Thomas who hand feeds you when you refuse to eat pieces of your friends.
Who picks only the juiciest, most succulent parts to give to you.
Who holds the tender bites of meat between thick, calloused fingers and presses them between your lips with gentle yet firm pressure. Who holds your nose to make you swallow them down. Who wipes away your tears with clumsy, earnest attention.
He’s taking care of you, he thinks joyously, he’s providing!
His love for you tastes like iron and drips from every morsel, and you secretly wonder if maybe you’re starting to crave it.
Authors note: wrote this at like two in the morning drunk, and it’s written on my phone my computer is still broken💔 I couldn’t respond to the ask so I took a ss. Thank you anon for the request💕not proofread.
Your whole body is tense, fear pumping deep in your veins and through your body. You’ve been running along the highway for quite some time now, adrenaline is the only thing keeping your wobbly legs up and from collapsing. A simple road trip traveling from state to state with your friends had quickly turned out to be the worst thing you’ve ever agreed to. There were a few other people you hadn’t known who were accompanying you and your friends on this trip, it was all going fine until it wasn’t. The driver got lost, deep in the twisting dirt roads of rural Texas. No one was in a good mood because of this, and the searing hot air of the Texas sun was not helping. Hope was brought back seeing the road sign, ‘Travis County’ in faded bold lettering. A couple of miles down the road passes, and then there is a parked cop cruiser on a small dirt road, as soon as the van passes its overhead lights flash on and the siren begins to blare, making the driver groan, cursing under his breath as he pulls over on the side of the dusty road. “Everyone act cool okay?” He instructs everyone as the sheriff begins to walk up to the van.
The cop was an asshole, there was no doubt about it, and the driver's attitude was definitely not helping the sheriff's temper. The man was completely pissed off and combative, leering at everyone in the vehicle with pure disgust on his face and muttering under his breath something about hippies. The bickering continued before the sheriff seemed to have enough, but what you would have never expected was him to raise his gun and put a bullet into the man’s head. Blood, flesh and bone spray over the van, covering everyone's faces and clothes. It wasn’t long before the initial shock passed and everyone scattered, screaming as they launched themselves out of the van and onto the asphalt, shooting up and running off in all directions. You dared not to look back as you heard their screams cut short after each bullet was shot, fearing any moment spent not escaping would be your end. Each second mattered. Your shoes kick up dust each shaky step you take, the promise of death keeping you from slowing.
The sound of a distant engine roaring up to life is heard in the distance behind you, you’re certain you're the last one standing. Other than the car there are no signs of any others alive, their screams have long since been silenced. The sheriff is hot on your tracks. Seeing that he’s speeding right towards you, you bolt into the steep ditch. Your shoe catches over a loose rock and before you know it your face first tumbling down into the dusty ground below. The car comes to a screeching halt, barely missing the ditch as he turns away from it. You can’t even pick yourself up in time before he’s on you, swinging the door open he’s rushing out of the car, and sliding down into the ditch. You lift your face from the ground and pick yourself up with your arms before you’re shoved right back down into the dirt, you feel cold metal pressing and digging into the base of your skull. The sheriff keeps you down with just the gun alone, making it clear that if you make one sudden move, he’ll show you no mercy and shoot. Your heart beats wildly in your chest, beating and constricting with fear, wanting so desperately to flee but you're stuck, stuck by the threat of this man blowing your head off with his shotgun.
His lips curl in a cruel, snide smirk, yellowed-crooked teeth bared, his breath hot with the faint smell of tobacco. “You just get up nice and slow now.” His eyes roam over each dip and curve of your body perversely, he has no shame as he practically undresses you with his eyes. “Sir please-“ the barrel digs harder into your skull, forcing your face into the ground more, you shut up and comply with his demands. A couple of moments pass, the gun is still pressed against your head but not as painful as before, allowing you to stand up. Shakily, you rise to your feet, being as slow as possible to not trigger his wrath, he’s shown that he is not a merciful man, and you’d rather not test his patience any longer. You keep your hands raised in compliance. His weathered hand grabs the back of your shirt, tugging you back then twisting your body forward and towards the car, pushing you roughly into the back. As you tumble onto the leather seats the door slams shut, and all you can do is watch as he brings the bodies back into the trunk. The bodies of your once best friends, the kind strangers who helped you in your travels lifeless. You regret looking though, your eyes catch sight of the hole shot in through their heads, causing you to recoil in disgust, bile rises and burns in your throat and before you can stop it you’re puking on the floor of the car. Your eyes scan the car for any way to escape, but there is none. The leather seats are torn, covered in dried-oxidized blood that crusts over the aged leather. Scratches along the seats shows you that many before your group have fought for their life here.
The drive is painstakingly long, at least that’s what it feels like. Each turn on the road, each bump that jolts you in your seat makes you realize just how screwed you are. His eyes briefly check to make sure you aren’t up to something in the back, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. This man is not a cop, that was clear the very moment he shot the first bullet into the driver's head. He’s getting off on your fear, palming himself like the damn dog he is as he looks at your teary face. “You’re really pretty when you cry like that.” He says in a sleazy voice, licking his dry lips as he stares at your breasts, blood spots spattered over your low-cut top and breasts. After a couple more minutes of this torturous journey passes the car comes rolling to a stop in front of an old house. He steps out of the car and starts to walk to the back, opening the door he grabs your arm, tugging you out and throwing you to the ground. Before you can get up he hits your head with the back of the gun, black spots fill your vision, you hear the man calling out for someone before you go completely unconscious.
Your eyes adjust to the dark room as your blurry vision clears, no longer are you outside, this place is dark and damp unlike the unforgiving Texas heat outside. A blurry figure stands in the middle of the room, the only light a small overhead lightbulb that flickers weakly. The memories of what happened before come rushing back to you, quickly you try to get up but your arms and legs come to a halt, chains rattling from the movements. This alerts the man at the table in front of you, muddy water sloshes as his bulky frame quickly turns towards you. The man is tall, and big. His bulk covered the light behind him, now his features were hidden in the shadows. Your breathing starts to pick up again, lungs burning from each gasp of air you greedily suck in, the fear makes it nearly impossible to calm and slow your hyperventilating, each gulp of air never enough to sate your body. Looking around the room you’re met with gore, gutted bodies dangling on meathooks, bones haphazardly strewn about each tabletop, shelves filled with human parts, and oh how much blood coats each surface. Meat is packed in butcher paper and wrapped up, stacked, and labeled on the man’s work table in the middle of the room, what little is left of the remains of your lifeless best friend beside it. You whine under your breath, confronted with the fact that everyone from before is dead and you will soon be next.
The shadowy figure wastes no time and starts walking straight towards you, his strides long and heavy, boots thudding with each step he takes to get to you. The small window above you illuminates his face, showing off his grisly appearance. Long matted black curls cling to his forehead, stopping just at his shoulders. A black-leather mask hides the lower half of his face, straps tied around his head tightly. Tattered worn clothes cover his hefty frame, a brown butcher's apron drapes from his neck and is tied tightly around his thick waist, under the apron is a dirty button-up and a sloppily tied tie. He squats down, grabbing your jaw roughly, turning your head to the side, and then back again, inspecting you like a piece of meat. Tears fall from your glossy red eyes, streaming down your cheeks, and slide onto the man’s grubby fingers. His face inches closer to yours, you try to look away, but his grip tightens and snaps your head back forward and forces you to stare back at him.
“Please… Please I'm sorry, just don’t hurt me.” Your voice croaks, throat dry and burning from screaming and the lack of hydration for however long you’ve been trapped down here unconscious. Meekly you beg with the man, traumatized so deeply from the past incident with the sheriff you can no longer fight, just beg pathetically. He stares questioningly, his guard raised. Normally the victims brought home shout and curse at him, they see him nothing more than just a nasty mutt, a filthy degenerate, no matter how hard he tries to pretend those words don’t matter, each time they’re said they cut deep, festering in the depths of his mind, repeated over and over until his anger boils over and he tortures them cruelly. Any moment he expects you to start screaming at him, it’s what he’s used to, he almost wants it so he doesn’t have to face his selfish feeling of want, of need. What throws him off though is you, your lack of anger, your words are different, soft. He craves softness.
His palm rubs your cold cheek, his skin leathery against yours, and you lean into it. He recoils back up as soon as you do so, wrenching away like the very act of you leaning into his touch burned him. He stumbles back and out of the room, his boots thud loudly as he quickly escapes up the stairs. He slams the door shut, leaving you alone and confused in the damp cellar. You slump back against the brick wall, trying to ease the burning sensation of your arms raised and cuffed against the wall. It feels as if your arms are going to pop out of the socket, the tension bubbling deep in your very bones. Panting fearfully you tug and pull repeatedly, fear overtaking you once more. The very room seems to be closing in around you, the blood-curdling screams seared into your mind. Thrashing around you try to forget, but now that you are alone it haunts your mind-your very being. There is nowhere you can look without being met with death, bodies, bones, and limbs strewn about in a macabre manner. You don’t want to be alone, but also you can’t bear being in the room with that man, the one who butchered your friends like animals, and just the very thought of seeing that corrupt sheriff makes you recoil and shiver in disgust. Tears won’t stop flowing, and you can’t help but mock yourself, how pathetic you look trying so hard to escape, when you look weak as you thrash your shaking limbs. You can’t help but laugh, wondering how things would be if you just said no, if you never agreed to tag along on that stupid road trip. Thinking about what-ifs is pointless now.
Thomas slams the door shut behind him, hurrying to get away from the basement. Luda sees his rigid frame and his quick pace. She’s quick to concern and fuss over him, always so worried about her troubled son. “Tommy dear you alright?” She asks warily. His legs come to a halt, he is never one to ignore his mother, turning around he looks over to her, her eyes are deeply concerned beneath her glasses, she takes a step closer but he backs away, causing her more distress. Before she can question him any more Hoyt comes sauntering in, rooting around in the fridge for another beer. He slammed the fridge door shut, twisting off and tossing out the bottle cap. He scans and takes in the scene before him, he couldn't care less about what’s happening. “You done with the meat boy?” He grumbles out, taking a long sip of the amber liquid, guzzling it down. Thomas nods, quick for the man’s approval. Hoyt wipes his lips, grinning wickedly. “Good. Now, get yourself cleaned up, you reek boy.” Pursing his lips and his nose wrinkles is disgust. He doesn’t need to be told twice, exiting the kitchen and making his way to the upstairs bathroom, slamming and locking the rickety door shut.
His mind replays that moment over and over. Like the pathetic mutt he is, he's hard. Over the years he’s liked to fantasize, keeping his mind busy to distract himself from his pain, his loneliness, it was the same pitiful fantasy he’s been dreaming about since he was in his teens, since the days he was working in the slaughterhouse. Her even just giving him a lick of affection-even if he knows it wasn’t what she intended-has him spiraling into a deplorable, lust-fueled mess. His mind muddled with the vision he had, now with her. His hand trails down his stomach, pushing the apron aside so he can grind his palm against his thick length tenting his pants. Oh how grateful he is that the apron hid it from his mother, the last thing he wants is for her to think of him in a bad light. His cock chubs up in his pants as his mind conjures up sick thoughts of that woman, oh how he wishes he would get the guts to take her, fill her up until she’s so stuffed full her body can’t take it. He stops briefly to pull his cock out, the metallic hiss of the zipper can barely be heard over his panting, reaching into his boxers and pulling out his thick cock. He wishes it could be different, that he could have her, and she would want it, could take her as his own, like how he’s always wanted, but he knows it will never happen, even as he begins to stroke his cock fervently he knows deep down he is the dog everyone says he is. The rabid animal everyone called him back in his younger days. A freak, a beast that needs to be put down. He’s confronted with his debased actions as he cums in his hand, spilling rope after rope of creamy cum, wasting it when he could be stuffing a woman full of it. He knows no woman would want it, women look at him with pure disdain in their eyes, that girl down there surely is no different, she would never love him. As he comes down from his high, his mind slowly returns back to normal, he sheds his clothes to bathe himself like instructed. He has no time for feeling, his life purpose is to serve, not want.
The sun has long since set, the man hasn’t killed you, he hadn’t even come back down yet, you wish he would at this point, to stop the suffering quick then whatever those two men have planned for you. You’re brought back out of your thoughts, you gasp when you hear the door atop the stairwell creak open, heavy footfalls thump loudly against the aged wood, dust rising from each step. He’s back, his eyes never leaving yours with each step he takes. He stoops down to your level and sits in front of you, holding out a plate of food as he anxiously waite for your approval on it. When he sees you don’t recoil back from him, he picks up the fork, cutting up a piece of the sausage and bringing it up for you to eat. Your obviously hesitant, who knows what that meat is from, even if you wanted to not eat it, your stomach growls and constricts. You part your soft lips and close in around the fork, taking and chewing the meat as he eagerly starts to cut up more. It almost tastes like pork? You’re not sure, but the texture is off and instantly alarms you, it’s unlike any other meat you’ve had. Your lips purse as you try to hide a reaction, who knows how he would react if you slipped up and acted disgusted by the food he gave you. You're lucky he’s giving you food at all, and besides, he looks happy that you even accepted it, almost like he wanted your approval on what he brought you. After finishing the sausage he scoops up some mashed potatoes and shovels it into your mouth sloppily. He picks up the last of the potatoes and when some slips off and plops on to your breast with a wet smack He leans down, lowering his face onto your chest, the leather mask scraping against your soft skin and his tongue licks and nibbles over the spot. You're taken aback by this, trying to push him off your breast, he groans, tongue swiping and licking his lips as he stares up at you through half lidded eyes. He grabs the porcelain plate and licks it clean, feasting on any scrap he’s given.
“Tommy!” You recognize the voice of the man calling from upstairs, it’s that sheriff again. Your whole body goes cold, fear building up from the base of your spine and crawling up your whole body giving you goosebumps. The man you know now as Tommy whips his head back, looking up at the stairs, he's quick to rush and grab the keys, pushing them into the lock that cuffed your arms. You hiss out a sigh of relief as your arms finally fall down to your sides, but it’s short lived as he drags you over to some closet, sliding a 2x4 into the handles so you can’t open it. The sheriff is marching down the stairs, peaking through the cracks of the closet you watch as he angrily trudges over to Tommy. “Damnit boy you forgot to feed the hogs and they’ve been squealing out there for hours!” He shouts, when Tommy doesn’t move he slams his foot down making both you and Tommy jolt “Boy get your ass out there! You ain’t too old to get your ass beat you remember that now.” With that he's quick to hustle up the stairs. You’re more confused than anything, how could a man of that size be the one getting yelled at by him? Why would he take orders from that filthy sheriff? Your eyes catch on the name tag glinting in the light. ‘Hoyt’. Your lips curl in disgust, you just know he gets off to the feeling of power he holds over people, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face as he saunters up the stairs. A sigh of relief slips from your lips as he leaves, now you are left to await Tommy's return.
Over the next few days a routine is built with Tommy, you spend most of your days trapped in the basement, waiting for his return, he spends most of his time either butchering, sewing or doing laborious chores outside. You’ve come to learn a lot about him in this short time frame, even if he doesn’t speak. Tommy is like the family’s guard dog, eager to please, working hours throughout the day, protecting them when any intruder should come through, all just for a scrap of affection, affection only his mama gives. He’s like a puppy really, begging for the attention it won’t receive, and he sees nothing wrong with it because that’s all he knows, but now that you’re in the picture, he can’t help but spend all his free time begging for your attention. His mama is concerned for him, seeing less and less of him over these few days. She’s always been the one doting over him, if she was out of the picture she knows no one would care for him, she shivers at the thought of leaving her poor boy alone with Hoyt and Monty, she knows how cruel they can be sometimes.
Thankfully these past few days he took off those painful chains, he knows you’re not stupid enough to try and leave, the fear of facing Hoyt keeping you down here, death would be certain the moment you step foot out of this basement. You don’t know how long it’s been, you don't know anything anymore, it’s dark outside of the window but knowing that it's night outside doesn’t do anything to calm you, left alone with nothing but your thoughts all day and all night. After being alone for so long you’re starting to crave any human contact, you even start to yearn for Tommy to be around you, being alone so often is starting to get to you mentally. You don’t even notice he's returned until he's hoisting you up and off the ground, interrupting your train of thought. one of his hands is on your lower back and the other on your bottom keeping you up, you try to ignore him pawing at the fat of your ass. Your hands find purchase on his shoulders, fisting the fabric of his dirty button-up. You watch as he takes you upstairs, now fear boils over once more, fear that he’s taking you to your death, ‘but it doesn’t make any sense’ you try to tell yourself ‘if he wanted you dead you’d be dead.’ He cautiously steps foot out of the basement and into the kitchen, listening for any movement. He heads down the hall, each step he takes he makes sure not to make a noise, snoring can be heard through one of the doors he passes. Soon you both reach a bathroom and he sets you down on to the sink counter, pushing past the yellowed shower curtain and turning on the shower faucet. A shower would feel so good right now, your body caked with sweat and grime, your hair greasy.
He starts to take off his clothes, undoing every button and shrugging off his shirt. His body is littered with scars, pink healed cuts adorn his tanned skin. His bulky stomach pudges over his jeans, which he is in the process of taking off, your eyes flick back up so as to not stare at his dick. Your eyes roam his upper body, his body is thick, a thick layer of fat covers his hard earned muscles, and he's a hairy man that’s for sure. Hair coats his arms, dusted along his chest, and a trail leads down to his soft tummy and into his boxers. Soon he’s completely naked save for his mask, and he’s moving to take off your clothes. He’s eager to tug off your pants, he rips your shirt in two and you can’t help but scold him. “Hey!” You whisper at him, he groans and huffs loudly, leaning against you. You let out a small sigh and watch as he takes off the rest of your clothes, tossing them carelessly to the ground, you stare up at him, his hands fall to the sides. He’s too embarrassed to take off his mask in front of you, expecting you to scream as soon as he does so, instead he covers your eyes, you hear the rustle of the mask and it being placed on the sink beside you. Keeping your eyes covered he leads you inside the shower, the water lukewarm as it sprays against you. He uncovers your eyes now that he’s behind you and wraps his arms around you, panting happily, his face nuzzling against the back of your shoulder, you try to ignore the feeling of his cock rubbing against your ass, feeling it slightly harden. You're shocked to feel as he rubs his face against you, his nose isn’t there, even at the feeling you dare not to turn around and anger him, instead you pump shampoo into your palm and begin to wash your hair, he does the same. After you're done with shampooing and conditioning your hair you reach for the wash cloth he brought in for you, grabbing the bar of soap to rub it against the wash cloth and suds it up. Once it’s soapy enough you set the soap down and start to rub the soapy cloth all over your body. He finished cleaning himself before you and is now watching from behind, you swat at his wandering hands that kneed and squeeze your tits, he lets out a breathy moan from the back of his throat, keeping his hands to himself for the time being.
You bend down to begin washing your legs, which you quickly regret. You feel him grip your ass, pawing at your wet, malleable flesh. He can't keep his hands to himself for more than a few seconds, that’s for sure. He groans at the sight of you bent over, his cock nudging and slipping around and through your pussy lips. You speed up washing yourself, and as soon as you're done you shoot back and straighten yourself up. Your fingers grip and turn the faucet until the water stops pouring, now left in the cold air as water droplets clinging and dripping down both of your bodies. He's the first to leave, drying off, the first thing he puts on is his mask, then he opens the shower curtains and hands you a clean towel. As you dry yourself off he puts on his new clothes, jeans and a stained tank top, it clings to the heft of his stomach, your left with the tattered remains of your dirty clothes. You watch him as he brushes his hair, wincing at how he does so. The brush rips through his hair roughly as he tries to get the knots out, he lets out short grunts as he does so. “Hey, let me help” you offer, his blue eyes seem to light up as he enthusiastically hands you the brush, you sit on the toilet and he sets himself down on the floor between your legs, waiting oh so eagerly for your attention. You start gently from the bottom and make your way up, the knots start to come out, his soft hair curling lightly into waves.
His hair is starting to get long, it’s past his shoulders, all brushed out you notice jagged cuts in an attempt to shorten it. “Would you like me to give you a trim as well?” You ask him, your tone soft. You have no idea why you’re being so nice to him, you should hate him, should scream at him and the man who’s killed your friends, but you don’t, instead you gently rub his shoulder and wait for his approval which he is quick to give. You dig through the drawers and find a pair of scissors, you cut his hair, trimming the ends, you have the opportunity to hurt him, but you don’t, you don’t even think it crosses his mind that you could stab him and run, because right now he's so happy that the attention is on him. You couldn’t even if you wanted to. You trim back to the length he likes it, shoulder length. Once you’re finished he holds you again, keeping you up in his arms as he brings you back down into the basement, the rickety steps creaking with each step he takes. He sets you down on the pile of pillows he set up for you earlier this week, he scans you, his eyes landing on the dirty ripped clothes you’re wearing, he turns and starts shuffling through boxers. You watch as he pushes a bunch of fabrics aside to find something, he tugs out a sundress, it’s pink with floral patterns on it. He grabs your clothes completely shredding them from you, he shoves the dress into your hands and waits, wanting to watch you put it on.
When you put it on you turn to look at him, you see that his eyes crinkle softly and can tell he’s smiling, then you look down to see hes hard again ‘when is he not sporting a boner around you these days?’ He grips your hips, tugging you close to him. He likes you in dresses, that’s for sure. He stares at you for a long time before he stands up, turning and heading up the stairs as quick as he can, he shuts and locks the basement door behind him. You sigh softly, leaning against the wall and dropping down onto the pillows below you. You can’t help but be sick at yourself, instead of fighting to escape the clutches of your captor you stay, stay in the jaws of the predator. Your friends surely would be pissed, but you don’t want to fight it, don’t want to leave. Trying to rationalize it in your head over and over, the same thoughts pop up each time. He’s a broken man, he needs healing, he needs love. And maybe you’re the one who has to give it to him..
Upstairs Thomas is spiraling, he feels guilty that he’s hiding her from his family, oh how selfish he’s being, but it doesn’t matter, not when the images of her naked body cloud each crevice of his depraved conscience. The flesh from her body could be feeding his family, instead she’s alive, her heart pumping blood into her veins, she’s breathing. His left bicep covers his mouth as he strokes his cock to her, he’s been at it for so long the tip of his cock near red, cum coats his hand, lathered on his cock each stroke, some sticking to the long wiry pubes from his bush of pubic hair. He can’t stop, won’t stop. He needs her like the air he breathes, Her being fills up his body like the oxygen fills and stretches his lungs. His family would think so low of him, how he’s bringing shame to the Hewitt name for being so selfish, taking away food from their mouths just so he can stroke his cock to her, dress her up in pretty clothes, and hump her in the shower. Remembering the feeling of slipping his penis between her pussy lips has him whimpering out, thrusting his hips in the air, bucking wildly as he cums hard again. He pants like a beast, cock throbbing incessantly, his boner won’t go away, almost mocking him with how hard he is. Soon enough he's back at it again, showing no remorse as he jerks himself silly. she’ll love him, he knows it, he’ll make her love him, she’ll give him everything he’s ever hoped for, and she will do it with a smile on her face. He's so overstimulated, he hasn’t jerked himself off this much before, but he’s doing it for her he believes, he’d do anything for her, because in his mind they are in love, they are together. He hopes that one day, she doesn’t care what he looks like behind the mask, she accepts him for who he is, she will gladly do anything for him, love him, let him fuck her, let him put his babies in her- he cums again, the hardest he has, he yelps as he shoots thick ropes on his stomach. Babies… he wants to give her babies, that thought had him orgasam faster then he has ever before. He wants it now, craves it. His grip on his cock softens, post nut clarity hitting him like a freight train, and now he’s ashamed once more, tears brimming his red eyes.
The morning comes fast, after such an intense night he slipped into slumber quickly. The morning sun peaks through the window and casts warm rays against his skin, which is coated in dried cum that crusted onto the hair of his stomach and bush. A low groan rises in his throat, he has to clean himself up before going to see her. He blushes at the thought of her, god how disgusting he was last night, he’s ashamed of himself, how pathetic he was for her, she would surely think of him as a perverted mutt, she would never look at him again. Now that he isn’t excruciatingly horny, the intrusive thoughts of self doubt and hatred seep back into his head, seeping into his skull like a poison. What a lame excuse of a man he is, but then again, he won’t stop, he can’t stop himself from acting like this, he wants her so bad it hurts. He just wants her acceptance, her approval, her love. Those thoughts are pushed away though, he forces himself to put on his clothes and trudge down the stairs. Seeing his mama always makes him cheer up though, he could never be mad around her. A plate of sausage eggs and toast sits in the table, steaming just for him. “Mornin’ dear” she smiles brightly, inching the plate closer to him, he grabs it and nods thankfully, heading down the stairs and into the basement. Luda frowns, turning to look at Hoyt as he shovels forkfuls of his breakfast down. “Charlie, something's wrong with Thomas, he spends all his time in the basement nowadays, he's even forgetting to do his chores more frequently.” Her voice is laced with deep concern for her boy, she sets the tea kettle on the stove before turning back to Hoyt. He grumbles correcting her first “ma it’s Hoyt, he’s just being weird, himself you know, he ain’t young no more he likes to be alone. What needs to stop though is him forgetting his chores, sick of having to yell at him more often.” He returns to eating. Luda just shakes her head, hands pressed against her hips, “you’re his brother, maybe you need to have a heart to heart with him, he listens to you, you know that.” At her words he's rolling his eyes and groaning, but before he can protest she corrects him with a sharp glare. He might see himself as the man of the house but he listens to his ma. “I’ll get around to it” he huffs, his eyes flickering over the newspaper he's reading, the conversation now ending. Luda just sighs and returns to her cleaning. Her boys are definitely wild ones that’s for sure.
Weeks pass, the longer Thomas is away from you the more you crave his presence, you don’t care anymore, you need him, need him so bad it hurts. You wait anxiously in the basement for him, unable to read the books he brought you because your mind is so focused on him. What if he gets hurt? What if more victims come around and they win? They hurt him? God you don’t think your mind can bare the thought of him getting hurt, possibly killed out there. You ease-drop to the conversations that happen upstairs, ear pressed against the ceiling trying to hear anything about the man that feeds you, bathes you, you even begin to think he loves you just as much as you are starting to love him. Guilt is pushed into the back of your mind, how could you care about what anyone thinks? They don’t matter in the long run, they aren’t the one who cares for you, he does. Another hour passes before he returns, he pants, sweat covering his arms in a light sheen, dripping down his forehead. Waiting was worth it in the end to see him like this, like a love sick puppy, his gaze roams over your body with pure adoration, rising from the chair he trails his eyes up each swell, dip and curve of your luscious body. He trudges over to the box of clothes hes gathered from his victims, he picks out a cornflower blue dress, with a white lace hem, he sifts through another box before grabbing a simple pair of white heels, he's carrying something else you can’t quite see.
You shed your clothes, tossing them to the floor as you wait for him to give you his chosen attire. He does, grabbing what you couldn’t see before you spread it out, it’s a washed pair of scandalous lingerie, a grin spreads across your face as you realize what he wants. He wants you to dress up for him, let him watch your body in different clothes, like an erotic dress up. Slipping into the lingerie and coming back out, his eyes widened, you decide to give him a little spin, letting him get a full 360 of your body is his chosen set. You see him sporting a boner in his pants, looking just happy to be here. You let him touch and grab at your body, pawing and grouping at the fat of your tits, his thick and long fingers grabbing the whole of your chest, his dirty mits rubbing grime all over the pristine clothes. Pulling back you slip the dress on, the back zipper open he stands and swivels you to turn around, his hands grasping the small zipper and pushing it up. It’s a tight fit, definitely a little too short to be proper, the neckline low, it grips your torso making your boobs push up. It’s tight around the mid section, and the skirt flows down to the middle of your thighs gripping your waist. When you turn around to face him you freeze, you’ve seen him look at you sexually a lot of times, but this is the first time that it’s so intense his gaze almost burns. There is nothing but lust in his deep blue eyes, his hands shoot up to grip your waist, pulling and hoisting you up, walking you over to his work table he sets you down on the edge. He lowers himself on his knees, grabbing your foot so he can slip your heels on. The moment is charged with a deep sexual tension, you want so desperately to see all of him, and you can’t stop your begging from slipping out of your plump lips.
“Please take off the mask, I need to see you. All of you” your voice weak as you beg frevorishly, his eyes widen and he looks up at you. The fear of rejection settles deep within his bones, he’s reluctant, but oh he just can’t say no to you, even if he will regret it. He reaches back and loosens the straps of the leather, tugging it off clumsily. Once he sets it down he waits for your rejection, his frame shaking, but your disapproval never comes. He's shocked when he looks up, he sees your eyes full of… acceptance, you don’t pull away from him, the scars, lost tissue and nose, cleft lip does nothing to deter your love for him, and for the first time he cries in front of you. He tries to stop the tears from flowing but he’s just so happy right now, a whine builds from the back of his throat, he wipes his tears with the cuff of his shirt and focuses back to the present, on you, and it calms him. Reaching down he grabs and puts on your left heel, slipping and strapping it on. He grips the back of your ankle in calf in his big meaty hands, raising it so he can kiss it, kissing above the strap around your ankle, slowly trailing up your leg. His lips are so soft as they trail up, above your knee cap he kisses your thighs more reverently, his head disappears under the skirt of your dress, he nips and suckles at the sides of your thighs, you gasp at the sensation of him getting closer and closer to your wet pussy. His fingers grip the damp cloth covering your pussy and tears it open, then he softly holds the tops of your thighs as his lips ghost over your pussy. “Please” you beg under your breath, he hasn’t even touched you there and already you are a mess, moaning under him, he kneads the meat of your thighs tenderly.
You gasp as he gently kisses your folds, cunt clenching around nothing as you beg for more. “Tommy please!” You're reduced to nothing more than a puddle in his grasp, even in his inexperience he has you wrapped around your finger. It’s not long before he shoves his face into your pussy, licking long strips on and down your wet cunt, slurping up the juices that leak from your entrance. You’re unable to hide your sounds, moaning out like a bitch in heat as he sloppily eats your cunt. You could laugh at yourself, spreading your legs and letting a cannibal eat your pussy out, but you don’t care anymore, you need him, only him. His tongue wiggles and probes at your entrance, beckoning for more of your pussy’s sweet nectar. It’s like he's been starving his whole life, thirsting, and your pussy is the only thing that can quench that hunger. He eats you out like it’s his very first time feasting. Crooked teeth mash against your folds, grazing your puffy clit, the feeling only turns you on more, when his lips finally circle and latch on to your clit and sucks hard, you lose it. Cumming all over his face he accepts it eagerly, lapping at your pussy with an eagerness that makes up for his inexperience. He drinks from you like you're the earth's sweetest honey, and he's the selfish man that will keep it all to himself. Your untouched pussy is finally getting the attention it’s yearned for, and that you both have it, you won’t stop, not now or ever. Hses from under your skirt, and the fucked our expression on his face makes you wet all over again. Your juices cover his face, a sticky damp shin coats his cheeks, mouth, and chin, and he licks at what he can reach. He pushes you down on the table, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants, your eyes burn into each other as you stare with deep lust for one another, your face flicks down to his cock, and what a sight to behold. He’s a little longer than average, but what makes you quiver is his girth. It twitches, bobbing down from its weight. It’s so thick that you’re sure your hand wouldn’t fit around it, you’d need both hands to deal with a monster like that, and to have that be the one taking your virginity had you shivering in arousal. He tugs at his cock, the skin pulling back and revealing his thick pulsing tip, and he grabs and spreads open your thighs.
You weren’t prepared for how quick he’d try to hump his way into your pussy, hand pushing down your stomach as he nudged the tip inside, just the tip along had you scrabbling to find purchase on any surface, and there was so much more to go. Your head tilts back, eyes squeezing shut as his cock slides in, parting your gummy walls. He moans loudly, the feeling of your pussy resisting his entrance has him weak in the knees. Half of his cock is in before he has to stop, if he keeps going like this he will cum before he’s fully in you, the way your gooey walls clamp on him has his eyes rolling into the back of his skull. After he calms himself he thrusts himself to the hilt inside your pussy, the air is punched right out of your lungs, you struggle to breath, so full of him you’re seeing stars. Heavy balls rest against your ass, and before you know it he's pulling back out, he whimpering under his breath, your pussy trying to draw him back in, clinging to him but resisting each push in, and finally, he snaps. Pounding your cunt into submission with his eager thrusts, the cellar filled with moans and the repetitive thwack! thwack! thwack!.
His calloused hands grip your thighs, holding you still as he fucks deep into your pussy, his cock nudging and battering against your cervix each push in. The bulk of his stomach pushes against yours, keeping you pinned beneath your body.Sweat collects on his furrowed brows and drips down on your chest. His duck pummels your pussy, your release from before dribbling down the length of his cock and into the thatch of wild curls the rub and tickle against your puffy clit. You feel each ridge and vein as he pulls out, just to hump right back in and make you feel it all over again. It’s not long before you’re approaching your second orgasam of the night, your moans heightening in pitch, panting rapidly. He’s nearly there too. His thrusts begin to change pace, becoming sloppy and uncoordinated. He used his weight to fuck into you harder, and when his cock rubs against your sweet spot for the last time you lose it. Your walls clamp so tight around him he's unable to move, cock seated deep in your pussy. Your vision whites as you cum again, harder, and you scream out his name. He follows quickly after, pumping his searing hot creamy cum into the deepest depths of your very being, ropes of the white fluid searing inside of you, pushing so deeply inside of you it feels as if he's in your throat. He makes sure not to move, afraid that his release will spill from your fertile womb, he grinds his hips down into you, his body collapses on top of yours. Whimpers escape the back of his throat as the last of his cum empties inside of you, your legs locked around his pudgy hips, so wide that your ankles can’t lock together. His arms wrapped around your middle, nuzzling against you softly, tears begin to slip from his shut eyes. Your tone is low as you usher sweet words to him, fingers playing with his dark tresses, scraping his scalp softly with your nails ever so often. You're held captive in his loving embrace, and it’s right where you want to be. For the first time in his life, he’s been truly loved by another. And for once, he’s truly at peace.
“Tommy!!”
Hoyt's voice cuts through the air, calling for him upstairs. He groans, not yet ready to leave your warmth. He really knows when to ruin the moment. You smile as Tommy whines and tightens his hold on you. “It’s okay, I’ll be here when you come back, it’s best not to make him wait.” You hiss as he slowly slips out of your tender pussy, his cock soft and covered in his and your release. He stuffs himself into his pants, haphazardly securing the mask on before dragging himself up the stairs. As Tommy locks the door behind him Hoyt scans him, his mask is slightly askew, a few buttons popped like they had been opened by force, and his jeans aren’t zipped all the way up. He hadn’t cared before about Luda’s concerns, now he wasn’t worried, but he is suspicious of him. Watching as he locks the door hurriedly, and eyebrow quirks up as he watches him. “Mama needs you in the kitchen boy, and zip your fly up” he grumbles, eyeing him warily as he shakily zips up and walks over to the kitchen with a new found pep to his step he's never had before.
There isn’t a day that goes by where Tommy isn’t stuffing you full of his seed, breeding your pussy like it’s the last thing he’ll do, and sure enough as the months tick by your stomach starts to swell round and plump. He's ecstatic, how could not be? He finally has what he’s wanted for so many years. A woman in love with him and stuffed full of cum, swollen with his baby. Even if you’re already pregnant he makes sure to fuck you full of his cum every morning, noon and night. He can’t stay away from you, he doesn’t want to, all he wants is to keep putting baby after baby in your stomach, watching you swell up. Even if it’s only been 5-6 months your belly has swelled up, it was expected, carrying his baby. He eats less just so he has more to bring down to feed you, he will starve for days if it means you and the baby are well fed. Hidden in the back of the cellar is his old crib he’s been spending time trying to restore, around the basement are toys strewn about, hand carved by him in his free time.
You're laying on the laid out pillows reading one of the many books Thomas snuck down for you, he wouldn’t want you to be bored all alone in the basement. You gasp, feeling soft fluttering kicks of the baby in your stomach. Your soft palm rubs the swell of your abdomen, a comforting touch for you, knowing that your baby is alive and well. The door creaks open at the top of the stairwell, you recognize his footsteps immediately. He saunters over happily. “Are you finally done with your chores?” You ask softly, he falls to his knees before you, like a worship, a worship of your body, your soul, like you're the only being in his world that matters. He nods softly, much more focused on your stomach. He massages your tummy, a grin spreads across his face and he feels a kick against his calloused palm. Gently he rests his forehead against the bump, his scalp tingles as your fingers brush against it and through his dark tresses. “Hoyt has been overworking you, you need a break don’t you baby?” You coo softly at him, he nods eagerly, he's grabbing your hand rubbing your soft fingers. Your skin is so unlike his, your back grounds, your past lifestyle shows you’ve never had to work like he has, or at least to the extent that he does. Your palms are silky smooth, soft to the touch, like you’ve haven’t experienced strenuous labor each and every day of your life, he wants to keep it that way. His mama raised him to be a gentleman, there is no doubt he is a traditional man. As long as you’re with him you’ll never have to lift a finger. You watch curiously as he holds your hand and splays it out. He turns and rifles through one of his back pockets, pulling out a small object. You gasp when you realize what it is. He holds a wedding band up, slipping it on to your ring finger, then returns to nuzzling against said hand. “Oh Tommy” tears well up in your eyes, already so hormonal from the pregnancy this will have you bawling.
He abruptly stands up, gently grabbing your ass and setting you down on the table. He really isn’t focused on your talking right now, looking at your body filling out your red sundress. Pregnancy hadn’t only affected your tummy and mood, your breasts filled out more, round and ripe for him, and they are only to get bigger. Your curves plumped and hips widened, it turned him on. Your words go in one ear and out the other, unbuckling his belt, tugging down his pants. You stop speaking when you realize he's in the mood, when is he not? It’s like he can’t get enough of you. “So that’s the type of relaxing you came in for huh big guy?” You grin as he nods, your hands roam his chest, then you go to undo every button of his shirt, you grab his tie and pull him down into a kiss, he whimpers softly as he inches in between your spread thighs. He grabs the hem of your dress, flipping up and bunching fabric up. Your arms wrap around his broad, muscular shoulders and your legs around his plush hips. Your lips mask and lock together, our smacking and slurping loud and filthy. His other hand slowly trails down your stomach and down to your dripping folds, he’s gained a lot of experience since your first time together, now he's eager to please with his skillful fingers, cock and tongue. He grabs his cock, giving it a few tugs before lining it up with your entrance and sliding in. His hands move to your hips, holding you still as he humps into you softly. He grunts, this position not giving him the best access, not allowing him to plunge fully into you, he has to be mindful of your baby bump. You moan as he bucks his hips, thrusting into your gooey tight walls, his fat tip battering against your cervix, but it isn’t enough for him. He huffs, cradling you safely in his arms as he brings you over to the make shift bed, ready to fuck you silly.
“God damn it, what's taking him so long!” Hoyt is pissed off, he’s been waiting for Thomas to get back up from the basement, it’s been over an hour and he's had enough. Luda Mae just shakes her head and sighs “I told you what’s been going on with the boy, you just refused to talk to him.” She tuts, wiping down the dining room table. Hoyt tries the door but as expected it’s locked, like it has been the past half year. “Tommy!” He shouts again, and as expected he doesn’t open the door and comes to do his chores for the day. He stomps over to one of the drawers and starts digging through the piles of keys, trying to find the extra one they kept for the basement. “Boy thinks he can skip out on his work huh, well let’s just see about that.” He sneers, a snide grin on his face as he twirls the key around finger, fuming as he marches over to the door, twisting the metal key through the lock, it opens with a loud click! He huffs angrily, mumbling curses under his breath as he swings the door open and stalks down the decrepit staircase. He stops halfway down the stairwell because of what he hears
Thwack Thwack Shlick Thwack!
Wet slapping and moans reverberate in the cellar, at first he thought he just walked in on Tommy jerking himself off, but his jaw drops when he hears a female voice, breathy moans in a high pitched tone. The initial shock passes before a whole new wave of anger and disgust boils over. He stomps fully down the stairs, and as his eyes adjust he's met with a sight that makes his lips curl and nose wrinkle in disgust. His thick, pudgy body laid on top of yours, his bicep holding you in a headlock, all of his clothes off as he humps you like a wild animal from the back. The dress bunched up around your mid section, hiding your belly, tits swinging with each jerk and buck, pummeling your pussy, mashing his cock in your gooey gushing insides. “Thomas Brown Hewitt!” He screams, he’s in so much shock he for once is at a loss of words. You squeak in embarrassment, trying to cover your body, even though Thomas’s bulky frame does a pretty good job at doing so. “Put your clothes on and bring that hussy upstairs immediately!” With that he steps away and up the stairs, out of the basement.
Luda watches as Hoyt storms up from the basement. “What’s wrong Charlie?” She asks, Hoyt is in too much shock to correct her, angrily pacing back and forth in the kitchen, wiping his face he lets out a sigh, stopping at the counter. Luda starts to walk over to the door, her hand gripping the handle. “You don’t want to go down there ma, just wait.” He straightens up. She asks him worried questions, he doesn’t answer, the last thing he expected was to see Tommy down there with a woman. He wasn’t pissed off that he was getting laid, more so that he was hiding food down there, probably feeding her his hard earned dinners as well. Both of their heads turn as the knob twists and the door creaking open, Tommy steps out, no butcher apron, some of the buttons undone from sloppily trying to get himself dressed as quickly as possible. His tie loose around his neck and his hair clings to his forehead. Luda gasp when she sees you step from the basement as well, hiding behind her son meekly. “Look at the slut he’s been hiding from us.” Hoyt grumbles, when his eyes lock with yours and it clicks, he remembers you. “Oh I remember this one, didn’t put up a fight now did ya? Look at you, sleeping with him just for survival aren’t you?!” He steps closer, but Thomas puffs up, not allowing him to touch you. He instantly does not like the defiance. “Don’t you challenge me boy!” He shouts, slamming his fist against the counter. Luda just watches in shock, disapproving with the sinning her boy was doing behind your back. “You better remember your place in this house!” As he yells he grabs your wrist, yanking out and away from behind Tommy. You help in surprise, and that’s when they see it. Luda gasps and covers her mouth, Hoyt just closes his eyes and groans. “You just had to get the bitch pregnant didn’t ya? Couldn’t help yourself!?” He gestures to your round swollen stomach. Luda touches his shoulder “we can’t hurt her Hoyt, she’s expecting!” He rolls his eyes at his mothers words, stuck in a position where he can’t do anything. “Well shit!” He turns around, strides across the room and toward the fridge, looking for a beer.
You flinch as the older woman eyes you and caresses your soft skin. “Well see Hoyt ain’t she just the prettiest thing?” A soft smile is plastered over her weathered skin, wrinkles curling as she grins. Hoyt raised his hands in defeat, and for once, he backed out, dealing with his anger by drinking. His boots thud against the cracked tile, stepping out of the room and into the living room, he will undoubtedly drink himself black out drunk, you just hope it puts him in a better mood, praying that he will let this all slide. “I’ve always wanted a daughter” she ushers, it scares you how calm she is, guiding you to sit as she starts the stove. An older man’s voice comes from the hall, your head whips around to see a man in a wheelchair, his legs gone as he shakily wheels himself over, alerted by all the racket. “Who the fuck is she?” He eyes you up, Luda responds in a cheerful tone. “She’s the new addition to the family, Thomas’s wife!” It’s clear she’s still trying to process it all. The man just rolls his eyes and wheels himself into the living room. Her head turns and she watches as her son gently rubs his woman’s back. As long as Tommy is happy, she’s happy, so she guesses she’ll just have to get used to a new member of the family, with another one the quickly on the way.
Hii! I was just listening to some laufey songs, and thought of a fic inspired by her song "Promise" hihii
Could I request you to write a fic (angst w comfort, and bf!damian x gf!reader) where they basically got into a huge fight because damian thought that reader would just get in danger if they both kept dating, so he basically forced her to just go away by shutting down and stuff whenever she tried to talk to him, then after maybe a few weeks/a month he sees someone resembling reader and you can take care of the rest, thanks if you manage to take the time to read this! 💗💗
PROMISE
"it hurts to be something, it's worse to be nothing with you."
SUMMARY: damian doesn't realize what he has until it's gone
warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, happy ending f!reader, established relationship, dick calls reader baby bird :P, damian is aged up, very slight mention of sex aftermath but no smut, dami is a sweet boy
wc: 1.9k
The first few months of you and Damian's relationship could be defined as "puppy love." You both adored each other greatly, but it wasn't until around month four that you realized something long-term could come out of this.
The only problem was that while you were realizing just how deeply you loved Damian and how you wanted to spend the rest of your life with him, he was realizing just how much danger he was putting you in by dating you openly.
He spent weeks around you with an ache in his chest, spreading throughout his whole body like a disease. He loved you—god, did he love you. But in his mind it wasn't fair that you'd never be safe again so long as you were with him.
So he began to pull away.
A missed call here, a cancelled date there, until you've gone weeks barely seeing your boyfriend. Alas, you decide to stop by the manor and figure out what the hell is going on.
"Baby bird!" Dick's voice is warm and welcoming as he spots you in the foyer. "What're you doing here?"
Despite yourself, a smile graces your lips. Dick's always been so kind to you. "Hi, Dickie. Is Dami home?"
He nods. "I think he's in his room."
You smile in thanks and begin to ascend the stairs, knowing the route to Damian's bedroom by heart. You knock softly on the rich wood. "Dames?"
Behind the door, he freezes. "Beloved?"
"Yeah, it's me. Can I come in."
He stares down at the case files on his desk. All he's doing is hurting you, he reminds himself. "No. I'm busy," he replies.
Your brows lower, a frown replacing your happy grin. "I just wanted to pop in. I won't be long. You missed our date yesterday, baby."
He squeeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. Right, that. The fancy dinner date he'd planned at your favorite restaurant, the one he ditched for patrol. He ended up just sitting on a building, looking into the restaurant, watching you check your watch a thousand times.
He hated how sad you looked, how embarrassed that your date hadn't shown up. Eventually, you'd paid the bill for the wine you ordered and left, tears shimmering in your eyes.
He hates himself for leaving you alone, but he has this notion in his head that you're simply better off without him.
"I know, habibti. Again, I was busy—I still am."
Your excited face has long since crumpled into a disappointed frown, your chest aching funnily. "So you want me to go, then?"
"Please. Go away."
His hard tone makes you flinch slightly, a small bit of anger coiling in your chest. "What did I do to you?" you ask finally, still through the door. "You've been awfully shitty to me lately."
Suddenly the door swings open. "Fine," he snips. "If you're not going to go, you can come in. But you better not bother me, I've got files to look over."
Ah, yes, you think to yourself. Of course, Robin is more important.
With a sigh, you take a seat on his bed, watching as he returns to his desk and resumes his task. You hate that you still find him so pretty; the way his lips purse in focus, the way his eyes narrow when something looks suspicious. You hate it.
It's not for a few minutes that you speak up. "You never answered my question," you murmur casually, staring down at your fingers. "Why are you angry with me?"
He shrugs. "Well it's quite simple. You've been bothering me while I'm busy."
"Bullshit. You never cared before—sometimes you'd even let me help! So what is it really, Damian?"
He lets out a long, troubled sigh, snapping the case file shut and tossing it aside. "I think we should take a break."
All you can do is blink. Stare, and blink. "What?"
"We should take a break, beloved."
"Why?"
"Because."
"Damian," you say firmly. "Why?"
He looks down. "All I am doing is putting you in danger. You deserve to be with a boy who makes you safer. Not me."
You roll your eyes at his idiocy. "You're not endangering me. Nothing's happened to me yet and it's been months."
"That doesn't mean it won't happen!" he exclaims, looking you dead in the eyes. "I can't risk you getting hurt or kidnapped or killed, hayati."
"I can handle myself!" you say. "And it's not like everyone knows you're Robin. I'm not dating Robin, I'm dating Damian Wayne. I'll be fine."
He shakes his head. "Even outside of Robin, I'm still a Wayne. People know B is Batman—dangerous people, beloved. I wouldn't put it past them to come for you to get to us."
"But—"
"—I'm not doing this with you," he says finally, turning around toward the door and holding it open. "Please go."
You frown, biting back tears. "Damian—"
"—No!" he snaps. "Nothing you can say is going to change my mind. Leave. Don't come back."
You stare at him for a moment, wondering what the hell happened to your sweet boy. In a matter of weeks, you'd lost him. Over something you couldn't control.
Finally, you nod, numbly standing from his bed and brushing past him out his bedroom door. "Will I see you soon?" you ask, referring to Robin—Damian likes to watch over you, and sometimes you catch him. Hopefully that habit still sticks.
He doesn't reply, only shuts his door.
It's been sixteen days, not that you're counting.
Sixteen days of staring at your ceiling, trying to resist sending Damian a call. A text. Anything to see how he's doing.
You haven't seen or heard from him since, not even as his vigilante persona. Robin has not come to check up on you even once since you'd left, and it seems as if he's patrolling an entire different area of Gotham just to avoid you.
You frequently look through photos of you two. You and Dami, cuddling in bed. You and Dami, doing face masks together. You and Dami, skin-to-skin after making sweet love. You always end your scrolling covered in tears and snot, missing your lover so deeply.
You've picked up a routine: wake up, eat, read, nap, eat, go to sleep. It's not healthy, you know that. But what are you supposed to do when Damian used to fill every inch of your day, and now he's gone?
It wasn't always easy with Damian, don't get it wrong. There were fights, silent treatments, stubborn attitudes on both ends. But it hurts worse to be nothing with Damian Wayne than it does to be something.
On the other end of things, Damian's not doing much better.
Damian doesn't have many regrets in his life, but this is definitely one of them. He hasn't reached out to you since he sent you away. He swapped patrol with Jason so he could take a part of the city that wasn't yours. He deleted social media so he wouldn't feel inclined to see your pretty face on Instagram.
Long story short, he's living in hell—he's sure of it.
He can't sleep at night without seeing your sad little face the night you left. Those tears in your big eyes, your pink nose, your frown… He understands why Tim loves his energy drinks so much.
Damian continues to try and convince himself that the two of you would've never worked out, that one day shit would've hit the fan regardless and you'd be gone either way. He did the right thing, he did the right thing, he did the right thing.
That doesn't stop his thumb from hovering over your contact every night. Doesn't stop him from daydreaming about you kissing his forehead.
One day, as Damian is walking through the Gotham streets, earbuds in and eyes tired, he sees you.
Except, no. It's not you. Is he dreaming?
He gives his head a little shake and rubs his eyes, looking at the girl in the coffee shop on the corner of Melrose and Peterson. Same hair, same eyes, same focused nibble of her lip…
Well, fuck him. He misses you. He even missed your clashing ideas, your attitude, the meaningless fights. He didn't even say goodbye.
Damian would've been just fine if it weren't for the girl in the shop. He would've let go of this. He wouldn't have contacted you, wouldn't have asked to come see you, wouldn't have picked out the biggest bouquet he could find at the florist.
Yet, here he was, standing at your door with a batch of your favorite flowers.
His heart hammers almost audibly in his chest all the way up until you swing the door open. Suddenly, he can breathe again. He stares at you, taking you in. Yep, same hair as always—same eyes, same kissable lips, same cute nose.
That's his baby, right there.
"Hi," he whispers.
"You actually came," you laugh in disbelief, smiling softly.
His head tilts. "Did you not think I would."
"I thought you were either drunk at 9 am or pranking me," you admit, opening the door wider so he could come in.
The apartment looks the same. Empty coffee mugs by the sink, unfolded blankets on the couch, messy in your own chaotic way. He sets the flowers down in the kitchen before moving to you.
His hands tentatively find your hips, his touch feather-light, waiting for you to reject it. When you don't, he lets his hands settle heavier, sighing in pure relief. "Oh, habibti," he whimpers, his face dropping into your neck. You still smell the same.
He breathes you in, arms moving from your hips to engulf you in a tight hug. One arm around your waist, the other holding your back with utter tenderness and care. "I'm so, so, so, so sorry," he whispers against your warm skin. "You're my everything, ya eazizaa. I just wanted to keep you safe, I didn't mean to—…."
You shush him soothingly, returning his hug. "Oh, Dames. I missed you," you murmur, carding your fingers through his soft hair.
"Just wanted to protect you," he whispers. "Shouldn't have been so mean. My poor baby…"
"I know, Dami. I know," you soothe. "Look at me."
After a moment, he lifts his head from your neck, looking so sad and devastated and regretful. Your heart clenches as you cup his cheeks. He leans into your hand.
"I'm safe," you assure him. "I wouldn't stick around if I was worried about getting hurt, baby. I love you, I trust you. We're going to be okay."
A tear slides down his cheek, then another, then another. "You still love me?"
You smile softly. "Silly boy. How could I not?"
He kisses your palm against his cheek, the kisses fleeting and gentle. "Habibti, habibti, habibti," he whispers almost worshipfully against your skin. "I'll keep you safe. I'll do better."
"Don't ever shut me out like that again? Please?"
He nods, his pretty green eyes looking into yours. "I won't. It hurt too much."
You lean down, pressing a sweet kiss to his salty lips. Both of your bodies visibly relax as your lips meet, then your tongues. "I love you," he whispers into your mouth.
You hum in response before pulling away. "I love you."
He reaches for your hand and guides you to the couch. "I saw this woman earlier. She looked just like you."
"Really?" you murmur in acknowledgment, ready to cuddle your baby once again. "You sure it wasn't me?"
He shakes his head adamantly. "Oh, habibti. She could never be you."
His mind goes blank as he stares at the blank piece of paper in front of him, lying flat on his wooden desk in his room.
His eyes drift off to the set of pens.
The ones you have gotten him.
He recalls the memory.
The way you looked at him, eyes so bright they could have brightened up a dark room. Cheeks slightly blushed, smile widened far too much. Finger tips brush lightly against each other as you hand him the pens; the tips of his fingers still tingle even hours later.
“These are for you!” You pull out a pack of colorful pens, handing them to him with a grin painted on your face.
He takes a glance at them and is hesitant for a moment—before he takes them from your hand.
Finger tips brushing against each others.
“What’s this for?” He questioned softly, fingers grazing over the plastic gently.
“Well, you mentioned the other day your pens were running out of ink, and how you don’t have time to go get some more,” you nod at him softly, “so I went to the store and got them for you”
He groans to himself, and the feeling in his stomach returns. Damian leans back against the chair, his hand runs over his face— palm pressed up against his lips, fingers digging softly in his cheek. Green eyes glare down at the white paper as if it had cursed his entire bloodline.
“If you can’t draw anything, write something down! The first thing that comes to mind and draws based on that—it always helps me!”
He reaches for the pens, rough fingers gripping the plastic container—almost ripping it as he opens it.
Damian picks a random color, takes the lid off, and throws it at someone on his desk. shoulders relaxed as he leaned down only slightly.
“The first thing that comes to mind….” He repeats softly.
His hand speaks for him, almost like a reflex.
And his hand comes to a complete stop, his eyes widen slightly.
Written is cursive, elegant, and carefully written in a perfect straight line, and written in bold—underlined at that.
Your name.
He lets out a sigh, head falling to his hands dramatically. He could have thought about anything: his family, his pets, literally anything.
And your name was the very first thing he thought of. You name hunts the back of his mind constantly, whether you're present or not, it lingers—and it irritates him.
Damian knows about the weird feeling in his gut. Dick talks about it when it comes to Kori, and that scares him.
He stares at your name that he had written, despite everything—every weird feeling that lingers longer when you're around, he’ll admit…
Your name looks beautiful written on a piece of paper.
"jot down your dying wishes, hey. all of your dying wishes" based on this hc
It was rare for Dick Grayson to get a completely sane and calm week, but he can happily say that things had been going really well for him lately. He had just arrived at Wayne Manor after meeting up with his best friend, Wally West, when he came to realization that it was one, very late and two, almost abandoned.
Tim had been away for a long time now, caught up in his solo act as Red Robin, Jason was (as always) out may God know where doing God know what, Bruce had been on a business trip for a while now and Damian... Well Damian should be at the Titans Tower.
So it should be just Alfred and him. Though when he walked into the living room, he was met, as suspected, by Alfred, who wore a strangely concerned expression on his face. Well, there goes his short normal life.
"Master Dick." The butler spoke up. "There's something you might want to see in the library. Perhaps... Well I suppose you might know what to do with it."
And because of that, Dick quickly made his was over to the library, not really knowing what to expect, but it surely wasn't this.
"Damian?"
The room was dark expect for a small yellow light of a lamp placed on the desk Damian Wayne was sitting by. He looked nothing like his usual self. His hair was messy, like he'd ran his hand through it about a dozen times, his brows were furrowed from stress, dark bags resting under his wide, green, but tired eyes, skin paler than the usual light brown tone of it.
Besides the concerning appearance of his younger-brother-slash-kind-of-a-son-figure, Dick also noticed the stack of books laying around everywhere. There must've been seven big, open books and thirty closed ones that definitly had been readen by the state they were left in. Some other books had simply been discared all around the place, as if they'd been useless. And Damian was probably the reason why.
What was going on?
Not seeming to have heard the older boy, Damian kept on reading, eyes scanning over the words on the large pages before quickly flipping it and settling on a new sentence, like he was in a hurry.
"Damian." Dick tried again. "What are you doing?"
Finally, the boy looked up, shocking his brother/father with the way he looked, now having a much better view at him then when he was looking down at his books.
"I think I'm dying."
Say what now?
"Dying?" Dick asked, eyebrows raising automatically. "What do you mean?" All Damian could do was groan a run a hand down his face. "I am sick." He explained. "Incredibly so. Painfully so."
"Do you have a fever? Do you need something?"
"I do not have a fever, Grayson. I am telling you, I am ill."
Suddenly, Dick's entire world froze, as if Doctor Manhattan had personally stopped time for him. Damian Wayne, the boy he had grown so close to during these past years, was sick and apparently dying.
This could not be happening.
Snapping out of his thoughts, Dick shook his head, refusing this information. "You must be mistaken, there has to be another explanation."
"You are not listening to me, Dick. There is no explanaiton." The boy glared down at his books like they had personally offended him. "I have looked everywhere, searched in every book in the neighbourhood as far as coming all the way to this Manor in hopes to find a book that can tell me what my condition is, but they have all failed."
"Damian, how long have you been researching this?" The older boy asked, genuinely wanting to know as this was starting to seriously worry him. "Have you even slept?"
"I cannot sleep, Dick! That is the problem! One of the many! I cannot sleep, I cannot even rest, I have tried, but my mind will not let me!"
Damian's throath bobbed, swallowing down the nerves to calm himself and try to lay it out slowly. "There's a good possibility that I have Cardiotoxins, because of the way my heartbeat has been speding up and I find it hard to breath sometimes, but when I looked into more toxins, I also found out I could relate to Neurotoxins, which would explain the weakness I have felt in my knees and the abdominal fluttering in my stomach, which would be caused by mild nerve agent interfering with muscle control and the autonomic nervous system. Though, sometimes I feel that my mouth is really dry and it gets hard to speak, too, so that could be Anticholinergic Syndrome."
"So what you're saying is that you've been poisoned?" Dick figured, already thinking of ways to find an antidose and villains to hunt down for poisining one of the people he cared about the most.
"Well that is what I thought at first, but then I came across something called Anisakiasis or Internal Parasites, that could be causing the knots and the sick feeling in my stomach. Though the painful pangs in my chest could also be Splenic Infarction or Ulcers."
God, was he really in that much pain? Hearing all of this was starting to actually scare Dick, but it also confused him, because he'd been by Damian's side a lot lately, and he had never noticed him being in such trouble.
"When I came here, I found books about more serious conditions, such as Arrhythmogenic Right Ventricular Cardiomyopia. I might have a genetic, underlying heart defect that is suddenly triggering dangerous ventricular tachycardia, or, as you would call it: a dangerously fast heart rate, under specific environmental triggers." Damian continued, like Dick understood anything of what he just said (spoiler alert: he did not).
"But I am most likely to lead under a Glioma, which is an Early-Onset Brain Tumor. That would make sense, as I also have the symtoms, like zoning out, hyper-fixation, intrusive thoughts, and a loss of tactical focus. It is basically a brain fog, or a distraction as I would like to call it, as a tumor pressing on his frontal lobe."
Now Dick's world really turned upside down.
"You have a brain tumor? You have cancer?"
"That or Infective Endocarditis." He informed the man. But his concern didn't seem to easen at all, nor did he seem like he even understood the term.
The Robin stood up, walking around the table with a tired look on his face, now looking straightly at the older boy in front of him. "It's a serious bacterial infection of the heart valves. It causes shortness of breath, a rapid heart rate, and fatigue."
Yet, he still didn't seem to understand. I mean, he understands the ilness, he just doesn't understand how this could have happened. "Damian, how—when did this even start?" His response was a small shrug. "I do not know... I suppose I have felt it for a while, in a smaller form, without even being aware of it and... over time it has grown."
Thinking about it, Damian actually wondered if there was an exact moment it started, or just a moment when he felt something similiar to what he feels now in an early stage, even just the slightest feeling.
Yes... perhaps there was.
"I think it might've started when she hugged me for the first time."
Dick instantly blinked. "What?"
"I told you about that." Damian reminded him with a frown. "When father and I had a bad argument, and I was overstimulated after, she showed her very first act of kindness by hugging me, which she said West had informed her about. But that was when we were sixteen." And he was eighteen now.
"Wait, wait, wait." Dick shook his head, holding his hands out to stop the younger boy. "What are you talking about? What does Y/n hugging you have to do with you possibly having cancer?"
"Well," Damian started, then paused, then continued. "It started with her and it seems to only happen when she's around." But he caught himself. "No, it happens when I think of her, too. And I've been thinking about her constantly, it is becoming a problem. Or it already is. I cannot tell, because I hate it, but sometimes I find myself enjoying it."
Oh my God, Dick got it all wrong. How could he have gotten this wrong? I mean all those difficult symptoms Damian had been using, as the med student he is, were just fancy terms for—
"Damian." Dick called out. "What is it that you have been feeling exactly? And please explain it in a way I would understand."
Sighing, the Arabian boy began explaining. Again. "I am compromised. My body and brain are betraying me. My heart increases it's rating every now and then, like it's trying to break through my ribs, causing my chest to ache. I can hear it in my ears and it hurts. It provents me from breathing sometimes." He thought for a second before going on. "There's these tingelings in my stomach and my hands shake. My body never 'shakes', Grayson. Never."
"Panick attacks maybe?" He knew what Damian was talking about wasn't a panick attack, he just wanted to provoke more.
"No. I do not panick. And there's more."
"Like what?"
"Like not being able to eat. I can't get myself to. Not at all times, at least, because there is something bothering me. And at night I lay awake, waiting for the sun to rise, because my brain will not let me fall asleep, and I am stuck staring at the ceiling with the moonlight falling right upon me, and I cannot help but let it remind me of her."
As the boy spoke, Dick's heart was the one trying to break through his ribs now, because hearing Damian talk like this was so foreign yet so... hearmelting. "Y/n?" He guessed, when Damian had said the word 'her'.
"Yes." He confirmed. "It only happens with her. I'm completely normal one second and then she walks in and suddenly I get warm, like an overwhelming kind of warm, and my mind starts racing, my palms start sweating, my eyes refuse to avert themselves from her, I expierence this weird fluttery feeling in my stomach, too, if I had not already mentionned that before." He in fact did mention that already.
Though, he was not done yet. "And it is not just that." He warned. "Last week, I woke up early and wandered through the halls of the Titans tower, heading towards the kitchen to eat breakfast so I would have enough energy for the training of the day. When I walked in, to my surprise, Y/n was already there, minding her own business, cooking breakfast. She was wearing a shirt that was too big on her, my shirt, I had lend it to her after a long fight the night before. Her skin looked soft, her hair slightly messy but just perfect. She looked so peaceful, like she belonged. I could not help but find it..." His voice trailed off, looking for the word.
"Domestic?" Dick guessed, and Damian's green eyes lit up, nodding. "Yes. Domestic."
Dick knew exactly what Damian must've felt like. He'd felt the same way when he first saw Kori all settled in after moving in together.
"She had prepared tea. Atay, to be exact. Sweet atay. But there were two glasses." Damian continued, his voice sounding distant, like he was reliving the memory in his head. "When she noticed me, she didn't widen her eyes, she didn't even blink. She just shoved the glass towards me, like she had set it there for me, like she knew I'd be there, like there weren't other people living with us. And as she spoke to me... I don't know what happened I—my mouth went dry, my tong got tied and I... I went mute. I could not respond, no matter how hard I tried. I found myself to be a fool, humiliating myself in front of her. And I did not know why I cared so much that it was her watching me freeze."
He took a deep breath, like it was getting harder for him to talk about it. "And then today... I was just in the living room, she, Anders and Logan went on a mission. Me and Roth had stayed behind."
Grayson had to admit, it would never not get weird to hear his brother/son refer to his girlfriend by her last name, yet he listened, because his heart was melting, and his body was warming, and he was just so... happy.
"When they came back, they were wounded. Minor wounds, but still wounded. Y/n was bleeding out. She shouldn't have, she's stronger than both of them combined, but she put herself in danger to save your girlfriend. I don't know what happened, I just felt so allarmed. Scared, even. I do not get scared, I didn't know what was going on but I must admit, I had never felt as concerned for anyone but her." He stayed quiet for a second, not being able to believe he was actually saying all of this, yet he went on, because deep down, he felt like Dick was the only person he could talk to about this.
"As stubborn as she is, she ignored it, brushed it off as nothing." His jaw clenched at the memory of it, you abandoning your own health and safety because you were so... persistent, so... like him.
"I couldn't ignore it."
Wow. That must've come straight out of a romance novel, if Dick was being honest.
"I found her on the balcony, after a small dissagreement, I got her to let me take care of the wound. The cut went lower than I had expected so... I mean..." He turned his head, as if getting flustered, looking away from the man in front of him.
"I had never seen her in just a camisole before." His light brown cheeks now started to flush, a pink color covering them.
"My mind betrayed me yet again, because I could not prevent it from thinking that she was the most beautiful sight I had ever laid my eyes on."
That certainly wasn't what Dick had expected. He'd thought that Damian, like many other boys, would have thougth of it in a more... innapropriate way, but Damian looked at you and saw you for what you could not see, and somehow, that made Dick feel proud.
"I cleaned her wounds and wrapped them up, and we talked. The moon shone on her skin and I could not look away. And then, she surprised me with something I had never seen before... She smiled at me." His breath caught in his throat, like even now, he couldn't believe it. "She smiled." The boy repeated.
"I did not know she was capable of doing so. Nor did I know she was capable of becoming even more divine than she already is and always has been, but when her lips tilted up, just for me... I felt like perhaps I could die right that second and return to the death with euphoria."
Is it weird that Dick Grayson was getting a bit emotional over this? Because he couldn't lie and say his eyes were not getting glassy and his heart was not going to malfunction from the way it was banging against his ribs.
"She left to see Wally not long after, and I... I knew then that I was compromised. I headed straight to my room and looked for all the medical books I posessed because what I felt in that moment is not normal, Grayson. My mind—my heart—I could not—I can not breathe—" Damian's hand met his forehead as his knees buckled, the overwhelming feeling he'd expiereneced many times hitting him like a ton of bricks now.
"I do not know what is going on with me, and I do not know why Y/n is the center of it all, nor do I not know why it hurts so much, and God strike me down, but I do not know why it feels so addictive."
Scrunching his nose, snapping out of his trance, Dick rubbed his eye, finally speaking up again. "You're not sick, Damian. And you're not dying. It's not some weird condition that is making you feel like this, it's Y/n."
The black haired boy's eyes widened. "Yes, of course. Do you think she poisened me?" His brows furrowed. "God, she is so immatu—" "No, Damian, she didn't do anything to you. No one did. It's you! You're the one causing this."
At that, Damian paused, a puzzled look finding his face. "I do not think I understand."
"Damian." Dick said. "Don't you see?"
He certainly did not see it.
"You're in love."
Now, remember when I said Dick felt like Doctor Manhattan had stopped the time around him and his world turned upside down when he thought that Damian might die?
That is what Damian felt like right now.
"I don't—" "You're in love with Y/n."
His brows only furrowed more now, like he simply couldn't make any sense out of that sentence. "No." Damian stated, voice cold. "No, no, you've got it wrong. I hate Y/n. I have for years."
"There's a thin line between love and hate, Damian."
"No." He dismissed it instantly, tone harsh. "There isn't. You either hate or—whatever it is you wish to call that piece of propaganda. I have hated Y/n from the moment I actually knew her."
"You did. And you did for a long time. But remember what you told me about her hugging you? That was your turning point."
"You are wrong."
"I am not."
"Yes you are. I am the grandson of Ra's Al Ghul, heir of an elite league of assassin, trained like one from the moment I was born, I do not love!"
Noticing his sudden outburst, Damian cleared his throat, calming himself down. "I do not have 'feelings' for Y/n. I have Pheochromocytoma."
Dick raised an eyebrow. "Is that something you just came up with?" He asked, arms folded over his chest. "No. I have thought my symptomes through again and came to the realization that Pheochromocytoma is the most fitting condition for it." Damian stated, set on his conclusion.
"Oh really?"
"Yes."
"Tell me about it."
Damian cleared his throat. "I have a rapid heartbeat.My heart cannot maintain a proper rhythm."
"That's normal. When you like or love someone, your body gets excited before your brain gets the chance to catch up. Your heart speeds up because you're emotionally invested."
"That is most unlikely. It would also not explain the trembling. I am always stable, and lately I have not been anymore. My hands shake, my feet tap—" "Because adrenaline doesn't just make your heart race, it gives you that shaky feeling too. People get it all the time when they're excited or nervous."
Damian looked offended to say the least. "I do not get nervous. It is an unecessary flaw. Nor do I get 'excited'." Before Dick could speak again, the younger boy beat him to it. "Explain the headaches. What could 'love' possibly have to do with that?"
"Well, You spend all day thinking about one person and then wonder why your head hurts. How could that be?"
"I do not—" He stopped himself, knowing he had already admitted to thinking about you constantly, so denying would not be very convinsing. "Shortness of breath." He instead said. "I cannot breathe normally anymore. It is either too fast or unable to come out of my lungs. Sometimes it even catches in my throat."
"It happens to people all the time. Strong feelings can make you tense up without realizing it. Then suddenly you're overthinking how breathing works. Or you forget how to do it by the intimacy of—"
"Breathing comes naturally. There is no need to overthink it. There is no intimacy between me and Y/n either, and one annoying person cannot make me forget how to breathe."
"And yet, you have."
The boy clenched his jaw, seriously starting to get frustrated. "Anxiety." He confessed. "I feel uneasy. Perhaps... unsure sometimes."
The Nightwing could only sigh. "That's what happens when someone matters to you. You start caring about things you normally wouldn't. You start overthinking, wanting everything to be perfect, scared to mess up."
"I do not get scared."
"We all get scared."
He cant't believe he's still going on with this but— "What about the Insomnia?"
"When people are excited about somebody, their brains don't always know when to shut up. They lie there replaying conversations, imagining future ones, thinking about that person in such incredible ways, wondering what they're doing, what they like, what it would be like if they were there with them, perhaps how they would act if they were more than what they are now, if they could do everything their hearts secretly desire." His blue eyes met green ones.
"Next thing they know it's three in the morning."
And Damian fell a pang in his chest, because shamefully so, that is exactly what he has been doing. His eyes drifted away, jaw clenching again, an uneasy feeling taking over him.
Yet, he still tried, still tried to deny it. "None of that would explain my loss of appetite."
"It's not very common, but it happens."
"You cannot possibly be suggesting every symptom I list is somehow related to your absurd fictional theory."
"No. I'm just explaining everything you're lsiting because you're 'symptoms' are signs of being in love. Strong feelings can throw people off their normal routine. Sometimes they're too distracted to notice they're hungry. Sometimes they're nervous. Sometimes they're so focused on one person that everything else gets pushed into the background. And sometimes, they're just so scared that they simply cannot get themselves to eat."
"I have told you before: I do not get scared."
"Then when was the last time you finished a full meal?"
Suddenly, Damian fell still, not knowing what to say, because he himself had no idea.
Dick didn't get an answer, and that was enough of an answer to him.
"I—I have concentrating difficulities." He tried again. "My thoughts become... distracted."
"Because your brain prefers to focus on things it finds important. People in love get distracted by the person they're thinking about all the time. She is important to you, perhaps the only important thing to you. She's all you truly want to think about."
"I do not want to— "You're probably also hyperaware of everything you do around her, because little things stand out more, your brain pays extra attention and you don't want to be seen as a fool by her."
That got him quiet. Just for a second. Because Damian Wayne always had to have the last word. "Why?" Wow. Process. He didn't deny, he just wondered why.
"Because it thinks Y/n is important."
"Then my brain must be stupidly mistaken."
Despite Damian's stuborness, Dick smiled. "Your brain's actually way ahead of you."
"A tendency toward irrational concern."
"What you mean to say is that you care about her."
Stubborn as he is, Damian folded his arms over each other near his chest, looking away from the man in front of him. "I do not."
"Oh. So you don't care that when I was with Wally, and Y/n happened to be there too, she said her shoulder was hurting, so she went to the emergancy departement with Artemis."
And oh did Dick notice the way Damian's eyes shot back to him in an instant.
"What do you mean? Was she bleeding again?"
"She's fine Damian." But then, a mischievous thought popped up in his mind.
No, he shouldn't.
But oh, he should.
"Surely because of the 'hot nurse' that took care of her."
Oh. Now he's done it.
Damian fully turned back to him now, an expression Dick had never seen before resting on his face. "Did she say it like that?"
"Yes. She also said that his touch was very soft and tender."
"He touched her?" The boy asked, poison laced in his tone. "Well of course, he had to take care of the wound."
"There was no need for a 'soft' touch. He just had to move quickly. Did Y/n really say that he is 'hot'? That is very unlike her, surely admitting such pathetic thing, too. She would not fall for a stranger. She is not stupid. In fact, she is the smartest person I have ever known. She doesn't know anything about him, perhaps he is too old for her, and if she were to start 'somehting' with him, he'll be a total dissapointement, like he won't know anything about Dominic Fike or he won't be into anything else she is, and he won't know how she likes her atay or her lehdes, because she doesn't like to much pepper in it, nor too much vegetables, and they have to be cut small into small pieces, not big ones, but the lehdes always needs lots of salt, which he wouldn't know nor care to ask like I did. He probably doesn't even know how to make lehdes, he'd just throw everything into the pot and let her chew on rocks—"
"Damian!"
The boy in question stopped. "What?" He asked, clearly annoyed.
"There is no handsome nurse!" Dick admitted. "A kind, old woman took care of her. She's fine."
Damian blinked. Genuinely blinked. "Why would you say something like that?"
"To prove that I'm right about you caring."
"Well." Damian bit the inside of his cheek. "As you can see, I do not."
Oh really?
"And so my diagnosis remains unchanged." Damian decided. "A pheochromocytoma."
"Right."
"Thank you."
"No, see, that wasn't agreement."
"It sounded like agreement."
"It was pity."
"For my medical condition?"
"For your denial."
"I am not in denial. And with that I am ending this useless converstion with my dying wishes."
"Dying wishes?" The older boy asked before sighing deeply. "Sure, go ahead. In fact, write them somewhere." He waved his arms.
"Jot down your dying wishes, Damian Wayne."
Damian Wayne didn't care that Dick was being sarcastic, he just spoke the dying wishes anyway. "Make sure my animals are taken care of. Tell Garfield he cannot break down the wall between our rooms so that he can have a bigger bedroom. And make sure Y/n never meets another man again."
Dick's mouth dropped wide open. "You can't say that and expect me not to think you're in love with her!!"
The black haired boy didn't get a response, just watched as Damian walked back to where his seat was, silence taking over the atmosphere of the room. Though, Damian didn't sit down, just stood there, arms folded, staring down at his book, but his angry expression was fading, and something interly else was replacing it.
"It doesn't matter if I do not hate her."
Dick's head snapped towards the direction of the voice, eyes landing on Damian's tired face.
"She hates me. She always has."
His lips trembeled then. "Dick... You have to help me." Never had he heard Damian Wayne plead, but God did it break his heart.
"I can't do this. Loving her. Not while I know she will never return the feelings."
Now, it was Dick's expresison that fell, stepping forward to be closer to his brother. "You don't know that."
"Have you met Y/n?"
"I have. And I know her well enough to know that she is just like you. So if you were able to hide your true feelings for so long, and if you were able to fall so deeply for a girl like her, what's stopping her from doing the same thing?"
Damian gulped, swallowing down the nerves. "She's everything to me, Dick." He breathed out with difficulity.
"She understands me in ways no one else does. She challenges me and she argues with me. She's cold and cruel and calm and yet she is so good to me. I have lately found myself loving it when we argue. And I love the way she sings along to Dominic Fike's music and only his music, like everything else just immediatly sucks. I love how she's the best fighter I've ever seen, and still has many other, unviolent talents. I love that she's so considerate, and she actually listens when people talk, trying to see from where they stand. Her writing is beyond anything I've ever read, and her knowledge is beyond anything I've heard of. And her eyes... They shine like stars. Like little constellations."
He knows he's rambling, he really does, and he sees why people would find this unecessary and out of the pocket for him, but he's been carrying this weight on his shoulders and bottling this up for almost two years now, and he was finally able to let it out.
"She's so perfect. I don't even know how it is possible. I just can't—I—I don't want to mess this up, I'm just so scared, I—" Before he could out another word, Dick hugged him. It was out of nowhere, unexpected, but God had Damian needed this.
"If you love her, let her know." Dick muttered into Damian's shoulder. "Even if it's not immediatly by saying it, just be there for her. Every person has their own way of loving, and every person has their own way of wanting to be loved."
"How do I know how she wants to be loved?" The boy wondered.
"Trust me Damian." Dick smiled.
"You"ll know."
𝐈𝐌𝐌𝐈 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐏 𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆:
ending lowkey sucks ASS like WHAT EVEN IS THIS??? but I'm getting tired and I have two exams tomorrow and I'm gonna kms so here you have the fic of the headcanon that is for some reason blowing up
song lyrics from the start is from DOMINIC FIKE'S 'What's For Dinner' (if anyone knows him from babydoll, white keys or mama's boy: get OUTTA here tiktok fakies! I'm a real fan and the biggest at that like I know EVERYTHING)
also, yes dick is like a father to damian in this so what? I personally love more them as father and son than brothers
besides dick admitted to wanting to adopt damian and wanting to be a father to him instead of letting him stay with bruce, which I thought was adorable
bro this fic is all about y/n and blud didn't even pull up
OOH! ALSO! this is gonna be in my damian wayne book in like ten years or smt, it has only one chapter cause idk how to update on wattpad without my mom finding out anymore, but chapter 2 is being written and I'll figure something out so please go read 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝕊ℍ𝕀𝕋 and leave TONS of comments!!! (pun intended with the bat, also a dominic fike son btw)
bf!wally west who is the textbook definition of both a golden retriever and an orange cat. yes, he's a cuddly, sweet, doting, playful boyfriend—hence the golden retriever.
but he's also such a fucking idiot. he's clumsy, always running into shit in your apartment, falling off the bed, jamming his fingers in doors, etc. he tries dumb shit he sees on the internet—like hanging a water bottle from a moving fan—just to see what happens. as expected, he gets slammed in the head as the plastic swings from the blade.
bf!wally west who loves nothing more than resting his face between your tits. whenever he has the opportunity, he's laying on you chest and nuzzling his nose between the plush flesh. if he's feeling extra needy, he'll burrow under your shirt or hoodie to feel closer. or he'll just straight up take your bra off and smush against your tits.
bf!wally west who buys you little trinkets that he sees at the store, not knowing what they are. "baby, i got you a present!" he'll sing-song, then walk in with like 5 sonny angel boxes. then he's confused when you scream and thank him profusely.
bf!wally west who begs to make tiktoks with you. he scrolls through your feed, seeing couples do dances and other coupley things and immediately rushes to you, shoving the phone in your face and asking to recreate it. the only reason you did the "a boy who's jacked and kind" trend and the lipstick kiss trend was because wally convinced you.
bf!wally west who's a switch, but definitely leans more sub. he loves when you order him around, making him undress in front of you and beg on his knees to eat you out.
he loves nothing more than the mock sympathy that pours from your mouth when you're forcing out his 3rd orgasm of the night. "aw, cmon, baby, you can give mommy another one, can't you?" you'll coo, making him whine pathetically against your bare shoulder. your hand strokes him faster. "cmon, honey, one more for mama."
bf!wally west who loves being the little spoon. feeling you curled around him, shielding him, protecting him...it makes him feel so loved and appreciated. he'll hold your hand where it hangs loosely beside his head, your arm tucked under his head as a makeshift pillow. he'll melt at the feel of your soft lips pressing gentle kisses to his shoulder.
bf!wally west who acts as your human vibrator. thanks to being a speedster, his tongue and fingers and hips can move at speeds that normally wouldn't be humanly possible. but why would you need a pathetic plastic vibrator when you've got a sexy boyfriend whose tongue can flick at lightning speed? he's a munch for a reason, after all.
bf!wally west who definitely annoys you by walking around your apartment, blasting ariana grande and sabrina carpenter and singing along. "wally! shut up!" you call in annoyance from the bedroom. "i'm trying to read!"
"and i'm trying to sing, baby!" he'll call back with a laugh, continuing to belt the lyrics of house tour, only singing louder when you groan dramatically.
EVER since you’ve known damian wayne he’s been an enigma. you’d be lying if you said that something about his aura just made him appease to other people. but you didn’t entertain that. you never did. you thought he was a snobby rich kid that always had people at his back and call. you thought he was a stuck up, broody teen with an ego bigger than the sun. and yet people just revolved around him.
that was until you actually got to know him. really know him. your friendship with the boy was quiet. it wasn’t like you two were hiding your friendship. there was just no need to be showing it off. and you genuinely liked that about damian wayne.
in some ways he was that stuck up rich kid with no intel of the real world. but behind all of that, he was someone who truly cares about the people around him, even if he had a hard time showing it. you could see it though, there was a certain glint in his eyes when he talked about his siblings.
you weren’t too close to him. but you were close enough that he would occasionally invite you to the manor. through quiet whispers and quick glances, you understood damian. as nonchalant as he wanted to be, he was very easy to read.
the more he invited you over, the more his siblings pestered. the more they grew to like you.
however your relationship changed when he decided to be a dumb teenage boy with a stupid ego and horrible friends.
at the snobby gotham academy he’s sitting at the lunch table with his friends, watching you a few tables down mingling with your own friends.
“damian, what do you see in her? actually,” asked jon.
“what?” damian tried to act clueless but jon knew better.
he poked his head toward your table, “her. she’s not your type.”
“what are you talking about? and how do you know what my type is?” damian’s eyebrow raised.
“prove it then. go ask her out. i know you’ve been ogling at her.” jon’s got him hooked now.
“what? no.”
“so then why are you always with her? i bet you can’t even get her to date you, wayne. she’s totally not your type.”
damian grumbles to himself, cursing out jon in arabic in his head.
“i do not know what is going through your mind, kent. but i can get her to date me.”
jon smirked, “prove it. go ask her out now. if she says yes, you do my anatomy work for a month. if she says no then i’ll get you lunch for a month. deal?”
damian doesn’t even have time to answer him as he’s already getting up from his chair. it squeaked against the hardwood floor as he got up and trudged his way toward you. everyone’s eyes now on him.
the ego he has on his shoulders is overcrowding his mind and all he can think about is that stupid bet. because he can get you to date him. it was easy. one word then he’ll break it off and he’ll get free lunch for a month. it seemed easy enough. though he clearly did not think about the consequences.
he stops at your table, “you will go out with me.”
you don’t know who he’s talking to. he’s never talked to you like this. but his eyes are dead set on you.
you laugh, “i’m sorry, what?”
“we will date. you are my girlfriend and i am your boyfriend.”
your friends are whispering at each other. they’re all looking at you waiting for your answer. and damian’s ears are turning redder and redder as the moments pass.
“damian, what? what is going on?” this wasn’t the damian you knew.
“…. i like you! i want us to date.” god he was going to regret this in five minutes.
“is this some sort of prank or something?” you’re still confused, sketched out by his sudden behavior.
“no.”
oh.
you liked him. in between the silent looks and the quiet nights reading in his bedroom you grew fond of damian wayne. you liked him. you just didn’t think he liked you enough for that.
“okay. let’s date,” you have a shy smile on your face. so much for keeping your friendship private.
he nods and smiles. you think it’s him being genuine, but really it’s him being victorious.
when he walks back to his lunch table jon is in utter shock. the smile is wiped off damian’s face. it took him five seconds (too late) to realize what he had done. what was he thinking? he couldn’t do that to you. he would never do that to you. and yet he did. all because of a stupid bet and his stupid inflated ego.
—
soon the hallways of gotham academy had begun to empty. safe for the handful of students who had afterschool extracurriculars. the hallway that also contained none other than damian wayne and jon kent.
“dude i can’t believe you actually did that,” jon snickers.
“i understand you cannot believe it jon. can you just let it go now?” damian is tired. tired of thinking about the fiasco that happened. tired of thinking of what he’s going to say to you when he ends up breaking your heart. tired of thinking about what his life would be like without you in it once you found out the stupid thing he did.
unbeknownst to him, you’re listening. you’re in the class next to his locker— the door wide open. the pair are obviously unaware that you are inside, listening to their entire conversation. the second you heard their voices you decided to scare them. that was until you heard.
“no way. you, damian wayne, got some chick to actually agree to date you.”
“like it is hard? i have people constantly at my back and call, jon. i am sure that would happen if i asked anyone that damn question,” he rolls his eyes and shuts his locker.
“well you didn’t ask. you demanded,” jon corrected. just in time for you to come out.
you couldn’t believe him. after all your friendship has gone through these past couple of months he decides to fake it? fake the whole thing? was this just some ploy?
they’re walking the other direction so they’re still unaware you’re behind them. you grab your water bottle and empty the rest of it on top of stupid damian wayne’s head.
jon is just as surprised as he is. no one even dared to touch damian wayne, let alone pour water on top of him?!
he’s fuming when the water hits his head. but the second he turns around his eyes soften.
you’re standing there— water bottle, the culprit, in hand. your eyes are rimmed with tears. face heating up the second you stepped behind him. how could he?
“wayne…”
jon scurries off. he’s too scared to meet the face of the victim. as if he was the one who did the whole thing in the first place.
“hey.. um,” damian starts off.
“you’re actually kidding me,” you sniffle and try to let out a laugh. not a funny laugh no, a laugh of disbelief. of shock.
“so this whole thing was a ploy? was it just something fun for you to do while you get to run free like the little stuck up rich boy you are,” you aggressively wipe your tears on the back of your arm sleeve.
“no, listen. please,” he’s desperate now.
“no you listen. i don’t know what went through your head when you said all of that and pulled the shit that you did but i’m not the one. if you want to be some kind of fake person with a fake persona then be my guest, but i’m not going to be the victim of your games, damian,” the tears have surpassed your eyes but you’re no longer crying.
plot: damian confesses his love to you. but, uh… seems like you’re kinda deaf.
“…i love you.”
“huh?”
the wind clearly had a personal vendetta tonight. damian was walking along the pier, trying to act like he totally had his life together, even though his heart was pounding so hard it could’ve jumped out and gone for a swim. the sunset was all golden and romantic — perfect, really.
keyword: was.
damian blinks.
four months. four long, painful, emotionally constipated months — and he finally manages to confess.
and this is what he gets?
“i said—”
“i can’t hear you, man! the wind’s eating your words or something! what’d you say?”
damian’s ears go red. his pride deflates faster than a balloon at a toddler’s birthday party.
“i said—!”
“don’t yell, i can hear you! well, kinda—”
“i said i love you!”
another gust of wind slams into the both of you, like the universe decided it was time to bully a wayne. you blink, lean in a little, squinting.
“…what?”
for a brief moment, damian seriously considers buying a one-way ticket to anywhere else.
this is hell. actual, certified hell.
“are you—are you messing with me?”
“what? no! i swear! i just can’t hear you! the wind’s insane!”
he closes his eyes, clenches his fists, mutters something that sounds a lot like ancient curses directed at the sunset, the pier, the entire ecosystem—probably you too—and then suddenly grabs your face with both hands.
“can you hear me now?”
and kisses you.
quick. awkward. barely a touch of lips — but packed with all the words he couldn’t seem to say right.
you pull back, blinking like a deer in headlights.
“uh… that was…”
“a confession,” he cuts in. “now did you hear me?”
a second passes, and it finally clicks. so hard the wind itself seems to chill out for a moment.
“ohhh. i thought you were telling me to piss off,” you say casually — and when damian’s eye twitches, you start laughing.
“kidding, kidding! chill.”
damian raises a brow, slightly suspicious. “…so?”
you step closer, trying your best to look all innocent and dumb.
“can you say it again? but, like, quieter this time. don’t wanna scare all the pigeons.”
he sighs — the kind of sigh that carries the weight of ten generations of waynes — but finally gives in.
“i love you.”
“ah, there it is,” you grin, and before he can react, you kiss him back — quick, soft, and smiling against his lips while the wind gently tugs at your hair.
request reader who acts as a healer for the team, and their ability on paper [and seemingly in practice] is just that they can heal anybody, no matter the damage or cause, except their power actually works by stealing the wound and inflicting it upon themselves. they can take any pain, mental, chronic, sometimes even emotional depending on circumstances and the degree of it. no one knows until they take on something far too bad: losing a limb, breaking their spine, guts spilling out, etc.
content gn! reader x damian wayne, healer! reader, reader gets hurt, aged-up adult damian wayne, severe injury, traumatic limb injury/near-amputation, blood, pain transfer, self-sacrificial healing, medical trauma, guilt, panic, league of assassins trauma references, emotional distress, anger after consent violation, angst with hurt/comfort
masterlist | word count 8.4k
Damian Wayne had been taught that a body was a weapon before he had ever been allowed to think of it as his own.
Hands were for blades. Feet were for balance. Bones were structure. Blood was consequence. Pain was instruction. A body was sharpened, trained, corrected, punished, and improved. A body was not precious. A body was not sacred. A body was not something one wept over unless its failure cost the mission.
Then he came to Gotham.
Gotham taught him many things. It taught him that rain could feel like grief made weather. It taught him that family was a battlefield where no one drew a blade and everyone still left wounded. It taught him that his father could love him deeply and still fail to say it in any language Damian understood. It taught him that Grayson’s hugs were inescapable, Todd’s anger was often fear wearing steel-toed boots, Drake’s silence was rarely empty, and Pennyworth could end a war with one raised eyebrow.
It taught him that bodies could be held. Bandaged. Fed. Carried to bed when sleep finally won.
It taught him that pain was not always a lesson. Sometimes it was only pain.
Then there was you.
You were not Gotham’s lesson. You were its contradiction.
You walked into the lives of heroes with no cape, no crest, no ancestral oath or alien sun burning beneath your skin. You arrived with steady hands, tired eyes, and a reputation that made even gods go quiet.
You could heal anything. That was what everyone said.
The Justice League said it with reverence. The Titans said it with relief. The Outlaws said it with reckless gratitude. Young Justice said it like they had discovered a cheat code and decided not to read the terms of service.
Jon said you were “basically a miracle.”
Damian said miracles were unreliable.
You had smiled at him when he said it. Amused.
“Good thing I’m not a miracle, then,” you had replied.
He had disliked you immediately.
Not because you were wrong.
Because he wanted you to be.
The first time Damian let you heal him, he was twenty-one and old enough to know better.
It was not a serious injury. That was what he told himself. A fractured wrist after a fight with a metahuman trafficking cell near the docks. He had taken the hit redirecting a collapsing beam away from a child. The child survived. His wrist did not.
A favourable exchange.
You found him on a rooftop afterwards, attempting to secure a splint one-handed with the grim concentration of a man personally offended by gauze. You stood in front of him for five seconds before saying, “That wrap is a hate crime.”
Damian did not look up. “It is functional.”
“It is shaped like unresolved childhood trauma.”
His eyes lifted. You smiled mildly.
He stared. “You are bold for someone within throwing distance.”
“You’re injured.”
“You believe that protects you?”
“No. I believe your wrist is broken and your left-handed aim with medical tape is probably worse than you think.”
Damian’s jaw tightened. The worst part was that you were correct.
You stepped closer but did not reach for him.
That was unusual. Most people reached. Medics, especially. Even kind ones often forgot that kindness could still become an invasion if delivered without permission.
You held your hands at your sides.
“I can heal it,” you said.
“No.”
“Okay.”
He paused.
You did not argue. No persuasive speech. No moral lecture. No “you don’t have to be tough with me,” which was a phrase Damian loathed almost as much as “calm down.”
You simply accepted his answer and leaned against the roof access door.
Damian narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Waiting.”
“For what?”
“To make sure you don’t pass out from pain while continuing your one-man war against compression bandages.”
“I will not pass out.”
“Great. Then this will be boring.”
The silence that followed should have annoyed him.
It did. But not only.
You watched the skyline instead of watching him. You gave him privacy without leaving him alone. It was a surprisingly difficult balance, and Damian hated that you managed it.
Eventually, his splint slipped. You did not comment.
His wrist throbbed hard enough that his vision flashed white at the edges. You still did not comment.
He exhaled sharply through his nose.
“Fine,” he said. You looked over. “I will permit your assistance.”
“Assistance with the splint or healing?”
He paused. You waited.
Damian looked at your hands. They were steady. Scarred in small places, though no injuries lingered long on you. He knew that much. Everyone knew that. You healed quickly. You healed others faster.
A miracle, Jon had called you. A risk, Damian thought.
“To heal,” he said finally.
You stepped toward him. Slowly. “May I touch your wrist?”
“Yes.”
Your fingers settled around the fracture. Warmth bloomed beneath your palm.
Damian prepared for pain. There was none.
The ache vanished. The bone slid back into place with a painless shift that should have been impossible. Swelling disappeared. Torn tissue knitted itself whole. His fingers, stiff seconds before, flexed freely.
He stared at his hand. There should have been consequences. There were always consequences.
You released him and took half a step back. Your own fingers curled briefly against your palm.
A twitch. Almost nothing.
Damian saw it. “What was that?”
You blinked. “What was what?”
“Your hand.”
“My hand exists. Very observant.”
He frowned.
You smiled. It was a practised smile.
He would understand that later.
At the time, he only knew that he disliked it.
Trust came slowly.
Damian preferred it that way. Trust that arrived too quickly was either foolishness or manipulation. Real trust was built like a fortress: stone by stone, inspected from every angle, reinforced after every storm.
You never rushed him. That was the first stone.
You respected every no. That was the second.
You remembered details he did not expect anyone to notice: that he preferred tea without sugar, that he hated being touched from behind, that Titus became restless during thunderstorms, that Damian’s right shoulder tightened before he admitted exhaustion.
You learned the names of his animals before you learned the gossip about his family. That was several stones at once.
“You brought treats,” Damian said the first time you visited the Manor, and Titus abandoned dignity to shove his massive head into your hands.
“For Titus.”
“I can see that.”
“You sound offended.”
“You have bribed my dog.”
“I have respected his interests.”
Titus wagged his tail with shameless enthusiasm.
Damian crossed his arms. “He has betrayed me.”
“You love him anyway.”
“Unfortunately.”
You smiled down at Titus. “Good boy.”
Damian watched the way your hands scratched behind the dog’s ears. Gentle, sure, absent of fear. Titus leaned against you like a creature who knew exactly where kindness lived.
Damian did not realise he was staring until you glanced up.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Your smile became suspicious. “Was that almost fondness?”
“No.”
“It looked like almost fondness.”
“You are mistaken.”
“I’m choosing to believe otherwise.”
“Your delusions are your own burden.”
You laughed. Damian looked away too late.
After that, you became a regular presence.
Not constant. Damian would not have tolerated constant.
Familiar.
You appeared in the Cave after League missions, carrying medical supplies and the quiet authority of someone who had seen heroes at their worst and remained unimpressed by theatrics. You patched Grayson while he told a story with too many hand gestures and not enough respect for his own cracked ribs. You argued with Todd about antibiotics until he took them out of spite. You confiscated Drake’s coffee once and survived.
Damian had been impressed. Not that he said so.
Jon noticed, because Jon noticed everything Damian wished he would not.
“You like them,” Jon said one evening on a rooftop patrol.
Damian did not stumble. Barely.
“I tolerate them.”
Jon floated beside him, cape moving in the wind. “You gave them one of your sketches.”
“It was a medical diagram.”
“It was a drawing of their hands.”
“Hands are medically relevant.”
“You wrote ‘rest’ under it.”
“They do not rest.”
Jon’s grin widened. “You are so down bad.” Damian turned slowly. Jon backed up in the air. “I say that with love.”
“I will remove you from the sky.”
“You can’t fly.”
“I will improvise.”
Jon laughed.
Damian resumed walking. His ears were warm.
Jon landed beside him, quieter now. “They look at you differently, too.”
Damian’s step faltered. “They do not.”
“They do.”
“Kryptonian hearing does not make you an expert on human emotion.”
“No, but hearing their heartbeat change when you walk in is pretty compelling evidence.” Damian stopped. Jon also stopped, expression immediately apologetic. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You listen to their heart?”
“Not intentionally! It’s just loud when they see you.”
Damian’s own heart became deeply undisciplined.
Jon smiled softly. “You should tell them.”
“No.”
“Okay.”
Damian glanced at him, suspicious. “You concede too easily.”
“No, I just know you’ll do it eventually and pretend it was your idea.”
Damian glared. Jon grinned.
Two nights later, you found another drawing tucked into your medical bag. This one was of Titus asleep with his head on your knee. Beneath it, in Damian’s precise handwriting, was one sentence: He trusts you. This reflects well on your character.
You found Damian in the garden.
It was raining, because Gotham apparently believed subtlety was for lesser cities. He stood beneath a stone archway, pretending not to wait.
You approached with the sketch held carefully against your chest.
“This is beautiful,” you said.
“It is accurate.”
“It’s kind.”
“That is debatable.”
“No.” You smiled. “It isn’t.”
Damian looked away.
You stepped under the arch beside him. Rain whispered over ivy. The Manor glowed behind you both, all old stone and golden windows.
“Thank you,” you said.
He nodded stiffly.
There was a silence.
Not uncomfortable. That had become dangerous.
You looked at him, and Damian could feel the moment opening like a door.
“You’re allowed to want things,” you said quietly.
His jaw tightened. It was not fair, how gently you said it. As if the words were not a blade sliding between armour plates. “I am aware.”
“You know it intellectually.”
He looked at you sharply. Your smile was sad.
“What do you want, Damian?”
Many answers came to him.
Peace. Purpose. His father’s approval, though he had outgrown needing it and somehow not outgrown wanting it. A world where children were not trained into weapons. A self that did not sometimes still hear his grandfather’s voice and mistake it for his own.
But those truths were too large for the rain. So he chose the smaller one. The braver one.
“You,” he said.
Your breath caught.
Damian did not look away. Your face changed in a way he did not have language for. Softened, yes, but not with pity. With wonder. With wanting so open, it made his chest hurt.
“You have me,” you whispered.
He should have asked if you were certain. He should have warned you that he did not love gently by instinct, that his devotion had teeth, that he was still learning how to hold without gripping too tightly.
Instead, he leaned in.
You met him halfway.
The first kiss was rain-cold and mouth-warm, hesitant for only the first breath. Then your hand rose to his cheek, and Damian let himself lean into it.
Let himself want. Let himself be wanted.
Later, Jon would claim he heard Damian’s heartbeat “attempt to achieve escape velocity.”
Damian would threaten him. Several times.
But in the rain, beneath ivy, you kissed him like there was nothing in him that needed to be earned back from violence.
And Damian, foolishly perhaps, believed you.
He should have known the past would come for him with a blade.
The League of Assassins rarely wasted poetry.
When the case began, it looked like a string of metahuman disappearances. Three teenagers taken from Metropolis. Two from Gotham. One from Blüdhaven. All newly powered. All young enough to be frightened by what their bodies had become and old enough for someone cruel to turn that fear into compliance.
Oracle connected the disappearances to an abandoned hospital outside Gotham registered under six false companies, two shell organisations, and one name Damian had not heard spoken aloud in years.
A minor League sect. Old blood. New methods.
His father stood at the Cave computer, grim and silent. Grayson’s usual warmth had sharpened into focus. Drake’s fingers flew across keys. Todd checked and rechecked his weapons with quiet, murderous care. Jon stood beside Damian, tension radiating off him like sunlight behind storm clouds.
You stood near the medbay entrance. Damian saw you before anyone spoke.
“No,” he said.
Your eyes moved to him. “Excuse me?”
“You are not coming.”
Todd muttered, “Smooth, brat.”
Damian ignored him.
You stepped closer. “They’ll have injured kids inside.”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t want a healer there?”
“I do not want you there.”
The room went still.
Your face did not change, but Damian saw the hurt land. He regretted the phrasing instantly.
Not the meaning. The wound.
You folded your arms. “Because it’s dangerous?”
“Because it is League.”
Your expression softened, which was worse than anger. “Dami.”
“No.”
“You can’t keep me away from every shadow in your past.”
“I can keep you away from this one.”
“That isn’t your choice.”
“It is if I refuse to allow you through the Zeta-tube.”
Drake winced.
Grayson said, “Dami.”
You stared at him.
For a moment, he thought you would argue. Part of him wanted you to. Part of him wanted you angry enough that the fear in his chest had somewhere to go.
Instead, you nodded once. “Fine.”
Damian hated the word.
You looked at Bruce. “I’ll coordinate med support from here.”
Bruce’s gaze shifted between you and Damian.
Then he nodded. “Accepted.”
You did not look at Damian again.
Good, he told himself. He had protected you.
It felt like losing.
The facility beneath the hospital was exactly what Damian expected. That made it worse.
Stone corridors beneath sterile tile. Modern restraints bolted into old walls. Hidden sigils carved under steel plates. The League had always understood the value of layering cruelty beneath cleanliness.
The team split. Batman and Nightwing cleared the upper labs. Red Hood secured the escape route with a level of aggression that suggested several assassins would later require reconstructive dentistry. Red Robin disabled surveillance from the Cave with you beside him on medical coordination. Damian and Jon moved through the lower chambers.
They found the first two teenagers in a containment room.
Bruised. Dehydrated. Alive. One had burns from power-dampening cuffs. The other had a dislocated shoulder and a split lip. Damian’s jaw tightened as Jon broke the cuffs with careful rage.
You wanted to be there. You wanted to put your hands over the burns and make them vanish.
Instead, you gave orders.
He was proud. He was afraid. Both feelings sat together in him like badly behaved animals.
They moved deeper.
The final chamber was beneath the old surgical wing. It had once been an operating theatre. The League had turned it into something worse. Six teenagers were strapped to tilted metal tables arranged in a circle around a machine pulsing with stolen metahuman energy. Their powers fed into the device through cables bright with unstable light.
In the centre stood a man in black armour with a white sash marked in old League script.
Damian knew the title.
Not the man. That hardly mattered. The League was full of replaceable monsters wearing inherited arrogance.
“Blood heir,” the man said.
Jon’s eyes burned red. “I hate when they call you that.”
“As do I,” Damian said.
Then the fight began. Assassins dropped from the rafters. Red solar emitters ignited in the walls, flooding the room in pulses designed to weaken Jon without fully stripping him. Power-dampening fields snapped on around the captives. Blades flashed.
Damian moved.
He had been raised in rooms like this. He knew their rhythm. Strike before the second attacker lands. Never follow the obvious opening. The left wall hides a second blade. The floor sigil is not decorative. The man with the shorter sword is the true threat.
He fought like memory given teeth. Jon fought beside him, weakened but furious, each hit controlled enough to avoid collapsing the chamber on the children.
“Red Robin,” Damian snapped over comms. “Disable the solar emitters.”
“Working,” Tim replied. “They’re layered into the medical grid.”
Todd’s voice cut in, breathless and violent. “I can blow the grid.”
“Do not blow the grid,” Tim and Bruce said at once.
Todd scoffed. “No one appreciates vision.”
Your voice came through, tight. “Damian, behind you.”
He turned before the blade reached his spine.
An assassin fell.
Damian’s pulse sharpened. You were watching through hacked security feeds.
Good. Bad. You were seeing too much.
The lead assassin smiled.
“Still guided by softer hands,” he said.
Damian lunged.
Mistake.
Not fatal. Almost.
The floor beneath him flared with old script. Chains of black light erupted around his right arm and shoulder, locking him mid-strike. Jon shouted and tried to reach him, but two assassins drove him back beneath red solar pulses.
Damian twisted. The chains tightened.
The lead assassin drew a curved blade.
Not toward Damian’s heart. Toward his arm.
Damian understood at once. Maiming, not killing. A message. A punishment. A ritual humiliation. The blood heir made less whole.
He fought the chains with everything he had.
Not enough.
The blade came down. Pain went white.
For one suspended heartbeat, there was nothing.
Then sound returned.
Jon screaming his name. The teenagers crying out. The wet sound of blood hitting tile.
Damian looked down. His right arm was nearly severed below the elbow. Attached by ruined flesh, fractured bone, and a stubbornness his body had apparently inherited from him.
The sight was clinical in its horror.
He knew what losing the arm would mean.
Not death. Worse, in some ways.
Relearning everything. Sword forms. Drawing. Writing. Touch. Balance. The language of his body rewritten by another person’s blade.
Pain struck next, vast and blinding.
Damian dropped to his knees. His left hand clamped above the wound. Blood surged between his fingers.
“Robin!” Bruce’s voice cracked over comms.
That, more than the injury, frightened him. His father sounded afraid.
Jon hit the lead assassin so hard that the man flew into the far wall.
The solar emitters died.
Tim’s voice, “Grid down.”
Todd, “I still think explosions would’ve been faster.”
Your voice came next. Not steady. Not anymore.
“Damian?”
He clenched his teeth. Could not answer.
Jon dropped beside him, face white. He pressed both hands over Damian’s arm, trying to stem the bleeding without making it worse.
“Oh God,” Jon breathed. “Dami, stay with me.”
“I am… here,” Damian forced out.
“You’re losing too much blood.”
“I noticed.”
“Stop being sarcastic while actively bleeding out!”
Your voice came again. “Jon. Status.”
Jon looked at the comm on Damian’s collar, horrified.
“It’s his arm,” Jon said. “It’s—it’s almost gone.”
Silence. The kind that took all air with it.
Then the sound Damian dreaded most. The Zeta-tube activating in the chamber beyond.
“No,” Damian rasped.
Jon looked at him. “Damian—”
“No.”
He tried to push himself upright. Failed.
The chamber doors opened. Batman entered first, cape like a storm, medkit in hand.
You came behind him.
Your eyes found Damian. Everything in your face stopped.
No. That was his first thought.
Not relief. Not love.
No.
Because he knew you. He knew what you were seeing. Not only the blood. Not only the limb hanging by torn flesh. Not only the future unravelling in one brutal line.
You were seeing something you could fix.
“Do not,” he said.
Your face crumpled. You crossed the room anyway.
Bruce knelt at Damian’s other side, taking over pressure from Jon with controlled, terrible efficiency.
“Tourniquet,” Bruce said.
Jon was already moving.
You knelt in front of Damian.
“Hi,” you whispered.
Absurd. He loved you so fiercely in that moment that it frightened him more than the blood loss.
“No,” he said again.
Your hands hovered over his arm. Shaking now. The tremor was visible. He hated that.
“I can save it,” you said.
His vision blurred. “No.”
“You could lose your hand.”
“I know.”
“Your arm.”
“I know.”
“Damian.”
He looked at you. Your eyes were full of tears, but beneath the fear was something harder.
Resolve. The same resolve he had seen in you a hundred times when someone was hurt. When pain became a problem and your body became the answer.
“No,” he whispered.
You touched his face with one blood-slick hand.
He should have turned away. He did not.
“I’m sorry,” you said.
His heart stopped. “No.”
“I can’t let them take this from you.”
“No.”
“You draw with this hand.” His throat closed. “You hold your sword with it,” you continued, voice breaking. “You hold Titus. You hold me.”
“Beloved—”
“I can help.”
“You will take the wound.”
“Not all of it.”
“You do not know that.”
“I know my body.” A desperate, broken smile flickered across your mouth. “It changes things. It softens the transfer sometimes. I probably won’t get it as bad.”
“Probably,” Damian spat.
You flinched. Good.
No. Not good. Nothing was good.
Bruce’s gaze snapped to you. “What does that mean?”
No one answered him. The entire chamber seemed to narrow around you and Damian.
Your hand was still on his face. His blood streaked your fingers.
“I can’t watch you lose part of yourself,” you whispered.
Rage and terror rose together in Damian’s chest. “You think my hand is myself?”
“No,” you said immediately. “No. That’s not what I mean.”
“That is what you said.”
“I mean they took enough from you. The League took enough. Your childhood, your choices, your body, your pain, your name before you even knew what names meant.” Your voice cracked. “I cannot sit here with the power to stop them from taking one more thing and choose not to.”
His breath hitched.
There it was. The blade under the kindness.
Not pity. Fury. You were angry for him. You were choosing him. You were choosing him over yourself.
He wanted to weep. He wanted to shout. He wanted to beg.
“Ask me,” he said.
Your face broke. “Damian—”
“Ask me.”
The words cost him more than blood.
You stared at him. “I can’t.”
Pain lanced through him.
Not from the arm. From you.
“You can,” he said. “You must.”
“If I ask, you’ll say no.”
“Yes.”
“And then I’ll have to let it happen.”
“You will have to honour my choice.”
Your tears spilled over. “I’m not strong enough for that.”
Damian’s heart shattered.
Bruce went very still beside him. Jon made a small, broken sound.
You leaned closer.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered again.
And then your hands closed around Damian’s ruined arm.
The transfer hit like lightning.
Damian screamed. So did you. For one second, pain filled everything. Not leaving him gently, not fading like mercy. It ripped out of him, dragging fire and nerve and blood with it.
Then his arm healed. Bone snapped into alignment. Flesh knitted. Tendons reconnected. Skin sealed beneath your palms. Feeling surged down to his fingertips in a brutal rush.
His hand flexed. Whole. His.
Then you collapsed.
Your right arm buckled beneath you.
Not severed. Not as bad. You had been right. Somehow, impossibly, terribly right.
But the damage still tore through you. A jagged wound split from your forearm toward your wrist, deep enough to expose blood and white flashes of bone beneath muscle. Your fingers curled uselessly. Blood poured down your hand, splattering onto the tile. Your shoulder hit the floor, and your breath broke on a sound Damian would hear forever.
For half a second, he stared at his healed hand. Then at yours.
No.
No.
No.
He lunged toward you. His body, newly healed but blood-weakened, nearly failed him. Jon caught his shoulder. Damian shoved him away and dragged himself to you with both hands, both whole hands, which made it worse.
“Beloved,” he choked.
You were curled around your injured arm, face white with agony.
Bruce moved quickly, already applying pressure to your wound. You cried out. Damian flinched as if the sound had opened him.
“Do not touch them,” he snapped at Bruce.
Bruce’s eyes flashed. “They’re bleeding.”
Damian knew he was being irrational. He did not care.
“Damian,” you gasped.
His attention snapped to you.
You were looking at him. Not your arm.
Him.
Relief trembled through your expression.
Relief.
Because his arm was whole. Because you had succeeded.
Damian felt something inside him go cold and wild.
“How dare you,” he whispered.
Your eyes filled. “I’m sorry.”
“How dare you.”
“I couldn’t—”
“You could,” he said, voice shaking. “You chose not to.”
Your face crumpled.
He wanted to take the words back. He wanted to sharpen them. He wanted to kiss you until your pain disappeared. He wanted your blood off the floor. He wanted his wound back.
“You chose me,” he said.
Your lips trembled. “Yes.”
“Over yourself.”
“Yes.”
The honesty was a killing blow.
Damian’s breath left him.
Bruce tightened the pressure bandage around your arm. You whimpered, trying to stay still. Jon knelt nearby, crying openly now. Damian barely saw him.
“You were right,” you whispered. His heart stopped. “It’s not as bad.”
Damian stared at you.
Then laughed once. A terrible sound.
“You think that matters?” Your eyes searched his, confused through pain and shock. “You think because the wound is smaller, the violation is smaller?”
You flinched.
Bruce’s expression tightened.
Jon whispered, “Dami…”
“No,” Damian snapped. “Do not.”
Your breathing hitched.
Damian’s hands shook. His right hand, whole and healed, shook.
That made him angrier. That made him love you more. That made him hate everything.
“You did not save my arm,” he said, voice breaking. “You made it yours.”
Your face went slack.
There. Good.
No. Not good.
Truth. Necessary and brutal.
You looked at your wounded arm as if seeing it for the first time. Blood soaked the bandage beneath Bruce’s hands.
Your mouth opened. No sound came out.
Then the pain took you. Your eyes rolled back.
Damian caught you before your head hit the floor. “Beloved?”
No response.
“Beloved.”
Bruce pressed two fingers to your throat. “Pulse is weak. We need extraction now.”
Damian held you against him, his healed hand cradling your head.
His arm worked perfectly. He had never hated his own body more.
The Watchtower medbay smelled like antiseptic and fear. Damian sat outside the surgical suite with blood on his clothes.
Yours. His. Both.
He had refused to change.
Todd had said nothing, which was how Damian knew the situation had reached an unnatural level of horror. Jon sat on the floor across from him, knees drawn up, cape wrapped around his shoulders. He had cried himself quiet twenty minutes earlier. Bruce stood near the observation window like a statue carved by grief. Grayson paced. Drake typed furiously on one tablet, then another, then stopped as if realising no amount of data would make time move faster.
Todd leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, helmet off, face pale and furious.
“This is bullshit,” Jason said finally. No one answered. “This whole damn thing is bullshit.”
“Jason,” Dick said softly.
“No. They should’ve told us.”
Damian’s eyes lifted.
Todd looked at him.
Not accusing. Not pitying.
Understanding.
It was unbearable.
“They should’ve told us what healing cost,” Jason said. “Before any of us let them touch us.”
Damian looked down at his right hand.
He flexed his fingers. Whole. Obedient. Yours now, some treacherous part of him thought.
No.
No.
He dug his nails into his palm. Pain answered.
His pain. At least that remained.
“They knew I would refuse,” Damian said.
His voice was calm. Too calm.
Everyone looked at him.
“They knew,” he repeated. “So they did not ask.”
Jon’s face crumpled again.
Bruce said, quietly, “They thought they were saving you.”
Damian’s gaze snapped to his father. “They were.”
Silence.
Damian stood. His body swayed.
Jon scrambled up, but Damian lifted a hand. Jon stopped.
Damian looked at Bruce. “That is the problem.”
Bruce’s face tightened.
“I know,” he said.
Of course he did. Bruce Wayne understood being saved against his will. Understood surviving at a cost someone else paid. Understood the rage that followed gratitude so closely they became nearly impossible to separate.
Damian hated that he understood.
The surgical doors opened. Dr Mid-Nite emerged, expression grave but not hopeless. Damian was in front of him immediately.
“They’re alive,” the doctor said.
Damian nearly collapsed.
He did not. But Jon did, a little, against the wall.
“The transferred injury was severe,” Dr Mid-Nite continued. “Less catastrophic than yours would have been, but still serious. The arm is salvageable. There’s nerve trauma, tendon damage, blood loss. Their accelerated healing is responding, but slowly.”
“Will they regain function?” Damian asked.
“Likely, with treatment and time.”
Likely. Damian hated likely. Likely was probably wearing a white coat.
He wanted certainty. He got none.
“Can I see them?”
The doctor hesitated. Damian’s eyes narrowed.
Bruce stepped closer. “He won’t interfere.”
Dr Mid-Nite looked at Damian. Damian lifted his chin.
“I will not interfere,” he said.
He did not know if it was true. But he meant to make it so.
The doctor nodded.
You looked too small in the bed. Damian hated that thought. You were not small. You were not fragile. You were not a wounded bird cupped in his hands.
You were the person who had looked at the League’s attempt to maim him and said, No more. You were the person who had made yourself the answer.
You were terrible. You were brave. You were unconscious beneath white sheets, right arm wrapped from shoulder to wrist and elevated in a brace.
Damian approached slowly. Machines hummed. Your face was pale with pain even in sleep.
He stopped beside the bed. For a long time, he did nothing.
Then he reached out with his right hand. The healed one.
His fingers hovered over your bandaged arm.
He did not touch. He could not.
It felt obscene.
“Why?” he whispered.
You did not answer. The monitors did.
Steady beep. Alive.
Damian sat. He folded his hands in his lap. His right hand looked unchanged. Same calluses. Same scars. Same fine ink stain near his thumb from sketching two days earlier. Same knuckles bruised from training. Same fingers that had held yours in the garden.
It should have been a relief.
It was. That was the cruelty.
He was relieved.
He loved his hand. He loved what it allowed him to do. Draw. Fight. touch. Feed Titus scraps when Alfred was not looking. Hold his sword. Hold you.
He had not wanted to lose it. He had been prepared to.
You had seen the part of him that feared the loss, the part he would have hidden beneath pride, and you had chosen that frightened part over your own safety.
Damian hated you for it. Damian loved you for it. Both truths wrapped around his throat until breathing became difficult.
“You should have asked,” he said. His voice shook. “You should have asked me and allowed me to refuse. You should have trusted me to survive less than wholeness.” His eyes burned. “You should not have loved me like the League.”
The words entered the room and stayed. He regretted them immediately.
No. He did not.
Yes. Both. Always both with you now.
You stirred. Damian sat forward sharply. Your eyelids fluttered.
“Beloved?”
Your eyes opened slowly. Unfocused.
Then they found him.
Relief. Again.
Damian closed his eyes. When he opened them, you were trying to smile.
“Arm?” you rasped.
His jaw tightened. “Yours or mine?”
Your smile vanished.
Good. No. He was tired of good. Tired of bad. Tired of feeling everything.
“Damian,” you whispered.
He took the cup from beside the bed and held the straw to your lips. His right hand did not tremble this time.
You drank. Only a little. He set the cup down.
“My arm is whole,” he said.
Your eyes closed. “Good.”
The word struck him like a slap. He stood so quickly the chair scraped back.
Your eyes opened, startled.
“No,” he said.
Your face twisted with pain and confusion. “No?”
“No. You do not get to say good.”
Your throat bobbed. “I saved it.”
“You took it.”
“I saved it.”
“At the cost of your own.”
“It isn’t as bad.”
He stared at you. You seemed to hear yourself then. Your face faltered.
“It isn’t,” you said, quieter. “I knew it wouldn’t be as bad.”
“You did not know.”
“I was pretty sure.”
“Pretty sure,” he repeated.
Your eyes filled.
His hands curled into fists. Both hands. “You gambled with your body.”
“I gambled to keep yours.”
“I did not ask you to.”
“I know.”
“You did not let me refuse.”
“I know.”
“You did not trust me.”
That hurt you. Your mouth trembled. “I did trust you.”
“No.” Damian shook his head once. “You trusted that I would survive. You did not trust that I had the right to choose what survival looked like.”
Tears slipped down your temples.
“I couldn’t bear it,” you whispered.
“What?”
“The thought of you losing it.” Your gaze flicked to his right hand. “Your hand. Your arm. Your art. Your sword. The way you touch everything like you’re still learning you’re allowed to be gentle.”
Damian went still.
Your voice broke. “I couldn’t bear knowing I could help and choosing not to. I couldn’t bear seeing another piece of you taken by them.”
He looked away. The room blurred.
Damn you. Damn you for knowing that. Damn you for seeing the child beneath the blade, the boy raised by people who called ownership love, the man still trying to make his body his own. Damn you for choosing him. Damn you for being right that part of him was glad.
“I would have learned,” he said. You sobbed once. “I would have adapted.”
“I know.”
“I am more than my sword hand.”
“I know,” you said, crying harder now. “I know, Damian. I swear I know. I didn’t do it because I thought you’d be less. I did it because I love all of you, and I couldn’t watch you be forced to lose something when I had a chance to stop it.”
His anger fractured. Love rushed in through the crack.
Unwelcome. Unstoppable.
He sat down again, slower this time. “You chose me over yourself.”
Your eyes held his. “Yes.”
The honesty hurt worse than any lie could have.
Damian lowered his head. For a moment, he was back in the chamber. Your hand on his face. Your eyes full of tears. Your voice saying sorry because you already knew you were about to betray him for love.
He hated that he understood. He hated that if it had been you on the floor with your arm nearly severed, he did not know if he would have done better.
That thought humbled him. Humiliation would have been easier. This was grief.
“I love you,” he said.
Your breath caught. He looked at you.
“I love you for choosing me,” he continued, voice rough. “For looking at the worst thing the League tried to make me and refusing to let them take more. I love you for your fury. For your tenderness. For wanting me whole even when I was prepared not to be.”
Your face crumpled.
“And I hate you for choosing me over yourself.”
You closed your eyes. “I know.”
“No,” he said. “Listen.”
Your eyes opened again.
“I hate that you decided my wholeness was worth your damage. I hate that I am relieved. I hate that part of me wants to thank you while another part wants to never let you touch me again.”
A tear slid down your cheek. Damian reached for it.
Stopped.
“May I?” he asked.
Your face broke all over again. “Yes.”
He wiped the tear away with his right thumb. His healed thumb.
You leaned into the touch. He nearly broke.
“I am angry,” he whispered.
“I know.”
“I will be angry for some time.”
“I know.”
“I may not forgive you quickly.”
Your lips trembled. “Okay.”
“But I am staying.”
A sob caught in your throat. Damian leaned closer.
“I am staying,” he repeated. “Because love is not leaving when one has been wounded. Even by the beloved.”
You cried then.
Not quietly. Not beautifully. You cried like something in you had finally stopped bracing for abandonment.
Damian rested his forehead against yours, careful of the tubes, the bandages, the injured arm held between you like a third presence.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“I know.”
“I love you.”
His eyes closed. “I know.”
A faint, watery laugh escaped you. “Arrogant.”
“Yes.”
“Say it back anyway?”
His mouth softened. “I love you.”
Your breath shuddered.
“I love you,” he said again, because the words seemed to hurt you in a healing way, and Damian was beginning to understand that not all pain was harm. “I love you, and you were wrong.”
You laughed and sobbed at the same time. “That is very you.”
“I am consistent.”
“You are.”
His hand remained on your face. Your uninjured hand lifted slowly and covered his.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The monitor kept counting proof of your survival. Damian listened like it was scripture.
Recovery was not gentle. Yours rarely was.
The wound had not taken your arm, but it had changed it. Nerves misfired beneath the skin. Your fingers trembled. Grip strength came and went like a moody ghost. Some days, your hand curled stiffly and refused to open without coaxing. Some nights, the pain climbed from wrist to shoulder and left you pale, sweating, biting back sounds Damian wished he could tear from the world.
He did not offer to have you heal yourself. He had learned enough by then. You could accelerate your recovery only in fragments, carefully, at the cost of exhaustion that frightened everyone.
So you healed slowly. Humanly.
Damian stayed. Angrily. Devotedly.
He brought tea and corrected your posture with surgical precision. He read aloud when the pain made focusing difficult. He chose poetry at first because he thought it might soothe you. Then he chose murder mysteries because you criticised everyone’s investigative technique so fiercely that even Drake listened from the doorway with reluctant approval.
He brushed your hair when your arm hurt too much.
The first time, you cried. He pretended not to notice until you said, “You can notice.”
So he did.
“You are crying,” Damian said.
You laughed wetly. “Thanks.”
“I am uncertain what response is appropriate.”
“Just keep going.”
He did. His fingers moved through your hair with grave concentration.
Todd walked in, saw the scene, and immediately walked back out muttering, “Nope, too intimate, I’m emotionally allergic.”
You laughed so hard that Damian threatened him through the door.
Some days, Damian’s anger sharpened unexpectedly.
A dropped cup. Your wince while trying to flex your fingers. The sight of you struggling to button a shirt. Each small reminder of what you had taken from him and made yours.
One afternoon, you caught him staring at your hand as you failed to hold a pen.
“Say it,” you said.
Damian looked up. “What?”
“Whatever you’re thinking.”
“I am thinking many things.”
“The angry one.”
His jaw tightened.
You waited. Always waiting, even now.
He exhaled. “I am thinking that I should be the one unable to hold a pen.”
Your face softened with pain.
“I am thinking that you stole a consequence from me.”
“Yes.”
“I am thinking that I am grateful.”
Your eyes filled.
His voice hardened. “And that gratitude disgusts me.”
You set the pen down. “Damian.”
“No. You asked.”
“I did.”
He stood, restless, anger moving through him like a blade seeking a target. “I look at my hand and I am relieved. I draw and I am relieved. I hold my sword and I am relieved. I touch you and I am relieved.”
Your mouth trembled.
He looked at you, furious and wrecked. “Then I look at your hand.”
You said nothing.
“I do not know where to put the relief,” he confessed.
Your expression crumpled.
Oh. There it was. The truth under the anger.
He did not know how to be grateful for something that had hurt you. He did not know how to love the saved part of himself without feeling like he was betraying the wounded part of you.
You rose carefully from the chair. He stiffened. You came close but did not touch.
“I don’t need you to be only grateful,” you said softly. His throat tightened. “I don’t even need you to be grateful at all.”
“I am.”
“I know.”
“I despise it.”
“I know.”
Your injured hand hung between you, bandaged, trembling slightly.
Damian looked at it. Then, slowly, he held out his right hand. His healed hand.
You stared.
“May I?” he asked.
Your eyes filled. “Yes.”
He took your injured hand with unbearable care. The bandages were soft beneath his fingers.
Your hand trembled in his. He lifted it and pressed his mouth to your knuckles. You inhaled sharply.
“I am angry,” he said against your skin. “I am grateful.”
“I know.”
“I love you.”
Your eyes closed. “I know,” you whispered.
He looked up.
“And I hate,” he said, voice rough, “that those truths do not cancel each other out.”
You opened your eyes. “They don’t have to.”
“No.” He held your hand between both of his. “No,” he repeated. “They do not.”
It was not forgiveness. Not yet.
But it was contact. It was honest. It was enough for that moment.
Jon came often. He was terrible at pretending he was not checking on both of you. He brought snacks, flowers, terrible jokes, and one stuffed cow wearing a tiny Robin cape.
Damian stared at it. You stared at it.
Jon held it out with both hands. “For emotional support.”
Damian said, “Leave.”
You laughed immediately.
Jon brightened. “See? It helped.”
“It offended me.”
“That’s your love language.”
“I will make you eat the cow.”
“It has a name.”
“No.”
“Moo-bin.”
Damian closed his eyes. You laughed so hard you had to clutch your injured arm, which made Damian glare at Jon with genuine threat.
Jon winced. “Sorry. Sorry. Medium laughter only.”
You wheezed, “Moo-bin.”
Damian looked at you.
Betrayal. Absolute betrayal.
Jon smiled, then sobered. “Can I talk to Damian for a sec?”
You looked between them.
Damian stiffened. “If this is another emotional intervention—”
“It is.”
“No.”
“Dami.”
You touched Damian’s wrist gently. “Go,” you said.
He frowned. “I’m fine.”
“That word is banned.”
“I am stable, medicated, and entertained by Moo-bin.”
Jon looked delighted. Damian looked betrayed again. Still, he followed Jon into the hallway.
For several seconds, Jon said nothing.
Damian crossed his arms. “Speak.”
Jon looked toward the medbay door. Then back at Damian. “You’re allowed to be glad.”
Damian went still.
Jon’s face was open and earnest and far too difficult to dismiss.
“That your arm is okay,” Jon said. “You’re allowed to be glad.”
Damian looked away.
“They would want you to be.”
“That is part of the problem.”
“I know.”
“You do not.”
Jon’s jaw tightened.
“I watched them do it,” he said.
Damian looked back.
Jon’s eyes shone. “I watched you say no. I watched them do it anyway. I watched you heal and them drop. I’m angry too.”
Damian’s throat closed.
Jon stepped closer. “But I also heard your heartbeat when you saw your hand move again.”
Damian flinched.
“Sorry,” Jon said quickly. “I know. Accidental perceiving. Bad habit.”
Damian did not respond.
Jon continued anyway. “It sounded like hope.”
The words struck too deep. Damian turned away.
Jon’s voice softened. “I don’t think that makes you bad.”
Damian’s jaw clenched.
“The League made you think every gift is a debt,” Jon said. “But this isn’t that.”
“It feels like that.”
“I know.”
“They paid in blood.”
“Yeah.”
“For me.”
“Yes.”
“How is that not debt?”
Jon was quiet. Then he said, “Because they’re not asking you to repay it.” Damian shut his eyes. “They’re asking you to stay.”
Damian hated how simple Jon made things. How gentle. How impossible to refute.
“I do not know if staying is enough,” Damian said.
Jon stepped beside him. “Maybe not every day. But it’s a start.”
The hallway remained silent.
Then Damian said, “Moo-bin is a terrible name.”
Jon laughed, startled. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“You keeping him?”
Damian looked toward the medbay door.
Through the small window, he could see you holding the cow in your lap, smiling faintly at its ridiculous cape.
“Yes,” Damian said.
Jon wisely did not comment.
The first time you returned to the garden, your hand was still bandaged. The rain had stopped earlier, leaving the paths dark and shining beneath the evening lights. Titus wandered ahead, sniffing at wet leaves. The Manor windows glowed gold behind you.
Damian walked beside you. Close enough that your sleeves brushed.
You stopped beneath the same ivy arch where he had first told you he wanted you. The memory sat between you.
Soft. Cruel. Yours.
You looked at him. “I’m scared you’ll never look at me the same.”
Damian’s chest tightened.
He considered lying.
No. No more soft lies.
“I do not look at you the same.”
Your face fell.
He turned toward you fully. “I know more now.”
You swallowed. “That sounds ominous.”
“It is honest.”
Your mouth trembled.
He reached for your injured hand. Paused. You nodded.
He took it carefully. “I know you are capable of betraying my choice to preserve my body.”
You closed your eyes.
“I know you are reckless when afraid.”
A tear slipped down your cheek.
“I know you love me with a ferocity that does not always ask permission.”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“I’ll keep saying it.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know how to make it right.”
Damian looked down at your joined hands.
His whole one. Your wounded one.
“There is no undoing it.”
Your breath caught.
He looked back at you.
“There is only what comes next.”
You opened your eyes. “What comes next?”
He brushed his thumb lightly over the edge of your bandage. “You tell me when you are in pain.” You nodded. “You do not minimise it because it is less than what I would have suffered.” Another tear fell. “You let me be angry without deciding I no longer love you.” Your face crumpled. “And I,” he continued, voice roughening, “will learn to feel relief without turning it into shame.”
You stared at him.
The rain began again, soft at first. Gotham had timing. Terrible, dramatic timing.
You laughed through tears.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re negotiating emotional terms in the rain.”
“It is a serious matter.”
“It’s very romantic.”
“It is practical.”
“It can be both.”
He considered this. Then nodded once. “Fine.”
Your smile was small. “Fine?”
“It can be both.”
You stepped closer. “Can I kiss you?”
Damian’s heart moved painfully.
Even after everything. Especially after everything. You asked.
“Yes,” he said.
You kissed him gently. Too gently. As if afraid he would break beneath the weight of what you had done.
Damian’s left hand rose to your face. His right rested against your waist, whole and steady and unbearable.
He deepened the kiss. You made a soft sound against his mouth. He held you there beneath the ivy while rain gathered in your hair.
When he pulled back, your eyes were closed.
“You are not forgiven yet,” he whispered.
Your eyes opened. “I know.”
“But you are loved.”
Your face broke open with relief so bright it nearly hurt to see.
He continued before the words could fail him. “You are loved while I am angry. You are loved while I am grateful. You are loved while I do not understand how to carry either.”
Your injured hand rose slowly and touched his chest. Over his heart.
“I can live with that,” you whispered.
“You must.”
A faint smile. “Bossy.”
“Yes.”
“I love you.”
His throat tightened. “I know.”
You gave him a look.
He let the smallest smile touch his mouth. “I love you too.”
Titus barked from somewhere near the fountain, apparently offended that no one was paying attention to him.
You laughed.
Damian’s right hand flexed at your waist. He felt the motion. Felt every tendon obey. Felt relief. Felt guilt. Felt your warmth beneath his palm.
This time, he did not push any of it away. He held it. All of it. The anger. The gratitude. The love. The wound. The choice stolen and the life preserved. The hand he kept and the hand you injured to keep it for him.
Pain had gone somewhere. So had love.
Not cleanly. Not without consequence. But here, in the rain, with your hand over his heart and his over your bandages, Damian understood something he had never been taught in the League.
A gift paid in blood could still be wrong. A wrong thing could still come from love. Love could wound and remain love. And healing, real healing, was not the absence of scars. It was the choice to stay and learn the shape of them.
Damian pressed his forehead to yours.
“I will draw again,” he said quietly. Your breath caught. “And when I do, you will sit for me.”
You smiled through fresh tears. “What will you draw?”
He looked at your face. Your wet hair. Your tired eyes. Your stubborn, devastating tenderness. Then your bandaged hand. Then his own.
“Hands,” he said.
You laughed softly. “Again?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Damian lifted your injured hand and kissed the bandages. “Because they tell the truth.”
You looked at him like he had given you something fragile.
Maybe he had. Maybe he was learning. Maybe both of you were.
The rain fell harder, silvering the garden.
Inside the Manor, his family waited with tea, lectures, jokes, and the unbearable relief of people who had almost lost too much and were now determined to hover about it.
Out here, there was only you. Only him. Only the wound between you, no longer hidden.
Damian held your hand. You held his. Neither of you were whole in the way you had been before.
Delayed Confession: Jason is trying to confess his feelings, but you already thought you were dating.
Domestic Disputes: Jason cannot handle having such an independent girlfriend
Love You Anyway: Heartbroken as Jason didn’t do anything for your anniversary, you try your best to seem unfazed. But you’re terrible at it and Jason, he can’t take it when you’re upset and he apologizes—even if it means being emotionally vulnerable.
How To Court A Vigilante: Attracting attention isn’t usually a problem, but when it comes to Red Hood, you’re wearing your most painful heels to stroll through Gotham’s most dangerous streets.
Who's Stalking Who
Mission: What're his kinks
Monopoly and Penguins
Wanna Be Yours: You run into your best friend while he's on a date!
Deja Vu: After you get kidnapped by the Joker, Jason races to find you, only to find out you already fought your way out.
Is That So: You mention that Red Hood would be your hall pass, and Jason has big plans now.
Wet Kisses and Slobbering Boyfriends: You try a trend on Jason by wiping your bottle after he takes a sip. Clearly, he doesn’t appreciate it.
Mark You Red: You make Jason do a TikTok trend. Bat-siblings get to discover the big bad has a girlfriend he's totally whipped for.
Baby Making Music: After telling him you made a playlist that reminded you of him, you accidentally send him the wrong one.
Not What You Think: Jason found something in your stuff that made him mad. Now you gotta try and explain yourself.
Your Mom Will Make Soup Later, Yeah: Damian is too scared to go home like this, so Jason calls you to them. His home that makes good soup, his home with soft hands, his home that Damian is about to steal the heart of.
Just us two...
Glitter pens mean we are family
"Parent"-teacher meeting (1/2)
"Parent"-teacher meeting (2/2)
Damian is NOT doing split custody (1/2)
Damian is NOT doing split custody (2/2)
Until Failure: You and Jason make a bet.
In The Buff: The one where you learn firsthand that Jason Todd sleeps in the nude.
Most Normal Thing In The World: You get hit with a love spell. Naturally, the first person you seek out is Jason Todd.
Library Date: You sneak into the library for a quickie, but Jason gets distracted by the books.
Please: Jason plans out a whole proposal only to forget everything when he gets down on one knee.
Just Us, and Your Friend Roy: You and Jason Todd are friends with benefits. Roy Harper doesn't seem to think so. he thinks you guys are madly in love!! and god save you from that man's side eyes.
Random One-shots
You hypnotise him
Someone thinks Jason might hurt you
Jason likes his hair pulled
I like you so much, and you don’t even know it
We Were Fighting?
Jason as a boyfriend
They discover you're dating Wally West
Dick Grayson
His Person: You and dick have been close friends for years now, and that's all it would ever be, but after he snaps and upsets you, things change.
Bludhaven's Finest: Getting pulled over on a deserted Blüdhaven backroad was supposed to mean a lecture from your boyfriend. Instead, the uniform stays on, the handcuffs come out, and Officer Grayson decides to handle your speeding habit with some hands-on, deeply punishing "community service."
He Calls You Clingy: What the title says. He is such a loser.
Random One-shots
Between The Lines
I like you so much, and you don’t even know it
We Were Fighting?
Dick as a boyfriend
They discover you're dating Wally West
Damian Wayne (aged up ofc!!)
Sunshine and Shadows: You meet Damian's family for the first time.
In A Hundred Lifetimes: Landing in an alternate dimension, you're certain this version of Damian, who finds you, should hate you as much as your Damian does. But when he pulls you in so tight as if he's experienced losing you before. You realise he isn't so willing to let you go.
Caught: You and Damian are kissing in his room, and his most energetic brother decides to barge right in.
Beg You To Stay: You had always adored Damian until you overheard his complaints to his brothers about your clinginess. So why was it that when you decided to give him what he desired, he was the one trying to close the gap he desperately wanted?
All The Small Things: You go to Wayne Manor to find why your boyfriend is ignoring your calls to find him taking a nap with some furry friends.
Spells and Strays: After a spell went wrong, you accidentally turned yourself into a cat. Now, Damian has to take care of you since he is such an animal guy.
Random One-shots
I like you so much, and you don’t even know it
Songs Full of Sad Things
We Were Fighting?
They discover you're dating Wally West
Bruce Wayne
Family: You're pregnant, and Bruce doesn't know. You're also kidnapped by the Joker. What could go wrong?
Random One-shots
I like you so much, and you don’t even know it
We Were Fighting?
Nonchalant
damian wayne headcannons
based on requested thoughts + misc <3
physical traits. i envision him and jason to be the tallest and around similar height, so between 185 to 188 cm? forest green eyes with flecks of hazel gold under sunlight. long, dark lashes. freckles. lean build. broad shoulders with healed scars over his back and arms. trimmed, spiky black hair. loosens into slight waves when he lets it grow. permanent brow creasing. perfect posture like he's always on alert. commonly spotted in dark green hoodies, sweaters, and a dash of black no matter the occasion. rarely dons jewelry, but occasionally, he may be spotted with a ring on his index finger, most likely a family heirloom.
love language: quality time + gifts. for someone who has spent a majority of his life proving that he was worthy to be around, and a majority of his life in solitude despite being surrounded by people, there is nothing he appreciates more than shared quiet, mundane moments. you could be doing completely separate tasks, but your constant presence in the same room as him calms him, reassures him that he doesn't have to perform or have a purpose for you to spend time with him. and gift-giving is completely damian-coded. what he can't express in words, he shows through the careful thought he's crafted for each gift. a sketch of you napping placed on the kitchen counter, graphite still coating his knuckles. flowers in a vase you mentioned once in afterthought that smell sweetest in spring. your favourite torn hoodie stitched perfectly folded neatly in your drawers. damian notices, and his actions pour that detail-oriented focus he has for you more than words can say.
as a partner: damian is naturally confident in himself, and that extends to his partner. he exudes pride whenever the topic is about you. not in your abilities or achievements, but in you as in your pure existence. damian despite everything ingrained into his teachings, chooses you simply because he did. you don't have to prove that you're worthy of his love by being the smartest, strongest, or coolest, because he simply chose you as you are. the rare moments where he's asked about you, he genuinely softens in the gaze of others, as if a switch has been flipped. he goes quieter, the sharpness softening around his edges, and it's evident that you are his favourite person. damian as your partner, would be a steady presence. he wants to see you succeed in your dreams and he wants to be the person by your side not only when that happens, but during the entire process. on the days where the world is too much and you're tired of handling its weight, that's when damian shines most. he'll push at first as he always does, because he'll always have the instinctive need to make your bad day disappear in an instant, but he'll always be the first person ready to be the shoulder for you to lean on. damian as your partner, is your physical reminder on how there is always a person who believes in you even when you don't, and is always ready to fight the world with you.
before relationship: you'd have to have some form of history. friends, enemies, partners. an unlikely bond and a quiet trust even if he feels that he shouldn't. you are that one person who's always existed in the precipice of his mind, as if his brain had compartmentalised an area just for you. he was terrified when he realised that you had left an impact he couldn't reverse or justify as dispensable. confused and offended, that your very existence causes some form of allergic reaction to his organs. in failed attempts at cancelling out his feelings that he had no control over (nothing he hates more than that), he would try to distance himself, acting cold as he had before, not knowing that it would've already been too late. when damian falls, he falls hard. like a decision pre-determined by fate, it would feel inevitable. by the time he's decided that being apart from you hurts a whole lot worse than succumbing to the vulnerability of letting someone matter, you'd encounter a rare sight of a vulnerable damian spilling out his guts. his confession would be messy, his words barely catching up with the intensity of emotions swarming his chest. he's honest in such a raw display, that it feels more like he's cracking open his heart and letting you hold the jagged shards, rather than any normal attempts of charming someone. when you reciprocate, damian doesn't take it lightly, because deep down, being chosen, and by you, erases every fear that's ever defined him and he will never take your heart for granted.
during relationship: he doesn't essentially change in his character because he has never hid who he was in front of you before, but it's almost like he has a different dial for you than everyone else. something soft exists behind his gaze when he catches you in his vision, a matching crease in the corner of his eyes when he sees your smile. your opinion matters, and for someone as stubborn as damian, that impact hits. when others tell him to stop, he still listens to his own heart. when you tell him to stop, he pauses. registers your request, and listens. because at the center of his heart, is you. damian is a quick learner, and as much as he is stubborn, he is also determined to be the best in any role. that includes being your partner. he sets high standards for himself, and you'll easily feel the difference compared to the rest of gotham's choices. dates are planned, responsibilities are clearly expressed, active listening is a given (just bear with many comments), and he is decisive and leaves no room for uncertainty. he is by no means perfect, especially when it comes to expressing his vulnerabilities and communicating about anything from his world (the expectations, the trauma, the violence), but the thing about damian is that he will always put effort into bettering himself for you. the other option is losing you, and after experiencing a before and after you, that is not even a consideration.
random quirks:
unable to let go of unfamiliar details. if he catches a word—a genre or language or concept he doesn’t understand, he is researching it at ungodly hours in the middle of the night when he thinks you're asleep. feels extremely satisfied with a 'i understood that reference' expression the next time he hears it again.
beautiful handwriting. it's effortless, yet somehow precise with a natural cursive. its a work of art, which is why handwritten letters by him are a genuine treasure.
secretly reads shoujo. he genuinely finds himself antagonised when there's a miscommunication arc, and starts muttering to himself on how situations can be easily fixed with communication when he sucks at it himself. he secretly loves the warmth evoked from soft, mundane chapters and tries to replicate it with you on dates with subtlety (he fails horrendously because you detect his scheming immediately).
coolest when he isn't trying, but an absolute dork when he puts too much thought into it. letters of devotion, intense declarations, silent protection? that's nothing, only pure instinct. buying a bouquet? he's overthinking on the colours, arrangement, flower species, allergies to different pollens, you name it.
volunteers at animal shelters. huge animal lover, but there’s only one problem. any creature that comes up nuzzling his hand, and he's suddenly thwarted from his mission. has to resist adopting any random animal and bringing it home because alfred will genuinely weep tears.
undying loyalty. he has your back without you even needing to ask. damian is protective by nature, and for someone who he's let past his walls and into his world? he is a guard dog to those he cherishes, even if you aren't around. one bad-mouthing incident behind your back and he overhears? it'll never happen again, just don't ask him on his tactics. if you're his, you are already the receiver of a promise he never intends to break, and that is to be your person forever.
stares. a lot. you never know if he’s coming up to strike a conversation or to flat out insult you. he has a habit of hyper-focusing before he approaches, and it is honestly terrifying if you're not used to it. for you, he's practically trained himself to direct his attention onto you in a room. it's not on purpose, his senses simply decide, you are present, and he'll find his way towards you eventually.
sketches from memory. he has sketchbooks, plain, leather covers hidden in his drawers, but peering into them is the closest visual to what he holds close to his heart. the first few pages, as a safety precaution if someone were to flip through them before he had he chance to interfere, are detailed sketches of his pets. titus, alfred, bat-cow, you name it. you flip a few pages in, and it's you. from the before, the after, it's all a quiet admission of just how much you matter to him. there's clear smudges over the pages from erasing and resketching, because he refuses to get the details of you wrong. to be loved through the sketch of his pencil, is damian's quiet devotion, for what goes unsaid but is known, that can't be expressed through the soft confessions through his lips or his thoughts put to pen in his letters. you know, and he's glad that you do.
