for now. He let you turn back around, then you started driving. Jason didn’t actually explain what he was doing this far away from Gotham, but it was going to take at least 30 minutes for you to get home.
You waited until you were on a highway, then leaned forward, arching your back and pushing your ass against his crotch. His hands moved to grip your hips, not worried about needing to hold on since you were going to be driving at an even speed for a while. When one hand squeezed your ass over your jeans, you bit your lip, trying not to get too distracted by his hands on your body and the vibration from the bike directly on your clit with the way you were bent over.
His hands suddenly left you and you frowned, wanting to turn around to see why he let go, but needing to keep your eyes on the road. After a moment, he grabbed your jeans and pulled them away from your body, then sliced the seam with a knife.
“Jason!” You yelled, even though he definitely couldn’t hear you. He grabbed the torn fabric and ripped it even more, exposing your panties that he also ripped. When you felt the blunt head of his cock on your entrance, you finally understood what was happening.
He lined up and started pulling you back by your hips, impaling you on his thick cock inch by torturous inch until it was fully sheathed inside you. The stretch burned a little, but any pain was easily ignored by the feeling of him filling you up, and the coil of arousal starting to build in your stomach.
You let out a shaky breath and he groped your ass roughly, giving you a firm spank before moving his hands up your arched back. Right before he reached your shoulder blades, he snaked them around to grope your breasts, making you whine. It was dark out now and there were barely any people on the road, but the thought of getting caught still made your pussy flutter around his cock.
After a few seconds, his hands dragged back down, following the path they came up, until he was squeezing your ass again. He suddenly grabbed the waistband of your jeans and used it to pull you backwards and down, then push you away again, slowly guiding your hips. It was incredibly hard to focus on driving while he was fucking you, but he kept the pace slow— You were both grateful and annoyed by that though.
You finally exited the highway and continued on residential roads. The first time you stopped at a red light, he pulled you upright, then gripped your hips and started moving you up and down. You blushed furiously and tried to bat his hands away, but he was undeterred— At least no one was stopped at the red light with you. When you continued driving, he paused, letting you focus.
However, the second time, there was a group of people standing on the corner, talking and laughing loudly. Jason was completely unbothered as he lifted your body up and down in a way that would’ve been obvious to anyone. You kept your eyes squeezed shut, not able to handle the embarrassment if you got caught. When he suddenly loosened his grip and you dropped down onto his cock with a startled yelp, your eyes snapped open and you saw that the light had turned green.
Jason tortured you like that the rest of the ride to his place. Even after you arrived and turned off the bike though, he didn’t let you move away. He started bouncing you on his cock again, forcing a startled moan out of you. The way he was using your body like you were nothing more than a fleshlight turned you on more than you thought possible, but the risk of getting caught was still in the back of your mind.
“Jay…” You whined. Even though you were parked in a somewhat secluded area, you could occasionally see a car drive by on the main road.
“Take it, tease.” He gruffed, making you whine again. You couldn’t help it when you scrambled to unbutton your jeans and slip your hand inside, frantically rubbing your clit as you neared your orgasm. Based on Jason’s sounds, he wasn’t too far behind.
You had to flip the visor of your helmet up when your panting breaths were starting to make it a little humid and you wished he’d take off his own helmet so you could hear his grunts and moans better. He started moving you faster, pulling you down harder, and your fingers sped up on your clit, desperately chasing your release.
When you finally fell over the edge, you mewled and reached behind yourself with your free hand to grip his thigh. He grunted softly at the feeling of your pussy clamping down on his cock, feeling his own orgasm approaching.
After your orgasm faded, your body practically went limp and your fingers slowed to a stop, but Jason continued fucking you on his cock. He was only getting more frantic and rough until he finally slammed you down all the way with a groan, his cock twitching as it spurted out ropes of come, painting your walls white. His grip on your hips was bruising as he ground you back and forth, milking every last drop of pleasure out of himself.
When he finally relaxed, you both just sat there for a moment, panting heavily. He gently pushed you down with a hand between your shoulder blades, then lifted you off his cock, having a perfect view of your gaping pussy with the way your ass was upturned in this position. His come dribbled out slowly and your walls fluttered weakly, still reeling from the aftershocks of your intense orgasm.
Jason cursed under his breath and dragged two thick fingers up your slit, pushing his come back inside you, making you whine quietly. Once he was satisfied, he got off your bike and helped lift you off, holding you up when your knees wobbled.
“You ruined my pants.” You pouted. His fingers hooked onto your helmet and jerked your head up to look at him.
“Then you shouldn’t have been a brat and a tease.” You rolled your eyes and tried to turn away, but he just pulled you closer and bent down into your space. “Keep up the attitude and I’ll give you a proper punishment when we get inside. Is that what you want?” He warned. It was hard to think when you could feel his come leaking down your thighs, but you were still on a little bit of a power trip.
“Punish me how?” You asked, defiance flashing in your eyes as you looked up at him.
“Not letting you come, for starters.” You immediately frowned and it didn’t take him long to pick up on your expression. “That’s what I thought.”
“Come in.” You replied to the knock on your door, not looking up from your laptop. You heard the door open and shut and then footsteps before two hands were placed on your shoulders.
“Look at you… being so studious. You know, you should get a plaid skirt, maybe a white button down and a tie.” You felt his lips brush your ear and he whispered, “I’d be very generous when it comes to giving you extra credit.”
You groaned in disgust and jerked your elbow back, but he was already moving out of range before you could hit him. “I don’t have time for this right now, Jason.” You said firmly, trying to ignore his hands running up and down your arms after he stepped closer again.
“Take a break.” He murmured softly, but you knew that voice was just to ‘manipulate’ you.
“I'm not going to stop what I’m doing whenever you want to get your dick wet. And plus, this is more important than a mediocre fuck.” You regretted those words the second they left your mouth.
“Mediocre?” He pulled your wheeled chair away from the desk, then spun your around to face him. Placing his hands on the arms of the chair, he leaned into your space with a knowing smirk. “I’d hardly call making you come six times in one night mediocre.”
“Jason, I’m serious. Not right now.” Despite your words, you could feel arousal pooling in your stomach.
“You don’t even have to do anything, you can keep working on whatever that is.” You eyed him skeptically and he chuckled, then pulled you to your feet. Before you could protest, he was taking your place, so you crossed your arms and raised your brows. When he started unbuttoning his pants, you faltered.
“What are you doing?” You said breathily, watching him pull the zipper down. He took his already half hard cock out, making you inhale sharply. Stroking it slowly, he smirked at you and patted his lap.
“Have a seat, princess.”
“Are you crazy?” You hissed, feeling your cunt start to ache. He just grabbed your skirt and pulled you toward him, then turned you around. Reaching under, he pulled your panties to the side, then moved your hips down until the blunt head of his cock brushed your folds. You let out a startled sound that quickly turned into a low moan when he pulled you down onto his length. It burned a little, to be honest, but- fuck… it felt so good being full again.
Your chest started heaving as you rolled your hips forward with another moan, but he held you still and turned the chair back around to face your laptop.
“Finish your work.” He said simply, thumbs rubbing soothing circles on your hips.
“I swear to fucking god, Jason,” You growled and his hand shot up to your neck, squeezing tightly. He pulled your head back to lean on his shoulder and put his head next to yours so you could see him.
“Wanna say that again, princess?”
Jason has a certain voice he uses during sex, or just moments like this. It is very very hard for you to disobey him when he uses it and he knows that. Which is why the bastard uses it whenever he can.
You huffed and rolled your eyes, making him smirk as he released your neck. Clearing your throat, you sat up more on his body so you could reach the desk. The new angle forced a choked moan out of you and made him tighten his grip on your hips.
You continued working, considerably slower than before he put his cock in you, and his hands started slowly running up and down your thighs. Your brain was only full of thoughts of him, his hands, his cock, his mouth… You stiffened as he placed an open mouthed kiss on your neck. He lifted a hand to sweep your hair to one side, then continued slowly kissing the exposed skin.
“Jason.” You whined, clenching your thighs together. He roughly pulled them back open, then hooked them over his legs to keep them there, making you let out a long, needy whine. “Please...” You whimpered, clenching around his length. He let out a grunt, then roughly bit the side of your neck in retaliation.
Letting your head fall back on his shoulder as your eyes fluttered shut, your hips started rocking back and forth, your sounds getting louder. He brought a hand back up to your neck, squeezing and cutting off your moan, and the other came down hard on your clit in a sharp smack, making you jerk in his grip.
“Fuck!” You cried, gripping the arms of the chair so hard, it made your fingers ache. “Please- I can’t take it anymore!” You let out a choked sob and heard him chuckle darkly against your ear.
“You poor thing.” He cooed mockingly. “Sit on my cock for five minutes and already you’re too cock drunk to think about anything else.” He tutted, making you whine.
“Fuck me.” You mewled, squirming in his lap. He was quiet for a moment and you waited in anticipation for him to start bouncing you on his cock or bend you over your desk or throw you on the bed— anything.
“No.”
You let out a choked sob and he continued teasingly rubbing one hand up and down your thigh. “Why not?” Honestly, you were on the verge of a full blown tantrum, but he didn’t care.
“Finish your work. Then I’ll fuck you.”
“But I can’t focus.” You whined, voice only getting brattier.
“That’s not my fault.”
“Yes it is!” He didn’t say anything else and you whined again, getting more impatient and worked up. “Fine. I’ll just get myself off.” You growled, then started to stand before being roughly pulled back down onto his lap, both of you moaning at the feeling of you sitting fully on his cock once again.
“Go ahead.”
“What?”
“Get yourself off.” He grabbed your hand and pulled it between your legs. You wanted to protest, but you just started rubbing slow circles on your clit instead, letting out a relieved sigh as your walls fluttered around his cock. His grip tightened on your neck and you moved your hand faster, desperately chasing your orgasm. He resumed kissing your neck and shoulder while his free hand held your hip in a firm grip. His touch, the way he felt inside you, and the sounds he was making in response to your body's reactions were all sending you barrelling toward your orgasm.
“I..” you whimpered, canting your hips up into the touch, “fuck- I’m gonna come.” You said through a breath. He roughly pulled your hand away, forcing a choked sob of frustration out of you.
As if he couldn’t handle the teasing any longer, he grabbed your hips and started thrusting up into you, making you cry out, scrambling to get your bearings as he relentlessly bucked up into you. After only another moment, the knot of arousal in your stomach snapped. You distantly heard him moaning behind you but all you could focus on was him pounding your hole and the burning pleasure running through your whole body.
Even after your orgasm faded, he didn’t stop. You whined and tried to lift yourself off of him but he just stood both of you up, his cock never leaving your sensitive cunt, then pushed you onto the desk. He fucked you harder than before, his hand holding you down by your neck while the other pushed your skirt up, then slapped your ass. You yelped embarrassingly— overstimulated and aching, but feeling arousal pooling in your stomach again.
“Fucking take it. You’re the one who wanted me to fuck you.” He growled, as he brutally snapped his hips into you with each thrust, making the desk hit the wall repeatedly.
“Always such a fucking bitch, whining about how I don’t fuck you good as if you’d be satisfied with anyone else.” His voice was breathless, but still malicious as he pounded you harder. “If I’m so mediocre then go ahead, find someone else to fuck you.”
“No.” You said through a desperate mewl, squeezing your eyes shut as your cheeks flushed.
“No?”
“I- I don’t want anyone else.” You whined, feeling your orgasm building again.
“Really? You’re fine with a mediocre fuck?” He sneered.
“You’re not… I’m sorry.”
“Go on, princess. Say it.”
“You're not mediocre.” You muttered, embarrassed.
“What was that?” He raised his voice and landed a warning spank on your ass.
“You’re not a mediocre fuck! Y-You’re not… I’m sorry.” You sobbed. His hands moved to your shoulders and he used that as leverage to pull your back with each thrust, making you all but scream. You scrambled for purchase on the desk, clenching the edge of it until your knuckles turned white. With each rough thrust, your hips were hitting the hard wood, but the little amount of pain was only adding to your arousal.
“When I want to get my fuckin’ dick wet, I don’t give a shit what you’re doing.” He started, his voice already breathless as he panted heavily. “If you’re asleep and I feel like fucking my fleshlight, that’s exactly what I’m gonna fucking do, you understand?” You sobbed out a moan and squeezed your eyes shut as your head fell forward on the desk, making him grab your hair and pull you up until your back was flush with his chest. He wrapped an arm around your stomach as the hand in your hair moved to squeeze your neck, his thrusts never even faltering.
“You’re my fuckin’ whore. I can use you whenever I want, isn't that right, babe?” He cooed mockingly, fucking you harder and faster. He let go of your torso to land a hard slap on your clit, making you cry out. Before your knees could buckle too much, he was wrapping his arm back around your stomach to hold you up. “Answer me when I’m talking to you.” He growled against your ear. Your second orgasm was rapidly approaching, making it harder to come up with a response.
“Yes! W-Whenever you want, Jay.” You whimpered, blushing when you accidentally used his nickname. “I’m your whore— Only for you…” You hoped that your words would make him more likely to let you come again. “Please make me come— I’m so close.” You mewled, back arching away from his body, pushing your hips into him a little more.
He scoffed, but reached down to start rubbing your clit. “So fucking pathetic.” He muttered, making you whine as your cheeks heated up.
“Jay..” You sobbed out, eyes closing as you focused on your impending release.
“Is your needy pussy gonna cream all over my dick again?” He cooed mockingly and all you could do was nod— you were too close to give a shit about how humiliating your wanton behavior was. “Go ahead then, princess. Show me how much you want it.” He growled, hips speeding up and bucking into you even harder.
Your whole body tensed as the knot of arousal in your stomach wound up until it finally snapped, sending you over the edge with an embarrassing moan. When your knees buckled, he let go of your neck to wrap his arm around your waist, holding you up, while still rubbing your clit.
Barely a second after your orgasm faded, Jason was pushing you down onto the desk again and rapidly bucking into you. He held onto your hips with a bruising grip as he pounding your sore cunt almost brutishly until he finally slammed in all the way with a grunt. You whined and squeezed your thighs together as he groaned behind you, his hips sporadically flinching forward, trying to bury his cock even deeper inside you. He rode out his release until every last drop of his seed was inside you, then he finally went still for a few seconds as he recovered.
“Good girl.” He gruffed, panting quietly. You whimpered when he slowly dragged his hips back until his cock slipped out of your pussy with a wet squelch. As always, he grabbed your ass and spread you open to get a good look at his come leaking out of your puffy folds. After the first glob fell down to the floor, he pulled your underwear back in place, then tucked his cock in his pants again and buckled his belt. You remained bent over the desk, your legs still quivering from the intense fucking you just endured. “Thanks, babe.” He said through a breath, giving your ass a teasing slap before walking out of your room, leaving you completely spent, but undoubtedly satisfied.
•Best friends with Tim Drake since childhood, she practically lives at Wayne Manor—fixing gear, trading jokes, sharing a bed (platonically, of course). But it’s Jason Todd who sets her blood on fire. Brooding, dangerous, and annoyingly irresistible, he sees right through her chaos and bruises. One stolen kiss turns into something deeper, something hotter—and now, sneaking around feels too good to stop. Even if it risks everything.
You and Tim Drake had been best friends since elementary school — the kind of bond that formed in lunch lines and science fairs, built up over years of inside jokes, late-night texting marathons, and shared trauma over pop quizzes and crime-fighting tech. Now, you were practically part of the furniture at Wayne Manor. Alfred had a mug with your name on it. You had a toothbrush in one of the guest bathrooms. Hell, Damian even tolerated you.
You and Tim were inseparable. If one of you was around, the other was close by — huddled over a new prototype in the cave, binge-watching the worst reality TV imaginable (“Love Prison: Arctic Edition” was a recent low), or playing co-op games until your eyes ached and the sun came up.
Where Tim was the calm, rational, methodical one — a human chessboard with backup plans for his backup plans — you were… well, not. You were impulsive, loud, chaotic, full of adrenaline-fueled ideas and no patience to wait and see how they’d turn out. Tim was your anchor; you were his hurricane.
Like when you decided at 2:17 a.m. that your hair desperately needed to be cosmic purple. You’d already yanked open the box dye when your phone buzzed.
“Wait. Stop. That’ll fry your hair. I’m on my way.”
He showed up with actual salon-grade stuff, deep conditioner, and gloves, still half in his Red Robin suit. Muttering about split ends and peroxide damage like a grumpy hairstylist with a utility belt.
Or the time you snuck out for a rock concert in some dimly lit garage that definitely violated five fire codes. You were halfway to the subway when Tim called you.
“Alfred’s waiting out front. I told your mom you’re sleeping over. Let’s not get murdered tonight, yeah?”
You rolled your eyes but climbed in the back of the sleek black sedan anyway. Tim always had your back — even when he wasn’t thrilled about what you were doing.
Sure, the security and thoughtfulness were nice. But sometimes? Sometimes you wanted to be stupid and reckless and messy. Life felt more real when it was a little out of control.
Still. No matter how close you and Tim were — no matter how many years you’d known each other, how many sleepovers you’d shared, how many secrets you’d kept — there was one thing you’d never, ever say out loud.
You had a thing for his older brother.
Jason Todd.
Now listen, it wasn’t what it looked like. You weren’t some cliché, drooling over the guy just because he had a motorcycle and a scowl. You’d never been that kind of girl — the ones who giggled over “dangerous bad boys” like it was a phase in a YA novel. Honestly, the whole aesthetic usually made you roll your eyes.
But Jason? He wasn’t pretending.
The danger wasn’t some rebel phase or leather-jacket cosplay. He didn’t brood for attention — he did it because he was dangerous. There was something real about him. Something sharp and bruised and honest. And you wanted to understand it.
Him.
Every jagged edge. Every complicated layer. Every warning sign.
You’d turned eighteen a few months ago. Grown-up enough to vote, enlist, pay taxes — and finally not get treated like a little kid every time you walked through the manor doors. Jason was around twenty now, a couple years older. Enough of a gap to make it slightly forbidden, a little scandalous — but not enough to be a problem.
At least, not unless someone found out.
You hadn’t said a word. Not to Tim. Not to anyone. But that crush? The one that started small — when you caught him laughing at one of your dumb jokes when he thought no one was looking — yeah. It was growing.
And it wasn’t going away.
-
-
Tim had invited you to his place for his birthday — nothing crazy, just the usual. Cake, chaos, and the ever-growing circus that was the Wayne family.
You’d finally turned eighteen a few months ago, so this year felt a little different. Most of his siblings were going to be there — Dick would probably bring some godforsaken fruit tray no one would eat, Damian would scowl at you from across the room like always, and if Jason actually showed up? Well… you were not thinking about that part. Not right now.
You packed a bag like usual, tossing in a toothbrush, charger, oversized hoodie, and a few random gadgets you’d promised Tim. You always slept over. — you and Tim shared a bed like siblings, like two puzzle pieces that had just always fit together. There’d been nights you cried yourself to sleep with your back to him, and mornings he’d woken up clinging to your hoodie like it anchored him to this world. It was what it was — solid, safe, constant.
Home wasn’t like that.
You’d grown up in Crime Alley — Gotham’s sewage drain where everything bad eventually ended up. The stench was inescapable. A mixture of piss, grease, burnt-out rubber, and something moldy no one ever identified. You were used to the shouting, the occasional gunshot, the broken glass like glitter on the sidewalks. You weren’t scared of it anymore.
Right now, you were sitting cross-legged on the floor of your room, cutting up an old pair of jeans with a rusted fabric blade. You were distressing the thighs and sewing on a few more patches — a safety pin smiley face, a faded anarchy symbol, some random band logo whose name had peeled off years ago. Everything you owned had been spiked or stitched or painted over in Sharpie. Your Converse were duct-taped at the soles and studded with nails. Your backpack had chains and spray paint all over it, like a mobile protest sign.
You loved punk — not just the look, but the heart of it. The rebellion, the rawness, the refusal to lie down and play nice. It felt like armor.
Even if your parents hated it.
Your mom was a ghost on her feet — working back-to-back shifts at the hospital, barely home, barely breathing. She wasn’t cruel. Just exhausted. The kind of burnt-out that turns into silence.
And your stepfather?
Well. He wasn’t silent.
Whenever he was pissed — which was often — he’d come looking for you like a bloodhound. You were a lightning rod for his rage, the freak in eyeliner and ripped jeans he didn’t understand. You’d taken hits. You’d taken worse. But you gave it back now.
Still, stress was stress. Even when you wore it like a badge.
You had black-tinted glasses over your red eyes, the scent of smoke still clinging to your sleeves. You didn’t even pretend anymore — of course you smoked. You and Tim did sometimes, mostly in secret, hidden behind the Manor or out a fire escape. You weren’t exactly trying to become a burnout, but there were nights where being numb felt better than feeling anything at all.
You were spinning in your chair now, rocking your head to the sound of the Sex Pistols blaring from your busted speaker.
“God save the queen!” you belted, legs kicking out as your chair rolled toward the desk. You propped your filthy Converse up on the edge, grinning as you pretended to shred an invisible guitar.
The upload bar on your screen blinked complete. You dropped your feet with a thunk and leaned forward. You were finishing up some modifications for Tim — heat-resistant upgrades for his suit after he came home soaked and freezing two weeks ago. Gotham’s weather didn’t give a damn that he was out saving lives.
You were also working on another project. One that had nothing to do with Tim.
Jason’s helmet sat on your desk, matte red and heavy, already partially opened where you’d unscrewed the plate. You’d been upgrading the HUD interface — improved infrared range, new voice modulation chip, and a tiny emergency data spike hidden behind the earplate. You’d tried it on earlier.
It had felt powerful. Like a secret.
Like you’d touched part of him.
“There’s no future! No future! NO FUTURE FOR YOU!” you shouted along, voice hoarse as you slid the new chip into place, locking it with a precise flick of your wrist.
Your room was chaos — a sanctuary of clutter and creativity. Posters layered over one another like scales, old punk flyers and zine pages overlapping vinyl sleeves and cracked CDs. Red and purple string lights looped across the walls, casting shadows that danced over your tech — scrap-built processors, half-wired EMPs, a soldering iron resting on top of an old Sega Genesis.
Most of it came from the junkyard. You dove into dumpsters like it was a sport, scavenging for forgotten tech with a gleam in your eye and grease on your knuckles. In your mind, you weren’t stealing — you were resurrecting. Reusing. Recycling in the best way possible.
You were halfway through triple-checking the helmet’s backup battery when the banging started.
“TURN THAT FUCKING MUSIC DOWN!”
Your stepfather’s voice was muffled but sharp, slamming against your door like a threat. You didn’t even flinch. You rolled your eyes and turned the knob on the speaker up three notches.
Petty? Absolutely. Worth it? Also yes.
“NO FUTURE! NO FUTURE! NO FUTURE FOR YOU!” the song shouted on even louder than before.
You stuffed the helmet into your bag along with Tim’s gear, careful not to crush anything. You clicked off your system, zipped everything up, and grabbed your jacket from the back of the chair.
Your stepfather was passed out on the couch, one arm hanging off the side, an open beer can leaking into the carpet. You didn’t even look at him twice.
“Grody,” you muttered under your breath, stepping over a pizza box and an ashtray. You didn’t lock the door behind you. Part of you wished someone would come in and drag that sack of shit off into the night. Let the alley have him.
Your face still throbbed a little — the bruise on your jaw was starting to turn yellow around the edges, and the cut under your eye was a dark slash of purple-red. Tim had seen it before. He always knew. You told him it wasn’t his problem. That it didn’t concern him.
He never agreed.
Didn’t stop you from swinging back, though. The bastard was missing a front tooth now — your personal trophy. You’d knocked it clean out with a lead pipe when he got too close. The memory still made you smile.
But the smile didn’t last long. Not when you thought about Tim’s reaction.
He was going to freak out. Last time your face was clean. This time? Not so much.
You unlocked your bike — the shitty, rusted fixie you’d patched together from six different frames. The chain always squeaked. The tires were uneven. But she got you where you needed to go.
The ride to Wayne Manor was familiar, even in the dark. Gotham passed you in a blur of streetlights and graffiti, neon signs flickering above alley mouths. You reached the gate, punched in the code, and pedaled up the winding driveway lined with trees older than your entire neighborhood.
You didn’t even hesitate at the steps.
You dropped the bike with a clatter, tossed your bag over your shoulder, and let yourself in through the front door without knocking.
It was practically home anyway.
“Yo, loser! I’m here!” you yelled as soon as you stepped inside Wayne Manor, your voice echoing off the high ceilings and polished marble like you were performing at Carnegie Hall.
You paused, lifting your chin slightly.
Good acoustics, you thought with a smirk, tugging your backpack higher on your shoulder.
Footsteps thundered on the grand staircase above, and then Tim appeared — practically flying down the steps with frantic energy, his hair ruffled and his eyes already filled with exasperation. His socked feet skidded slightly on the polished floors as he rushed to meet you like a mom late to pick up her kid from soccer practice.
“Did you bike here at dawn?!” he half-shrieked, already scanning you head to toe for signs of frostbite or another bad decision.
“Relax, Mom,” you teased, rolling your eyes as you let your bag drop onto the foyer floor. “I’m here, and I’m alive. Isn’t that what matters?” You held your arms out dramatically like you were Jesus returning from the desert.
Tim just sighed, long and drawn out like he was already regretting inviting you. “You’re hopeless.”
“You love it,” you grinned, leaning in to kiss his cheek before sauntering toward the kitchen like you owned the place.
But Tim wasn’t letting you go that easy.
He reached out, catching your wrist gently but firmly. You turned back to him, brows raised, only for his fingers to tilt your chin slightly up — exposing the healing bruise on your jaw and the dull red-and-purple under your eye. He slid your black glasses off your face, eyes narrowing as he got a better look.
You yanked them back and shoved them on. “Dude,” you muttered, voice guarded.
“He’s doing it again,” Tim said tightly, jaw clenched so hard the muscle ticked beneath his skin.
“Yeah,” you said with a careless shrug. “Don’t worry about it, Bat Boy, I’ve got it under control.”
“Doesn’t look like it.” His voice dropped low, controlled, but barely. The way his fists curled told you he was itching to call Bruce or — worse — go down there himself.
“How long are you gonna let him do this to you?” he asked, voice rough and quiet.
Before you could answer, the air shifted — a low thump from the stairs.
You turned your head slightly to see Jason Todd descending the staircase, boots heavy on the steps, hands in the pockets of a worn leather jacket that matched his permanent scowl. His presence filled the room like smoke — slow, confident, and hard to ignore.
You leaned in to Tim quickly. “We’ll talk later, okay?” you whispered under your breath.
Tim gave you a reluctant nod, worry still etched across his face.
Jason smirked as he reached the bottom, his eyes flicking between you two before settling on his younger brother with that classic brand of older sibling mockery.
“Hey there, Replacement.”
You bit your lip to hold in a laugh. Tim flipped him off behind your back.
Jason’s eyes landed on you then, and the look he gave you made your stomach flip. It wasn’t just the smirk, or the sharp green eyes that cut into you like glass — it was the way he said your name:
“Y/N.” Smooth, confident, sinful.
Your name rolled off his tongue like it was his favorite curse word. And god, you wanted to hear it again. Maybe in the dark. Maybe up against a wall.
“What’s up, Jay?” you said, keeping it cool as you reached into your backpack. You tossed him his helmet, the one you’d been upgrading.
“Cool,” Jason said, catching it effortlessly. He held it up in acknowledgment, flashing you a lopsided grin before turning and strolling off down the hallway, his boots echoing behind him.
You forced yourself to breathe.
“Do you have my new suit?” Tim asked, face lighting up with barely contained excitement like a kid on Christmas morning.
“Oh boy,” you grinned, recovering quickly. “You’re in for a surprise.”
⸻
You were in the Batcave now, seated at the main terminal as glowing monitors flickered around you. The cool, dim air buzzed with the hum of electricity and the faint smell of engine grease. Your fingers flew across the keyboard, typing out a run-through of every upgrade you’d installed in Tim’s new suit: heat dampeners, new kinetic sensors, water-wicking lining, and a deployable cloak for gliding.
Tim geeked out beside you, practically vibrating as he scrolled through the specs.
Jason was nearby — off to the side, no shirt, working on one of his motorcycles with a wrench in hand. Grease smeared his forearms, and his silver chain glinted in the cave’s low light as it swung from his neck. Every muscle on his back flexed and shifted with each turn of the bolt.
You really tried not to stare.
But it was impossible. He was just… there. Unapologetically built, all rough edges and cool indifference. The streak of white in his otherwise black hair made him look even more unreal — like something out of a dream with a violent past.
You didn’t notice you were gawking until Jason caught you. He looked up and locked eyes with you — then winked.
Your brain short-circuited.
You snapped your gaze back to the screen, cheeks blazing red. You typed furiously just to hide your face, praying Tim didn’t—
“Dude,” Tim said, leaning slightly toward you. “You good?”
“Peachy,” you said, voice a bit too high.
Tim didn’t press it. He just stood up and stretched.
“I’m gonna go clean my room. It looks like a bomb went off. I’ll be back in a sec?” He held his fist out.
You bumped it without looking away from the monitor. “Yeah. See you in a sec.”
You were typing new commands into the Batcomputer when you felt someone behind you. The air changed. The warmth of a body leaning just a little too close. A shadow fell over your screen.
Then a voice — low, rough, and far too close to your ear.
“Cool. How do you build this stuff again?”
Your hands froze mid-keystroke.
You turned slowly, and there he was — Jason — bent over you, chain swaying gently as it brushed your shoulder, warm breath ghosting along your cheek. His chest was inches from your back, his face close enough to kiss. You swore you could smell his cologne — something smoky and leather-sweet.
Your mouth was dry. Your brain screamed at you to play it cool.
“I, uh—” you cleared your throat. “I dive through the junkyard. The one next to that shitty gas station in Crime Alley? Yeah, I just find the parts I need and… get to work.”
Jason gave a low whistle, impressed. “Damn. Scrap-built genius.”
You shrugged, cocky now. “Gotta make do.”
He glanced down, eyes narrowing as he studied your face.
His voice turned serious.
“Holy shit. Who fucked you up?” he asked, nodding toward the bruises on your face and the split in your lip.
You laughed it off, leaning back a little in your chair. “You should see the other guy. Missing a tooth and crying blood.”
Jason didn’t laugh.
Because he’d heard it earlier — your whispered argument with Tim in the foyer. He knew. Knew your stepfather had laid hands on you again. Knew exactly how dangerous that made him in Jason’s eyes.
But instead of calling it out, instead of making you flinch with pity, he looked at you like you were made of steel and fire.
“Badass,” Jason said finally, locking eyes with you. “For real.”
You didn’t look away.
Neither did he.
For a long, suspended moment, it was just the two of you — locked in each other’s gaze in the low hum of the Batcave. The flicker of the monitor screens cast soft blue light across Jason’s face, shadowing the sharp line of his jaw and catching in his pale eyes. The warm press of his body hovering behind you still lingered on your skin.
In the deep silence of Gotham’s most secure cave…
You forgot how to breathe.
Then, suddenly—
“Master Bruce demands your presence. Both of you.”
Alfred’s voice cut through the tension like a blade.
You jumped, quite literally — heart lurching like it tried to crawl out of your chest. It was like your soul left your body and slammed back in on impact.
“Jesus, Alfred!” you wheezed, hand flying to your chest. “You scared the hell out of me.”
The butler stood coolly at the top of the platform stairs, back straight, gaze calm — but you could feel the judgment radiating off him. The way his eyes flicked between you and Jason?
You’d never felt so thoroughly casted in your life. Like his stare could read your entire internet search history and your unspoken Jason Todd fantasies in 0.3 seconds.
Jason raised a brow at Alfred’s look but didn’t comment. He just muttered, “Tch,” under his breath and turned to head upstairs — still in all his shirtless, broad-shouldered, casually devastating glory.
You had to look away or combust.
“Right! On my way,” you said quickly, snapping yourself back into motion. You spun around in your chair, fingers flying across the keyboard as you finished inputting the last line of code. With a quick keystroke, you activated Tim’s suit, the screen lighting up in confirmation.
The Batcave hummed. Task complete.
⸻
The rest of the day blurred into chaotic fun — and miraculously, nothing exploded. No villains crashed the party, no citywide emergencies, no rooftop trauma bonding. Just… actual celebration.
Tim’s birthday? A genuine success.
You now lounged on the living room couch, one of several pizza boxes balancing on the edge of the coffee table, the room dimly lit and cozy. The rain outside beat a steady rhythm against the high windows, and inside, the glow from the TV illuminated the lazy chaos of the manor’s den.
Tim sat beside you, hunched forward, fingers furiously mashing buttons on the controller in his hands. You were curled into the corner of the couch with your legs draped over his lap, comfortably smug.
“You’re a fucking cheater!” Tim grumbled, eyes wide in disbelief as you once again absolutely annihilated him in Mortal Kombat.
“What can I say?” you shrugged, a grin tugging at your lips. “Get better, punk.”
On screen, Rain was finishing his gruesome fatality move on Sub-Zero, and you mimed a little victory dance, flipping your middle fingers up at the sky.
The sliding door creaked open and you glanced up to see Jason walk in. Your smirk almost faltered.
Unfortunately, he’d put on a black t-shirt. And grey joggers. Which somehow made things worse.
Tim scoffed dramatically and shoved your legs off his lap like you’d committed a war crime. “I’m done playing with a cheater anyway.”
You rolled your eyes and shoved his arm. “Whatever, you big baby.”
Jason, like a man who took opportunities when they were handed to him, casually dropped into the space next to you — not too close, but enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off of him.
He stretched an arm over the back of the couch. You tried not to notice. You failed.
“Let me get a round in,” he said, taking Tim’s controller like he owned the place. Which, arguably, he kind of did.
You raised a brow, your smile turning competitive. “Step right up to get your ass kicked, Todd.”
Jason leaned in slightly, voice dipping into something low and cocky.
“Oh, I doubt it, princess.”
Your heart stuttered.
You bit your lip at the nickname, hoping the scream that erupted in your soul didn’t show on your face. Princess? From him? Oh, you were going to need oxygen and possibly a priest.
You cleared your throat and focused hard on the character select screen. You were dying to win.
And you did.
Jason stared at the screen with a deadpan expression as your character landed the final blow — another brutal fatality that made Tim shout gleefully from the sidelines.
Jason narrowed his eyes at you, jaw ticking. “You’re so cheating.”
“Finally, something we agree on,” Tim chimed in, arms crossed.
You laughed, kicking your feet up onto the table. “Just say y’all are ass and got beat by a superior gamer.”
Jason gave you a side-eye that could’ve curdled milk. You grinned wider.
“Whatever,” Tim groaned, stretching his arms overhead before standing. “I’m going to the bathroom. Don’t corrupt my controller with your loser energy while I’m gone.”
“No promises!” you called after him as he ascended the stairs.
You glanced at Jason.
He was still sitting beside you, long legs stretched out, controller loose in his hands. His expression was neutral — almost unreadable — but there was a spark of challenge in his eyes.
And you felt it. That same tension from earlier, simmering just under the surface.
Only now, there was no Alfred. No Tim.
Just you and him… and a long, rainy night.
“You seem to be a tech nerd,” Jason said, breaking the comfortable silence between you. His voice had a teasing lilt, that boyish smugness he wore like armor. “You know how to put together a bike?”
He had that small, crooked smirk on his lips — the kind that, under the right light, made him look effortlessly charming. It was a rare look when he wasn’t brooding or pissed off at the world. But tonight, he was… soft around the edges.
You leaned back a little, stretching your legs out along the couch, feeling his gaze follow you. “Of course I do,” you said casually. “My father taught me before he died. Some things stuck.”
Your voice dipped slightly at the end — not sad, just honest.
“But I’d be rusty,” you added with a shrug, brushing your fingers through your hair like you were shaking off old memories.
Jason nodded, something subtle shifting in his eyes. It was respect, you thought. A quiet kind. Then that signature glint of mischief returned.
“So…” he said slowly, letting the word hang between you like bait. He tilted his head a bit, studying you with curiosity and maybe something more. “You and Tim?”
He pursed his lips after the question, suppressing a smirk. Testing you.
You let out a laugh, the kind that came from your chest, unbothered and amused. You shook your head and grinned. “Hell no. That’s my best friend ‘til I die — that’s all we’ll ever be.”
You smiled softer then, thinking of Tim with a kind of fondness that came from a thousand shared late nights, caffeine-fueled coding sessions, and childhood trauma bonding. “He’s like my little brother.”
Jason watched you with a quiet smile, the tension in his shoulders easing.
He liked your answer. You could tell.
“So how ‘bout you, Todd?” you asked, turning the question around with a little smirk. “Any lucky ladies in your life?”
You leaned in slightly, propping your elbow on the back of the couch and resting your chin in your palm, studying him with playful intent. You tilted your head, watching the way his jaw tensed, how he subtly turned his body toward you.
His presence was magnetic.
Jason glanced away for a moment, a short breath escaping through his nose like a laugh. Then he looked back at you — direct, deliberate. “Nah,” he murmured, voice dropping.
You felt it, that shift in the air. Like the weight of the room was pulled toward him.
His eyes dropped to your lips — not a flicker, not a passing glance, but a slow drag. He looked at them, then met your eyes again. It wasn’t a mistake. He wanted you to notice.
“I’m too complicated to settle down with,” he said, voice low, almost a murmur. There was something in it — not self-pity, not arrogance, but a raw truth he didn’t often share. “I wouldn’t want to put anyone in that type of danger.”
The words hung there between you, heavier than you expected. And still… your gaze didn’t falter.
“Every problem has a solution,” you said softly, your voice both teasing and honest. Your pulse was thudding now. You couldn’t look away.
Jason’s eyes darkened just slightly — not with anger, but with something unspoken and molten and dangerously sincere.
“Yeah…” he whispered, and the word trembled across the space between you.
He leaned in.
Your heart stilled. The moment slowed — the distance between your faces vanishing with every breath.
He rested his forehead against yours, the tip of his nose brushing yours. His lips hovered a breath away from yours — so close they almost touched. You could feel the warmth of him, the soft exhale from his mouth. The anticipation was electric, and your lungs had forgotten their job.
“Maybe you’re my solution.”
It was barely a whisper.
Then he kissed you.
And you didn’t hold back.
You kissed him hard — like you’d been waiting too long for this. Like you were both tired of dancing around it.
Jason brought a hand up to cup your jaw, his touch rough and tender all at once. His fingers curled behind your ear, thumb tracing the curve beneath your chin. He deepened the kiss, slow but intense, like he needed you to feel every second of it.
The kiss deepened with every passing second — slow at first, then growing hotter, more desperate, like a match finally caught flame. Jason’s hands found your waist, tugging you closer with a firm grip that made your breath hitch.
You shifted, crawling into his lap without a word, straddling him easily as your knees bracketed his thighs. The warmth of his body met yours in a rush. Your arms looped around his shoulders, fingers sliding into the thick, dark strands of his hair — tugging, twisting gently as you kissed him harder. He groaned low in his throat, the sound sending a pulse between your legs that made your stomach flip.
His hands moved with purpose now, rough palms gliding over the curve of your waist before settling on the soft plump of your hips. His fingers curled, holding tight like he was trying to ground himself. The pads of his thumbs pressed just under the hem of your shirt, brushing bare skin.
You rocked your hips against him instinctively — slow, deliberate, your breath catching when you felt him harden beneath you. The friction made Jason grunt, sharp and throaty, his jaw clenching.
“Fuck,” he muttered against your mouth.
His hands flexed, digging into your sides as he suddenly reached up and tangled his fingers in your hair. With a firm tug, he pulled your head back, baring your throat to him. A gasp left your lips at the sudden motion — not from pain, but from how easily he took control.
Jason didn’t waste a second.
He leaned in, his mouth hot and hungry against the underside of your jaw. He pressed open-mouthed kisses down your neck, slow and possessive, teeth grazing skin just enough to make you tremble. He lingered there — along your pulse point, then lower — as his hand in your hair kept your head tilted back for him, completely exposed.
You felt like you were burning alive — every nerve on fire, every inch of your body aware of him. The couch, the room, the world — all of it blurred around the edges. Nothing mattered but his mouth on your skin and the low, satisfied growl that rumbled in his chest when you rolled your hips again.
You were caught in it — heat and hunger and something far more dangerous.
And Jason?
He looked like a man who had just been handed everything he wanted — and planned to take it slow, so he could savor every second
“F-Fuck, Jason…” you breathed out, voice barely above a whisper, but thick with need. Your brow was furrowed, eyes half-lidded as pleasure pulsed through every inch of your body. His mouth was still warm on your neck, his hands locked tight around your hips like he didn’t want to let go.
Jason froze for half a second — the way you said his name, raw and shaky, made something dark flicker behind his green eyes. He looked up at you like you were a lit fuse and he was all too happy to explode.
“Say my name like that again, princess,” he growled low, voice rough with restraint. “And I won’t be able to stop.”
There was nothing cocky in the way he said it — it was a warning. A plea. The barely controlled hunger in his voice was all-consuming. You could feel how much he wanted you — the way his fingers flexed on your hips, the way his chest rose and fell faster with every second, how tight his jaw was clenched to hold himself back.
And maybe you were about to say it again. Maybe you wanted to see what would happen if he didn’t stop.
“Fuck.” Jason groans out. You continue grinding down on his bulge, both chasing your orgasms.
“Princess s-slow down.” Jason groans trying not to be loud in the middle of the living room. He knew how risky this was. Being caught humping his little brothers eighteen year old best friend wasn’t really on his bucket list.
“Can’t gonna cum.” You moan out as your body finally lets go. You squeal as your body convulses on his lap, the strong orgasm hit you like a giant wave, burning white and hot down your spine.
Jason groans in your ear as he reaches his own orgasm. Slowly continuing to grind your hips down on him, Riding out his organs in pure bliss unbothered by who catches him anymore.
then — the faint but unmistakable sound of a toilet flushing echoed down the hall.
Your eyes widened, and in a blur of limbs and whispered curses, you scrambled off Jason’s lap, nearly tripping over your own feet as you dove back into your corner of the couch. You grabbed a throw pillow, clutching it to your chest to hide your pounding heart and flaming face. Jason stayed frozen for a second longer, like his body hadn’t caught up to the panic yet.
Then, with a sharp exhale, he shifted forward, adjusting the front of his sweatpants with a swift, almost irritated motion. His fingers raked through his hair as he cleared his throat, trying to look casual — like he hadn’t just been seconds away from devouring you whole.
Your cheeks burned as you avoided looking at him, your chest still heaving as you tried to slow your racing heartbeat.
Footsteps creaked on the stairs.
You both sat still, barely breathing — two guilty teenagers caught on the edge of something you couldn’t take back.
The door to the hallway opened, and Tim’s voice rang out behind you:
“Hey, did I miss anything?”
You blinked. Swallowed.
Jason leaned back, arm draped across the back of the couch like he’d been lounging the whole time.
“Not a damn thing,” he said smoothly, voice steady.
But when you dared to glance sideways at him, his eyes met yours — and the heat in them hadn’t gone anywhere.
Tim came casually waltzing back down the stairs, blissfully unaware of the storm he’d just missed by seconds. He flopped back onto the couch with a dramatic huff, grabbing a nearby pillow and wedging it behind his back like it was just any other lazy afternoon.
“We should watch the new Spider-Man movie,” he said brightly, reaching for the remote on the coffee table and tossing you a grin, completely oblivious to the fact that your entire world had just shifted on its axis.
“Sounds good to me,” you replied, voice a little too soft. Your lips still tingled, your breath still hadn’t quite evened out, and you could feel the blush burning hot under your cheeks. But you forced the smile, forced the normalcy — because if Tim noticed anything off, you’d never hear the end of it.
You heard Jason stand before you saw him. The slight creak of the couch. The sudden tension in the air.
“I’mma head out,” Jason mumbled, his voice low and gruff. “Have fun.”
He didn’t look at you, not directly — but his eyes flicked your way for the briefest second, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. And then, just like that, he turned and bounded up the stairs, taking two at a time, his footsteps disappearing into the upper hallway like a vanishing spell.
You sat frozen in place.
Only when he was fully gone did you reach up, fingers ghosting across your lips. They still felt warm, still felt slightly swollen from the kiss. You touched them like they weren’t yours — like maybe if you pressed hard enough, it would make it real. Or maybe it would prove it didn’t happen.
You would’ve never seen that coming. Not in a million years.
Jason Todd — Jason Fucking Todd — had kissed you. And for one wild moment, you kissed him right back.
You sat back against the couch in a daze, watching Tim flip through movie titles on the screen with carefree ease.
He had no idea.
And you weren’t sure what the hell you were going to do about it.
Warnings | 18+, sexual content, smut, sexual slavery??, but consensual, exhibitionism, rough sex, humiliation, degradation, praise, he hates everyone but you, possessive!jason, ruined orgasm, orgasm delay/denial, threats of using a chastity belt lol, creampie hehe, idk what else tbh.
Words | 3.4 k
Notes | Idk man one day I just had a vision.
Ao3 link | <3
Masterlist
The voices of the men were muffled in your fuzzy brain. The only things you could focus on were the hard ground you were kneeling on, the collar wrapped tightly around your neck, and the breeze making your mostly nude body tremble. This was how most days went by— in a blur, not ever truly being able to focus on anything. Especially if it was something other than the man you were kneeling next to.
A gloved hand started stroking your hair, making you sigh and close your eyes with a small smile. His rare acts of affection were your favorite part of the entire day. Anytime he’d cup your cheek or lightly caress your body, you always savored the touch. Especially because it was usually followed not long after by a rougher touch instead. His movements paused and he grabbed your hair, then yanked your head back until you were looking up at him.
“Are you listening, pet?”
“N-no. I’m sorry.” You said quietly, trying to focus on him and not get lost in the painful feeling on your scalp that was making your core ache.
“Come here.” You were barely able to hide the eagerness in your movements as you got up to straddle his lap, paying no mind to the men behind you. You waited with your hands behind your back until he grabbed them and placed them on his shoulders. He started rubbing his hands up and down your thighs slowly, teasing you.
“I’m going out tonight. I want you in my room, naked and on your knees, when I return.”
“Yes, sir.” You wondered if he had something specific planned for tonight.
“What are you looking at?” He barked, making you jump. Then, “Sorry for scaring you, pet. Not you, don’t worry.” You breathed out a sigh of relief. Sometimes you really hated when he wore the helmet.
“You. Come here.” Out of the corner of your eye you saw him point to someone behind you. Slow footsteps were heard until they finally stopped.
“Sir?” The man asked, voice trembling.
“You know the rules, yes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Tell me which one you just broke.” Even through the distortion you could hear how scary he sounded.
“I- I looked at her.”
“That’s right. Not a hard rule is it? If you were doing your job, your attention should’ve been elsewhere so help me understand why it was on her.” His hands stopped to grip your thighs, making you gasp quietly.
“I- I’m sorry, sir. It won’t- it won’t happen again.” He stammered, the fear in his voice painfully obvious.
“No. It won’t.” He grabbed the gun from his thigh and quickly shot the man. Because of the loud noise close to your ears, your hearing went a little muffled, but you could faintly hear his body dropping to the floor.
“A reminder,” He said loudly, addressing the rest of the men in the room, “anyone looks at, speaks to, or touches her… they’re a dead man. Understand?” A chorus of “yes, sir” filled the room and he turned his attention back to you as he holstered the gun.
“Go to my room. Someone will bring you food soon.” His voice was notably softer now.
“Yes, sir. How long will you be gone?”
“Just a few hours.”
“Okay. Be safe.” You said quietly, giving him a small smile.
After you showered, got ready for bed, and ate, you were starting to get more anxious about when you should go to the floor to wait for him. You didn’t want him to come back and not find you where he wanted, but at the same time you didn’t want to kneel for that long. Eventually you decided to sit down on the floor and read. Anytime you heard footsteps outside the door, you threw your book down and got on your knees. And each time, you were disappointed when they walked right past the door.
Finally when the door opened, you snapped your head down to face the floor, listening to it close and then his footsteps around the room. You heard the loud thud of his helmet dropping on a table and almost looked up at the sudden noise. His footsteps kept growing closer until they stopped behind you and his fingers were running through your hair.
“Did you behave?” The sound of his non distorted voice always made you melt.
“Yes, sir.” You wanted to ask how his night went, but you’re not sure what kind of mood he’s in yet.
“Good girl.” His hand snaked around until it wrapped around the front of your neck, pulling your head back to look up at him. “You ready for me?”
“Always.” When the corners of his lips turned up it was better than any orgasm you could ever have. He helped you up by your neck, then placed both of his hands on your hips, pulling you into him. He didn’t wait long before leaning down and pressing his lips to your neck, kissing the sensitive skin. You bit your lip and dug your nails into your palms painfully as you resisted bringing your hands up to touch him. When he suddenly took a step back, you barely managed to swallow down the whimper in time.
“On the bed, ass up.” He said while working on taking off his belt. You eagerly climbed onto the bed and settled in the center before lifting yourself up onto your knees, keeping your head and shoulders down. You didn’t even hear him move before hands were being placed on the backs of your thighs, slowly snaking up. He groped your ass roughly, making your breath hitch. When his thumb brushed over your slit, you bit down on the sheets, not wanting to be loud without his permission.
“Always so fucking wet.” He muttered, making your face heat up. “You like it, don’t you? Being my whore.” He spoke more clearly now and you let out a low whine.
“Yes, sir.” You said through a moan, resisting pushing your hips back into his touch.
“Good. Because I’m not planning on letting you go anytime soon.” You weren't sure if he was intending for it to sound literal or metaphorical, but deep down you knew that he was being completely serious.
The blunt head of his cock replaced his thumb and he dragged it up and down your slit slowly. You didn’t have to wait long before he was pushing into you, splitting you open despite the fact that you’ve gotten used to his size after all this time. You buried your head into the sheets to muffle your moans, but he just leaned over you, making his length go even deeper, then grabbed your hair and pulled your head back up. When his hips were completely pressed to yours, he stilled, letting you adjust. Your chest heaved as you tried to relax your body, hoping to lessen the sting. After only another moment, he was moving his hips back until just the tip was inside of you, then slamming back in. You let out a choked moan at the force of his thrust but quickly put a hand over your mouth to silence yourself.
“I want to hear you, bitch. Let everyone know who’s fucking you.” You tentatively removed your hand and he pulled out again, faster this time, and slammed back in even harder. He continued like this for a while until his hand released your hair to grab your hip. As he pounded your already aching hole, you tried to keep your head up so he could hear you. A knock at the door made the moan catch in your throat.
“What?” He barked, still snapping his hips into you, even as the door opened. You let out a low whine and buried your face in the sheets, but he grabbed your hair again and lifted you up.
“Sir, you wanted to be notified immediately after a sighting— He’s at the docks. Robin too.” You tried to keep your moans in as the man spoke, but he yanked on your hair, making you cry out.
“Find out why he’s there.” His voice wasn’t even slightly breathless as his brutal pace continued.
“Yes, sir.” When the door closed, he pushed your head forward as he let go of your hair, then roughly pulled out. Because you weren’t holding your head up at all, it fell onto the bed, making you release a muffled grunt. He smacked your ass only once before grabbing you and flipping you onto your back.
“I thought I said I wanted to hear you.” He growled, roughly grabbing your thighs and forcing your legs open. Before you could even think of apologizing, his hand was coming down hard on your clit. You let out a choked sob and he did it again before you could fully recover.
“I-I’m sorry! Please-” You cut yourself off with another sob as he hit you once again. Seemingly giving you mercy, he slid inside of you again and lifted your lower half off the bed to start snapping his hips into you. You watched his eyes trail all over your body and the way his lips parted as he panted quietly, but that was the only skin you could see and you wished one day he’d let you see all of him. But it took him so long before he was able to take the helmet off, and even then, for the first few times, he kept you on your knees with your face buried in the sheets and immediately put it back on after.
As the knot of arousal in stomach grew tighter, you willed yourself to hold off your orgasm until he gave you permission. Which proved to be a difficult feat as his thrusts became more frenzied and his pants turned into low grunts and moans.
“Please,” You gasped out, feeling tears of desperation make their way into your eyes. “Please! Sir, I need to come.” You cried.
“Hold it or you won’t be able to sit for a fucking week.” He growled, adding to the arousal growing in your stomach.
“I- I’m trying,” You whimpered, a few tears falling down your temples into your hair.
“Needy fucking whore, always worried about your own pleasure. Do I need to train you again?” You whined at his words, feeling your cheeks heat up. “Or maybe I should just lock up your cunt permanently— use your other fuck holes instead.”
“Oh god,” You sobbed out.
“You like the sound of that? You wanna be a proper fuck toy? Just a little fleshlight for my cock?” And god- you did fucking like the sound of that.
“I- I can’t hold it, sir.” You whispered, squeezing your eyes shut and focusing on staving off your orgasm. He slowed to a stop, making you whine and squirm, his grip tightening on your hips painfully in response.
“Greedy fucking slut.” He spat.
“I’m sorry.” You whimpered, still trying to move your hips to get the friction back.
“Keep acting up and I’ll fuck your ass right now— no lube, no prep.” He warned, making you freeze. “There you go. You can be an obedient little whore, you just need some motivation, don’t you?” He cooed mockingly and you whined with a blush.
“I’m going to keep fucking you. If you come, I’ll ruin it, then finish in your ass. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” You whispered, staring up at him with wide, tearful eyes. He resumed the brutal pace, making you cry out at the sudden pleasure.
“Fucking take it.” He gritted, hips snapping into you impossibly faster and harder. “You want to be my whore? Then act like it.” Your hands fisted the sheets hard enough to make your fingers ache as you focused on anything but your impending orgasm. His words were making it incredibly difficult though.
“Don’t forget, bitch— you’re replaceable. I can get a pocket pussy anytime I want and at least that toy will actually focus on my pleasure for once.” He spat, making you let out a choked sob.
“I’m sorry— please I’m sorry, sir, I just- I can’t help it.” You cried, walls fluttering around his length as you got closer and closer. “You just feel so fucking good.” You whimpered. His grip tightened on your hips even more, making you wince.
“I guess I shouldn’t expect much else from a slut, should I? You get a cock inside you and all that training just disappears.”
“No- no, I’m sorry.” Despite the protest, it was getting harder and harder to prove that his statement was incorrect. “I still remember— I’m good.” You whimpered.
“Oh are you?” He asked and you nodded in response. “I don’t know if I believe you. Not when you’re seconds away from coming without permission.”
“I'm trying! Please, I'm trying..” You said through a sob, tears welling in your eyes. When someone knocked on the door again, your eyes widened as you whimpered.
“What?” He spat, never slowing his pace. The door opened and you bit your lip, squeezing your eyes shut.
“Falcone’s guys are there. We think he’s trying to bust one of his imports.”
You tried to think about violent death, vomit, dead animals— anything to hold off your orgasm. But it was no use. Slapping a hand over your mouth to muffle your moans, your back arched even more in his hold as you fell over the edge. He stopped abruptly, making you whine and try to fuck yourself on his cock, which was useless because of the way he was holding you.
“I’ll deal with it later. Let me know if anything important goes down.”
“Yes, sir.” He said, then closed the door. The second it was shut, you were being dropped onto the bed, his cock leaving your sensitive hole almost painfully.
“Stupid fucking slut.” He spat, making your bottom lip tremble. You couldn’t look at him, not when you knew how furious he was. “That’s what gets you off? Being watched by my men? Maybe I should bring a few in here so you can give them a real show.”
“…No.” You whined, brows furrowed as you frowned.
“No? But you seemed to enjoy it just now… After all, you fucking came from it.” You let out a choked sob at the venom in his voice.
“I’m sorry, sir.” You whimpered.
“What am I gonna do with you, huh? Clearly training doesn't work.”
“Please— I’m sorry. It was an accident.”
“Maybe I should just lock up your cunt until you can learn to follow orders.” He gave a harsh slap to your clit and you cried out as tears welled in your eyes.
“No! No— please. Please don’t, master,”
“Oh it’s master now?” He chuckled, making your face heat up.
“Y-yes. You’re my master, my owner. And I’m your whore, sir.” You whimpered.
“That’s fuckin right. But what does it say about me if I allow my bitch to disobey me?”
“I’m sorry, sir. Please punish me, hurt me— anything but locking me up.” You begged pathetically. He seemed to think about it for a moment before getting an idea.
“I’ll let you choose your punishment. You can either be locked up for however long I see fit, or I can fuck your ass right now, without any prep or lube.” You whined and looked away from him.
“Sir…”
“You have three seconds, then I’m choosing for you.” He warned. You know how painful anal can be, even with some prep and lube, so you can’t even imagine what it would feel like with nothing.
“The first one.” You said quietly, feeling like you were about to cry at the thought of what you just asked for.
“Chastity belt it is then. I’ll have someone get one tonight. For now though,” he let your legs drape over his hips as he lined his cock back up with your hole, “I might as well come in this fuck hole one last time.” He pushed in and immediately started bucking his hips, making you choke on a moan at the suddenness. “I hope it was worth it. That was the last orgasm you’ll have for a while.” You whined and squeezed your eyes shut— it wasn’t worth it. But he knew that.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Fucking save it. Just shut up and let me use my defective fleshlight to get myself off.” A strangled moan escaped you at the blatant objectification and humiliation of you. You bit your lip to muffle as much sound as you could, trying to be good for him.
You could tell he was close though which was making it harder. His hips snapped into your abused hole relentlessly and he was letting out quiet grunts and moans as his eyes trailed over your body.
“Can’t believe I fuckin’ keep you around.” He muttered, making you frown. “A sex doll would do a better job than you.” You wanted to apologize and beg and plead, but you weren’t sure if you were allowed to talk. So you stared up at him with furrowed brows, your bottom lip trembling as the tears finally started to fall. “Don’t fucking cry about it, we both know it’s true.” He spat, making you whine pathetically.
“I don’t ask for much, do I? I just want a warm hole to fuck and pretty, obedient little bitch to use however I want. I give you a bed, a collar, three meals a day, my cock, all of those silly books, but you can’t do just that in return?”
“Permission to speak, sir?” You said quietly, your voice barely audible over the loud smacking of skin as he fucked you.
“Since you asked so nicely.”
“I- I’m sorry for making you unhappy. I appreciate everything that you do for me and I want to return the favor however you wish… ‘m gonna be better, sir. Promise.” It was hard to get the words out with the intensity of his thrusts but you did a decent enough job for him to understand at least.
“However I wish?”
“Yes, master.”
“Let’s start by making me come then, hm?” You nodded eagerly, excited for him to finally fill you up. He grabbed your hips and lifted you off the bed a few inches to start snapping into you at a brutal pace.
“You’re my fuckin’ whore, you understand?” He growled, breathing growing heavier. “My men don’t make you come— I do. So fucking act like it.”
“I only come for you. N-no one else.” You whimpered, fisting the sheets to try and ground yourself.. “I only serve you, ‘m your whore. No one else’s.” You agreed, nodding desperately.
His low grunts and moans got louder until he was forcing his cock deep inside you and holding you there as his cock started twitching, spurting ropes of come against your walls. He cursed under his breath as his hips occasionally bucked forward, trying to bury his length impossibly deeper even though the pressure on your cervix was almost becoming painful.
“Who’s whore are you?” He asked through a breath, chest lightly heaving as he panted.
“Yours.” You were equally breathless. He leaned over you and grabbed your cheeks in one hand, making you let out a startled whimper.
“Say my fuckin’ name! Who’s whore are you?” He all but yelled, scaring you a little.
“The Arkham Knight’s! I’m the Arkham Knight's whore.” You rushed out and he studied your face for a moment, making you stomach twist with nerves.
“That’s right. And unless you want to be replaced, you better start acting like it.” He leaned back up and slowly pulled out, then spread your folds for a better view of his come dripping from your hole. “It’s a shame such a good cunt is going to waste.” You blushed and frowned in response.
“I’m sorry, sir.” You said quietly.
“I know.” He suddenly got up and retrieved some rope then reached for your wrists. You held them out to him as he tied them together, then to the headboard. “Since I can’t trust you to not come without permission, you’ll stay tied up until I come back with the chastity belt.” You whined and squirmed, pulling on the knots to test their strength, but they were unmoving. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”
“Hours?” You whimpered as he stood up. Your cunt was still aching and he was going to leave you like this for hours? Instead of responding, he grabbed his helmet and walked out. You let out a heavy breath and did your best to not think about anything that would get you even more worked up, but it was useless. You couldn’t help but think about what he was doing right now and what that would mean for you in the very near future.
Sorry I lowkey don’t know how to end this lmao
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