Got A Lot Of Time On My Hands 🤷🏾‍♀️

britt//24//intrigued by a lot// loveable regardless

[petaltexturedskies]

I don't know what it is like to not have deep emotions. Even when I feel nothing, I feel it completely.

Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals

[shisuni]

⤷ you’re a queen nonetheless

damian wayne x fem!reader

“اللمس هو آخر أشكال الأُلفة التي نعرفها” master list ! [this series]

summary ⊹₊ ⋆ your college is having a small market, and Damian finds a little taste of home. aka ›››› You put kohl on each other's eyes like tyrants in love word cnt. 3.8k

⤷ authors note .ᐟ.ᐟ Okay I know ,I know you guys don't like slow burn but I cant help myself so enjoy tension ദ്ദി˶ｰ̀֊ｰ́ ) and those nail polishes suit Kori perfectly idc what anyone says.

At your college, there existed a delightful little tradition known as the Student Fair. Each month, the courtyard would awaken into a bustling, sun-kissed sort of bazaar, where stalls sprouted like wildflowers, each one brimming with treasures crafted by hand. Some were the fruits of family businesses, steeped in tradition, while others bore the quiet love of work made in tiny dorms. Everything for sale was either a simple necessity or a tiny indulgence: delicate hair clips, homemade soaps, the faintly sweet scent of hand-stirred lipstick. It was a world of small wonders, and every month it called to those with curious eyes. Or people with horrible spending habbits.

Damian believed both could apply to you.

You and Damian had perched yourselves upon the cool, gleaming marble fence that marked the edge of the corridor, your books and notes laid carefully before you. And yet, no matter how diligently you tried to study, your eyes betrayed you, flitting every so often toward the colorful array of stalls below.

“If you want to buy something,” Damian murmured gently, never once lifting his gaze from the textbook in front of him, “you can go ahead.”

You paused, pencil hovering above your notes, heart a little tangled. You could, perhaps, afford one small indulgence—but what if, by some cruel twist of fate, it was beyond your means? The very idea of flailing around for change in front of Damian made your cheeks heat.

“No, it’s…” you said lightly, trying to sound casual as your pencil scrawled over the page, “…there’s probably nothing that suits my taste anyway.”

And yet, he noticed. He always noticed. Every few minutes, your gaze wandered, drawn irresistibly to the trinkets, the jewelry, the laughter of students leaving with little prizes in hand. He thought it quite endearing, really—like a little bunny peeking at a garden of treats.

“My brother is planning on proposing soon,” he murmured softly, as if to himself. “I need to get her an engagement gift. I was thinking… nail polish maybe. She always has different colors on her nails.” His tone was quiet, yet there was a trace of mischief, for Damian knew full well that Kori’s true indulgence would be nothing more than the finest ice cream mochi, a sweet she adored that he always privately ordered to keep in stock for her. Grayson has asked him numerous times for the brand so he could do it himself. And its not that Damian is trying to one-up him, truly he could care less, but by doing something for Kori he feels like he's doing something for Dick. That's enough of a reason not to tell him.

Your gaze snapped from the stalls, eyes widening with sudden clarity. “Ah! They might have some—”

But Damian was already rising, the marble beneath his hands cool against his palms, cool enough for him to snag his leather gloves from his pocket and put them on, “Come on, then.”

You shrugged into your winter gloves, tugged your scarf higher, and glanced back at him. He looked ready to laugh, a playful glint in his green eyes.

“What?” you huffed, though the question did little to curb his amusement.

The scarf was pulled past your nose, and your hair tumbled freely, framing your face like a soft, secretive mask. You looked, as he so quietly thought, like one of those winter dolls sold in quaint knickknack shops, silly and endearing.

“Are you truly that cold?” he asked, chuckling softly, gathering your scattered books into a neat little pile.

“You’re not??” you asked in bewilderment, noting his simple trench coat, unbuttoned and almost careless in its warmth.

“Ah, yes, I forgot—you’re anemic,” he hummed, taking careful strides beside you, matching his pace to yours with gentle attentiveness.

You refused to grant him the satisfaction of an answer. No matter how you responded you knew he'd just throw random medical terms at you. And frankly, you didn't feel like studying right now.

“What kind colors do you think will match her vibe?” you asked as the stalls drew nearer, your excitement brightening like sunlight on the marble.

The fair reminded Damian of childhood—of simpler days before duty and shadows and masks. He recalled buying a knife from a kindly old man, whose eyes had sparkled with pride as the young heir had marveled at his craftsmanship.

Now, his gaze drifted back to you, soft and slightly amused. “Just grab some staples. Dark red, black, white, pink.” he muttered. Damian knew it sounded like b.s. but he really only dragged you out for your sake so you'd have the enjoyment of looking around.

You however, sighed, certain he was hopeless, and came to a stop at the entrance. Students of every age passed by since the doors at this private institute was open just for this, laughing and chattering, their pockets heavy with little treasures.

“Well, show me a picture. I mean, Its kind of needed, I can’t just buy something that won’t suit her,” you said firmly.

“I can’t just buy something?” he parroted, raising an eyebrow.

“Isn’t that why I’m here?” you countered, exasperated.

Damian hesitated, realizing you hadn’t yet taken the opportunity to indulge in the very things your eyes had been lingering on. Wonderful. He would have to navigate this on his own.

With a careful hand, you drew one glove out of your pocket—a sacrifice, for the cold bit sharply at your fingers even with the glove still on—and gestured for him to show the picture.

He hummed, retrieving his phone from his back pocket, scrolling through until he found a modest account, barely a handful of followers. A post from their last date came into view, and when you peered at it, your breath caught.

“Fucking hell… she’s a goddess,” you whispered.

Damian merely shrugged, offering you the phone for inspection. You handed it back after a moment, hum, eyes still alight with awe.

“So… what’s the budget?” you asked, heart fluttering with the thrill of the hunt.

“None,” he said with a careless shrug.

You groaned, turning toward the maze of stalls. “Rich people,” you muttered under your breath, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

And so, the little fair stretched out before you—a winter wonderland of tiny marvels. 

“Fresh sourdough bread! Buy one, get one!”

“Handmade toys—support a local children’s hospital!”

“Three for nine, five for fifteen!”

Damian’s voice came from just behind you, quiet but grumbling, “Now why are they heckling like that?” He stepped closer, just enough that his shoulder brushed yours occasionally as he subtly guided you through the throng of students. You didn’t answer—didn’t need to. You could feel his presence, solid and unobtrusive, and somehow it made the chaos around you fade into a kind of warm blur.

You wandered past the stalls with baked goods and pastries to the quieter corners where the small treasures and cosmetics had gathered. One stall caught your attention: an elderly lady, perhaps a classmate’s grandmother, stitching tiny birds onto felt with delicate, careful fingers.

Her eyes lifted at you as you approached, tentative hope glittering there. Damian bent slightly to peer at the tiny combs before muttering under his breath, “So… ugly.”

You jabbed him lightly with your elbow. He coughed to cover it, leaning just a little closer so only you could hear, “Her hearing aids are right next to her phone. She can’t hear me!”

“What if she can read lips?” you whispered back, smiling despite yourself, pretending to inspect the combs while stealing glances at him.

“Well… then I’ll tell her she’s overcharging,” he murmured, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You offered the lady a gentle nod, stepping away quickly, and felt a pang at the disappointment flickering across her face.

“You’re such an asshole,” you muttered under your breath as you came to the next stall, brushing over the neat arrangement of clips and headbands.

“I saw superglue on those plastic gemstones,” Damian murmured behind you, stepping close, almost protective. The proximity was different—there was a warmth to it, a presence that felt like a shield without being imposing. The faint scent of pine clung to him, but beneath it, there was something uniquely Damian—intimate and grounding, familiar yet impossible to replicate. Your chest fluttered without permission.

“She tried her best!” you said softly, almost defensively, “You should be more attentive to them, I can't imagine how lonely it is at that age.”

“Thats pitying them, not being attentive.”

“It's better than nothing,” you huff before your gaze landed on something that made your heart lurch: a beautiful set of nail polish in a little white case, the colors so so perfect for her.

White mother-of-pearl, smooth and gleaming in the soft light, cradled the beautiful shades. You picked it up carefully, as though it might vanish if handled too roughly. When you turned to him, seeking approval, you found his dark eyes soft, just enough.

“That works,” he said, almost too simply—but there was weight in it, and you felt it like a secret gift.

“Only works?” you teased, though the edge of vulnerability in your tone betrayed your hope that he’d care to agree a little more.

He met your gaze, just for a flicker of a moment, and hummed. “It looks nice. The pearl case would suit a soon-to-be bride. And all the colors would compliment her skin and hair. My brothers going to hate that he didn't find it first.”

You nodded, a shy pride swelling in your chest. Carefully, reverently, you handed the box to him, your gloved fingers brushing against his leather clad ones.

When Damian moved to the old man at the corner of the stall, you couldn’t tear your eyes away. He bent down slightly, meeting the man eye to eye, saying a polite, “Sir,” and forcing that faint, tight-lipped smile that somehow made him look both serious and impossibly charming. You felt your chest tighten a little, even as you tried to look casual.

Then the old man’s gaze slid toward you. He was wrapping the mother of pearl box with the polishes into a small bag, and when he asked, “Ah… is this for your lady?” it was like someone had tossed a bucket of heat straight onto your cheeks.

You blinked, stunned. Damian blinked too. Your hands twitched in your pockets, almost about to correct him, almost to save yourself from embarrassment of Damian laughing—but Damian didn’t hesitate.

“Yes… she’s very picky, so I'm glad we found something so soon” he said smoothly, casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world to say.

Your stomach did a little flip. You didn’t remember what the old man said next—the teasing, the laughter, Damian nodding along to something in Tamil that you couldn't hear—but the memory of Damian’s words, spoken like it was some tiny, personal truth, stuck. Why had he said that? He could have said it was for his sister, or a friend, or anyone—but no. He had said that.

A few moments later, the two of you walked away. Damian followed behind, carrying the bag with the comb, calm as a shadow, like the world had never just tilted sideways for a second for you–for your idea of what he could be to you

You fidgeted with the holes in your jacket pocket, heart hammering. “Why did you lie?” you asked, barely louder than a whisper, trying not to sound like you were confessing to anything.

Damian didn’t answer right away. Then he murmured, “I didn’t. You are picky.”

“Not that part,” you mumbled, feeling your warmth rise all over again. Stepping through the sea of people and trying to keep your voice as steady as possible.

He gave you a slow, teasing shrug. “You were the one who said to be more attentive,” he said, voice low and almost mischievous. “I was just doing what you said, my lady.”

That has literally nothing to do with being attentive.

You groaned and buried your face deeper in your scarf, trying desperately to hide that your cheeks had betrayed you. “You’re insufferable,” you muttered.

“And yet you’re still friends with me,” he said lightly, humming under his breath like it was the simplest fact in the world.

“Only because you’d die without me.”

“Remind me who tutors who in chemistry?”

“Remind me who tutors who in social skills?” you retort, huffing, your long strides eating up the distance between stalls as you walk with purpose. Damian chuckles behind you, quiet and effortless, easily keeping pace with you, as always.

You pause for a moment, cooing softly at the little children who pass by with their older siblings. Tiny hands clutching bright toys, eyes wide with wonder, cheeks rosy from the winter air. Your gaze drifts to the delicate ceramic dolls in the windows, each one painted so finely it almost seems alive, and to the small hand mirrors polished to a perfect gleam. You know you’d never use them, but the artistry—the quiet care with which someone created something so small, so detailed—makes your heart ache with a tender sort of admiration.

Then, a tug at your sleeve. You glance down to see Damian silently guiding you toward a small, tucked-away stall.

“Damian?” you murmur, hesitant, curious.

He doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes, dark and impossibly expressive, shine with a strange excitement, lashes fluttering rapidly in that little habit of his that you’ve noticed in the past two months. Something in his gaze makes your chest tighten. You force yourself to look away, carefully, and then you notice what has captured him so completely.

A small shop brimming with fragments of home and places close to it: tiny pots of kohl and sticks of kajal, delicate incense sticks, oil lamps of every shape and hue, and embroidered handkerchiefs, soft as whispers, their threads woven with care. Bakhoor too. He can spot sambrani in the corner of his eye. A little taste of something familiar, a quiet echo of the world he once knew.

Damian doesn’t even realize he’s still holding your sleeve, anchored as he is by both the weight of the familiar and the intrigue of the unknown. His free hand moves carefully among the items, picking up a small gold pot of kohl. He twists the lid delicately, not to open it, but to admire the design—an almost reverent fascination in the way he studies it, as if touching it could disturb its familiarity to him.

“Do you want it?” you ask softly, your voice barely louder than a breath, and for a moment, he seems to snap out of his quiet reverie—so abruptly that you almost regret asking.

He blinks at you, then down at the tiny gold pot. “I haven’t worn any since I was small… my mother still wears hers daily,” he murmurs, his voice quiet, almost a whisper to himself.

“Why did you stop?” you ask, gentle now, unsure if this is a question you’re allowed to ask.

You know Damian. You know his habits, the way he blinks quickly when excited, the faint way he bites the inside of his cheek when holding back a smile. But you don’t know him. Not truly. Not the parts that are buried beneath layers of discipline, pride, and caution. And perhaps you never will—unless he chooses to let you.

“Well… it wasn’t something I felt the need to seek out.” His gaze drifts over the array of small treasures before him. Gotham is a place of many streets, many shops, many possible distractions. Yet when he came here, he assumed a role, as if stepping into the shadow of the Batman name, keeping parts of himself close, private, unwilling to explain what others might never understand, even if their intentions were pure.

While Damian remains absorbed, you quietly pick up another pot of kohl, slipping it into your pocket with a subtle motion, unnoticed by him. It isn’t until the shopkeeper murmurs, “Thank you for supporting my family,” that Damian finally registers what you’ve done. He blinks at the small wooden box in your hand, releasing the gold pot in his own grasp, and sets it gently back on the shelf.

“Do you know how to put it on?” he asks, eyes flitting to yours with a quiet vulnerability.

“I always had someone else do it for me, if I’m honest,” you reply, soft, the words hanging in the air like a confession. It could be a lie, or it could be the truth, but for once, it doesn’t matter whether he knows which.

A small, almost imperceptible smile begins to form on his face. “…You don’t have any other friends besides me,” he teases lightly, the corners of his mouth tilting up as he says it.

You kick his ankle in response, and he lets out a delighted laugh, sputtering as you pull him gently away from the market, muttering, “The nerve of this boy!” and “Like you have any friends!”

Eventually, you find your way back to your study spot, the secret corner where the world passes by beyond your view, and yet no one can see you. Everything is exactly as you left it—tidy, precise, organized in neat piles, Damian’s touch evident in every detail. You carefully move the tissue paper aside and retrieve the little velvet-lined wooden box, cradling the small pot of kohl in your hands.

Damian sits cross-legged in front of you after setting aside Kori’s gift, his frame leaning against the marble pillar with a rare, relaxed posture. His shoulders loosen, and he watches intently as you carefully lift the little gold pot from its velvet nest.

He blinks in surprise when you slide closer to him.

“Oh?” he chuckles softly. “On me?”

You huff, twisting the lid open and scraping the edges of the applicator so that the kohl is evenly distributed. “Well, obviously,” you say with a quiet certainty.

“I can do it myself,” he murmurs, rolling his eyes, though there’s a pause—a moment where your confidence seems to have unsettled him just slightly. The implication is clear: of course, you would do it for him.

“My Damian,” you say, mimicking his tone when calling you ‘my lady’ with a teasing lilt, “I fear I would have to ask you to do it for me, since we have no mirror. So in fairness, I’ll do it for you. That way, I won’t owe you later.”

“Ah, because I am so cruel,” he sighs, inching just slightly closer to make room for your presence.

“I’m glad you’re catching on,” you whisper, moving carefully to balance on your knees in front of him. One leg folded, the other dangling off the marble, making space for you.

From the corner of your eye, you notice his hand hovering near your waist—not touching, not even brushing—but close enough that it steadies you in a way that makes your heart stutter. 

Such a good friend.

Could be a good something more.

Is a good something more.

Oh, he truly is so cruel.

Your gloved hand moves to rest against his cheekbone, tugging gently at the soft stretch of skin there. You know, if you weren’t wearing gloves, he wouldn’t have allowed this—he’d have turned away, or frozen, or found some reason to retreat into the armor of himself. But you can’t bring yourself to mind. Maybe you need the barrier too.

His eyes flicker up to meet yours, bright and steady beneath the golden light. You lean closer, holding your breath as you press the slender wand of kohl toward him, your movements careful, deliberate.

“Mm,” you murmur softly, almost barley audible, and Damian closes his eyes obediently. You trace the lower waterline in delicate strokes, the wand moving in small, tender motions. He can feel your breath ghosting against his face—faint, cool, and human. You’re so cold. He notes it absently, a quiet concern rising in the back of his mind. He’ll need to get you inside soon.

When you’re done, you pull away just slightly, inspecting your work with a small, satisfied smile.

You repeat the same process for his other eye, steady now, careful and reverent. The air between you feels thick, sacred. You silently thank every god who might be listening that you chose black gloves today. It hides the trembling of your hands as you rub the excess from the outer corners, smudging it just so.

“Like a prince,” you murmur, almost under your breath, the words falling out before you can catch them. Then, a little louder, softer still—“No, a king.”

Damian might have laughed at the irony if it weren’t for how truly pleased you look. Like a sly cat finding its favorite mouse. How lucky he is to be that mouse. Your eyes gleam with quiet pride, your mouth curved in a gentle, triumphant smile. Damian doesn’t dare ruin it.

One of his gloved hands moves to take the little pot from you, while the other finds your shoulder, urging you down so that you sit comfortably on your ankles. Now, you’re both at eye level—perfectly even, perfectly still.

His touch is surprisingly warm through the leather, the faintest pressure guiding your face toward him. You don’t think he breathes as he applies the kohl. You don’t, either. His concentration is absolute; every tiny motion deliberate, steady, reverent.

When he finishes, Damian sets the little pot back into the velvet-lined box, his movements slow and careful, as though any sudden motion might break the spell between you. Then, without a thought, he brings his gloved thumb to his lips, dampening it, and uses it to wipe away the faint smudge at the corners of your eyes.

You giggle, startled by the sudden intimacy of it, by the small furrow of his brows as he perfects his work. “Gross,” you laugh, wrinkling your nose.

Damian freezes, his thumb hovering midair as if realizing what he’s done. Did he actually just lick over his glove? Oh gods and then have the gall to touch you too. For a heartbeat, his expression flickers—caught between embarrassment and nostalgia. “That’s—” he starts, clearing his throat, the words falling quieter. “That’s how my mother would do it for me,” he explains, as if it’s a flimsy excuse he needs you to understand, just in case he’s crossed some invisible line.

You hum softly in response, not teasing this time. “Does it look okay?” you ask, voice gentle, eyes bright beneath his careful handiwork.

He leans back against the marble pillar, studying you in the stillness. Damian looks at you the way he looks at the oil paintings in the library—like something both familiar and far beyond reach. He looks at you the way he looks at the stray cats that wander into the courtyard—curious, reverent, impossibly fond.

His voice, when it comes, is quiet and sincere. “Like a queen.”

You open your mouth to speak, but he adds—without missing a beat—“A tyrant one.”

Your jaw drops in mock outrage before you lean forward and smack his arm. “Asshole!”

Damian laughs, the sound rich and soft, tugging the two ends of your scarf a little tighter just to spite you. The gesture earns him another weak slap to the shoulder, which he accepts with exaggerated dignity.

“ما زلتِ ملكة رغم ذلك,” Damian murmurs, knowing you cant hear him, his voice low and amused as he tries—not really—to fend off your flailing hands.

ᵈⁱᵛⁱᵈᵉʳ ᵇʸ ᶜᵘʳˢᵉᵈ⁻ᶜᵃʳᵐⁱⁿᵉ

“اللمس هو آخر أشكال الأُلفة التي نعرفها” master list ! [this series]

authors note! hint, the title is the last line translated hehe. Maybe one day I'll end your suffering and make you kiss but not today◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜

I hope you enjoy and if you want to be put on a tag list for this fandom/boy comment and I will add you! ദ്ദി˶ｰ̀֊ｰ́ ) my asks are always open for drabbles and just to talk or ask questions please please please let me know what you think it gives me so much motivation to write and you will be getting a new work sooner if you do ; (◞‸◟)

©shisuni 𝖺𝗅𝗅 rights reserved , 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅/𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒 𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗂/𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗀𝗉𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗂𝗍. Any oc's are not permitted to be put into other works unless dm'd, discussed, and agreed upon.

[shisuni]

⤷ damian, can batman come to our wedding?

damian wayne x fem!reader

“اللمس هو آخر أشكال الأُلفة التي نعرفها” master list ! [this series]

summary ⊹₊ ⋆ You have a nightmare so Damian comes over and does your mehendi (henna) aka ›››› "Bruce Wayne could pay for Batman to show up right?" word cnt. 2.8k

⤷ authors note .ᐟ.ᐟ Okay this might sound self indulgent but come on who wouldn't want to have Batman at their wedding. [mehendi = actual design, henna = the paste]

hayātī (حياتي) – my life; used to express love and closeness, like “my life” or “my everything.” ʿasalī (عسلي) – my honey or sweet; affectionate, often romantic or familial.

“Stay still,” he murmurs again, the words barely breaking the hush of the room. His grip on your hand is feather-light, almost reverent, like he’s afraid that pressing too hard would break the spell. The cool henna touches your skin in small, deliberate motions; you can feel the faint drag of the cone, the warmth of his breath every time he exhales a little too close. The air smells faintly of cardamom and tea leaves and that soft earthy sweetness that always seems to follow him wherever he goes.

Damian sits cross-legged in front of you, posture loose and unguarded, the lamplight painting soft gold across his features. You’re curled up with your knees to your chest, one hand resting easily in his. It’s late—far too late—and you should both be asleep, but you’d called him, half trembling from a dream, and he’d come. Of course he had.

The kettle hums gently in the background, a comforting, living sound in the stillness. It's on that little plug in stove you're not allowed to have in your dorm but do anyways, right next to your candles. Every once in a while, the little Batman night-light flickers, throwing your shadows in slow waves across the walls. His cowl glows faintly blue, loyal and watchful from the corner of your desk. You bought it at a school book fair when you were eight, and he’s guarded your sleep ever since.

Sometimes Damian teases you for it—quietly, fondly. He goes as far as to not kiss you in front of it. But not now. Now, his eyes are lowered in concentration, his expression softened in a way few ever get to see. He looks like he’s painting something sacred.

“You’re good at this,” you murmur, your voice still hazy from sleep as you reach over with your free hand to pour tea into two mugs—Batman again, of course. Much to his dismay.

“Mhm.” He doesn’t look up, just hums softly, the corner of his mouth twitching with something that could be amusement. “You’re just bad at it.”

You scoff, setting the mugs down with exaggerated care before inching a little closer. The persian rug beneath you is soft, worn in all the right places, and still carries the faint scent of old incense and sandalwood. Its your favorite, the one you make all who enter your dorm take off their shoes if they want to sit or stand on it. Damian, the darling he is, knows to take his shoes off at the door. He shifts wordlessly, spreading his legs a little to make space for you, his knees bracketing your body without touching. You can feel the warmth radiating from him—steady, quiet, unspoken.

He keeps working, tracing slow, intricate patterns that make your skin feel alive beneath his touch. You watch him like you’d watch the last moments before dawn—his thick, dark lashes casting faint shadows, the small furrow between his brows when he’s thinking, the careful press of his thumb against your wrist to steady you.

The light seems to love him. You seem to as well.

“Why are you so serious about it?” you whisper, half teasing. “It’s fine if you mess up—”

He glances up through his lashes, eyes darker than the night-light glow. “Because you asked me to do it.”

The words land quietly, but they echo in your chest. He looks down again almost immediately, though the faint pink at his ears betrays him. His thumb lingers where it shouldn’t have to—warm against your pulse—and your heartbeat stumbles right beneath it.

You take a sip of tea to hide the small, ridiculous catch in your breath. The steam curls between you, drifting lazy circles through the air. The quiet stretches—not empty but full, heavy with everything neither of you say.

Damian exhales softly, leaning back just far enough to see his work. His fingers trail along the fore-arm of your hand, not with intent, just a kind of quiet wonder. He smudges a tiny edge with his thumb, then hums, almost to himself.

“Beautiful,” he says before he can stop it.

You blink, caught off guard by the softness of his voice.

The night-light flickers once and steadies again. Neither of you speaks. The tea grows colder on the wooden floor next to the rug. His hand is still wrapped around yours.

It feels like nothing could ruin this—nothing at all, Damian thinks, as he sets your finished hand carefully on his knee. The henna gleams wet and perfect beneath the warm lamplight. He reaches for your other hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles once, twice, three times, memorizing the shape of you. He knows he won’t be able to touch it again once the color starts to set, so he steals these small, harmless gestures like they might sustain him.

Then, your voice drops, soft and playful: “...Can you draw the bat signal on my middle finger?”

…Maybe something can ruin the moment.

Damian freezes, looks up with a face that could make marble blush. You’re biting your lip, trying to swallow a smile.

“Is that a no, Mr. Wayne?” you ask, tilting your head, scooting closer just enough that your feet nearly brush his dress pants.

He exhales—a sigh, a surrender—and starts carefully drawing the tiniest bat symbol beneath your nail. “I don’t think Batman would approve of this,” he mutters, though his lips twitch at the edges.

“He’s a crime-fighting vigilante,” you hum, smug and soft. “Do you honestly think he’s never flipped anyone off?”

He refuses to dignify that, choosing silence instead. His brow furrows again as he moves to trace the patterns along your wrist. His thumb ghosts over the faint blue veins, and he frowns, quiet and genuine.

“God, we need to get you on iron…” he mutters.

You huff, scooting forward until your bare toes brush the fabric of his pants. “And we clearly need to get you on vitamin D.”

That earns a small, startled laugh—a sound like a crack in the stillness. His hand stills where it rests against your wrist, fingers splayed and warm. The laughter fades, but something softer takes its place, something that hums quietly in the air between you.

For a long, lovely moment, neither of you moves. The world is only the warmth of the room, the soft hum of the kettle cooling, the scent of henna and tea leaves, and the sound of two people breathing in rhythm.

You murmur, voice low, “You were right. Grocery store cones are ass compared to this one.”

“It’s just my wonderful talent,” he says lightly, tone barely masking his own fondness.

“That too,” you reply with all the gravity in the world.

Damian blinks, caught by how easily you say it—how you mean it. His reply catches in his throat, unspoken but written somewhere deep in the quiet between you.

The henna on your other hand begins to dry; the tea cools in its mugs. The night moves on, unhurried and soft around the two of you. Damian is almost finished—his strokes careful, reverent—when your voice slips out, sweet and casual as a lullaby, and yet the words land with the peculiar sharpness of something meant only for him.

“Write your name there,” you murmur, watching him eye the narrow space on your left ring finger as if it were a landscape to be mapped.

For a beat, every movement in his body stills as if a bird had flown into glass. Damian tries—briefly, hopelessly—to mask the way his features rearrange, but the attempt is futile. He looks up at you with wide green eyes that reflect the lamplight. “Uh—sorry?”

“Your name,” you repeat, keeping your tone light and airy, as if you’re asking for the time or the salt. You can feel, very clearly, that you are asking for something far more delicate. “Maybe in Arabic, if you don’t want anyone in biology lab to know. Or—” you add, voice fluttering like a page in a soft breeze, “—if you’d rather keep it for yourself.”

He inhales, the sound small and sharp in the quiet room. “Do you know what it means?” he says, stating the weight of it as if language itself might carry consequences. There is no bravado in the question; only a careful, searching thing that looks for steadiness in your face.

You falter for a moment, considering the truth of his question. The room seems to narrow to the crescent of light over your hands. You think of the many ways meaning gathers around a name—how it can be a promise, an emblem, a private spell. You want to be gentle with this. You want to let him choose what he gives you.

“Consider it…practice,” you say at last, flitting your gaze down to your left hand so you don’t have to watch him discover what this means to you. Your voice is half-joke, half-rehearsal of something braver. “For when you do my bridal one. You’ll need to make sure you keep it straight. I’ll kill you if you do it crooked. I’ll even postpone the wedding. I’ll do it—trust me, I will.”

You are rambling—small, quick sentences spilling out before you can smooth them. You blink too fast; the room swims with the soft edge of lamplight. You cannot see how his face shifts when he hears you: the way his jaw loosens, the lightness that presses at the corners of his mouth, the very small, very real melting that happens behind his composed soldier’s mask.

Still, you feel it in the pressure of his hand. Where his grip had been attentive and exact—almost protective—it softens. Yet, oddly, it also cages your fingers a little more carefully, as if by enclosing you he is protecting the fragile thing you have just asked for. His other thumb grazes the small knuckle of your ring finger in a hushed, almost ceremonial motion, as though he is learning the geography of the place you have offered him.

The kettle’s hiss, the hum of the nightlight, the faint scent of cardamom and henna—all of it seems to lean closer, as if the room is listening. He watches your face with a focus that is wholly new: not the tucked-away attention of a study partner, but the deliberate, steady regard of someone cataloging a miracle. The shadow across his brow is softer now; courage, perhaps, or the careful unspooling of a world he has kept so neatly rolled up inside himself.

“You mean it?” he asks, voice lower, smaller—an admission wrapped in a question.

You meet his eyes then, finally. There is no grand gesture, no trumpeted declaration—just the small, fierce tenderness in your look that has always been your truest speech. “yes,” you say simply, and the single syllable is enough: clean and true.

He exhales through his nose, a quiet sound that might be a laugh or might be a little prayer. Then, steadying himself, he tilts your hand so the light catches the soft plane of your finger. 

There is so many options he could chose from.

“ابن الخفّاش” son of batman

“داميان واين” Damian Wayne

“داميانالغول” Damian al-Ghūl

If he thinks back to lectures of his childhood and titles he's parroted to others since he was ten, he thinks he could find more.

Damian’s penitent, deliberate strokes hover for a moment, nearly invisible, before he begins to draw. The room narrows to the close work of his hand, to the tiny inked shapes that mean so much more than their size.

You do not rush him. You watch, breath held and steady, as the letters take their place on your skin—an intimate map, a private signature. The act itself is small and simple: a hand guided by affection, a line made whole by care. Yet the atmosphere around it thickens with recognition, the tiny, hush-like knowledge that something between you has shifted toward a new, more honest light.

For a long moment, Damian simply studies your left ring finger, the wet henna still dark against your skin, while your hand rests lightly in his as though it were always meant to be held, quiet and patient, without demand or expectation. He dips the cone again, slow and deliberate, each curve and line drawn with care, as if every movement might carry the weight of something sacred, and he doesn’t speak because the moment itself doesn’t need words.

When he finishes, you look down and your chest tightens. There it is: “داميان”—just his name, simple and unadorned, and in that act, it feels as though he has shed every other burden, every expectation, every shadow that has ever clung to him. To you, he wants to be nothing more than Damian, and the last thing he would ever do is let any curse he carries touch your skin.

He lingers for a moment, thumb brushing softly over the air above your knuckles without touching the letters, honoring them as if they are fragile and precious. The quiet gathers around you, full of unspoken understanding, the faint scent of henna and the soft glow of your night-light wrapping the room in warmth.

When his eyes finally lift to meet yours, there is nothing between you—no hesitation, no mask—just him, present and unguarded. And in that gaze, you feel it all: he is yours, and you are his. Just Damian.

When he finishes, he does not smile extravagantly. Instead, he presses his forehead to your fore-arm for a single, brief moment—half gratitude, half vow—then releases your hand with the gentleness of someone who has been given something sacred. You feel it then, as plainly as heat under the skin: the weight and the warmth of what you have asked and what he has entrusted.

Outside, the night leans its long, patient ear against the world. Inside, your small place glows with the kind of quiet that keeps secrets safe and lets promises begin, softly and without spectacle.

“…Do you think you can draw the bat signal on our wedding day too?” you mumble, voice so small it barely reaches him.

Damian’s head lifts just enough for his eyes to meet yours, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying—failing—to hide a smile. You’re close enough that the movement brushes your noses together, that shared breath so soft and fragile it feels like it might break if either of you speaks too loud.

“Yes, ḥayātī,” he hums, his voice low and full of quiet amusement. “Anything you want.”

He leans in until his forehead rests against yours, and the world seems to settle into that single point of contact. You can feel him smile—small, secret, pressed into your skin. The scent of henna lingers between you, faintly sweet, and his breath fans across your lips like a promise.

“Damian?” you whisper, and something in your tone makes him hum in reply, eyes still closed, too content to open them.

“Mhm?”

He’s too busy memorizing the feel of your hair against his temple, the way your breathing syncs with his, to suspect that the next words will be anything but soft.

“Your dad’s rich, right?”

That earns you a blink. A small one, but visible. “I suppose,” he says slowly, as if testing where this is going.

“Like… billionaire rich, right?” you press, and there’s a spark of mischief curling at the edge of your voice.

Damian’s lips twitch again, and he hums obligingly, “Mhm.” Still indulgent. Still humoring you. Still not catching on.

You pull back a little, just enough to look at him properly. The lamplight turns the green of his eyes to something molten, soft and fond and dangerously open. You shift closer again, until your lips brush the shell of his ear. Damian goes very still, breath hitching like you’ve whispered something sacred already.

And then—

“Do you think…” your breath ghosts over his skin, your voice barely above a murmur, “...he can pay for Batman to come? Like– Like how those Ambani's paid for Justin Bieber to show up at their wedding?”

There’s a beat of perfect silence. Damian’s brain short-circuits. You can practically feel the moment his romantic composure collapses.

He doesn’t even answer you at first—he just huffs a quiet, incredulous laugh against your neck. Then, before you can say another word, he nips your ear in retaliation, just sharp enough to make you yelp.

“OW—Damian!” you hiss, half laughing, half scandalized.

“You deserved that,” he murmurs against your skin, voice warm and low, his smile audible.

“Admit it,” you grin, rubbing your ear and pretending to glare at him, “it’s a good idea.”

He leans in again, close enough that you feel his breath when he speaks. “You,” he says, tone caught somewhere between exasperation and affection, “are absolutely insufferable.”

And then softer, so soft it’s almost a secret:

“Yes. Yes,ʿAsalī, anything you want, I'll make sure Batman is at our wedding.”

And Damian Wayne never lies to you.

You squeal for joy and he has to protect your hands that still have the wet mehendi as you wrap your arms around his neck.

ᵈⁱᵛⁱᵈᵉʳ ᵇʸ ᶜᵘʳˢᵉᵈ⁻ᶜᵃʳᵐⁱⁿᵉ

“اللمس هو آخر أشكال الأُلفة التي نعرفها” master list ! [this series]

authors note! I hope you enjoy and if you want to be put on a tag list for this fandom/boy comment and I will add you! ദ്ദി˶ｰ̀֊ｰ́ ) my asks are always open for drabbles and just to talk or ask questions please please please let me know what you think it gives me so much motivation to write and you will be getting a new work sooner if you do ; (◞‸◟)

©shisuni 𝖺𝗅𝗅 rights reserved , 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅/𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒 𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗂/𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗀𝗉𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗂𝗍. Any oc's are not permitted to be put into other works unless dm'd, discussed, and agreed upon.

[shisuni]

⤷ damian, can batman come to our wedding?

damian wayne x fem!reader

“اللمس هو آخر أشكال الأُلفة التي نعرفها” master list ! [this series]

summary ⊹₊ ⋆ You have a nightmare so Damian comes over and does your mehendi (henna) aka ›››› "Bruce Wayne could pay for Batman to show up right?" word cnt. 2.8k

⤷ authors note .ᐟ.ᐟ Okay this might sound self indulgent but come on who wouldn't want to have Batman at their wedding. [mehendi = actual design, henna = the paste]

hayātī (حياتي) – my life; used to express love and closeness, like “my life” or “my everything.” ʿasalī (عسلي) – my honey or sweet; affectionate, often romantic or familial.

“Stay still,” he murmurs again, the words barely breaking the hush of the room. His grip on your hand is feather-light, almost reverent, like he’s afraid that pressing too hard would break the spell. The cool henna touches your skin in small, deliberate motions; you can feel the faint drag of the cone, the warmth of his breath every time he exhales a little too close. The air smells faintly of cardamom and tea leaves and that soft earthy sweetness that always seems to follow him wherever he goes.

Damian sits cross-legged in front of you, posture loose and unguarded, the lamplight painting soft gold across his features. You’re curled up with your knees to your chest, one hand resting easily in his. It’s late—far too late—and you should both be asleep, but you’d called him, half trembling from a dream, and he’d come. Of course he had.

The kettle hums gently in the background, a comforting, living sound in the stillness. It's on that little plug in stove you're not allowed to have in your dorm but do anyways, right next to your candles. Every once in a while, the little Batman night-light flickers, throwing your shadows in slow waves across the walls. His cowl glows faintly blue, loyal and watchful from the corner of your desk. You bought it at a school book fair when you were eight, and he’s guarded your sleep ever since.

Sometimes Damian teases you for it—quietly, fondly. He goes as far as to not kiss you in front of it. But not now. Now, his eyes are lowered in concentration, his expression softened in a way few ever get to see. He looks like he’s painting something sacred.

“You’re good at this,” you murmur, your voice still hazy from sleep as you reach over with your free hand to pour tea into two mugs—Batman again, of course. Much to his dismay.

“Mhm.” He doesn’t look up, just hums softly, the corner of his mouth twitching with something that could be amusement. “You’re just bad at it.”

You scoff, setting the mugs down with exaggerated care before inching a little closer. The persian rug beneath you is soft, worn in all the right places, and still carries the faint scent of old incense and sandalwood. Its your favorite, the one you make all who enter your dorm take off their shoes if they want to sit or stand on it. Damian, the darling he is, knows to take his shoes off at the door. He shifts wordlessly, spreading his legs a little to make space for you, his knees bracketing your body without touching. You can feel the warmth radiating from him—steady, quiet, unspoken.

He keeps working, tracing slow, intricate patterns that make your skin feel alive beneath his touch. You watch him like you’d watch the last moments before dawn—his thick, dark lashes casting faint shadows, the small furrow between his brows when he’s thinking, the careful press of his thumb against your wrist to steady you.

The light seems to love him. You seem to as well.

“Why are you so serious about it?” you whisper, half teasing. “It’s fine if you mess up—”

He glances up through his lashes, eyes darker than the night-light glow. “Because you asked me to do it.”

The words land quietly, but they echo in your chest. He looks down again almost immediately, though the faint pink at his ears betrays him. His thumb lingers where it shouldn’t have to—warm against your pulse—and your heartbeat stumbles right beneath it.

You take a sip of tea to hide the small, ridiculous catch in your breath. The steam curls between you, drifting lazy circles through the air. The quiet stretches—not empty but full, heavy with everything neither of you say.

Damian exhales softly, leaning back just far enough to see his work. His fingers trail along the fore-arm of your hand, not with intent, just a kind of quiet wonder. He smudges a tiny edge with his thumb, then hums, almost to himself.

“Beautiful,” he says before he can stop it.

You blink, caught off guard by the softness of his voice.

The night-light flickers once and steadies again. Neither of you speaks. The tea grows colder on the wooden floor next to the rug. His hand is still wrapped around yours.

It feels like nothing could ruin this—nothing at all, Damian thinks, as he sets your finished hand carefully on his knee. The henna gleams wet and perfect beneath the warm lamplight. He reaches for your other hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles once, twice, three times, memorizing the shape of you. He knows he won’t be able to touch it again once the color starts to set, so he steals these small, harmless gestures like they might sustain him.

Then, your voice drops, soft and playful: “...Can you draw the bat signal on my middle finger?”

…Maybe something can ruin the moment.

Damian freezes, looks up with a face that could make marble blush. You’re biting your lip, trying to swallow a smile.

“Is that a no, Mr. Wayne?” you ask, tilting your head, scooting closer just enough that your feet nearly brush his dress pants.

He exhales—a sigh, a surrender—and starts carefully drawing the tiniest bat symbol beneath your nail. “I don’t think Batman would approve of this,” he mutters, though his lips twitch at the edges.

“He’s a crime-fighting vigilante,” you hum, smug and soft. “Do you honestly think he’s never flipped anyone off?”

He refuses to dignify that, choosing silence instead. His brow furrows again as he moves to trace the patterns along your wrist. His thumb ghosts over the faint blue veins, and he frowns, quiet and genuine.

“God, we need to get you on iron…” he mutters.

You huff, scooting forward until your bare toes brush the fabric of his pants. “And we clearly need to get you on vitamin D.”

That earns a small, startled laugh—a sound like a crack in the stillness. His hand stills where it rests against your wrist, fingers splayed and warm. The laughter fades, but something softer takes its place, something that hums quietly in the air between you.

For a long, lovely moment, neither of you moves. The world is only the warmth of the room, the soft hum of the kettle cooling, the scent of henna and tea leaves, and the sound of two people breathing in rhythm.

You murmur, voice low, “You were right. Grocery store cones are ass compared to this one.”

“It’s just my wonderful talent,” he says lightly, tone barely masking his own fondness.

“That too,” you reply with all the gravity in the world.

Damian blinks, caught by how easily you say it—how you mean it. His reply catches in his throat, unspoken but written somewhere deep in the quiet between you.

The henna on your other hand begins to dry; the tea cools in its mugs. The night moves on, unhurried and soft around the two of you. Damian is almost finished—his strokes careful, reverent—when your voice slips out, sweet and casual as a lullaby, and yet the words land with the peculiar sharpness of something meant only for him.

“Write your name there,” you murmur, watching him eye the narrow space on your left ring finger as if it were a landscape to be mapped.

For a beat, every movement in his body stills as if a bird had flown into glass. Damian tries—briefly, hopelessly—to mask the way his features rearrange, but the attempt is futile. He looks up at you with wide green eyes that reflect the lamplight. “Uh—sorry?”

“Your name,” you repeat, keeping your tone light and airy, as if you’re asking for the time or the salt. You can feel, very clearly, that you are asking for something far more delicate. “Maybe in Arabic, if you don’t want anyone in biology lab to know. Or—” you add, voice fluttering like a page in a soft breeze, “—if you’d rather keep it for yourself.”

He inhales, the sound small and sharp in the quiet room. “Do you know what it means?” he says, stating the weight of it as if language itself might carry consequences. There is no bravado in the question; only a careful, searching thing that looks for steadiness in your face.

You falter for a moment, considering the truth of his question. The room seems to narrow to the crescent of light over your hands. You think of the many ways meaning gathers around a name—how it can be a promise, an emblem, a private spell. You want to be gentle with this. You want to let him choose what he gives you.

“Consider it…practice,” you say at last, flitting your gaze down to your left hand so you don’t have to watch him discover what this means to you. Your voice is half-joke, half-rehearsal of something braver. “For when you do my bridal one. You’ll need to make sure you keep it straight. I’ll kill you if you do it crooked. I’ll even postpone the wedding. I’ll do it—trust me, I will.”

You are rambling—small, quick sentences spilling out before you can smooth them. You blink too fast; the room swims with the soft edge of lamplight. You cannot see how his face shifts when he hears you: the way his jaw loosens, the lightness that presses at the corners of his mouth, the very small, very real melting that happens behind his composed soldier’s mask.

Still, you feel it in the pressure of his hand. Where his grip had been attentive and exact—almost protective—it softens. Yet, oddly, it also cages your fingers a little more carefully, as if by enclosing you he is protecting the fragile thing you have just asked for. His other thumb grazes the small knuckle of your ring finger in a hushed, almost ceremonial motion, as though he is learning the geography of the place you have offered him.

The kettle’s hiss, the hum of the nightlight, the faint scent of cardamom and henna—all of it seems to lean closer, as if the room is listening. He watches your face with a focus that is wholly new: not the tucked-away attention of a study partner, but the deliberate, steady regard of someone cataloging a miracle. The shadow across his brow is softer now; courage, perhaps, or the careful unspooling of a world he has kept so neatly rolled up inside himself.

“You mean it?” he asks, voice lower, smaller—an admission wrapped in a question.

You meet his eyes then, finally. There is no grand gesture, no trumpeted declaration—just the small, fierce tenderness in your look that has always been your truest speech. “yes,” you say simply, and the single syllable is enough: clean and true.

He exhales through his nose, a quiet sound that might be a laugh or might be a little prayer. Then, steadying himself, he tilts your hand so the light catches the soft plane of your finger. 

There is so many options he could chose from.

“ابن الخفّاش” son of batman

“داميان واين” Damian Wayne

“داميانالغول” Damian al-Ghūl

If he thinks back to lectures of his childhood and titles he's parroted to others since he was ten, he thinks he could find more.

Damian’s penitent, deliberate strokes hover for a moment, nearly invisible, before he begins to draw. The room narrows to the close work of his hand, to the tiny inked shapes that mean so much more than their size.

You do not rush him. You watch, breath held and steady, as the letters take their place on your skin—an intimate map, a private signature. The act itself is small and simple: a hand guided by affection, a line made whole by care. Yet the atmosphere around it thickens with recognition, the tiny, hush-like knowledge that something between you has shifted toward a new, more honest light.

For a long moment, Damian simply studies your left ring finger, the wet henna still dark against your skin, while your hand rests lightly in his as though it were always meant to be held, quiet and patient, without demand or expectation. He dips the cone again, slow and deliberate, each curve and line drawn with care, as if every movement might carry the weight of something sacred, and he doesn’t speak because the moment itself doesn’t need words.

When he finishes, you look down and your chest tightens. There it is: “داميان”—just his name, simple and unadorned, and in that act, it feels as though he has shed every other burden, every expectation, every shadow that has ever clung to him. To you, he wants to be nothing more than Damian, and the last thing he would ever do is let any curse he carries touch your skin.

He lingers for a moment, thumb brushing softly over the air above your knuckles without touching the letters, honoring them as if they are fragile and precious. The quiet gathers around you, full of unspoken understanding, the faint scent of henna and the soft glow of your night-light wrapping the room in warmth.

When his eyes finally lift to meet yours, there is nothing between you—no hesitation, no mask—just him, present and unguarded. And in that gaze, you feel it all: he is yours, and you are his. Just Damian.

When he finishes, he does not smile extravagantly. Instead, he presses his forehead to your fore-arm for a single, brief moment—half gratitude, half vow—then releases your hand with the gentleness of someone who has been given something sacred. You feel it then, as plainly as heat under the skin: the weight and the warmth of what you have asked and what he has entrusted.

Outside, the night leans its long, patient ear against the world. Inside, your small place glows with the kind of quiet that keeps secrets safe and lets promises begin, softly and without spectacle.

“…Do you think you can draw the bat signal on our wedding day too?” you mumble, voice so small it barely reaches him.

Damian’s head lifts just enough for his eyes to meet yours, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying—failing—to hide a smile. You’re close enough that the movement brushes your noses together, that shared breath so soft and fragile it feels like it might break if either of you speaks too loud.

“Yes, ḥayātī,” he hums, his voice low and full of quiet amusement. “Anything you want.”

He leans in until his forehead rests against yours, and the world seems to settle into that single point of contact. You can feel him smile—small, secret, pressed into your skin. The scent of henna lingers between you, faintly sweet, and his breath fans across your lips like a promise.

“Damian?” you whisper, and something in your tone makes him hum in reply, eyes still closed, too content to open them.

“Mhm?”

He’s too busy memorizing the feel of your hair against his temple, the way your breathing syncs with his, to suspect that the next words will be anything but soft.

“Your dad’s rich, right?”

That earns you a blink. A small one, but visible. “I suppose,” he says slowly, as if testing where this is going.

“Like… billionaire rich, right?” you press, and there’s a spark of mischief curling at the edge of your voice.

Damian’s lips twitch again, and he hums obligingly, “Mhm.” Still indulgent. Still humoring you. Still not catching on.

You pull back a little, just enough to look at him properly. The lamplight turns the green of his eyes to something molten, soft and fond and dangerously open. You shift closer again, until your lips brush the shell of his ear. Damian goes very still, breath hitching like you’ve whispered something sacred already.

And then—

“Do you think…” your breath ghosts over his skin, your voice barely above a murmur, “...he can pay for Batman to come? Like– Like how those Ambani's paid for Justin Bieber to show up at their wedding?”

There’s a beat of perfect silence. Damian’s brain short-circuits. You can practically feel the moment his romantic composure collapses.

He doesn’t even answer you at first—he just huffs a quiet, incredulous laugh against your neck. Then, before you can say another word, he nips your ear in retaliation, just sharp enough to make you yelp.

“OW—Damian!” you hiss, half laughing, half scandalized.

“You deserved that,” he murmurs against your skin, voice warm and low, his smile audible.

“Admit it,” you grin, rubbing your ear and pretending to glare at him, “it’s a good idea.”

He leans in again, close enough that you feel his breath when he speaks. “You,” he says, tone caught somewhere between exasperation and affection, “are absolutely insufferable.”

And then softer, so soft it’s almost a secret:

“Yes. Yes,ʿAsalī, anything you want, I'll make sure Batman is at our wedding.”

And Damian Wayne never lies to you.

You squeal for joy and he has to protect your hands that still have the wet mehendi as you wrap your arms around his neck.

ᵈⁱᵛⁱᵈᵉʳ ᵇʸ ᶜᵘʳˢᵉᵈ⁻ᶜᵃʳᵐⁱⁿᵉ

“اللمس هو آخر أشكال الأُلفة التي نعرفها” master list ! [this series]

authors note! I hope you enjoy and if you want to be put on a tag list for this fandom/boy comment and I will add you! ദ്ദി˶ｰ̀֊ｰ́ ) my asks are always open for drabbles and just to talk or ask questions please please please let me know what you think it gives me so much motivation to write and you will be getting a new work sooner if you do ; (◞‸◟)

©shisuni 𝖺𝗅𝗅 rights reserved , 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅/𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒 𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗂/𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗀𝗉𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗂𝗍. Any oc's are not permitted to be put into other works unless dm'd, discussed, and agreed upon.

[bookwyrminspiration]

language learning is like yes I learned the word for "intestines" two months in. no I still don't know how to say "nice" after two years

[royalewritings]

AFTER HOURS 2 ❀ damian wayne

content warnings | mentioned sex

authors note | part one is here!

the elevator ride was quiet, neither of you saying a word. there was no need to. your heels echoed softly against the marble floor as you stepped out, your breath catching in your throat the second the penthouse unfolded before you.

it was… breathtaking.

a wall of floor-to-ceiling glass wrapped around the far side of the living room, opening the space into gothams skyline like a living mural— lights from skyscrapers glittering like diamonds tossed across dark velvet. the interior matched the view in quiet opulence: minimalist furniture in charcoal and dark green, subtle hints of gold in the fixtures, the kind of modern sophistication that whispered power without ever needing to raise its voice. everything was pristine, every surface polished to reflect the low golden lighting that bathed the apartment in a soft, warm glow.

you blinked, taking a slow, stunned step further inside, your voice faint. “holy shitt.”

damian didnt respond at first. he was already shrugging out of his suit jacket, his posture casual, effortless. the sharp lines of his frame softened slightly out of the office and away from the constant buzz of city chaos. his sleeves were pushed up neatly to his elbows as he moved into the open kitchen, pouring himself a drink like he hadnt just kissed you breathless over his desk less than an hour ago. you could still feel the pressure of his hands on your hips, the ghost of his mouth on your neck. but here, in his world, everything felt more intimate. this wasnt just the man who signed your paycheck.

“i wasnt expecting this,” you murmured, still dazed, as your eyes roamed the space. you turned slowly in place, taking in the smooth countertops, the soft leather furniture, the quiet hum of curated silence. “i figured you had a place somewhere— maybe near the wayne tower, but not… this.”

he looked over his shoulder at you, one brow raised, the barest smirk tugging at his lips. “what did you expect? a studio apartment with broken plumbing?”

you shook your head, half-laughing. “no, just… not paintings.”

they were subtle at first, easy to miss with everything else demanding your attention. but then your gaze landed on one above the bar. then another, just beyond the hallway arch. five or six in total, each one framed and displayed with quiet confidence. they werent generic hotel-room pieces or mass-produced prints. these were original. alive with brushstrokes and movement. you took a step closer to one, brows furrowed. perfect at first glance, but something about it pulled you in— such as a memory you couldnt quite place and then your eyes found the corner.

signed in deep, deliberate ink: d. wayne.

your lips parted slightly as your eyes moved from the signature back to the man across the room. “wait… did you paint these?”

damian was already beside you when you looked back— his drink in hand, posture relaxed. he nodded once “yes,” he said, his voice low but clear. “ive always had a passion for the arts.”

you stared at him for a beat, uncertain if you were more surprised by the answer or the fact that he gave it so easily. “you mean, like… art art? brooding, brush-stained-hands, up-all-night kind of passion?”

there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes, a private sort of humor. “would you prefer i told you i spend my evenings reviewing merger contracts and financial analytics?”

your laughter escaped before you could hold it back. “honestly? yeah. i kind of thought you did. ive never even seen you leave the office before eleven.” you paused, then added dryly, “unless we were… working overtime.”

he tilted his head toward you, something smug slipping into his smirk. “youve seen me leave after midnight.”

the implication hung between you like a live wire. you rolled your eyes, fighting the heat creeping into your cheeks. “thats different. we were—”

“working?” he finished, tone darkly amused.

you elbowed him lightly, and his smirk widened. but your attention drifted back to the painting, and this time you really looked. there was something raw in the colors. texture layered over texture, like he was trying to bury something beneath it all.

your voice softened. “these are actually… amazing.”

he didnt answer, you could feel the weight of his gaze on you, like he was watching your reaction more than the art itself.

you stepped closer to another canvas, hanging just above a minimalist console. this one showed a skyline— blurry, dreamlike, like it was submerged in water. the colors bled into one another, streaked with deep blue and gold. it looked like gotham, but not any version of it youd seen. as if he was painting not the city itself, but the memory of how it felt.

“these arent just decoration,” you murmured. “you dont hang work like this unless it means something.”

his voice brushed against your ear, close and quiet. “no. i dont.”

you turned to him, brows drawn together slightly. “so why show me?”

damians eyes lingered on you for a long moment, unreadable. then his voice, steady and low, answered honestly. “because i wanted you to see something real.”

the words struck deeper than you expected, landing somewhere beneath your ribs. you swallowed hard, caught off guard by how quiet everything became in that moment. how exposed you felt, suddenly— not because of how you were dressed, but because of the way he looked at you.

your voice was barely more than a whisper “are there more?”

he downed the last of his drink, then gave a subtle nod, turning to walk deeper into the apartment. he didnt tell you to follow, there was no need to. you trailed after him through a quiet hallway lit by soft gold sconces, past a few more paintings— these ones darker, intimate, more… raw. then he stopped at a simple black door, pushing it open to reveal a large room that smelled faintly of paint.

it was his studio.

the space was alive with half-finished canvases leaning against the walls, some covered with linen sheets, others untouched. the floor was worn in places, stained with deep smudges of paint. a single tall easel stood near the skylight, basked in the last light of gothams artificial night. a small stereo sat on a shelf in the corner, silent now, but probably full of things no one else had ever heard him listen to.

you didnt realize youd moved until your fingers ghosted over the edge of his work table. it was cluttered in a way that felt lived-in but controlled— soft charcoal sticks, jars of brushes, the spiral of a sketchpad left half-open. you weren’t even sure if you were supposed to see what was inside, but your hand moved anyway, like something pulled you toward it. something unspoken. damian didnt stop you, nor did he say a word but he didn’t leave your side either. the pad was flipped just enough for you to see the top corner of a page, and you gently nudged it open. your breath caught instantly.

it was you.

a portrait, still in progress— lines soft and deliberate, shaded in with startling tenderness. your face was turned slightly, just enough to reveal the slope of your cheek, the line of your jaw and your expression… you werent posing. a quiet smile tugged at your lips in the drawing, not wide or posed, but real. one of those private, blink-and-you-miss-it moments of calm you didnt even know you wore.

hed captured it.

you stared at it for a long moment, heart crawling up into your throat. it wasnt just a sketch. it was an admission. a confession he hadnt put into words. a mirror of how he saw you when you werent looking— when your guard was down, when the world wasnt watching and he had memorized it. your fingers brushed the edge of the page, voice barely a whisper. “dami…”

he froze. your eyes lifted from the page to him, and he was already staring at you— jaw tight, a hundred emotions crashing the surface like waves trying to drown each other. you hadnt meant to say it. the nickname just slipped out, soft and full of something warm you werent ready to name but now it was between you, lingering in the air like smoke, and he didnt push it away. he didnt speak. he just watched you, calm.

you stepped closer, sketch still open between you both, and you let yourself look at him the way he had clearly been looking at you for longer than youd realized “how long have you been drawing me?”

he didnt answer right away, his voice was quiet “since the first time you smiled at me.”

your breath hitched.

that had been months ago, back when your job was still new and you were terrified of saying the wrong thing, but youd seen him pacing in his office after a board meeting and made some offhanded, sarcastic comment to cut the tension. he hadnt laughed but hed looked at you, and apparently… he hadnt stopped.

your lips brushed his slow, unhurried, like you wanted to make this moment stretch. like you didnt want it to end. your hand slipped into his hair, your other pressed to the warmth of his chest, feeling the way his heart beat under your palm. when you finally leaned back, you tilted your head slightly, teasing smile tugging at your mouth. “so,” you murmured, “does this make me your girlfriend now?”

there was a pause. he scoffed; soft, amused. “was that not obvious, ya habibi?” you blinked at the nickname, the warmth of it settling deep in your chest. the accent curled around it in a way that made your heart flutter, and you smiled up at him, eyes dancing.

“i mean… we never actually said it,” you teased. “i just wanted to hear you admit it.”

he gave you a look, part exasperation, part affection as if he wasnt used to someone getting under his skin like this and enjoying it. he leaned in again, nose brushing yours. “consider it said.”

“hm,” you hummed, eyes flicking down to his lips. “and here i thought ceos didnt commit.”

“only to things worth the time.”

the compliment made your face warm, but before you could say anything, he stepped back slightly, just enough to look at you more fully, the lines around his mouth softening. quieter now, he said, “do you wish to stay the night?”

you blinked. “maybe, why?” he looked almost shy for a moment— if that was even possible for damian wayne. his gaze dropped to your mouth, then flicked away.

“i want to make you dinner,” he said. “here. nothing fancy. just… us. my mother gifted me a cook book i havent opened yet”

your brows lifted slightly, surprised. damian wayne in a kitchen? you always imagined him having a butler. he smirked when he saw your expression. “i can follow a recipe.”

you bit your lip, a quiet smile tugging at you. “is this… a date?”

“a proper one,” he said. “one where we can do outside the office— at least until i can take you out tomorrow.”

you felt something flutter in your chest “okay,” you said softly. “but only if i get to pick the playlist.”

he exhaled a soft laugh, leaning in again to kiss you. “deal.” your forehead rested against his, lips still brushing and for a moment, the world outside his penthouse didnt exist. it was just the quiet hum of his breath, the glow of dim lights on the unfinished canvas, and the warmth of his hand at your waist.

it started with laughter. it always did with him, when the walls were down. you pulled your hair back and rolled up the sleeves of your borrowed shirt, flipping to a simple recipe— fresh pasta with garlic, basil, and olive oil. he read the steps carefully, brow furrowed like he was decoding a mission file, while you moved easily through the motions, already pulling ingredients from the fridge.

somewhere along the way, he turned to the sideboard and pulled out a record— old vinyl, something classical with soft piano and subtle strings. the music spilled into the room like water, low and rich and steady. he didn’t say anything about it, just let it play while he carefully chopped garlic, his movements precise but cautious.

the pan sizzled. the room smelled like warmth and herbs. you stirred the sauce while he worked beside you, sleeves rolled, hair slightly mussed, his hands moving with a care you didn’t usually see in the office. there was something almost boyish about him here— less perfect, more human

“youre surprisingly competent,” you teased as he poured in the oil.

he gave you a look. “i read instructions. unlike you, who just eyeballs everything and calls it art.”

you shrugged. “it is art. food is expression.”

“expression should not involve four cloves of garlic when the recipe calls for two.”

“im passionate.”

“youre reckless.”

you laughed and then you turned toward him. slowly. the kitchen warm, the air filled with scent and steam, the world reduced to this tiny moment. he looked at you, one brow raised as if waiting for another joke. you didnt speak. you just held out your hand. “dance with me.”

his mouth parted like he wanted to argue but he didnt. instead, he set the spoon down beside the pan, wiped his fingers on a dish towel, and slid his hand into yours. the music shifted, soft violins rising over the steady piano. his other hand settled low at your waist, yours curling against his shoulder. you fit together like something practiced as youd done this before in another life. the pan hissed quietly behind you, garlic simmering, sauce bubbling low. “this isnt in the recipe,” he murmured against your ear, voice low and rough.

“you sure?” you smiled, resting your head on his chest. “pretty sure page sixty-seven said something about slow dancing while the sauce thickens.” you didnt expect him to actually follow your silly request to dance, nor even get close to him so soon.

he huffed, amused, but didnt let go. his fingers brushed the small of your back, grounding and careful. for a man so often carved from steel, he touched you like you were the only soft thing he trusted not to break him, like you were a delicate flower to him.

“you always like this?” he asked, voice barely above the music. you looked up, eyes catching his “like what?”

“messy. chaotic.”

you grinned. “youll learn to love it.” he didnt answer. he just kissed you— slow, his hand sliding up to cradle your jaw. his lips were surprisingly soft against your own. when you pulled back, your eyes were glassy from heat and light and the dizzy closeness of him. your hand resting on his chest, swaying gently to the music.

“next time,” you whispered, “you pick the recipe.” he smirked. “next time, im ordering takeout.” he was still smiling when he pressed his forehead to yours. as the moment softened, your lips met his once more, completely forgetting the boiling sauce on the burner.

✿ Do not repost, translate, or alter my work. — © @quackywrites

[jellyfishsthings]

Damian wayne x shy!reader who have been in a secret relationship for a LONG while, I mean highschool sweethearts that got married, then the batfam finds out and flips

Seven Years of Secrets

navigation , dc navigation

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

The phone call came at 2:47 AM on a Tuesday, which should have been Damian's first warning that something was about to go catastrophically wrong.

"Robin's been injured," Oracle's voice crackled through his secure line, professional but tinged with concern. "Knife wound to the abdomen. He's stable, but Batman's bringing him to the Cave now."

Your heart dropped to somewhere around your knees as you sat up in bed, immediately reaching for the clothes you kept ready for exactly these situations. Beside you, your husband's phone buzzed insistently against the nightstand.

Husband. Even after six months of marriage, seven years of being together, the word still sent a little thrill through you.

"I have to go," you whispered, though Damian couldn't hear you through the phone.

You'd perfected this routine over the years. Damian would go on patrol, you'd stay awake reading until you got the all-clear text, and if something went wrong, you'd meet him at the predetermined location. Tonight, that was Gotham General's emergency room, where you'd play the role of concerned friend while Alfred or Bruce handled the official family responsibilities.

What you hadn't accounted for was Bruce's decision to bring Damian directly to the Cave instead.

By the time you made it to the hospital and realized Damian wasn't there, panic had set in completely. Your shy nature, which Damian had always found endearing, became a liability as you struggled to demand information from the night staff. Eventually, you gave up on subtlety and did something you'd never done in seven years of dating a Wayne:

You drove straight to the Manor.

The grandfather clock was already open when you arrived, probably from Bruce and Damian's return. You'd only been to the Cave a handful of times, always with Damian, and never during a crisis. The sound of your footsteps echoed off the stone walls as you hurried down the steps, your heart hammering against your ribs.

"... told you the wound isn't that deep," Damian was saying as you rounded the corner, and the relief at hearing his voice nearly made your knees buckle.

He was sitting on a medical cot, shirtless, while Alfred stitched up a gash along his ribs. Bruce stood nearby still in most of his Batman gear, cowl down, discussing something in low tones with Tim, who was typing rapidly on a computer. Dick was there too, and Stephanie, and...

"Oh," you breathed, stopping short as six pairs of eyes suddenly fixed on you.

The silence that followed was deafening.

"Beloved," Damian said, his voice soft with surprise and something that might have been panic. "What are you doing here?"

The endearment hung in the air like a bomb about to explode. You watched realization dawn on Bruce's face, followed quickly by Tim's, then Dick's. Stephanie's eyes went wide, and Alfred's hands never paused in their stitching, but you caught the slight raise of his eyebrow.

"I..." you started, then stopped, looking helplessly at Damian. "Oracle said you were hurt. I went to the hospital, but you weren't there, and I thought..." Your voice cracked slightly. "I was scared."

"You went to the hospital," Bruce repeated slowly, his detective's mind clearly working. "In the middle of the night. For Robin."

"For Damian," you corrected without thinking, then immediately wished you could take it back.

"Holy shit," Tim said, fingers frozen over his keyboard. "Holy shit."

"Language, Master Tim," Alfred murmured, but there was something almost amused in his tone.

"How long?" Dick asked, stepping closer with that easy smile that didn't quite hide the intense curiosity in his eyes. "Sorry, I'm Dick, Damian's ..."

"Brother," you finished quietly. "I know who you are. All of you."

The silence stretched again, heavy with implications.

"How long?" Bruce asked, echoing Dick's question, and there was something in his voice—not anger, exactly, but a kind of controlled intensity that made you want to hide behind Damian.

Damian sighed, carefully moving away from Alfred's finished stitching to reach for a shirt. "Father..."

"Seven years," you said quickly, before you could lose your nerve. If this was happening, it was better to rip the band-aid off completely. "We've been together since we were fifteen."

"Seven years?" Stephanie's voice went up an octave. "You've been dating for seven years and none of us knew?"

"We weren't just dating," Damian said quietly, and you felt your cheeks burn as he pulled his shirt over his head. "We're married."

The explosion of voices was immediate.

"MARRIED?"

"When?!"

"How did we not know this?"

"Oh my God, Bruce, did you know about this?"

"I most certainly did not..."

"QUIET," Bruce's voice cut through the chaos, and the Cave fell silent again. He was staring at Damian with an expression you couldn't quite read. "Married. When?"

"Six months ago," Damian replied, moving to stand beside you. His hand found yours, squeezing gently, and you felt some of your panic ease at the familiar comfort of his touch.

"Six months," Bruce repeated flatly.

"The ceremony was small," you offered helplessly. "Just us and the officiant. We were planning to tell everyone soon, we just..."

"Just what?" Dick asked, and he sounded more hurt than angry. "Didn't trust us? Thought we wouldn't be happy for you?"

"It wasn't about trust," Damian said firmly. "It was about privacy. About having something that was just ours."

"I'm shy," you added quietly, then immediately felt stupid for the understatement. "I mean...this is a lot. Your family, the attention, the scrutiny. Damian was protecting me from all of this." You gestured vaguely at the group of costumed vigilantes staring at you.

"Protecting you from us?" Tim asked, sounding almost offended.

"Not from you specifically," you said quickly. "From... the pressure, I guess. The questions, the analysis. I knew that once everyone found out, everything would change."

"And you thought that was a bad thing?" Bruce asked, his voice gentler than before.

You looked up at Damian, who squeezed your hand encouragingly. "I love him," you said simply. "I've loved him since we were fifteen years old. But dating a Wayne, being married to one, it's not just about us anymore, is it? It's about public appearances and media attention and security concerns and..." You gestured helplessly again. "I just wanted to be his wife for a while before I had to be Damian Wayne's wife, if that makes sense."

The silence that followed was different this time, thoughtful rather than shocked.

"It makes perfect sense," Alfred said quietly, beginning to pack away his medical supplies. "If I may say so, Master Damian, you chose well."

"I know," Damian replied, the pride in his voice making your cheeks warm.

"Okay but seriously," Stephanie said, dropping down onto a nearby chair. "Seven years? And none of us suspected anything? I mean, we knew Damian was seeing someone, but..."

"You knew?" Bruce interrupted.

"Well, yeah," Dick said, as if it was obvious. "He's been sneaking out for years, always in a good mood when he comes back, constantly texting someone. Plus he smiles now, which was pretty much proof positive that there was a girl involved."

"You've been investigating me," Damian said dryly.

"We've been worried about you," Tim corrected. "You've been living a double life!"

"We all live double lives," Damian pointed out. "It's the family business."

"That's different and you know it," Bruce said, but his voice had lost its sharp edge. He was studying you both with that analytical look you'd heard Damian describe countless times. "Why now? Why reveal everything tonight?"

"We weren't planning to," you admitted. "I just... when I heard he was hurt, I stopped thinking clearly. I just needed to see that he was okay."

"She drove straight through downtown Gotham at 3 AM because she was worried about me," Damian said, and there was something soft and wondering in his voice, like he still couldn't quite believe it.

"Of course I did," you said, looking at him in confusion. "You're my husband."

"Husband," Dick repeated, shaking his head. "I still can't believe it. Our baby brother is married."

"I'm not a baby," Damian protested.

"You're the youngest," Stephanie pointed out. "That makes you the baby. Especially now that we know you've been hiding a whole wife from us."

"I wasn't hiding her," Damian said defensively. "I was protecting our privacy."

"By lying to us for seven years?" Tim asked.

"By omission, not commission," Damian replied. "It's not the same thing."

"It absolutely is the same thing," Bruce said, but he was almost smiling now. "Though I have to admit, I'm impressed. Keeping a secret from this family for seven years is no small feat."

"So you're not angry?" you asked hesitantly.

Bruce looked at you for a long moment, then at Damian, then back at you. "I'm... processing," he said finally. "But no, I'm not angry. Surprised, yes. A little hurt that you felt you couldn't trust us with this, but not angry."

"I'd like to meet her properly," Alfred said, pulling off his medical gloves. "Perhaps for tea tomorrow? I believe we have much to discuss."

"I'd like that," you said, meaning it.

"I have so many questions," Tim said, pulling up a chair. "Like, logistics questions. How did you manage the secret marriage? What about documentation? Insurance? Tax implications?"

"Tim," Dick said warningly.

"What? These are important questions!"

"Can we maybe save the interrogation for later?" Damian asked dryly. "My wife just discovered that my family consists entirely of detectives and vigilantes. Give her a moment to adjust."

"Wife," Stephanie said dreamily. "This is so weird. Good weird!" she added quickly at your expression. "Just... we went from 'Damian might be dating someone' to 'Damian has a whole wife' in about five minutes."

"To be fair," you said quietly, "you went from 'Robin got stabbed' to 'Robin has been lying about being married' in the same five minutes. I think we're all adjusting."

That startled a laugh out of Dick, and the tension in the room eased considerably.

"She has a point," he said, grinning. "This has been a very eventful night."

"Indeed it has," Alfred agreed. "Perhaps we should adjourn for now? Master Damian needs rest, and I suspect everyone could use some time to process this development."

"Good idea," Bruce said, though he was still looking at you and Damian with that thoughtful expression. "But this conversation isn't over. We have a lot to discuss."

"I know," Damian said. "We both know."

As everyone began to disperse, you found yourself face to face with Bruce. Up close, the family resemblance between him and Damian was striking—the same sharp jawline, the same intense eyes.

"Welcome to the family," he said quietly. "Officially, this time."

"Thank you," you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

"For what it's worth," he continued, "anyone who can keep Damian happy for seven years and convince him to let his guard down enough to get married... you must be pretty extraordinary."

You felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes. "I love him," you said simply.

"I can see that," Bruce replied, and his smile was gentle, paternal. "And he loves you. That's what matters."

As you and Damian finally made your way out of the Cave and back to your car, you couldn't help but laugh a little at the absurdity of it all.

"Well," you said as Damian carefully settled into the passenger seat, mindful of his stitches. "That went better than expected."

"Did it?" Damian asked dryly.

"No one threatened to run a background check on me," you pointed out.

"Give them time," Damian replied, but he was smiling. "Are you okay? With all of this?"

You considered the question as you started the car. "Ask me tomorrow," you said finally. "After I've had tea with Alfred and been properly interrogated by Tim."

"Beloved," Damian said softly, reaching for your hand.

"I'm okay," you said, meaning it. "Scared, but okay. It feels good, actually. Not having to hide anymore."

"Good," Damian said, bringing your joined hands to his lips to press a gentle kiss to your knuckles. "Because I'm rather tired of pretending you're just my friend when you're the most important person in my life."

"Most important person in your life, huh?" you teased, pulling out of the Manor's driveway.

"My wife," Damian corrected, and the word still sent butterflies through your stomach. "Always."

Seven years of secrets, and now the hardest part was over. Everything else, meeting with Bruce, tea with Alfred, Tim's inevitable interrogation, the family dynamics you'd have to navigate, all of that seemed manageable now.

After all, you'd already survived the worst part: watching the love of your life get hurt and not being able to do anything about it.

Everything else was just details.

[babythreelover]

College Au!Damian Wayne blurbs

Most likely you’re not living on campus. The two of you have your own little place close to campus, so you two don’t have to walk far. If you both go to different colleges then it’s closer to yours. Decorated with both your little trinkets and a hint of that monochrome style I think he’d decorate in. When friends are coming over they’re so confused lol 

But, if you want to live on campus, be ready to always let him into the building. Like if they have locks and such, he’ll play the role of “waiting boyfriend outside” knowing damn well he can pick the lock so easily and just let himself in. But most of the time, he’s coming in through the window. No matter the floor. 

Because of this the two of you have a slotted time he’s allowed too, because your roommate would just absolutely freak if they saw someone come through your window causally. Even more so if you’re on the fourth floor of the building. 

No terrible cafeteria food for you. Your dorm/apartment is always scarringly stocked with your favorites and healthy food. You think that he has a secret grocery shopper hired for you, since whenever you’re low more magically gets delivered at your doorstep. After about a month you start to miss the shitty cafeteria food on campus. 

The first day you moved into your dorm/apartment he’s staying until so late into the night. Helping watching him decorate your dorm for him, because you’ve “already done too much carrying items up stairs” when moving in. Takes you out to dinner, and is very grumpy about being asked to leave when you want to have some time alone. I can imagine him trying to hide that it’s not a big deal and he’s not grumpy, but he is. 

Always over. When talking over rules with your roommate they thought you were joking when you said your boyfriend was more clingy than most. Most of the time when they come back to class he’s there, or perhaps the two of you are cuddling. And Damian ALWAYS complains about your twin xl, no matter how many mattress toppers or blankets and plushies there are. Always tries to convince you to go over to his place. 

Random packages in the mail room. If you get alerts you get them so out of the blue, you don’t remember ordering a package??? He knows your mail box address and number if you have one. There’s always a letter or blurb attached to it too. It’s not like thousands of dollars high end items(you told him you were uncomfortable with them, he looked offended but totally respected it) but items that he knows you enjoy/need. 

You have a box of hand written letters under your bed from him. Whenever a lecture goes shitty or a test is failed and you feel ready to cry or overwhelmed, you read them. Does it make you cry more? Yes. Does it also make you feel better? Also yes. Whenever he’s over he somehow adds more letters/diy items when you’re not looking, so it’s a small surprise every time. Something to brighten up your day.

Requests are open!!

[nanaminslut]

18+. minors do not interact

pt 1 here

ever since husband!nanami in his dad mode had became your newfound kink, you found yourself squeezing your thighs together at the way he could go from one type of father to the next.

he was the playful father, skittish and always up for a pretend tea party or a bluey marathon.

you’d be walking down the hall with a tall basket of laundry, suddenly overhearing a ridiculous fake british accent that you knew wasn’t coming from your six year old daughter. when you’d peak inside of the pink abode, kento would be sitting at your daughters miniature play table, pouring pretend tea for all of the surrounding plushies, in a crooked plastic tiara.

your daughter would come bouncing from her toy bin, juggling her bratz dolls who were also set to join the party. “mr. mochi says thank you for the spot of tea. now pour some for sasha!”

“with pleasure my lady.”

he was the attentive father, being all ears for your oldest daughters 7th grade drama.

you would glance from your grounded spot at the stove, making dinner as she’d barge into his toy littered office. she’d ignore the toddler who’d be crashing her barbie convertible into his desk repeatedly, huffing in a fit of frustration and plopping down into the seat adjacent to him.

“and then she passed him a note in class, she knows that i like him– daddy are you listening?”

“mhm, you like devin but jamie likes devin and jamie’s your best friend and only started liking him because you like him.” he said, never looking up from his computer, missing not a single beat.

“EXACTLY! wait, were you also listening when i asked for these fulani braids too?”

“yes sweetheart, let me know how much.”

but he was also the strict father, especially when it came to his wife. he made the line between father and friend very clear. and something he also made clear was that his daughters would never disrespect their mother.

so when he was serious… he was serious.

and it did something to your insides that you never knew was feasible.

children could be– a lot. some nights just like tonight, you’d be at the dinner table arguing with a thirteen and six year old for two separate reasons, at the same time, head spinning trying to get one to put her phone down while also trying to get the other to eat her vegetables. your toddler would be messily smearing mashed potatoes onto her clothes, that being your finally straw.

that was until your husband came down from his shower, grey sweats on, tight white tee, running a towel through his blonde locks and ready to run your dining room like the navy.

“what’s all this yelling i’m hearing? huh?!” his voice boomed, bouncing off of the high ceilings of your home. you and your girls went equally silent. you didn’t even do a thing wrong, yet still shut your mouth when he commanded the room.

after a beat, your oldest dared to open her mouth. “i just wanted to text my friend back! but mom is being a–” your neck went back, eyes widening. yet before you could get a word out, your husband moved down the stairs with quickness.

“she’s being a what?” his face went red, neck popping with thick, angry veins. “yeah go ‘head and say it, i fucking dare you.” his hand snatched the phone from her and pocketed it away. your daughter shrunk into her chair at the way her father sneered his words, and kento wasn’t finished just yet. “your room. now. and sit that ipad in my office while you’re at it. getting too fucking comfortable.”

you couldn’t help the way you were gawking at him. your eyes trailed from the way his sharp eyebrows furrowed, down to his tight, chiseled jawline and how it ticked with anger. his body stiffened, muscles bulging with a heat of rage. oh… oh. you held your lip between your teeth, not even noticing your daughter stomping up the stairs, making sure to close her room door quietly since she knew her father would be listening. he turned to your middle child next.

“and i better see that plate clean, otherwise you’ll be sleeping at this table tonight, you hear me? giving your mother a hard time for what?!”

“but i don’t want it daddy!”

“i don’t give a shit about what you want, i said i better see it clean! you wanted all of those snacks after school, so now you’re going to want those goddamn vegetables. you’re another one thinking you’re slick. sick of the both of you.”

he trodded over to your toddler, letting her free from her chair and holding her inches away from his face. “and baby this is not where your food goes, mommy makes it for your tummy, not your onesie, let’s get you a bath sweet girl.”

just like that, he diffuses every problem you have while leaving your panties soaked.

by the time he’s done with your daughters, you’re perched up against your granite counters, growing tipsy with a well needed glass of wine. you watch him with drunken eyes, swirling the liquid in your glass and taking another sip. “god, sometimes they can be so infuriating. and that one up there? no clue when she started thinking it was okay to even utter a swear word.” you figured he probably didn’t realize how he was slamming things around. he dried your glass plates roughly, nearly breaking them with his strength.

out of the corner of his eye he could see how you were checking him out. that exact same stare he felt boring into him from the other day at breakfast. kento finally figured out that sick little kink of yours. “does my anger turn you on or something? you like this?” he twisted the sink off and dropped the dishes in to soak in the warm water.

“no kento. you being a father turns me on.”

silence stretched. “hm… really?” he drawled. “you know, i was your daddy long before i was theirs.” that sentence caught you off guard, air catching in your throat for a moment. “it used to be you that i’d have to yell at because you could never fucking listen.”

“hm… really?” you pouted, mocking him with the same words he just said. your liquid confidence probably making you too confident. he let out a deep, long, throaty sigh. kento dried his hands on the towel and slid it across your counter, going from feet away to right in front of your face.

“thought i was done dealing with brats tonight. but i always have time for my favorite one.” you had time to process nothing after that, kento didn’t let you. he didn’t have to say much either, rough hands handling you like a rag doll, twisting you around and pushing you onto the kitchen island. his hands ripped your tights down impatiently along with your panties, puffy, wet pussy hitting the cool air. his sweats went next, dropping low around his thighs, being held up by all of the muscle that resided there.

“me being a father turns your slutty ass on right? so give me another one right now then. i want that test on my desk in two weeks time.”

your cunt squeezed out globs of arousal, clenching around nothing but his lewd, harsh words. “trying to parent my kids and here you are getting soaked over it like a common whore.” he spat, words mean and nasty. you glanced behind you just slightly, being caught off guard when he took your fresh wash and go and wrapped it around his fist. a yelp fell from your mouth as he pulled you up against his hard chest.

“ken–”

he chucked. “nah none of that ken shit tonight,” his voice mimicked the cry of his name coming from your mouth. he pressed against you aggressively and your ass grinded down instinctively. his heavy cock sank deep into your heat, causing your mouth to fall lower with every inch that entered. “like it when i play daddy right? i got a million fucking kids right here for you then. gonna fill this pussy right on up, and you’ll take every drop won’t you pretty girl?” your manicured hands clutched the island, only responding with strewn moans and grunts.

“yes ken–”

his hand tugged you back again. “i’m sorry, who?”

“daddy,” you purred. “yes daddy i’ll take every drop!”

“gooood girl. now shut the fuck up and take this shit. if you wake my daughters up then we’ll have a real problem.”

the next morning you had deemed yourself successful with being able to keep quiet. your sore body limped its way around the kitchen, as an un-phased kento walked around shirtless, in normal dad mode kento fashion. one shoulder being occupied with your toddler, the other flexing as he flipped eggs and bacon in the same pan for your other two girls.

the morning was peaceful, until of course, your six year old had her observations. “mommy, why were you yelling at daddy last night?”

you turned to her, confused. “huh baby? no i wasn’t?”

“yes you were! you were screaming at him all night! is daddy in trouble?” all of the color had faded from your light/dark/brown skin. you sat there, unmoving, choked up with absolutely nothing to say.

“ah no sweetheart,” your husband spoke. “mommy’s the one who’s in trouble now.”

[deadpoetskin]

SHE DOES, MINE

SYNOPSIS: Damian Wayne has never been the kind of man to fall in love halfway. And when he loves, he does it with all the ferocity and devotion of someone who was trained to safeguard what he holds most dear So when the girl he loves shines—he makes sure the world never dims her PAIRINGS: Aged Up! Damian Wayne x Reader TAGS: Romance, Fluff, Implied Dick x Kori, Implied Tim x Kon

🜼 :: i've seen too much alpha male content on tiktok i had to write this masterpiece to calm myself

🜼 :: i get that this might be ooc for damian—like i said, i'm not very familiar with the canon material yet—but i don't care because this is my fic and i can do what i want with it

🜼 :: i wanted to post this before part three of my tim fic just 'cause that one isn't quite done yet. i'm not yet satisfied with the way i've written it so this is a little something to have while you guys wait for that one.

There’s something in her—

Something radiant.

It’s not loud or dramatic.

Not desperate or flashy.

It’s just… bright.

The way she walks into a room and transforms it, like someone opened the windows and let the sunlight in—suddenly everything feels warmer, clearer, alive.

Damian fell in love with that brightness.

And the moment he did?

He made it his job to protect it.

One Year Ago

He showed up on her window balcony with a dislocated shoulder and a look that said: don’t ask.

So she didn’t.

She just opened the window, said, “You’re bleeding on my basil,” and went to get the first aid kit.

They weren’t dating then. Not really.

He was Damian Wayne. She was the girl who sat beside him in class—lip gloss always perfect, boots too pretty for Gotham grime, with a knack for saying something ridiculous and making it sound profound.

They met in a Philosophy 101 elective.

He thought she was an idiot for quoting Barbie.

She thought he was repressing sixteen years of rage and probably slept with his fists clenched.

Both were right.

But they also partnered on a debate project, complained about their annoying classmates, and kept running into each other at increasingly inconvenient moments.

He’d show up to class with split knuckles and a stitched lip, and she wouldn’t ask. She’d just pass him an ice cold water bottle, slide her hoodie over for him to use as a makeshift ice pack, and keep talking like nothing was unusual.

One time he came in with blood drying beneath his collar. She only raised an eyebrow, moved her takeout box closer to him, and said, “The garlic bread is still warm.”

When he disappeared for five days and returned, knocking on her door—limping, face paler than usual and shoulder stiff—she didn’t ask where he’d been. She just opened her door, pointed him to the couch, made soup, and put on a movie he once mentioned he enjoyed.

He stopped showing up anywhere else after long nights. Only her window.

They weren’t supposed to fall in love. He wasn’t supposed to fall in love

There were too many unsaid things between them—too much shadow in his world, too much light in hers. He carried weight in his shoulders like he was always bracing for war. She wore joy like armor, all sunshine and clever comebacks, like she could survive anything as long as she stayed golden.

But he kept coming back. For her. For the way she patched him up in glittery pajamas and brewed him coffee the way he liked it. For how she met every argument he made—disarming his logic with a well-placed “actually”—and still managed to be gentle about it, like she was offering correction with a ribbon tied around it.

For the way she made being brilliant look fun—and made him feel things he wasn’t supposed to. Things he didn’t have the time or luxury for.

It drove him insane.

He called her infuriating. She called him dramatic.

He kept coming back. And she let him.

Eventually, he told her. About Robin. About the League. About the fact that he wasn’t just bruised from bar fights, but from chasing actual death through rooftops and gutters.

She blinked. Took a breath. Then asked, “So that’s why you’re so bad at texting back?”

He stared.

She handed him his coffee. “Cool. That explains a lot.”

Now

Damian Wayne doesn’t do anything halfway.

Not in battle. Not in love.

So when it came to her—there was never going to be anything halfway about it.

He calculated the risk, weighed the consequences, and still handed her the keys.

He didn’t accidentally fall in love.

He didn’t casually let her into the Bat-side of his life.

And he’s sure as hell not going to keep living under the same roof as his gossiping, nosy, emotionally invasive brothers when he could be waking up next to her in a place of their own.

So yes.

The only logical next step?

Move out. Take her with him.

“Damian. Baby. Love of my life. Please do not fold my dress like it’s a tactical vest.”

She didn’t even look up from her side of the room, where she was carefully organizing makeup into a padded case like it was crown jewels. Damian, meanwhile, was frowning over her favorite silk dress, currently flattened into a rectangle.

“It wrinkles when you pack it like that,” she said, tone calm but pointed—clearly watching him out of the corner of her eye.

“It’s more space-efficient,” he said flatly, still folding.

“It’s Dior.”

“That doesn’t make it less wrinkle-prone.”

She sighed, standing up and crossing the room to peel the dress from his hands. “This is why you’re not allowed near my closet unsupervised.”

“I rescued a civilian diplomat in less time than it’s taking you to pack makeup,” he muttered, watching as she delicately re-folded the fabric with a practiced roll.

“And yet here you are,” she said softly, “ still showing up for me anyway.”

He flies her to the new place—not because it’s far, but because he likes the way her eyes light up when he does things like that. Private jet. Window seat. Her favorite drink already waiting.

The residence is technically still in Gotham.

Discreet. Reinforced. High above the noise.

A penthouse—three levels of clean lines and curated light. 

The kitchen looks like it was designed for a cooking show.

There’s library already holds all her annotated books, shelved just the way she likes them.

Their bedroom has blackout curtains, soft sheets, and her favorite throw blanket folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

She’s silent for a long moment. Then:

“You decorated.”

“Tt. I’m not a savage.”

The adjustment, the rhythm, the quiet luxury of building something together.

It doesn’t happen all at once. But the space eventually starts to feel like them—like a home.

Damian, ever precise, takes to domesticity the way he does combat: intensely, instinctively, and with startling dedication. 

He remembers—too clearly—those nights she wordlessly cleaned the blood from his knuckles, nudged a warm bowl of fresh soup toward him, handed him a fresh shirt and didn’t ask questions.

Back then, he hadn’t known how to say thank you. So now, he shows it in the only way he knows how: by making her life gentler wherever he can. By handling the sharp corners before she gets near them. By protecting her from the quiet exhaustion she never complains about.

It starts small.

She’s humming—soft, distracted—while folding towels on a quiet Sunday afternoon.

Damian walks in.

Pauses. Frowns slightly.

“Beloved.”

“Hmm?”

“You shouldn’t be doing that.”

“It’s laundry. I’m not battling Deathstroke.”

“Still.”

Two days later, every piece of clothing she owned—including ones she didn’t remember buying—was folded, hung, and steam-pressed in perfectly color-coded rows.

No explanation.

Just a silent housekeeper named Marta, who appears twice a week like clockwork.

“Why?” she asks later, a little amused.

“Because you were humming,” he says simply. “And your voice is better when you’re not tired.”

She doesn’t cook. Unless you count heating water for tea.

Every morning, she wakes up to a pre-set breakfast bar tailored to her weekly cravings.

Avocados? Already sliced.

Eggs, soft-boiled for exactly six minutes? Naturally.

Chocolate-dipped strawberries on Tuesdays? Of course.

She once jokingly asked for pancakes shaped like bats.

The plate was waiting the next morning—complete with tiny edible batarangs. 

“You know I can cook, right?”  she once mumbled, more puzzled than insistent. 

Damian, without looking up from his tablet, “You could also write a thesis in glitter gel pen. Doesn’t mean you should.” 

She doesn’t grocery shop. She’s never had to. 

The fridge is always stocked. The pantry never dips below half. The fruit is always fresh, the snacks never stale, and somehow, everything she loves appears just before she realizes she’s craving it.

The exact brand of instant ramen she lives on during final?

Local lemonade she swears tastes better than store-bought?

Her favorite brand of oat milk that always sells out?

It’s just there. Always. As if the universe anticipated it

—or Damian Wayne.

He’d hired a private grocer before they even moved in. Arranged deliveries on a rotating schedule. Commissioned a smart inventory system that flagged replacements before she noticed anything missing. 

There’s no grocery list taped to the fridge, no scribbled reminders on the counter, no panicked “we’re out of milk” moment. It just… never happens.

“Did you go to the store?” she asked once, squinting at the restocked shelf of her favorite jam.

“No,” Damian said. “The store comes to us.”

She doesn’t clean.

Not because she’s lazy.

Because Damian has built a life where she simply doesn’t have to.

The housekeeper arrives exactly when they’re out.

The vacuum runs on a silent schedule while they sleep.

There’s a scent diffuser system that releases calming scents like warm vanilla and fresh linen. 

The kinds of scents that say: You’re home.

She tried to vacuum once.

He unplugged the cord without a word, handed her a cup of tea, and delegated the task to Marta.

“This feels excessive,” she said once, laughing.

“No,” Damian answered. “It’s called priorities.”

“Priorities?”

“Yes. You have better things to do than chase dust bunnies.”

She huffed a laugh. “Like what?”

“Being brilliant. Annoying me. Tending to your garden of plants you call your children.”

“Your attention is a resource I refuse to waste on dust.” he said simply.

The only time she ever picked up a broom was to threaten Jason with it.

She asked him once.

“Is this a power thing?” she’d asked, curled in his lap on their couch.

“Are you trying to take care of me because you think I can’t?”

He had looked at her then, calm and deadly sincere.

“No. I’m taking care of you because you shouldn’t have to waste your time doing menial things. Because your time is valuable. Because your mind is extraordinary. Because I can.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just rested her head against his shoulder, eyes soft.

“You know I’d do the same for you, right?”

“I know,” he murmured, brushing his fingers through her hair. “That’s why I won’t let you beat me to it.”

“You protect the city,” she tells him once. “And I don’t even do the dishes.”

He looks at her like she’s lost her mind.

“You protect me.”

He said it like a fact.

And she didn’t laugh. Didn’t roll her eyes or argue like she usually might.

It was ridiculous. Over the top. The kind of thing people say in movies, in poems, in love songs whispered between verses.

But the thing about Damian Wayne was—

To him, her happiness wasn’t a luxury. It was a metric. A criteria for what was worth her time, her effort, her energy.

If it drained her, it was cut. If it bored her, it was handled. If it made her pause too long before smiling, it was gone by morning.

“But Damian—”

“If it doesn’t make you happy,” he said, quietly, forehead pressed to hers, “it doesn’t belong in your day.”

One of the things she does do—without fail—is wait up.

Damian came back with blood on his sleeve and exhaustion in his bones. The patrol had gone longer than expected, and the gash across his arm told her more than any debrief ever could.

She met him at the balcony window, arms crossed, your expression sharp with worry poorly disguised as irritation.

“We are having words,” she said firmly.

“I neutralized a threat—” he started, voice hoarse.

“No,” she interrupted, stepping forward and grabbing his uninjured wrist. “We are having nourishment, then words. In that order.”

He grunted something unintelligible, but didn’t pull away. Let her guide him out of his boots. Let her steer him to the kitchen. Let her fuss over him even as he rolled his eyes and muttered that he was fine.

Damian Wayne might be a soldier, might be lethal, might have faced down warlords and monsters—

But in her hands, he was just a man who needed soup, stitches, and someone to tell him not to bleed on the countertop.

And she always did. Every time.

“You disobeyed a direct girlfriend command,” she said, dabbing antiseptic on his scrapes and bruises. “I should revoke your forehead kisses.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” he grunted.

She simply leaned in, kissed his brow—gentle, lingering, a silent promise—and whispered, “Next time you come home bleeding, I will.”

It makes her happy, he knows.

To help.

To protect him the way he protects her.

To be part of this secret thing that is his, and now, theirs.

And because he has her…

He trains harder. Fights harder. Smarter. Cleaner.

He fights with her voice echoing in his ear, and with the knowledge that if he slips—if he falters—it will scare her.

“You did good tonight,” she says after every patrol. “Come home safe. That’s all I want.”

So he does.

Because she keeps him steady.

Keeps him from going too far, from losing himself in the mission.

From the silence that used to follow him home.

It was the first time she’d ever hosted anything in their penthouse.

She’d sent the invite on impulse, halfway through raiding the pantry for snacks. Damian hadn’t said anything when he saw the group chat name pop up. He only raised a brow and muttered something about “surviving one evening of meddling.”

The Gotham Partners Support Group™ hangout? snacks, drinks, and possibly unsolicited love advice

KORI: absolutely, i will bring flowers!! KON: on my way as long as no one makes me play charades DICK: lies, you love it

She laughed out loud reading it, already half-buzzing with excitement.

Kori’s heels click against the polished marble, echoing softly through the open space.

Kon lets out a low whistle when he sees the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Dick stops in front of the kitchen island, eyebrows raised. “Is that real marble?”

Tim pretends not to be impressed, but his fingers haven’t stopped tracing the edge of the built-in espresso bar for five solid minutes.

There’s music—soft. Lighting—warm, romantic. Scents—floral and calming.

And in the middle of it all is her, radiant in pink silk shorts and a cardigan she didn’t button up all the way, offering fresh lemonade in glasses that chill themselves.

Kon accepts his with both hands, eyes wide as he takes in the curated calm of the space.

“This is what you live like?” he asks her, somewhere between awe and disbelief.

Tim doesn’t look up from where he’s adding a lemon slice to his own glass. “This is what Damian insisted she live like.”

Kon whistles low. “Damn. I get it now.”

Kon finds the in-house massage chair. Within seconds, he’s flat on his back, eyes closed, muttering something about never leaving.

Dick discovers the balcony garden—rows of herbs, sun-warmed terracotta, and a vine-draped bench with a throw pillow. He whistles low, brushing his fingers over the rosemary. “Didn’t know Damian had a green thumb.”

“He doesn’t,” she calls from the kitchen. “I do. He just bought the balcony.”

Kori, meanwhile, opens the walk-in pantry—and promptly gasps. “You have an entire section just for different kinds of honey??”

“I like options.”, she beams.

Jason hasn’t even shown up yet, and already the place is buzzing.

Kon’s half-asleep in the massage chair, murmuring threats to anyone who tries to make him move. Dick is crouched in the garden corner, dramatically sniffing potted herbs and assigning them names with far too much confidence. Kori’s opened three jars of honey for “taste-testing purposes” and is now trying to convince Damian to try the lavender one on toast.

Tim is loitering by the drinks counter, drink in one hand, the other typing furiously on his phone, pretending not to laugh at the chaos around him.

And through it all, she’s just laughing—at ease, perfectly unbothered—as Damian leans against the kitchen island behind her, watching it all unfold with a look that says: this is his personal hell and also he’s never been happier.

They gather around the low table in the lounge—pillows everywhere, soft throws tossed over laps, bowls of popcorn and fancy chips within reach, half-finished drinks sweating on coasters. Laughter echoes off the high ceilings, warm and unhurried.

Kori nudges her with a grin, eyes sparkling.

“So you really don’t cook?”

“Nope.”

“Or clean?”

“Not once.”

“And Damian doesn’t mind?”

Before she can answer, Damian—seated beside her, legs crossed, perfectly composed, fingers idly brushing her knee—scoffs.

“Mind? I’d be offended if she tried.”

Jason, fork in hand, lazily gestures toward her as he leans back into the cushions.

 “So what do you even do in the penthouse all day if you’re not cooking, cleaning, shopping, or doing laundry?”

The question wasn’t malicious. Just curious. Playful, even.

Damian answers before she can—calm, certain, unapologetic.

“She studies, she writes, she drives me insane by reciting musicals.”

Tim snorted into his drink. “You’re spoiling her.”

“She deserves it,” Damian said simply.

Jason raised a brow. “What’s she ever gonna do if you’re not around to handle everything?”

“Thrive,” Damian repeated—cold, final. His gaze didn’t waver. “Because I’m building her a life where she can.”

Damian leans back, calm and unaffected. “I don’t understand why her not doing chores surprises you. My mother never lifted a hand to sweep a floor in her life. And no one dared question her capability.”

Dick raised a brow. “Your mother also runs an empire of assassins.”

Damian doesn’t miss a beat. “Exactly. And she never wasted time on tasks that diluted her strength.”

Because Damian Wayne may live under Bruce’s roof, fight under the Bat’s symbol, and protect Gotham’s streets—

But the foundation of his worldview?

That was all Talia al Ghul.

“I grew up watching people serve my mother. Not because she demanded it, but because her time was valuable. You don’t train the world’s most dangerous woman to hand-wash her robes. You let her focus on what makes her extraordinary.”

His gaze flicked to her, sitting beside him—pink silk and soft joy wrapped in confidence.

“So I made sure my beloved—who is, in her own right, extraordinary—lives the same way.”

Kori nodded slowly. Kon glanced her way, thoughtful.

Damian spoke without hesitation. “Why would I ask the person I love to waste time on things I can pay others to handle—when she could spend that time with me, pursuing her passions, or simply existing in peace?”

Dick leaned back, arms crossed, mulling it over. “So it’s not spoiling her.”

“It’s honoring her,” Damian corrected, voice calm but absolute.

Jason scoffed, grinning. “And here I thought you were just whipped.”

Damian raised a brow. “Oh, I am. Fully. Willingly.” A pause. “You should try it.”

Everyone stared at him for a moment. Then:

Kon let out a low whistle. “Honestly? I get it. She glows in this place. Like she owns the world.”

“She does,” Damian replied, calm and certain. “Mine.”

And somehow, that was the final punctuation.

ARCHIVE

[busket]

everyone was joking about trump dying today and I think that's really horrible and cruel. PLEASE do not joke about trump dying unless it's true and confirmed!!! I got really excited and then when I found out he was still alive i was really disappointed!! like that's so mean to do to people

[homunculus-argument]

Nothing slapped my shit back into place like someone pointing out that the "genius gifted child with so much potential who got burnout and mental illness" is just the nerd equivalent to the jock "could have been a pro at sportsball if it wasn't for the injury".

[bleakforest]

If the exorcism isn't this hype don't bother inviting me.

[leoreturns-deactivated20110811]

[tumboner]

omg

[merspers]

This has been in my queue for months.

[mcgooglykins]

I missed it last year and I vowed that would NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN.

[meowbrown]

Apps/sites for learning Japanese

Can't believe how high quality these free resources are!

Last updated: 2025-01-05

コース

Minato

Free high-quality interactive self-guided courses. It also has live courses (I haven't tried it yet).

Preview

TUFS Language Modules

From Tokyo University of Foreign Studies.

The English version currently only has the pronunciation and dialog modules, so I'm studying the Traditional Chinese version.

Features

Vocabulary list by topics (Chinese)

Dialog

Pronunciation guide

辞書

Kakimashou

Features

Stroke order

Tone

Preview

Jisho

Super clean interface

Features

Tone

Has JLPT tags

Lots of sentence examples

アプリ

Miraa

The Miraa app makes it easy to listen and repeat (the shadowing/echoing technique).

It has a paid version, but I find the free version to be good enough

Features

Can directly paste links from YouTube

Can ask AI for an explanation of words/sentences you don't understand

Has search built in to search for podcasts in Japanese

renshuu

Also available as a web app

その他(た)のツール

Google - Text-to-Speech AI

Useful for reading out my transcripts. It already sounds much more natural than I do, so I can import it to Miraa and shadow my writings.

10ten Japanese Reader (Rikaichamp)

This is a Chrome extension that I use. I used to use Yomichan and then Yomitan after Yomichan sunsetted. But I personally like 10ten's UI.

Preview

[hellsbaby-deactivated20251129]

"what a nerd lol" i said with barely controlled lust

[thedeathdeelers]

every time i get a new follower who isn’t a porn bot: