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@pastryiee
— 𝒦ia! Sweetest baker in town, maybe a little diabetic! Cabin 10. Catholic. Chronic reader! Rom-com enthusiast. ENFP. Beware.. my cookies might be a little doe-y! 𓈒⊹
Ohhh how I love Damian Wayne/Tim Drake, Percy Jackson and Turkish tea!
Your baker! My bakery!
Please donate and share
My name is Raven, and I'm running this campaign on behalf of Ibrahim and his family, who are friends of my own friend living in Gaza. 100% o
Hello friends, my mother is still suffering from her injuries. It's very difficult, and she needs regular checkups and medication. She must adhere to the prescribed regimen. My pregnancy is progressing very slowly, and I can't meet my family's needs. I'm trying to provide food, drink, and medicine for my mother. We have no one else to support us. I need your help. Please stop ignoring me and try to support me. Remember, even $10 or $20 can ease some of her suffering. I won't forgive you for neglecting her. Please try to save my mother before it's too late.
— 𝓛ie down with me! 𓈒⊹
Pairing: Ellis Anderson X Reader.
Notes: first fic in.. lol… months.. hi guys.. song inspo: if you lie down with me. I also didn’t proof read #sorry!! Barely ever so slightly inspired by if you lie down with me by Lana del Rey
—
The smell of the sunscreen mixed with the scent of the earthy, mineral, and crisp lake lingered throughout the wind. Faint laughter travels through the lake, a few splashes of water hitting me—simply chuckling it off and enjoying the moment. Ice-cream starts to trickle down your arm, I groan slightly feeling the sticky sensation, I quickly bring my tongue to my arm—swiping it gently over the surface and removing the melted sweet. I slightly twitched at the feeling of a cold, wet hand on the small of my back..
“Hi” Ellis whispers, he leans on me, his wet hair glistening under the sun.
A small grin forms on my lips, “Hi to you too” I whispers back, bumping his shoulder gently mid sentence.
His gaze drifts towards my smile, then my hand “Chocolate chip mint?” He questions.
“Yeah, needed something to cool off. Want some?” I reply, nudging the icecream cone towards him, some of it still dripping down.
He leans forward and takes a nibble, he instantly pulls away and in between uneven laughs mutters out “I don’t know how you like that, it’s so gross”
I gasp teasingly “How could you say that! After I show you explicit kindness and offer you some.. wow” I reply jokingly, dragging out the last word.
Shuffle away and lay down, the uneven rocks slightly poking and burning my back, with the sun shining fully on me—yet I still keep my gaze on him.
“Lie with me.”
“Mm?”
“I say lie with me.”
“Think you’re forgetting something.”
“Lie with me.. please?” I softly plead.
He looks down towards me, moves me a bit to make room and lays down. I rearrange myself so that my head is on top of his chest.
“You’re so wet it’s gross.”
“You won’t move though.”
“Doesn’t make it any less gross.”
“Think it does”
“Does not.”
“Totally does”
I huff, “do you think I’d choke on my icecream if I ate it laying down?”
“I’d hope not but..” he laughs out, laying his hand over my torso, contemplation written all over his face. “I mean.. chances are low, but never zero?”
“Ewww! You guys look so gross!” Mabel screams from the lake.
“Stop cockblocking them!” Oona rather loudly scolds Mabel.
Me and Ellis look at each other and groan. Forgot they were here too.
—
— 𝓛ie down with me! 𓈒⊹
Pairing: Ellis Anderson X Reader.
Notes: first fic in.. lol… months.. hi guys.. song inspo: if you lie down with me. I also didn’t proof read #sorry!! Barely ever so slightly inspired by if you lie down with me by Lana del Rey
—
The smell of the sunscreen mixed with the scent of the earthy, mineral, and crisp lake lingered throughout the wind. Faint laughter travels through the lake, a few splashes of water hitting me—simply chuckling it off and enjoying the moment. Ice-cream starts to trickle down your arm, I groan slightly feeling the sticky sensation, I quickly bring my tongue to my arm—swiping it gently over the surface and removing the melted sweet. I slightly twitched at the feeling of a cold, wet hand on the small of my back..
“Hi” Ellis whispers, he leans on me, his wet hair glistening under the sun.
A small grin forms on my lips, “Hi to you too” I whispers back, bumping his shoulder gently mid sentence.
His gaze drifts towards my smile, then my hand “Chocolate chip mint?” He questions.
“Yeah, needed something to cool off. Want some?” I reply, nudging the icecream cone towards him, some of it still dripping down.
He leans forward and takes a nibble, he instantly pulls away and in between uneven laughs mutters out “I don’t know how you like that, it’s so gross”
I gasp teasingly “How could you say that! After I show you explicit kindness and offer you some.. wow” I reply jokingly, dragging out the last word.
Shuffle away and lay down, the uneven rocks slightly poking and burning my back, with the sun shining fully on me—yet I still keep my gaze on him.
“Lie with me.”
“Mm?”
“I say lie with me.”
“Think you’re forgetting something.”
“Lie with me.. please?” I softly plead.
He looks down towards me, moves me a bit to make room and lays down. I rearrange myself so that my head is on top of his chest.
“You’re so wet it’s gross.”
“You won’t move though.”
“Doesn’t make it any less gross.”
“Think it does”
“Does not.”
“Totally does”
I huff, “do you think I’d choke on my icecream if I ate it laying down?”
“I’d hope not but..” he laughs out, laying his hand over my torso, contemplation written all over his face. “I mean.. chances are low, but never zero?”
“Ewww! You guys look so gross!” Mabel screams from the lake.
“Stop cockblocking them!” Oona rather loudly scolds Mabel.
Me and Ellis look at each other and groan. Forgot they were here too.
—
hii can u do just the full alphabet of cursive capital and lowercase letters? thank u love 🎀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 𝓐 𝓑 𝓒 𝓓 𝓔 𝓕 𝓖 𝓗
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀𝓘 𝓙 𝓚 𝓛 𝓜 𝓝 𝓞 𝓟 𝓠
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝓡 𝓢 𝓣 𝓤 𝓥 𝓦 𝓧 𝓨 𝓧
⠀⠀𝓪 𝓫 𝓬 𝓭 𝓮 𝓯 𝓰 𝓱 𝓲 𝓳 𝓴 𝓵 𝓶 𝓷 𝓸 𝓹 𝓺 𝓻 𝓼 𝓽 𝓾 𝓿 𝔀 𝔁 𝔂 𝔃
divider ctto !
reign over my heart. (8k words)
summary: damian al ghul never left the league, carved to become the sole heir to carry his grandfather’s legacy. as his betrothed, you’re meant to be a useful pawn, nothing more. not a soul could have predicted that damian will betray his only purpose and burn it all to the ground—for his one weakness... you.
pairing: damian al ghul x fem! reader
content: al ghul au, arranged marriage, shared childhood in the league, his affections for reader are complicated by his upbringing, brief mentions of kidnapping/blood, devoted damian yearns till the point where the only weakness he can't let go of is the reader
Damian Al Ghul, your betrothed—is an isolated weapon. That was the first thing you noticed about the unnerving prodigy who was meant to be your future husband. The barrier that separated him from humanity. His grandfather—separated by unreachable expectations for his only grandchild. Servants who refused to meet his gaze—separated by fear that was ingrained since his birth, of who he was meant to be.
You are no different. A mere pawn, a piece to the legacy Ra's Al Ghul has crafted with a millennia of planning. Damian’s betrothed, but only in name did the title actually matter. This union has been formed long before you, a promise sealed by your ancestors, binding you to the demon head's only grandson—a political unity to benefit both parties.
All except the two souls forced into the marriage. You are no different, but not because you fear him like the rest. It is in the untouchable barrier that separates Damian from others, that you find yourself unexempted from. You irked Damian, as much as he unnerved you. Maybe because you were the only one who always dared to meet his gaze when he scanned over his territory as if he were above it all, only to meet your defying stare.
It made no sense to you. You were meant to stand by his side, as his future wife, so why did you have to bow your head?
Your lack of fear—for a boy raised to believe terror instilled in others was power, already struck the wrong nerve. If it wasn’t obvious from his cold, scornful tone whenever he spoke down to you, it would be his stubborn will to avoid you.
Every year, as fallen branches wither in the snow, it had been agreed upon your two families that you must reside with the League during the months of winter, to partake in the same trainings as Damian. Thanks to Damian, your classes were quickly separated.
"I refuse to be slowed down by some incapable child." His gaze never once drops to you, trained on his instructor instead with barely concealed fury when you had entered his personal training session.
"We are of the same age." You scoff. There it is again, that shock that flickers in his gaze when you respond with the same fire, unwilling to leave the room simply because he commands it.
"Think twice before spouting your incompetence as if it were some achievement." He mocks, bumping against your shoulder as he made it towards the exit. "Isn't it shameful to be as slow-witted as you are, if we really are of the same age?"
He was cunning, ruthless, a perfect soldier—but frustratingly immature. He refused to see you as an equal, so you refused to see him as yours. With a personality like his, you strongly vowed to never let your heart soften for the demon spawn crafted meticulously from Ra's Al Ghul’s hands to dominate the world.
The first time you see Damian cry, you had only turned ten. His grandfather had punished him to be isolated in his room, for failing to kill. An insubordination, Damian’s longest tutor—revealed to be an assassin.
Hesitance from Damian to strike—was all it took for his grandfather to name it weakness, and Damian took his punishment in obedience. He didn’t break, not as he watched the execution of his personal tutor. He didn’t break, when his grandfather instructed that Damian was to be left in isolation till he proved himself to be deserving, capable—worthy.
No, it was when you peeked through the slim crack of the door to his bedroom, did you hear his quiet sniffles.
The balm hidden behind your palm, under your sleeve, grows warm under the tightening of your fingers over the metal. You had only seen his wound because you had been hiding in the corner, watching as Damian hid the blood on his sleeves from his grandfather’s view. Stubborn, too prideful to admit the assassin has spilt his blood with a blade.
It wasn’t your place to go against the strict instructions given that Damian was to receive no visitors, but—wasn’t your duty to your betrothed, before anyone else?
Gritting your teeth, you slipped through the door with a subtle push before sliding it close. You don't recognise your mistake till you're shrouded in darkness, alone with the demon head's prodigy. There wasn’t a single second spared between the click of the door and Damian tackling you into the ground.
You both fell with a harsh slam onto the floor, your back digging into the wood—the balm sliding around to land above your head.
“What are you doing here?” He hisses.
You wince, feeling the grip of his fingers tighten into your wrists, pinned above you to immobilise your movement. “Ridiculous.” You hiss. “This is the thanks I get for sneaking in healing ointment?”
His painful grip finally falters at your words, but the shadows that shield the depths of his eyes from you makes it impossible to gauge his reaction. Only the pauses between his breath and your own, measures the time stretched between his calculations—before he pushes himself off with a grunt.
“I never asked you to.” He mutters, and from his tone alone—he sounds offended. As if you’ve insulted him with your offering.
“That’s the role of a betrothed.” You spat, hands flaying around for the balm before capturing it with your left. “To take care of her partner, when he’s being too stubborn to do it himself.”
His entire body freezes, movement stilled in the admission of your words. You’ve surprised him. Getting up onto your knees, you don't miss your chance as you wobble over to where he’s sitting, your hands landing on his thighs to stabilise yourself.
He hisses, ready to push you off but you grab his wrist before he’s able to.
“Let me treat you.” You say, one hand raised to show the balm in your hand. “I saw the wound you hid.”
He hesitates, and you expected stubbornness—but not till this point of idiocy. “My grandfather will have you punished, or worse—if he discovers that you were here.”
“Good thing he won’t know then.” You reply coolly. “This balm is scentless, and leaves no trace. My family was chosen for this alliance for a reason.”
Specialised in herbs, ointments, poison—the League has kept an eye on your family for centuries.
His annoying fretting to snatch his wrist out of your grip weakens, but it's clear he hasn't fully given in. “Why should I trust you?”
You purse your lips. It’s the right question, as expected of Ra's heir. Damian has a clear target on his back, leaving him in a position where not even his betrothed could be ruled out from an assassination attempt.
“Here.” You click open the clasp, and your fingers dig into the balm. You apply it on the exposed area of your arms, rubbing the ointment into your skin.
He watches, eyes driven to your revealed skin like a hawk, as you wait—and wait.
“No stings, or rashes.” You show, leaning in closer so that your arm was near his eye view. Up close, you feel the sensation of his long lashes fluttering against your arm.
He swallows, drifting his gaze between your arm and your face. “My grandfather has given clear orders.” His voice is weaker than you’ve ever heard it, ending in a low rasp that signals his pain.
“And your grandfather has taught you that survival comes first, above pride or following orders blindly to your death.” Your words cut through without a hint of remorse. “I will not have my betrothed die of something as minor as wounds, and be forced to marry another child younger than either of us.”
He grits his teeth at your mocking, before letting out a low ‘Tt.’ Turning around, he lifts off his tunic, and you see it immediately despite the low light.
The cut has worsened on his side, healing wrong—covered in sweat mixed with both dried and new blood. You mutter a curse as you grab for other supplies you have snuck in through the useful, hidden pockets you’ve sewn into your garments—cloth, alcohol, bandages.
A louder hiss escapes his gritted teeth when you dab alcohol to clean his wounds, but Damian makes no complaint. If anything, it seemed almost as if he’s punishing himself for falling weak to your temptation of medicine, and submitting himself to the sting of the pain.
By the time you’ve finished, Damian has leaned almost fully into your shoulder, shuddering breaths leaving his lips as you gently apply the balm over his scarred skin.
“Why?” He whispers weakly. You suspect if it weren’t for the pain, he wouldn’t have dared ask you such a question. It sounded uncharacteristically vulnerable coming from him.
“You’re my betrothed.” You answer simply, as if it answered everything.
Maybe it did, but to you—the answer was a mere simplification. Damian is the only person you know, who looks you straight in the eyes instead of cowering like the other children do in your homeland. With a strange look of contempt and understanding, knowing exactly how it feels to be born into a world that rejected you outright before you even had the chance to form a semblance of identity—in the face of what they preferred you to be.
A cracked mirror, and your only, twisted sense of a companion.
Damian doesn’t speak of the incident to you ever again. It’s a silent promise that you don’t bring it up either. A forced truce, because even a whisper of what happened will reveal your insubordination and his shame.
You half expected him to fully ice you out for your insolence. Not only have you disrespected his grandfather's orders, the man he admired most, you had also seemed him at his most vulnerable. Damian was a prideful person, and he didn't bare vulnerabilities easily.
So, it surprised you—when things began to shift.
Damian begins to linger after his trainings to watch over yours, insulting your stance and muttering sudden tactics mid-way through your own fights. His distractive presence is frustrating, but knowing his assessing gaze is locked onto you—it pushed you further than any instructor has. When you tackled your opponent down for the first time, his eyes flashed with brief pride.
Damian sits beside you during meals, instead of across the table. Making pointed remarks when you opt too much for fruits instead of meats—muttering strange declarations of not being able to accept your unbalanced diet. "I can't afford to have a betrothed who will collapse on herself by not prioritising her meals." He tuts. "It will be a disgrace if you are weak."
Damian so happens to cross your guest bedroom most nights, opting for a longer route back to his. He’ll slide the door open, tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth as he eyes your décor with distaste, commenting on how one should never be attached to material things. Yet, he finds himself seated next to you on the tatami mat, listening to you rant of your snuck-in possessions—of bands with loud electric guitars, and comics of superheroes that actually exist in this world.
Damian isn't easy to read, but it was a quick realisation that he was strangely obsessed with one of your collections in particular—Batman. A crime-fighting vigilante that rose to popularity after being introduced in the Justice League collections. He's practically mere myth. A terrifying, dark crusader who hides in the shadows of Gotham. Damian claims that the depictions you own is pure bogus fiction, that they didn’t even get the facts right, but you spot that rare glimmer in his eyes. Curiosity, longing.
"I don't get your fixation on him." You tut mockingly, a habit that's only sprung thanks to his constant clicking of his own tongue. "Wonder Woman is clearly the best member of the Justice League."
His glare flashes with a familiar defensive fire, and you're quick to smother your teasing smirk as you keep up your pretense. Holding out your collection of the Dark Knight, you wave it callously in your hand. "I suppose since you don't want to take it, I'll just throw it in the trash."
He's quick to swing his arms, capturing the collection before you can even aim for the bin. His glower is down-right murderous, but the way he's holding onto the binding as if it were something precious... your lips are practically bitten past the point of recovery to hide your smile. He's so stubborn. He's clearly wanted it from the start, and yet, he was so desperately trying to restrain himself.
You don’t comment on the obvious, of his presence orbiting around you whether consciously or not—and you allowing him to do so. Just maybe, you found it more pleasing than you'd like to admit, seeing this side of him that only revealed itself the longer he continued to seek you out. It felt as if this version of Damian, was only yours.
"Tell me about your father."
Three years have passed since the incident. At thirteen, Damian still sucks in coming up with excuses when he visits your sleeping quarters. His excitement had been brimming since your arrival, obvious through his impatience, when you returned to the League with more collections piled under your bundles of cloth to prepare for a harsh winter—comics, manga, posters, you name it.
You don't tell Damian that you purposely brought more Batman publications, just because you liked the way he furiously flipped through the pages—or snuck in more shoujo, because you noticed how he secretly cared for the endings more than he'd like to admit.
Comics are scattered around the both of you, and he's tucked under your sheets as the lamp shines a low, muted orange over his features. His gaze reflects a hazel-like hue, the green in his eyes mixed with a softened, yellowed rim.
"Haven't you collected most of his depictions?" He mocks lowly. "Stories by my mother barely compare to your obsession with my father."
You snort, because sure, you're the one obsessed with him. Deciding that mocking him could be reserved for another time, you push forward. "You say none of it is real."
He tuts condemningly. "Because it isn't."
"So, tell me." You murmur. "You say he's a great man."
"He is." Damian huffs with a hint of pride. "There is no man my grandfather respects more than my father. His detective prowess and his martial skills, it is only a waste that he did not continue his training. He would have been carrying the League's legacy, if he had accepted my grandfather's offer."
"Do you hate him for it?" You swallow, your words touching a forbidden territory. "For leaving this world behind."
The faint smile in Damian's lips drops at your question. You're nearly convinced he's one breath away from telling you to drop the subject, but he doesn't. He does that less nowadays, pushing you away. "...Hatred is useless. He has made his choice, and I must fill the gap that he has left."
Your brows furrow at his choice of words. The way his tongue stressed on the word, must. "...Because you want to?"
He nods firmly, leaving no room for hesitation. "I will make my grandfather proud."
"Isn't it pressuring?" You ask, your head already weighing heavy just at the thought of it. "To be the one and only heir of the Ra's Al Ghul. He is... harsh on you."
Ah, was that too on the nose? You've been noticing the strange dynamic between Damian and Ra's, as if they were master and pupil, rather than family of the same blood. It's no secret that Damian admires his grandfather with a loyalty carved of steel, but you can never forget that look on Damian's face... when Ra's had declared his hesitation as weakness. That barely concealed fear swarming in Damian's eyes.
“My grandfather—” Damian rushes through gritted teeth. “—I am and always will be his sole heir. His trust to shape the world he’s envisioned is given to me, because I am worthy—because he deems me worthy.”
Your brows furrow, and—it isn't pity, but your heart aches unwillingly. “You don’t have to convince me that he loves you, Dami.” You whisper.
He scoffs, abrasive and rushed. “I do not need to convince you. He is family. He has told me himself—of my value, of how the combination of my father's blood and his teachings will make me his greatest pupil. Of course he—”
His words falter, quieting into a thickened silence. It had hung right there, on the tip of his tongue. What was making him hesitate?
“Do you think your family will love you—even if you’re not worthy?” You ask after a moment.
Damian doesn’t reply you. The silence stretches, and you think you’ve found it. That aching core that made him who he is. The reason why he has never failed—even with every task and expectation soaring higher than before, even when exhaustion plagues him and discipline carves him raw off anything but his defined role.
“I would.” You mutter, and you're not sure why you're saying this. It's not like your opinion matters over his family's, a stranger to blood. “As your wife, I mean. You have many roles to fill, but as my husband, I don’t really have any expectations.”
He’s quiet still, and you almost believe he’s fallen asleep, right beside you in your mattress. He had overexerted himself today during training, gruelling his body past its limits—till it reached a newer level surpassing his previous record. Maybe that's why he still hasn’t left your room, hidden under your sheets and laying beside you to hide the ghastly bruises coating his arms.
“That’s what a moron would say.” He finally speaks, his voice a weaker imitation of itself. “You should have expectations for your future husband.”
Surprised he was willing to delve into a topic like this, when even the mention of romance and marriage used to make his cheeks flush—you turn your head towards his shadowed silhouette with a delicate curiosity.
“And what are these expectations?” You prod. “I’ll let you define them since you’re the one who has to live up to your words.”
Your question catches him off-guard, and his lips part in a rare loss for words. “Well—for one, a husband should swear their life to protect their wife.” He answers, the tone of his voice off—awkward. Making him sound more his age than he usually does. “To be her shield and sword.”
You blink slowly. “Isn’t that what you’re already doing?”
He clears his throat, uncomfortable. “And a husband should make sure their wife is of good health.”
These all sound… incredibly familiar. Your lips curl into a knowing smile, and you hide it behind your palm, pressed against your mouth.
“And?” You press on, muffled by your fingers.
“I suppose a husband should spend time with their wife.” He admits, and you're sure even in the dim light, his ears must be a bright red. “Why else would you be paired with another in a vow sealed for life?”
“That was… the most romantic thing that’s ever come out of your mouth.” You tease. “Have you been sneaking another read at my shoujo?”
“Silence.”
Your laughter trickles under the sheets, muffled by the cotton as you close your eyes, a warm smile etched in your lips. Maybe your arrangement wasn’t so bad after all—if it meant Damian was willing to take his role as your betrothed so seriously. Who would’ve thought—that little, bratty kid with the tongue of a viper, would turn out so considerate?
"Those are your words, not mine." You taunt. "You're the one who has to keep your promises—since you made them yourself."
He scoffs lowly, but much—much later, when your eyelids grow heavy and the edges of your room blur into one, you hear his voice, soft—unguarded in the mistaken belief that you've fallen asleep. "Of course I will."
At sixteen, Damian sneaks you out for the first time. Despite his discipline, years of knowing him has revealed the underlying rule-breaking tendencies running through his veins. He's practically memorised the blind spots where guards loosen up during patrol, especially in the crooks where only he could climb.
His hand is wrapped around your waist, stabilising you as you climbed into an abandoned watchtower, hidden behind tiles of roofing. At your first peek as your hands make contact with softened snow coating the tiles, your breath stills in awe. A rare snowfall has coated the entire mountain terrain, twisting the surrounding forests into an icy, winter wonderland.
A huff of warm breath leaves your lips, caught off-guard as Damian climbs up, offering you a hand and lifting you onto the platform, which overlooks the mountain valleys where the frozen river separates the banks. The sun hasn't completely risen, and in the serene quiet of the world, you suspect maybe only you and Damian were blessed with this rare sight.
"You—woke me up at the crack of dawn for sightseeing?" Your teeth chatter slightly as you spoke, a gust of wind numbing your reddened cheeks.
He huffs a low breath, light snow particles dusting his lashes. Looking over to you, you spot a rare amused smirk. A heavy weight drops onto your shoulders—his coat. He doesn't give you a chance to process or tease him, his lips parting to speak.
"You were always boasting of your homeland and its beauty." He mocks, a puff of air leaving his lips. "You know I'm not fond of letting you gain the upper hand."
You scoff. "As if you've ever let me have the upper hand, Dami."
The nickname rolls off easier when it's just the two of you alone. Something you had once picked up, teasing him when you overheard his mother calling out for her son in a sweet, low voice. It had reddened his ears in such a violent red that you never lost the habit of doing it.
It doesn't affect him as much as it did the first many times, much to your chagrin, but he still blinks slowly, processing the soft call of his nickname like a feline, before forcing himself to look away from your face, a slow bob of his Adam's apple.
"This is where I come to—rest." He admits. "No one will finds us here."
He's showing you a place that has previously only been reserved for him. His hiding spot.
You swallow thickly, unable to form your strange, erratic heartbeat into proper words. "You sure this isn't you orchestrating my murder before we're wed?"
He snorts, hand tugging you closer so you'll have a clearer view of the terrain. His back envelops you with warmth, shielding you from the gusts of chilling wind, and his hand comes up to shadow yours, guiding your index finger with his own towards the river banks.
"On the left." His low voice brushes past your ear. "Those are hunting grounds. In the spring, that's where animals are most fond of frolicking—and you'll find the rarest beasts only known in these lands."
Right, you're usually back in your homelands for spring. You've gotten used to the cold, near unbearable winters in the mountains here—that imagining the lands covered in green instead of frost, was almost impossible.
"To the right." He gestures, coaxing your hand once more. "That path leads towards the waterfalls. The spring water is said to be blessed with good fortunes."
"Your grandfather bathes in those too?" You tease.
Damian's chest rumbles lowly, amusement flickering in his features when you twist your head slightly to meet his gaze. "Focus." He mutters, a warm breath falling over your neck that has goosebumps appearing down your skin.
You turn your gaze back towards the lands, his lands. You realise he's teaching you, helping you understand the terrain because... in a few years from now, this will be your home.
"It is beautiful." You admit. The sun has risen past the spruce trees, coating the icicles with a warm, emitting golden light.
"It is yours." He reminds you.
You blink, unable to contain your—what was this feeling? This strange, erratic tugging in your chest. You've gotten used to teasing Damian, to his grumblings and pulling of your sleeves as he drags you wherever he pleased.
"Isn't it common sense that you are to accompany me?" He once scoffed, ears brimming a faint red. "Your duty as a betrothed is to remain at my side."
It only occurs to you now, in this rare morning light—that without putting it into words, these years have blurred together and you've grown closer to him without realising. To be worthy of his trust in sharing this private spot with you, of his low murmurs in your ears as he mapped out the landscapes of the mountains, of his soft grip over your waist to ensure you didn't slip.
Without being ambushed by the expectations of others, you've begun to truly feel the true weight of being his betrothed on your shoulders. It no longer felt like a simple term encasing you in another role to fulfil, another shackle. It's... starting to mean something new, to be his—and he yours.
At seventeen, you successfully tackled Damian down in your shared trainings. It had been his suggestion, to resume shared classes if you truly meant to keep up with him.
”No way.” Your voice lowers in disbelief, sweat pooling at your brows, hovering over Damian’s disgruntled expression. “That was a completely, fair takedown. I won.”
He scoffs lowly, his expression unsurprised. “I was going easy on you.”
“Sure you did.” You tease, leaning in so that your nose brushes against his. His lashes flutter, a habit he doesn’t notice he does when he’s flustered. His ears redden, but he doesn’t push you off.
“This isn’t an advisable tactic for distracting your opponents.” He mutters hoarsely, voice dropping several octaves as his gaze narrows on you. You love when he does that, the green of his eyes darkening into a similar shade of spruce leaves shadowed by his lashes.
“It’s working on you, isn’t it?” You mutter.
His breath hitches, his chest slowly rising as if fighting for oxygen against the impact of your question. His mouth curls into a scowl, before finally pushing you off.
He shouldn’t have gone easy on you if you were willing to pull tricks like that. Warmth burns at the back of his neck, trickling down with sweat—and he runs a hand through his wet hair to discard useless thoughts concerning the whisper of your question brushing against his lips.
He hears your light laughter, a sound rare within these walls, but it’s delightful enough that he wishes he could bottle it and drink it dry—another mad thought only you’re capable of summoning.
He only catches himself smiling—a foolish mistake, when he turns his head away to avoid your teasing gaze. His eyes lock onto another pair matching his own. His mother was watching him with a set line across her lips—disapproval. The twitch in his lips drops immediately.
When had she returned?
Careless. It's an immediate reprimand, and he senses an error he's made, somewhere lost between the languid smiles you dragged out of him, and his own guard loosening around you. Too often, has he gotten used to indulging in your presence, that he has forgotten the very reason why the exchanges of your smiles and banter never happened in public, around the many eyes and ears surrounding the estate.
A strong union was encouraged, but it was also expected to be emotionless, a mere contractual linkage. If word got around that there he carried a genuine fondness, it would complicate everything. A strategy meant to strengthen his legacy will become a thorn at his side, something easily exploited.
When his instructor dismisses him, he finds his mother stationed outside the corridor. He hasn't seen her in nearly a week, sent off on an escapade his grandfather has ordered her for, and he snuffs out any relief at the sight of her uninjured—or disappointment when his mother's eyes remain narrowed upon his arrival.
Talia Al Ghul stands before him, gaze assessing. “Pulling your punches?”
His jaw twitches. "It is practice, Mother."
His response does not please her.
“Remember, Damian.” His mother’s voice echoes along the walls. “Weakness does not survive in the world we shall build.”
Damian flinches at the accusation. It is not weakness, he wants to argue. You are not his weakness.
Yet, he sees it. The knowing, the pity in his mother’s eyes. She has stood in his place, and till this day—he’s never truly unraveled the truth from his mother’s tightly sealed lips. She once whispered of a secrets she cherished when he was but a boy, still soft enough to lay in her arms without being deemed weak for coveting her embrace. When it had been only the two of them, for his father never returned.
“Your purpose is greater than fleeting, young affection.” Her voice doesn't waver, carrying a tone that is meant to will him from disobeying. “Your grandfather has gifted you with the right to reign over his empire. You will not lose this honor.”
"That thought has never left my mind." He mutters, for it is the truth. How could he ever forsake his grandfather's blessing, to be born with an honor only he is worthy of holding?
A loud slam echoes through the corridors before he can convince his mother further, and he makes the mistake of searching for you instinctively with his gaze. He feels the way his heart thrashes into his ribcage when he finds your body pinned to the ground through the agape door, your expression twisted in pain. His fingers twitch to reach out for you. To be your shield.
Weakness. The voices that have judged his every action, every word, line of thought—combine into one coherent word that slithers down his throat.
His mother places a hand on his shoulder, her voice softening in a way that slithers through his defenses. “I understand, my child. More than you realise—which is why you must listen.”
His fists tighten, digging crescent moons into his palms. He must not be attached. Before his mother’s suspicions are proven right, before his grandfather notices—he mustn’t let you be his weakness. For as much as alliances have let his grandfather prevail in his reign, allies are as easily cut off the moment they no longer serve their purpose to the League.
If even a possibility of you being a liability holds true, you will be eliminated.
He will—no, he must protect you. Even if it’s from himself.
Damian has remained distant ever since that training. You had thought it was mere pride—it was your first success in tackling him down after all. Despite your attempts to coax him out of his sudden walls by teasing him softly, he does not budge.
It felt like a slap to your face when it was announced that your trainings were to return to being one-on-one. A horrid, cruel prank that demanded an explanation. Yet, by the end of the first week of this sudden change, his footsteps do not come by your door.
The comics he once poured over with you remained in their kept box, too painful to scour through when reading them lacked the company of his disgruntled expression and opinionated comments. Even during meals, he opts for different timings—and you end up sitting alone, poking at your fruit with no voice ranting to you on the importance of iron in a cold climate like his.
The silence gnaws at you, and loneliness accompanies you as a shadow when you return to your chambers, lips bitten to silence the ache in your chest and the tears that slide down your cheeks when the night grows too cold, and the wind whips at the windows.
Three months pass by in cyclical days, with hope dying out in your chest when Damian’s shadow doesn’t even cross ten feet of yours during the night and day. You catch servants pitying you, believing you to be thrown away by their master, his affections souring dry. Your own instructor berates you for your lack of focus, and again for your anger that slips between the cracks of your fists pummeled into the punching bags, spilling its contents over the floor.
Controlled. Composed. Obedient.
You didn’t know how to be those things anymore. Not when you had begun to see this place as a home after all these years, accompanying Damian’s side. Exposed to his humanity and a warmth that still lingers in his soul, despite the freezing cold of his climate and family.
After all, he had been the one who promised you, didn't he? Made you promise too, in that quiet, indirect way of his—that your first duty to him was to be his companion.
The loss wasn't only your routine, or your consistent stability as Damian’s betrothed—but also... your best friend. In a world as cold and isolating as the only one you've ever known, you never expected he would take his company from you too.
For the first time in years, when your winter visit is over and you return to your homelands—you choose not to return to the League.
When Damian hears of the news—of your delayed visit, with claims from your family that your trainings with Damian has been more than sufficient and you will continue your own studies in your homeland, he should have felt relieved.
He was—he had to be. No longer did he have to battle himself every morning, to avoid the path he’s succumbed to for years when passing your room, spotting your shadow illuminated by the dim light of your lamp. A room now desolate of your belongings and character, posters and colourful bedsheets removed in a hollow ache of what used to be a comforting sight. He didn’t have to wrestle with discipline, at the sight of your lonely gaze that lingered on his silhouette, twisting something horrid in his chest.
He wasn’t mourning the loss of your laughter, or your warmth. Distractions—that’s all it was. These pointless, fleeting memories that flickered in a passing servant’s movement, similar to your height—or when he stumbled over a fallen manga stuffed in the corner of your room's shelves, forgotten and torn in its pages.
He does not miss you, because you are not his weakness. He will function perfectly as he always has, even in your absence—because to admit anything else other than that is to give power to—No, he has never let himself linger on that teetering, dangerous edge. If he were to admit it, he'll never recover from his admission. So long as he didn’t let the words slip from his lips, and his heart didn’t tremor too strongly when his fingers flip over the teared pages of the volume you had left in your absence, hidden under his sheets. He does not miss you, because doing so will only endanger you.
So... why couldn't he stop these incessant thoughts of you, consuming his every waking moment? Not only have you left a gaping hole in his wake, but you refuse to leave him to rest even in his dreams, haunted by your tears and a piercing disappointment in your gaze. He hates making you cry. He hates it so much, that he has to remind himself, hand over his chest when he wakes, that it is not real. That you are gone, and you are better off for it.
...
The mountain peaks seemed more intimidating in your mind. Once looming over you, towering giant waves as a child—the pointed edges have now disappeared into the greyed clouds. Up at the highest point, that is where you shall be married.
To your betrothed whom you haven’t seen in three years. Unanswered letters on his part, cancelled visitations on yours, Damian has completely isolated himself from you aside from name.
Your gown feels impossibly heavy on your limbs. The paint on your lips has long dried, and your legs have gone numb from the journey. You had always known this was the outcome—set before Damian had even mattered to you as more than a shackle. Today, Damian—your betrothed, a blurred figure in your memories despite your many attempts to recall the green flecks of his eyes, the warmth of his scarred hands—he will be the one to place a ring on your finger and seal this arrangement.
You will be his wife, and he, your husband.
You wonder if he has grown any taller, his scowl any crueler. The hidden twitches in his expression, did they still shine through when the smallest, mundane things astonished him? Did he still sneak up to that hidden watchtower, observing the faint cracks of ice flowing along the rivers when winter began to thaw?
Did he still secretly flush reading shoujo, or has he never touched a single page since you left? You had left a singular volume in your room years ago, but you doubt he would’ve found it. It was his favourite—you would know because his eyes always lingered on the title, despite all your efforts to push him to take it for himself.
You know you're only avoiding the most likely truth—that you wouldn’t recognise the man you’ll marry. He wasn’t a boy anymore—who once carried the world’s weight on his shoulders. By now, he must’ve already learnt to harness it in the palms of his hands—without weakness, without attachment. That is the way of the League, and it shall be his.
The journey uphill is no easy feat, requiring careful turns to ensure there is no skidding along the icy roads, and the slow trickling of time has made you recklessly sentimental. You didn’t need this whirlwind path down memory lane, not when you were a mere pawn used as a symbol for this union.
Not when he's made it clear with his aversion, his piercing silence—that you have always mattered only to that extent.
The vehicle hasn’t moved in minutes, and your surroundings are deafeningly silent aside from the harsh whips of cold wind. Your gaze flickers to the darkened windows, to the deep caverns that disappeared into mist.
The car has been in a standstill for too long. Enough for your gut to churn in anxious dread. No… something was wrong.
Your knuckles knock against the separator between you and the driver, an opaque black blocking your sights from seeing what was up ahead. It's a simple three knocks that is meant to be returned with a knock pattern you're used to.
...There is no response.
Your heart stills, unable to breathe. There are only two possible options. The driver either hasn't heard you, which is nearly impossible from the weight of your fists against the material. Or he has left the vehicle, possibly dead. And someone else has taken his place.
"Is everything alright, miss?" An unfamiliar, detached voice responds to your knocks, snapping you out of your calculations.
Your test has answered your suspicions. You can barely think over the erratic pounding of blood in your ears, but you muster a response before the culprit suspects that you know something is off. "Fine." You respond quickly, eyeing the child lock that's been activated on both doors on either side. "How long is the duration till we reach the League?"
"Not too long from now, miss."
Lies. From the angles of the mountain peaks alone, you can tell there's easily an hour left to reach the League. You are trapped, on a one-way road that's accompanied by a cliff to its left, with a fall that's non-survivable. Even if you escaped now, you'll be easily captured with nothing but snow and gravel in your surroundings.
There is no choice. You'll have to play along till you reach your destination. Your phone has no cellular connection up in these mountains, but you can only hope to send an SOS and it'll catch onto a satellite, anything—to alert the League, to warn Damian.
“A husband should swear their life to protect their wife.” You hope that at the very least, he'll keep his first promise to you.
Damian has lost. He has obeyed his grandfather’s every command, to keep you safe from his prying eyes, to prove that you are nothing more than a useful pawn—and not his weakness. He has parted himself from you for years, despite his every thought being consumed by you even with the distance, carving himself hollow through burying trials and trainings and bloodshed, and he has still lost.
You have gone missing. Kidnapped, despite being escorted by your homeland's guards. All vehicles have veered off into an untraceable path, and if it hadn't been for your quick thinking, he wouldn't have found your blinking location sent from your phone before it had mysteriously disappeared too without a trace.
He’s barely present in this nonsensical meeting, discussions of the culprit and tactics to recover you—when he should already be down in the mountain valleys, looking for you himself. He has failed to protect you.
His grandfather doesn’t bother with the pretense of caring. His hand waves loosely, as if he had matters more important to deal with than the loss of his grandson’s betrothed. “Send men to find her. Alive or dead, as long as we have found her body. That shall suffice as an explanation to her family. Our alliance can continue in other forms.”
Damian’s blood runs cold. How dare he—acting as if you were replaceable. Something horrid churns in his chest, an anxious, writhing pain over the flashing thought of you dead. If this world has lost you, it is not one he could remain in. All his years of teachings, of the new world he's meant to build—he'd let it all burn if you were its sacrifice. He has had enough of this pretense, of this madness.
“You will not send these fools in my place.” It is the first time he’s spoken in this entire meeting, and his voice slithers almost inhumanely—daring anyone to cross him. “I will find her.”
“You will not.” The order cracks like a whip. All nearby warriors freeze, but Damian doesn’t slow in his movements as his fingers scout across the map laid out before him.
“We do not know who is desperate enough to threaten this alliance.” His grandfather reminds him, his voice tinged with slight impatience—viewing Damian as an incompetent boy who’s refusing to see the bigger picture. “Be wise, Damian. She is a mere pawn that can be replaced. To go off on your own, when your importance to the League—"
“She is not a pawn.” Damian snarls. “She is my wife.”
Ra’s glare falters at the sight of his grandson, willing to defy him. His narrowed eyes sharpen, darkening in fury. “You will go against my word, boy?”
It's a challenge, his last warning for Damian to step down.
“You may view this as a mere alliance, but I pledged my loyalty to her.” Damian declares. “She awaits for me. I will not fail her.”
“If you turn away from me now.” Ra's threatens. “You will never be welcomed back, Damian. Choosing your weakness over your purpose, is a fool’s dying wish. You will regret this.”
Damian’s back is turned to his grandfather, his fingers trembling over the grip of his katana. His head raises, facing forward without once looking back.
“She is not my weakness.” Damian announces. “And if I find her blood soiled in the snow, I shall make it your life’s regret for stalling my time—and no Lazarus Pit can save you then.”
He hears the sound of his grandfather’s sword un-sheave, and he readies his own—his steps never faltering towards the gates.
"Damian—you insolent child! I command you to stop."
He must not make this long. You are his priority, and there will be nothing stopping him from getting to you.
Blood streams from your forehead. Not yours, but of your captors surrounding you, littering the floor. Exhaustion plagues your bones, and every movement forced from your limbs is sluggish from what must be an hour of brutal survival—battling again and again with nothing but a stolen sword and numbed fingers.
The League's training has prepared you for this, but even you're at your limit. How much more can you take—before you collapse too? You hear more yelling echoing from beyond the walls trapping you, and a heaved sigh escapes your lips. You're so tired, and you don't know how much longer you can remain on your own two feet.
The frantic shouts echo into piercing screams, before it's replaced with a sudden, deafening silence. You force yourself to crane your neck from the wrecked floorboards, gaze locked onto the closed door.
The grip of the sword in your hand tightens, the blade trembling from the spasms in your fingers, and you ready yourself. It's a simple stance, one Damian taught you long ago.
"To preserve your energy." His hands guide your waist, linger over your skin. "A simple, head-on strike."
How rude of him—to plague your thoughts even here, when life is dancing on the thin edge that's bound to snap.
The door slams open. You squint your eyes, vision blurring as your steps forward tremor. Then, it clears—and you're convinced you must still be unconscious, hallucinating a dream that you desperately wanted to be true. You let out a disbelieving huff, close to a maniacal laugh. Your grip loosens on your sword, the blade falling to the ground with a loud clang. Finally.
How much time has been wasted in between these lonesome years, since you've met his eyes head-on? No, it's been far too long.
Your knees bend in on themselves, and the world tilts in its axis. Only your betrothed could fill you with such mind-numbing relief that strength would leave you so easily.
His silhouette is a blur, moving almost inhumanely across the many bodies you've slaughtered. You only register his touch, your body having never even touched the floorboards, when your heavy eyelids force themselves open again. Despite the impulse to fade away into your unconscious, you fight it because—you need to see him up-close with your own eyes.
Damian has grown taller, shoulders broader than you remember under all his armour. Time has carved his face into sharpened edges, stained with blood trickling down his cheekbones. His eyes finally familiarise themselves in your mind, that haunting green that you've been trying to remember since they faded from your memories. It's softer than you remember, his gaze. Trembling, frantic—desperate as he finally reaches you.
He's kneeling, and that's what snaps you of your daze. The heir of the demon head, Damian Al Ghul, he never kneels for anyone. The grip of his hands pull you into his chest the moment he meets your widened gaze. His chest heaves, a shuddering breath leaving his lips. Relief, you recognise—a shaking Damian was holding you in his arms as if he needed you to breathe.
“Took—you long enough.” You cough out, barely able to inhale without the soreness of your body punishing you. “Thought you gave up on me.”
“Never.” His fingers dig tighter into your frame, and you don't mind it even if it digs into the bruises he's unaware of. He's here—and real. “You are mine—the only opening for Death to find you is if he found me first."
You... are his?
“...Is this you repaying back for the ointment?” You mumble, light-headed from the pain and exhaustion. “Or something more.”
He’s silent, and you think maybe you screwed it up by mentioning that incident. You promised secretly after all, to never speak a word of his moment of weakness.
“Don’t abandon me.” You whisper, hugging him as tightly as you could with your weakened grip. Reality and hope are converging, and you find yourself lost in time—back to when that stubborn boy had just begun to open up to you. Don't turn your back, and leave. “I’m sorry for mentioning it.”
“I will never abandon you.” He responds immediately, his voice a frightened tremor, as if your words have struck him. “Never again. From the moment you chose to defy orders and save me, I already knew I was past the point of return. You are my beloved, and I will always come for you.”
"I made a promise, remember?" He swears. "I will be your sword and your shield. And—you need to keep yours."
Your... promise? "What's—that?"
"To remain by my side." His hands are now assessing, checking your pulse, the blood that covers your gown to make sure it isn't yours. "That's all you need to do from now on."
"I thought you... didn't want me anymore." You mutter weakly.
He lets out a strained breath. His head falls onto your shoulder, buried in the crook as he whispers. "I have always wanted you."
His admission is all that keeps you conscious.
"Even when I knew it was wrong, I allowed you to be my weakness. I could not push you away." He confesses. "I have loved you from the moment you stumbled into my room, declaring yourself as my wife. I have loved you in every single moment spent, in every memory I refused to part from. You are my wife, and I will never promise myself to anyone but you."
"I love you." His voice is softer than you've ever heard it, so raw in its honesty that you have no choice but to accept it. "I have failed you, and I shall never make that mistake ever again. From this moment on, I will never fail you."
The way he's holding onto you now, as if you were his only anchor in this world—how could you ever doubt the desperation seared into his voice, his touch?
"What's going to happen to us?" You ask weakly. This bloodshed will complicate the circumstances of the arrangement, his presence here will surely exacerbate the process.
"We shall be wed." He answers, his arms wrapping around you and hoisting you gently into a bridal-carry. He doesn't falter once as he walks towards the exit, his grip a stable anchor, latching you to him.
"Then?" You ask tentatively.
"Your captors will pay the price for their insolence." His voice darkens, blood staining his shoes. You can't tell if that came from outside, when he had forced his way in, or from your own doing. "Whatever is left of them, they shall perish from this world."
"...I will keep you by my side." He murmurs. "Till spring arrives, and I shall bring you to the waterfalls. When it is summer, I will watch you soak in the sunlight that you adore, to your heart's full content. When autumn comes, I will carry you on my shoulders so that you shall collect as many crimson leaves as you'll like. In the winter, I shall bring you to the watchtower, and we can watch the snow fall together."
"What happens after winter?" For as long as you have known Damian, you had only been able to keep him encased in memories of winter, of snow landing on his lashes.
A soft kiss is pressed to the crown of your head. "We shall begin over again, till your heart's desire."
"I'd like that." You whisper, eyes drooping shut in the weight of your exhaustion.
"Rest, my beloved." His voice is a comforting lure, and it works. "When you wake, it shall all be sorted. I will take care of everything."
Distance hasn't changed the way your body caves into his, the tension of survival fading from your bones because you know. There is nowhere safer than in Damian's arms.
He'll keep his promise, and in his embrace, you'll live to see the snow melt into spring. With his hand in yours, there is nothing more sturdy, more devoted than the bond sealed between the two of you. From the moment you snuck into his room all those years ago, carrying a simple balm for a child that mattered more to you than some political union.
From the moment he uttered his promises to you under the bedsheets as your betrothed—your husband, he vowed to keep them till his dying breath, and even then. For there is no world... Damian has envisioned without you by his side.
His one and only beloved.
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dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works
damian taglist: @supercheesygarlicbread @bloomfaery @enmzgn @jxybirdiv @vanillakirstein @celestills @katzenia @chikenuggetrat @mrrayjay @arabellas-barbarella-swimsuit12 @amandjslpz @mossmydarling @batslilwhore @dclover567 @gojoswaterbottle @annabelleleefrench @neonsquad303 @strawberryfire17 @treebranch23 @vampiranne @tofudubicho @roszszs @vaderuby @revesephemeres @moon-cakei @manachiichan @caterppillar @hoshi-no-koinu @living-that-chronic-life @nxx-jordiepord @elysian-groves @pearly-pebble @fandom-fae @ninareads25 @grace-loves-to-read @jarofstarsxx (to be added, check masterlist)
beg you to stay.
summary: you had always adored damian… till you overheard his complaints to his brothers on your clinginess. so why was it that when you decide to give him what he desires, he is the one trying to close the gap he desperately wanted?
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
content: hurt-comfort, angst+fluff, hea, grovelling+yearning, desperate damian who bites his own words that make him go through it, reader with boundaries
“She’s clingy.”
Damian’s voice is unmistakable. Cut-throat, swift in its delivering blow. Even with his back turned to you, you could recognise it in a heartbeat.
“C'mon, Dames.” Dick teases. “You enjoy her company.”
A cold, scathing scoff echoes. “Her smothering can barely be considered company. Consuming my entire week—then coming along to the gala just to torment me further? You're mistaken.”
Pressing the gap of the door shut, your numb fingers dig into the wood. His bitter admission parted from his lips so easily. His harshly thrown words didn’t just shatter your heart physically into pieces—no, there isn't a harsher tidal wave crashing over you than the realisation that whatever bond you shared with Damian was a complete, utter lie.
Damian, who was prone to being harsh with his words, but had never gone out of his way to hurt you on purpose. You had even considered it a charm of his, because there had always been something tender laced within his actions, that always spoke louder than his words.
When he quietly swapped his plate with yours, a quiet consideration without ever once looking up, having memorised your allergies without you realising.
When he subtly placed his hand behind your back in galas, chasing off vultures who aimed for your status, with a silent glare that places you under his direct protection.
When he carried you all the way to his bedroom after a bad sprain on your ankle from a bad fall down the stairs in his manor, with biting remarks and a tender caress over your swollen skin as he applied an ice-pack, worry creased into his brow.
Was it all a ruse?
The wound is only inflicting on itself with every memory torn apart and searched for any evidence, any signs for his dislike. You trusted Damian, which is why it hurt so much to hear him talk about you this way. As if those small moments were all mere inconveniences for him, that burdened him. You had assumed he at least reciprocated your friendship, but now… if only he had faced you instead, with an honest willingness to express how uncomfortable he was.
If it was space Damian wanted, he should have communicated it with you. Instead of mouthing it to his brothers behind your back, without allowing for your voice of input to clarify on the boundaries he wanted.
You don’t notice time passing, standing in the corner of the hallway, your heels digging into the soles of your feet—till you felt a heavy hand on your shoulder. You flinch, brushing the sudden grip off only to find Damian in your swarmed vision. Concern flickers in the green flecks of his eyes… or was it annoyance? The ability to read through his mask, it feels as if it’s been an illusion all along.
“Spaced out?” Damian taunts, one brow cocked at your strange behaviour. "I told you not to come."
I told you not to come. You’re not sure what is the appropriate response, not when you feel a clog in the back of your throat. You never had to think twice on your words before, not in front of him.
“Tired.” You admit, because at the very least, that word carried a semblance of truth. You’ve never felt more exhausted in your life, and the culprit was standing in front of you, completely unfazed. “I think I should head home.”
His eyes widen imperceptibly, not expecting you to take his words so literally. You were never one to skip out on a dance before a gala has ended, no matter how boring the event was. Often, you’d drag him by the arm as your partner, only because the look on his face was easily the best memory of the night. At least, it should’ve been.
His lips part, ready to form his signature 'I told you so', but your ghastly expression makes him hesitate. He clears his throat, offering his hand and slotting himself by your side. “Very well. I’ll escort you.”
“No.” It blurts out quick, desperate.
His surprise slips through his impassive expression. His hand still outstretched—freezes, doubt etched into the crease of his mouth.
“You should be with your family.” You reply, straining a smile. “I won’t take up more of your time.”
It was meant to sound considerate, but the quickness of your tongue made it sound like a solemn promise.
His eyes narrow in puzzlement but you’ve already turned, moving out of his reach towards the exit. He doesn’t make an attempt to stop you, and it hurts that maybe, part of you still hoped he would. To prove his statement wrong, that you mattered more than being a nuisance.
You’ll give him what he wants. Space. Maybe you needed it too, to understand the emotions weighing on you. This hurt—betrayal—shock, you needed time to process it. To reevaluate what Damian Wayne really means to you.
Damian hasn’t heard from you in two days. In the past forty-eight hours, he has tracked your location to ensure you weren’t kidnapped, or lost your phone. Both suspicions were refuted, and the only anomaly that remains is your uncharacteristic silence ever since that night at the gala.
His gaze flickers back to the opened message channel, where his text ‘Have you arrived?’ remains unread. Running a hand through his locks, this may be Damian's first—for his conclusions to come up empty. His text was a mere front, an opening to ask about your wellbeing. His confidence in your reply was absolute, and he never once considered ending up in this standstill. Despite being apart from your constant presence, he finds that you’re somehow occupying more of his mental capacity.
He should’ve went after you the moment he saw that strange, desolate expression on your face when he found you, hidden alone in the corner. Your solemn attitude rang caution bells, concern—which is why he offered to bring you back. It was instinctive, natural. He never expected your rejection. The sting caught him off-guard, words of concern trapped in his throat. He didn’t master the skill of comfort as easily as you did, with sweet, honey words easily coming to your forefront.
He’s overthinking the situation, analysing it till the details have gone runny in his hands—blurry aside from the clear vision of your back turned towards him. Still, there was something about your goodbye… that left him strangely unsettled.
"There you go again." He hears your teasing voice, already memorised in his mind—a poke of your finger against his cheek. "Overanalysing the situation. Just ask me, Dami."
He shakes his head, trying to dissuade the many possibilities that ended in zero conclusions. It’s not a big matter. Today was one of the rare occurrences where his biology classes coincided with yours, leaving a lunch break where he could demand for answers. He’s sure that once he sees your usual, brightened expression—the discomfort in his chest will disappear.
Damian waits with strained patience outside your lecture hall. Various eyes are casted onto him—a rare, Gotham Times worthy sight of a lone Wayne waiting for some mysterious figure, but the attention is none of his concern. His eyes are locked on you instead, watching you pack your bag through the open gap of the door, the AC blasting a cold breeze against his nose bridge.
You’re laughing at some unheard joke from this distance, and it should soothe his worries—to see you refreshed compared to your exhaustion two days ago. He understands better than anyone how exhausting those galas are, which is why he tried to dissuade you from attending in the first place. Still, you had insisted on accompanying him, much to his chagrin. He at least hoped you didn't flunk your midterms today by overexerting yourself, despite his previous warnings, or else he really wouldn't be able to restrain himself from saying I told you so.
All fleeting thoughts of teasing you are discarded at the sight of an unknown blond male, chatting you up and making you laugh as hard as you did. His foot taps in a repeating manner, discomfort swarming in his chest the longer he watched, before catching his own fretting and forcing himself to stay still. This unknown variable is not a problem. Once you spot him, you'll come to his side instead—naturally.
This reassurance paces his impatience, waiting for you to notice him as you made it towards the door. His chest rises, anticipation creeping in as your head raises—and meets his gaze.
You smile, like you always do, and it has the same application of a soothing balm over the minor migraine he's formed from over-checking your coordinates. Waiting for you to come to him, his lips part with a ready excuse for why he came to find you instead of meeting at your usual lunch spot.
Only for you to walk right past him.
He blinks, unable to process what just happened. Impossibly in a single moment, he became invisible to your eye. His mind works in overdrive, unable to piece the facts together that you just walked past him. The probabilities calculated don't align with reality, but his body reacts faster. His hand reaches out, grabbing onto your wrist impulsively—right as you made your turn towards the hallway.
You stumble, gaze flickering down to his grip in surprise. “...Damian?” You blink as if stunned, like you hadn’t just walked past him like he was a ghost.
“You haven’t responded to my messages.” He blurts out with almost immediate regret. Now, his position comes off as a confrontation, and that blond is staring at him with vague amusement. Pathetic, he feels shame burn in the back of his throat. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
You stare at him unblinkingly, before your mouth parts in acknowledgment. “Ah, that. Tim should've updated you, did he not?”
Tim. A heated frustration arises in his chest, but he can’t figure out what exactly is stoking the fire. The realisation that you prioritised Tim's messages over his, or your strange nonchalance to his concern. “You’ve been conversing with Drake?”
“I needed his help with finding a new collection—he’s also a fan of the series.” You shrug. "With the midterms and his constant updates about the shipment from Japan, I must’ve missed yours."
“Your business with Drake isn’t my concern.” He spits out, harsher than intended. An uncomfortable slither of emotions is writhing in his chest, and the thought that you and Tim have been conversing in secret all along these past two days, bonding to something he wasn’t privy to... it was irritating.
Why had you gone to Tim instead? If you had asked him, he could've easily gotten you the collection.
“What is our relationship then?” You implore casually, eyeing his reaction. “If your concern is so situational."
Whatever he was expecting, he didn’t expect that. His lashes flutter, his composure all but ruined as his mind tries and fails to merge the you he knows, and the you in front of him. You don't seem angry. So, why was he beginning to feel a sense of dread?
“Weren’t you the one who always decided the labels for us?” He asks after a moment, his voice rough against the unexpected impact of your question.
Your expression finally flickers, disappointment slipping through the cracks of your smile. His response has displeased you, even he could read into that.
“I’ll let you answer for us this time.” You reply, and it’s distant—cold. Unlike you. “You can choose whichever you deem fit.”
“Wait.” His rushed voice sounds desperate even to his own ears. The sight of your back turned towards him is something he never wanted to see again. His gaze flickers between you and the blond, questioning. “Are we not supposed to have lunch together?”
You turn back, staring at him with an unreadable expression. Your smile reappears, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’m having lunch with Lawrence, so it’s okay. You don’t need to accompany me.”
Damian views the world akin to a battlefield. There are allies, enemies, changes in fronts and positions. He has fought hard to feel deserving of every position in his life, whether it had been his grandfather's heir, his father's blood son, or Robin. Right now, he feels as if his position beside you has been ripped out of his hands. Accompany? Is that how you saw it, like some sort of duty imposed on him that you could dismiss him of whenever you pleased?
"See you around, Dami." Even his nickname given by you comes off flat from your tongue. As if you were going through the motions, interacting with him from behind a wall that's suddenly been constructed without his notice.
You weren't completely ignoring him like he suspected, but this distance... feels much worse.
There was something, very obviously wrong.
You aren’t sitting beside him. In the seat reserved for you, that’s meant for you.
It had been set from the very start, maybe initially because the two of you were the only children ever-present during family business dinners... and later, with your constant chattering that the adults found had an amusing effect on him.
He's gotten used to exchanging cuts of his meals with yours, or swapping his glass if his had more ice cubes in them, because you liked your beverages freezing cold. Used to you whispering unrelated stories and jokes into his ear when his father talks business with your father, and he has to resist a quirk up his lips because it would mean that you won in your little game to crack his exterior. Now, it's as if an entire routine has been disrupted, and Damian was a man of routine.
He watches you, eyes like a hawk over your every movement, trying to detect any pause in this unreachable mask of yours. You slice your steak without fault, placing your cut between your lips as you nod along to your father's words, seated at his right hand. You don't blink an eye in his direction, and he's tempted to walk right over and drag you out of that very chair.
To corner you in a space without prying eyes, and... what? He swallows dryly, forcing himself to look back down at his untouched meal. What could he say without sounding like a lunatic?
That he suspects that he's done something wrong merely because you've switched seats today? Or that you've been skipping out on lunches with him. Or all the way back to that cursed gala, when you had refused his hand to escort you back home.
Another troubled ‘Tt’ slips past his gritted teeth, and that finally reaches your ears.
When he meets your curious gaze, a silly gust of hope appears so quickly in his chest at the luck that he's finally caught your attention. He raises a brow, a silent question, gesturing to head to a private room with the tilt of his head. You've always understood his silent words better than anyone else did.
Which is why it shocks him when you merely cast your gaze back to your father, leaving his question unanswered. He wasn't deluding himself in this occasion. You're clearly rejecting his gesture, pretending as if you never saw it.
His grip tightens, crumpling into the table cloth, shame colouring his features. He has to put an end to this. Regardless of your coy act, he knows you. Maybe you had a bet with one of his brothers—who knows what schemes they've configured after their constant interrogations during the gala, successfully running a fuse on his temper.
Or maybe, he’s displeased you with an inadequate response. You had mentioned it before, the term 'labels'. Honestly, he never once considered trapping you in something so jarringly concrete. Bonds, human connections—they were always needlessly complicated.
What you meant to him, it expanded beyond the limitations of languages. You, who saw past his sharp exterior and pushed him beyond his limits, and him, who found himself staying despite every rational thought pleading him not to expose his weakness so easily out in the open.
It was simply natural from the moment he met you, instinctive to remain by your side just as you always found a place to slot beside his. Terrifyingly easy, that he refused to let anyone see the softness you evoked out of him. It was meant for you, and only you. Now, the strike of your absence, despite being only a few feet away from him, is running a deeper cut into his conscience, tracing back to the questions that's been bombarded on him by his siblings.
But—what does she mean to you, Dames?
What would your life look like without her?
In a desperate attempt to brush off questions that aroused a panic he had never felt before, he came up with quick, venom-filled words to dissuade his brothers. Oddly enough, he never wished to reveal what you meant to him, not aloud.
It made it feel too real, too vulnerable. As if the world could swallow you whole if he admitted just how irreplaceable you were, that he couldn't envision a life without you by his side. His grandfather had made it so—that any weaknesses should be removed from its roots.
He did not want to remove you from his life, so you are not his weakness.
He's tempted to curse his brothers to oblivion. If only they hadn't sprung such obnoxious questions, then these thoughts wouldn't be invading him, and the universe wouldn't have punished him for it.
He had already felt the brimming inevitability of something bound to go wrong the moment he was faced with vulnerability. If it had been anyone else, he would have retreated in a similar manner as he always had. To not show weakness, to prove that he was above silly affections and attachments to others—but it's you.
He has to fix this. Whatever it is that's wrong. If only you would look at him, then maybe you'd see his desperation too and let him in.
Damian doesn't receive an opening till the next gala. A cruel twist of fate the universe has decided to play on him, as if openly mocking his distress, to end up right back where the entire fiasco started.
He's barely kept himself sane. In these past two weeks, you've only responded to his messages—horrible attempts of reconnection, with mere one word replies, and visited the manor to hang out with his other siblings. When he had caught you lounging on Tim's bed, ranting about the new series you both were so invested in, he nearly tore the door straight off its hinges.
He craves for your silly rants during lunches. Your presence dipping the corner of his bed as you sketched doodles of his family in their vigilante costumes. Your warm laughter that soothes a long night of patrol.
He misses you... terribly.
It doesn't help that you're a vision tonight, only worsening the trembling ache in his chest. Dressed in your favourite colour that make you so strikingly vivid, already seared into his mind as he stares unblinkingly, he doesn't realise he's been holding his breath till your heels click with an ever-increasing volume towards him. Your nearing approach is what finally snaps him out of his daze, and his hand immediately shifts. Out of mere habit, for you to hold onto his arm as always.
Your hand doesn't lift to meet his, remaining stuck to your side. It pushes him off balance, and he has to force himself to respond when you greet him.
"You...look beautiful." He admits, his voice a weakened imitation of itself. He hates this, and you look—you are beautiful. So much so that it hurts. Even if he tried to reach his hand out for you, he has the suspicions that you’ll only back away from his touch.
"Thank you." You smile politely, and the tone of your voice, practiced and composed, stings.
His lips part, ready to pull you aside and ask what he has done wrong. He is ready to do whatever you ask, to plead for forgiveness so long as that look in your eyes finally fades, anything to get you back. The real you, not hidden behind cruel distance and polite masks.
A familiar, dreadful face cuts in before he can. Damian’s gaze hardens, trained on the blond that's been trailing after you since two weeks ago, who currently has his hand outstretched for you. His scowl falters, panic swarming his instincts—when your own hand reaches out to take the stranger's invitation.
He utters your name, a weak pulse forming a lump in his throat.
You turn back, casting him a quick glance like his existence was an after-thought. "Lawrence offered to dance with me earlier. We'll catch up later, Dami."
His chest seizes completely. He doesn't process the alteration of his own steps, only finding your wrist captured between his fingers, his shoe stepped in between the gap of you and your dancing partner, functioning as an opposing barrier.
“I’m afraid—” His voice cuts in, deadly calm. “—she already has a partner for tonight.”
Your head whips around, unable to hide your shock. His jaw clenches, eyes narrowed at the suitor who's dared to try for your hand. Perhaps it's his building paranoia stemming from your continued absence, but the sight of someone taking you away by your willing hand is truly driving him mad.
It doesn't take long before Lawrence registers the message Damian sends with a single, warning glare. Hands off.
Finally able to breathe once the bastard's been chased off, he turns back to meet your gaze and is surprised to find the barely concealed anger in your eyes. You've never looked at him this way before.
That same discomfort that's plagued him constantly for the past two weeks builds in his chest at the thought that you even entertained the possibility of dancing with Lawrence. Damian had always been your dancing partner, no matter how much he claimed to dislike partaking in galas like these. If anyone was going to deal with sore feet from the accidental missteps of your heels, it will always be him.
“Is that the label you’ve decided on?” You ask, the first words uttered without that strange, distant tone you've used before. “Partners?”
“Does it displease you?” He presses, trying to gauge your reaction. “I will change it to whatever you prefer.”
You purse your lips, conflict arising in your gaze. “I don’t understand you.”
He exhales lowly. “I should say the same for you. You are the one who’s—” His jaw twitches, desperation slipping past his façade. “—drifting away.” From me, why are you acting as if I don’t matter—as if this doesn’t matter?
He shouldn't have drank all that wine from earlier.
Alcohol doesn’t affect him, not with its supposed dizzying sensation and loss of control when recklessly consumed, but it did make him bolder, his tongue sharper. Yet, seeing you trying to evade him—out of his reach, he found himself doing something he sworn to never do—being impulsive.
At the lack of your response, his hand still wrapped around your wrist tugs gently, a quiet plea for you to say something. He feels useless, small—and you're the only thing he desperately needs. To help him make sense of the chaos that's consumed his every waking thought, that's plunged and follow him into his dreams.
Eventually, you sigh. "We should talk."
A small hope reignites at this chance you've given him. It's automatic, already mapped out in his head as he guides you to an empty room on the second floor. You don't rip away from his hold at the very least, but from your strained steps, you're not ecstatic to be with him either.
Shielded from prying eyes once he shuts the door, you're quick to pull your hand out of his hold. His own mask fractures at the loss of your warmth—but when he forces his gaze away from your disconnected hands, he finally sees you shed your own to reveal your honest expression. You look tired, a mirrored reflection of the agony that’s been inflicted on him these past two weeks.
You settle at the loveseat, head resting on your palm as if the very weight of your unreadable thoughts have consumed you, leaving you exhausted. If only he could reach in and unravel them himself, to understand the change in you.
“Drifting away?” Your voice muses at his words, and it lands like a punch. Do you truly not understand what you've done to him? “You’ve seen me the entire week.”
He shakes his head adamantly, coming to stand before you, neck craned down to face your averting gaze. “I won't be easily fooled. You’re avoiding me. Standing in places you’re not supposed to be.”
It sounds childish. God, he was being driven insane the longer you stood there, finally in his sights and he just couldn’t stop drinking you in.
“Opting for the furthest seat. Skipping lunch breaks. Accepting another dance partner. Ignoring my messages. Not being by my side.” It pours out without stopping, even as he feels warmth burn at the back of his neck, reaching his ears. “Your behaviour has changed. Even when you're close, you’re out of reach.”
“And you say I’m the clingy one?” Your expression flickers, a mix of hurt and solemn amusement.
His brow creases. “When have I ever—”
His own voice echoes in his mind, in a taunting afterthought. “She’s clingy.”
The gala. The interrogations. Your sudden change in behaviour. You overheard his callous comment. His reckless mistake.
He calls out your name weakly. The gravity of his mistake—it feels as if the entire universe is collapsing onto him.
You let out a sigh, and the acceptance in it terrifies him. As if you’ve already prepared yourself in these past two weeks, to fully be out of his life.
“I overheard you at the charity gala.” Your admission coincides with his guess, and your unwavering gaze leaves him stripped of all his defenses.
It's dawning on him in quickening alarm, with how each passing day, you must've lost hope in him. That his careless words must've wounded you deeply, leaving you to rightfully pull away. That he is a complete and utter idiot, who has hurt the one person he swore to protect.
"Do you feel less smothered? After all, wasn’t space what you wanted?” You ask, and there is no anger in your voice—only apathy. "It was what I needed."
The admission silences him. His heart is thudding so hard that he hears the rush of blood in his eardrums.
No. It wasn’t what he wanted. Your absence has ruined him, and it wasn’t the faults of his brothers, or revealing his vulnerability. It was all on him.
“Isn’t it better for us both, if we kept our distance?” You propose. “Since we’ve gone past the line of hurting each other. It’ll be convenient for the both of us, and less burdensome for you.”
Your calm demeanour is a bigger slap to his face than you shouting at him, demanding for him to apologise or to make things right. In the face of your acceptance, it’s as if you expected that this was the outcome he wanted.
He has a paralysing realisation, that if he doesn't beg for your forgiveness, you'll never come and seek for his repentance ever again. With every passing second, he feels time running out of his hands as your expression closes at the lack of his response, ready to abandon the room. Abandon him.
Desperation strips Damian bare of his pride when his knees hit the ground, landing harshly before you in the lowest form of begging. He doesn't give you time to process what he’s done before his fingers gently wrap around yours, caressing them with a firm grip.
“Damian!" Your expression warps in shock, meeting the intensity seared in gaze. "What are you doing? Get up—"
“I was wrong.” He admits without hesitation. “All the words I said, not a single one of them holds the truth.”
Your shock dampens, and he sees the barest hurt displayed on your expression. It pushes him to strain past his walls, to keep speaking if it meant not seeing your back turned towards him.
“You asked me to define us once, by labels.” He recalls. “I am not good with words. It has always been—difficult. To understand when to push further and when to fall back. To not act as if every situation is a death sentence if I bared my vulnerabilities out in the open, but—I know that my faults are not an excuse for my actions."
"I have broken your trust and left you feeling unsure of your position in my life, and I must correct it. You are not clingy, or a burden. You are the most important person in my life."
“The lies were nothing more than a cover... my brothers had caught onto my attachment and wouldn't give up on their interrogations.” He admits through the grit of his teeth. “They were always more observant of what I tried to push down, and my behaviour around you—it was obvious that you had an effect on me. It's as if you are the center that I gravitate towards, pulling me in towards your every whim and desire.”
“They tried to help me make sense of it, and I panicked. Selfishly, I wanted to keep my weakness a secret only known to the promises I've made for you in my mind. My fondness for you felt like a curse if I revealed it.” He whispers. “I had always assumed that what you held closest to your heart is what you should guard the most."
“I uttered those foolish words because I had assumed that if only I knew the extent of my devotion towards you, you would be safe. That we could continue as we always had, without declaring a target on your back, so that the world wouldn’t rip you away so easily.”
“I was a coward.” He murmurs, pleading in earnest. “I have mistreated you and taken you for granted. I tried to convince myself that lies were better than revealing the truth, which is that I have always coveted to by your side."
"I am deeply sorry. For ever making you feel that you're anything less than.” He breaks. "That couldn't be further from the extent to which I adore you. To which I need you. I can’t imagine a life without you, so—"
"Please—" He's never been taught to beg, but he can't lose you. Even if it takes him years, decades to regain your trust, it doesn't matter. "—it is selfish of me to beg for your forgiveness, but I will do anything. I will explain the full truth to my family. I will take on any punishment but—I can’t lose you. These past two weeks have been torture, and... I miss you."
Finally, after his chest is heaving with the burn of his confessions and a lack of oxygen, does he quiet. In the face of your coming judgement, he has never been more nervous in his life.
"Damian." You mutter. "I have not forgiven you."
His breath hitches, and despite all he's done to expect this outcome, he couldn't have been more unprepared for the impact of the blow. His hands falter around yours, and his knees have gone weak.
"W—What do you want me to change?" He can barely hear his own voice over his rapturing heartbeat. "Is it something I said? My behaviour, my actions—I can improve. I can fix this."
You give him a look that signals that you're not done. He forces himself to quiet, lips pursed as he slowly—painfully waits.
"In these past two weeks..." You admit. "I really tried to reevaluate what you mean to me."
"I understand you, more than anyone else has because you've let me in." You answer. "But just because I see you—and I know that's a vulnerability you don't easily show to people—doesn't mean that you get an easier way out."
"You did hurt me. I'm acknowledging that, and because I care about you, it hurts even worse." You reveal. "It wasn’t fair that you brought up such harsh words to describe me behind my back, and it’s not going to be something I can brush over easily, no matter the reason. I don't think we can fully go back to how it was before, not without moments where I will feel doubt. That's a trust you have to rebuild, not just with one big apology, but through your words and actions, every single day."
He nods, hanging onto every word you're willing to give him, even as your vocal admission of him hurting you feels like a vicious whip.
"But I am willing to give you that chance—to heal the hurt you've caused me, to prove that you won't pull away when you're scared I'm getting too close." You declare. "I'm giving you a chance to fix your mistake, because I know you, Dami. I know you'll keep your promises, and that you have a heart. One that's willing to change."
He lets out a shaking breath, and he finds your fingers caressing over his in a gentle touch. Not forgiving him completely, but reassuring in its warmth.
"I—" Left bare after pouring his heart out, the adrenaline rush that came from his full vulnerability has finally left his chaos-ensued mind blank.
From the very moment you had entered his life, it was an undeniable fact he had only grown to understand, to not fear—and it was that he loved you. The same distant concept he once viewed through the multiple perspectives of others, now existing right there in his beating heart. Yet, it didn't feel right in this moment. Not when you were giving him this chance to rebuild the trust he has broken. He will wait, for as long as you'll let him, he will cherish anything you'll give him.
"I know." You whisper, silently reading what he’s trying to convey through a single glance. "We'll figure us out together."
He sighs, head falling against your lap, lips brushing over your intertwined fingers—a soft, imperceptible kiss to your knuckles. It's natural, instinctive, everything he could ever want. To rest in your presence that’s finally allowed him to breathe again, surrounded by your warmth and voice.
"I thought you hated dancing." You muse.
"Not when it's with you." He admits quietly. "I haven't trained myself to bear the crushing of your heels, just for someone to take my place."
"I can't believe you called me the clingy one." Your amusement doesn't displease him, not in the slightest.
"Perhaps I shall reinstate our relationship to my brothers then." He murmurs. "I'm sure they'll have a field day once I admit that I'm the one who can't bear to be without you."
Finally, he hears the familiarity of your laugh. He has missed that.
"I'd like to see that."
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works
damian taglist: @supercheesygarlicbread @bloomfaery @enmzgn @jxybirdiv @vanillakirstein @celestills @katzenia @chikenuggetrat @mrrayjay @arabellas-barbarella-swimsuit12 @amandjslpz @mossmydarling @batslilwhore @dclover567 @gojoswaterbottle @annabelleleefrench @neonsquad303 @strawberryfire17 @treebranch23 @vampiranne @tofudubicho @roszszs @vaderuby @revesephemeres @moon-cakei @manachiichan @caterppillar @hoshi-no-koinu @living-that-chronic-life (to be added, check masterlist)
#𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖺𝗉𝗌𝗒𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗒𝗆𝖺𝗃𝗈𝗋 - 𝗂𝗆 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇 𝗂𝗍, 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗎?
𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗃𝗈 𝗑 𝖿!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗆𝖺𝗎
𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍
in which you accidentally start beefing with the president of your college's largest frat as the psychology club president i have had a diabolically exhausting weekend that i wouldnt wish on my worst enemy
𝗍𝖺𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 - 𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗇
@ccandiefloss @raccoonlover-11 @junuru @cuntiestcunt @marvelskz @emlovesredbull @narumisocks @chroniclechonically @boomgshakalaka @love-d-luxe @emluvsgetou @tojikunas @sugurusgyal @extremelyexh4usted @jazfartz2 @superswaggycooch @down4thegame @iamarealmicrowave @nyanglock @miguellover6969 @raindailies @prevailedmercy @in-aa @kurtcobaingirlie @silentfriday @megssleepygirl @cherriegems @aquariusscollection @fuckisthatahotghost @vollerey @rebirthbunbun @tojirin @blvckxb3vutii @tetsuski @superstaargirl @fififoofi @swissy23 @jupiterlvr @softienct @chosoissohotugh @4aa4a @sugurushairstylist @soleannee @lumestar @slvttoru @0-kry @seternic @cupidslie @spacetowernn
@vheartsfushi @momozzzzzzzz @estella-novella @eatgrass3 @maggiforlifesstuff @infiniteborealis @sillysilva @jumexju @heeknow
TD: How (Not) To Fall In Love, A Guide By Tim Drake
In which: Tim Drake had vowed to take you down, to have the number one spot in your semester. What he hadn't expected was to finally find his match: you.
Tags: 8.8k, academic rivals to lovers, fluff, very light angst. (masterlist)
Notes: look, I know I should work on my thesis but this just posessed me. Anyway: I'm new to the fandom, so come say hi! Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3
Look, it was never supposed to happen like this.
Tim knows that he is smart. Everybody knows that he is smart, from the Professors to the other students in the class that don’t even understand his questions to the scholarship he got even though he technically doesn't need one.
So he should be at the top of the class. He should be the one with the best grades, the one to win the internship with the tech company that everyone was aiming for, but instead it went to you.
You, who somehow always scored just a bit higher than him, was just as good at networking, at connecting hints that went over other people’s heads.
It was supposed to be just one semester of hard work to take you down, but now, over one and a half years, he lost sight of the goal. He fell in love instead, somehow.
~*~
Ever since Tim could think he knew that he would end up going to college, no matter what. Even after he became Robin and lost his parents, and found a new family entirely, he knew what he wanted and he went after it.
Gotham University was the only choice.
Not only was the reputation not bad, but it was close to home, and he would still be able to be Red Robin, help out Bruce and live in Gotham. After a few weeks he realised that he liked this, the flexibility, the people around him, the sense of normalcy, even when his life seemed to unravel at the seams.
So, when there was an Open Day for high school students where each major would send a representative with the best record to give a speech and give them a tour, Tim had genuinely expected it to be him.
When the professor announced that it was not him but in fact you, and he saw the knowing glint in your eyes, the one that screamed ‘I knew it was going to be me’ he vowed to hate you. Not because he didn’t like your attitude, that would have been hypocritical, but because it was a challenge, something he could work at and overcome. A new project of sorts.
Suddenly he had a new goal. Take you down and claim that spot for himself: because he was Tim Drake and he never lost, not when he put his mind to things.
Logically he knew it was absolutely immature, probably stupid. He was a big name already, with two fortunes attached, a far above average GPA, a stellar record, a vigilate, but for some reason it really, really fucking annoyed him to not be the best at everything he did, so he wanted to fix it. Needed to fix it.
Staring at your stupid picture on the university’s website, he started to formulate a plan. You were going down, even if he had to drag from underneath.
~*~
You stared blankly at your laptop, at the shared presentation that was due tomorrow evening, just twenty hours from now on, not believing what you were seeing.
Your groupmates slide was almost completely empty, no work done, not even properly formatted to the rest of the presentation you had sent her three weeks ago.
Three weeks ago.
Insanity. You knew, of course, that you could be a bit of a perfectionist, the stereotypical type A person, maybe a bit of a nerd and you always went above and beyond, but this was ridiculous. This was a shared grade, and you knew that there was no way that this was going to destroy your perfect record.
You wouldn’t let it.
With a resigned sigh you boiled some water for a tea and sat down, wasting no more time. From now on, you promised yourself, you would choose your group partners carefully.
~*~
When your favorite Professor, the one that had never let you down for three modules so far, announced that the grade of the entire semester depended on a partner presentation and report, you wanted to get up and leave the lecture hall.
Instead you stared down at the fake wood finish of the desk in front of you, clenching your pen a little too hard underneath it.
This was not fair. There was no one, not a single person in this room, that made you not have to micromanage every single part of the assignment. You knew that it was partly, okay mostly, your fault, but you refused to believe that there wasn’t a single person out there that just understood what quality meant.
You just had to succeed, because what did you have if not that?
So you did what you had to, and approached the one person who might actually keep up with your way too high standards for a normal college assignment.
After class you made sure to pack your things quickly and waited outside the doors, because you knew that he was usually one of the last people to leave the room.
And sure enough, bingo. Tim Drake went up to the Professor that you still felt betrayed by to ask something.
You waited outside, idly fiddling with a ring on one of your fingers. You weren’t nervous, not really, because every person is just a person, but there was just something about Tim Drake that you couldn’t put your finger on. One late, sleepless night you had given into the urge and googled him, a genius despite tragedy, always polite and put together, the only Wayne son to make an appearance at every single gala with only very, very rare exceptions. There were just too many pictures of him: in suits that cost more than your rent, in high school with different awards, showing up at a dog shelter with his younger brother.
The future head of Wayne Enterprises, you had read, already controlling the entire franchise behind the scenes.
He was your biggest competition, but also your biggest chance.
So you weren't nervous, but you were not. It’s not like one shared group project would destroy what you had built over the past years.
Right?
When he walked past you, you were just a half second too late, so you had to catch up to him.
“Drake, right? Tim Drake?”
When he turned, seemingly oblivious to your presence which didn’t sting at all, thank you very much, he had a polite smile on his face. For a second you could have sworn that it had slipped when he saw it was you who approached him.
You were definitely not sweating, but his eyes were really unnerving up close. Too seeing. You blinked, hard.
“That’s me,” he answered, not offering anything else.
“Cool,” Cool? What was wrong with you today, “I wanted to ask if you had a partner for the final project yet,” you asked, the words on the side of a little too forceful.
For a second he just looked at you, so you continued talking, “I just really want a partner that can keep up, you know?”
“Keep up?” he repeated, eyebrows raising a few millimeters.
“No, not keep up,” you laughed, a bit too self consciously, “that sounds really arrogant of me,” you added, why were you rambling still, “I swear I’m not like, evil, or anything, but I just need my partner to be reliable for once.”
At that his expression went back to its natural state, which looked vaguely judgemental. After a few seconds it shifted into something else, and there was something almost challenging in his gaze when he answered, “sure, why not. We’ll see who needs to keep up with who.”
(Later that night, when he collapsed into his bed after typing out tonight's report, he opened up that note on his phone, the white ‘Step 1: get closer. Find weaknesses.’ staring back at him mockingly.
He scrubbed a hand over his eyes and closed them. Still, he could not help but smile, looking forward to it.)
~*~
That first meeting seemed so far away now, six weeks after you first approached him.
If you were being honest, the two of you hadn’t even spent that much time together. You met once to go over the rough concept, once more to properly write it down and once to talk to your Professor to approve it and you were still unsure how you felt about him.
On the one hand he was incredibly refreshing. He turned up to the meetings with perfect notes, carefully designed ideas of actual substance, but on the other hand he was just a little, how to put it nicely, weird.
Firstly, you were almost one hundred percent sure that he had some kind of grudge against you despite the fact that you had literally never done anything to this man. Which was just rude, because he was the one that had everything: money, status, a mind rivaling yours. What else could he possibly want?
Secondly, he was just shifty. Phone calls that were clearly by family and close friends that were always an emergency, dipping out of classes, always looking annoyed when his phone so much as lit up. He noticed too many things, adjusting even if you didn’t need him to, giving you a bit more space because you liked your papers shifted just so when you wrote, filling up your water with his, automatically after he had asked you once.
And thirdly, which might just be a You thing, but he was constantly eating or drinking something. You had never really had that many male friends, so you didn’t really have anything to compare this to, but Tim was always concerningly hydrated and always pulled out some sort of highly concentrated carbohydrate or protein snack. If you didn’t know any better you would have thought that he was some kind of athlete, but you did, because he spent almost the entirety of his day at the university or library, only disappearing home at night. And maybe also because you had looked him up, but there were two posts from three years ago on his instagram talking about taking some self defense classes. Nothing more recent than that.
Now that it was nearing the end of the semester, you actually had to get your shit together and finish this project so that you could rest easy at night. So, at the end of the next meeting you collected whatever scraps of dignity you had left after realising that he probably never obsessed about you the same way you had about him, and asked, “Can we exchange numbers instead of communicating per E-Mail?”
“You want my number?” he asked, sliding his shiny laptop back into its case, letting it disappear in his backpack.
“Yes,” you said, looking straight into his eyes, a hue between dark brown and blue that seemed almost gray in the bright light of the library. “I think it’s a bit silly to do all of this over E-Mail.”
Just like when the two of you first met he paused for a second as if he had never considered this, but then he pulled out his phone and handed it to you, an empty contact already pulled up.
You took his phone, typed in your first and last name, carefully checking your number twice, just in case.
“Okay, so I’ll text you about the second model, then we can-” he was interrupted by a call from ‘Demon Spawn’.
A sigh, then he picked up, half turning away, pretending to care about privacy, but not really, “what is it this time Damian?”
You knew who he was, of course, because everything in this town seemed to always lead back to the Wayne family, but you still pretended to not listen in.
That meant that you saw the exact moment when Tim froze mid movement, face suddenly deadly serious. “Where are you?” His brother answered something you weren’t able to make you when he followed up with, “what colour?”
A pause, no response. You weren’t sure if it was better to stay here and wait for him to finish his call or awkwardly leave without saying goodbye. “Damian, you dragged me into this mess, if you need me to get you out I need you to answer the question.” Whatever the response was, it was bad because Tim cursed once, closed his eyes for two seconds, seemingly praying to whatever he believed him before opening his eyes and looking straight ahead again before answering, "don't move, I swear to God, do not move a single muscle, I will know. I’ll be there in eight.”
With that he ended the call and looked over at you. “Sorry about that, you know how it can be,” he vaguely made a shrugging gesture, “little brothers.” You did not, as a matter of fact know how it could be, but you just said, “seems like the two of you are close.”
That made him laugh, “sure, after we got over the beginning stabbing phase.”
“The what now?”
“Sorry, I really do have to go,” he waved over his shoulder, “I’ll text you.”
And with that the boy with too many weird secrets disappeared and you were left at the table wondering just what his little brother had gotten himself into.
Later that night a story about the two Robins managing to take down a small weapon smuggling operation made the news. When you squinted at your screen you wondered if Damian had somehow gotten involved in that, somehow.
You shrugged and moved on. This, Tim, was none of your business afterall.
(That same moment Tim had gotten a talking to about ‘the importance of teamwork, which also means calling me-’ when he rubbed his thumb against his middle finger. He had touched you, by accident, and he wondered if you felt it too, still.)
~*~
After two more meetings, you realised that Tim was actually a really nice study buddy. He was very quiet when he was really focused on the task, almost eerily still. When he transitioned out of his focused state, he liked to do a few stretches, and after two months of never talking about anything personal, you had to admit that you were just a bit curious about him.
“So,” you started, always a bit clumsy with small talk with people you actually wanted to get to know, “what do you do in your free time,” you asked him once, just after eight in the afternoon, the sky already dark outside.
He was still rotating his wrists when he looked up at you. “My free time?”
“Yeah, you know, when you aren’t studying, being groomed for another company takeover or something like that.”
That stilled his movements and he had to think for a long moment. “I fight.”
“You do what now?” He gave a polite chuckle.
“You know, material arts. Other than that,” he paused for a second, “I take pictures. But that’s just for fun.”
“Ah, of course, and the fighting isn’t,” you commented.
That made him smile, “‘course not. You know me, I go and beat up bad guys in my free time before working on my thermodynamics assignment.”
“Of course, I forgot, the Gotham vigilante Tim Drake, defeating villains with the power of enthalpy and entropy.”
For the first time ever, he actually seemed genuinely amused. It surprised you that it was a good look on him, gleaming eyes and upturned mouth. He seemed younger, almost approachable now. Handsome, too, maybe. Just generally.
“You know me too well,” he continued, “and you?”
“Work,” you listed, “and study. Sometimes I read and sometimes I run, but nothing terribly exciting.”
“Really? Where?”
“Work?” he nodded, so you continued, “down Geneva Street, just a small restaurant Downtown.”
He made an appreciative noise, “Juan’s pizza?”
“Yes, actually, how did you know that?”
A small pause, before “I like to eat. Takeaway and stuff. And I just really know Gotham.”
“Clearly,” you said, still a bit surprised, because you had never seen him in the restaurant and there honestly weren’t that many employees. It was a small establishment, which was a big part of the reason you liked it so much.
Then, “Are you going to the winter fair?”
The Winterfair was a fundraising event for the family of the students but mostly just outside investors, so each department made sure to have a captivating presentation on top of a few game and food booths that were centered around the main entrance.
It was a nightmare to plan, as the safety regulations in Gotham were meticulously planned out, but this year you hadn’t signed up for the committee, too busy with internship applications for the summer as well as finals. You were going to help with the final presentation, for sure, but so far they seemed to be actually well organised, all things considered.
“I’m not sure, depends on if I’m working,” you answered, “you?”
“Yes. My brothers and Cass really want to see the presentation, and I’m hoping I can defeat Dick at one of the game booths.”
“You know those are always rigged, right?” “Of course I do, that just means I have to work out faster how exactly before he does.”
“Menace,” you said, before you could stop yourself. Before you could take it back or apologise, Tim laughed. “True. He says it’s a family trait, the competitiveness, but I think I’ve always been like this.”
“Same,” you agreed, “I hate it when I don’t understand why I’m failing this badly at the ring toss.”
“Obviously, otherwise you wouldn’t be the best in our semester.”
He knew that? “Wow,” you said, a smile creeping up on your face, “was that a compliment?”
“Maybe,” he conceded, “maybe not. Depends on the interpretation.”
“Good,” you smiled, satisfied because it was something to be proud of, your hard work, “then I’ll take it as one.”
More than the laugh, the slightly blush and genuine smile suited him. It made you want to want to figure out what other things he could express, how you could make him smile more.
Maybe, you realised when you arrived home that evening with a text from Tim asking you if you made it home safe, you had made a new friend.
(In the dark of the night, Tim held his finger to him comm, connecting him to Dick who was at home, resting from a knee injury.
“Hey Dick? Have you ever wanted to beat someone at something so bad that you think you might want them to succeed instead?”
“What are you even talking about? I swear, if this is about Mario Party yesterday-”)
~*~
The weather turned colder, the nights longer and finals crept closer still. You were well prepared, as always, but you spent a lot more time at the library, going over your notes just one more time, solving another exercise just in case.
Not as the years before, however, was the semi-permanent fixture at the opposite side of your table. Even if he was weirdly inconsistent at times, Tim showed up almost every second or third day, and lately, often with a cup of coffee.
Today was not one of those days.
Today however, was one of those days where you wanted, no, needed something warm, to get you through the final block of material you had scheduled for yourself. You were dreaming about a hot chocolate, or even a tea, when you realised that you could just go and get one. Free will and all that.
“Do you wanna get hot chocolate with me?”
Tim looked up and slid his headphones down his neck. Unfairly effortless, like almost everything he did, and you started to accept that no matter how much you tried to convince yourself (which wasn't really all that hard) Tim Drake was kind of pretty. Not in the classic way that Dick was, or the rugged way Jason was, but the way a foggy forest was. Unexpected and a bit strange but still alluring, in the most ordinary way.
You really were tired today, because what were you even thinking right now?
“Sure,” he agreed, “let me just finish this one thing first,” and so you took a break for a few minutes to just breathe before the two of you packed up your things and headed over to the closest but still open coffee shop.
It ended up being one of the corner stop convenience stores that also had some kind of coffee machine built in, but you didn’t mind it. When the two of you sat outside on the just slightly scratched up plastic chairs you curled your hands around your cup, breathing in the warmth.
Despite the humid but still chilly air clinging to your fingers you smiled, genuinely satisfied. You had caught up on your laundry yesterday, you were well prepared for every single upcoming exam and project and you were holding a hot chocolate now. Life did not get any better than this.
“Smells that good?” Tim asked, from where he was already sipping his coffee, apparently not being burnt to death by the still hot liquid. You wondered if he always drank it like that, overly hot and too bitter.
“I just love hot chocolate,” you responded, “but just sweets in general if I’m being honest.”
“Really?” he sounded genuinely surprised, so you angled your body towards him, fully facing him.
“Don’t sound that surprised, even I have weak spots.”
“No, it’s not that,” he said, tracing the rippled inner pattern of the underside of his cup with his nail. You had noticed, somewhen in your first month of sharing a desk, that he always had perfectly manicured nails, filed down, slightly shiny. He had nice hands, even with the jagged scar on his left side cutting through the illusion of perfection. Maybe because of it, actually, both the care and the juxtaposition. “I have never seen you eat anything sweet.”
“Yeah,” you admitted, finally taking a sip of the just slightly disappointing hot chocolate, “I just have to budget well, you know? So I save up my extra money for sweet treats during stressful times, like finals.”
He looked down at his cup, contemplating something, before taking a sip. “But hot chocolate is your favorite?”
“Hm,” you thought for a second, “yes, but do you know the spiced versions?”
He shook his head, so you continued. “There is this one shop, on the west side, and they make it better. It’s thicker? And has more depth in it, like cinnamon, clove, maybe star anise, chili too, depending on the barista.”
“Midtown?”
“Yeah,” you laughed lightly, lighting up at the memory, “my grandfather used to work there, and I stayed with him for a year when I was younger and he used to take me there every Sunday. I’m not sure if they are still open.”
“Sounds nice,” he added.
“It was,” you answered, the grief a soft wave, a hurt that had healed years ago.
You let a beat pass, before you asked, “but you prefer coffee, right?”
“Oh yeah,” he said, grinning. “Don’t tell the number one spot, but this,” he raised his cup, “is my secret to one day overtaking her.”
You laughed, “sure,” you leaned into the space between you, “you can try.”
The challenging expression on his face made only your smile deepen.
For once you were really looking forward to results, not just because you could see your work pay off, but because there were stakes now. Fun ones, not just your entire future.
(When Tim stared down at the white of his notes, the same way he had every night this past week, the next line was already burned into his mind. ‘Step two: pry on those weaknesses’ but the line did not make him giddy anymore, only felt intrusive, too mean. Weird.)
~*~
A week before your presentation with Tim, you were still sitting in the library, at almost ten pm, just before it closed. The two of you had wanted to practice together, one last time, and suddenly you felt a bit sad. Your time together was over now because there was no reason to spend any time together anymore after the presentation.
You knew that you were friends, but you also knew that it was probably more out of convenience than like.
“I think that’s enough, we should pack up before the librarian actually removes us by force,” Tim interrupted your thoughts, referring to the librarian who had been staring at the two of you ever since the only other person had left.
“Yeah,” you agreed, still adjusting the text on the third slide slightly to the left. “See you next week?”
“I,” he started, and when he didn’t finish his sentence, you looked up at where he was leaning against your desk. Somehow you had missed him standing up and gathering his things. “Do you want me to get you home?”
“What?”
The two of you had always split up at the entrance, never really lingering that much outside of university. “You know, it’s late, dark and last week another woman was kidnapped.”
You clicked save, closed the window and turned off your laptop. “That happens once a month, this is Gotham. And besides, didn’t Batman end up uncovering an entire human trafficking ring? I think I have another week before the next bad guy comes along.”
“Batman and Red Robin.”
You laughed, “that’s your problem?”
“Well,” he carded his hand through the hair at his nape, “you know me, I always give credit where credit is due.”
“True,” you supposed, zipping up your jacket. “Then come on, let’s go.”
It was raining outside, because this was Gotham and Gotham was always wet in some way or another. “I take the train,” you said, motioning towatrds the closest station, “you don’t have to come along if you took your car.”
But Tim was already pulling up the hood of his jacket, the rain never lingering on the fabric. Stupidly expensive but very convenient technology. You were a bit jealous. “I also take the train.”
You raised both your eyebrows, “you, Timothy Drake-Wayne, also take El Train to university.”
“No,” he made a weird huff sound, “I mean yes, just today.”
That made more sense, but still you laughed lightly and unfolded your umbrella. “C’mon, I think we can both fit under here.”
After arguing who gets to hold the stupid thing (‘it’s mine’, you said, and he countered with, ‘yes, but the metal thingies keep tugging at my hair because you hold it too low’, which you followed up with ‘the stretchers?’ and he just took it from your grasp, hands cold but gentle, offering no comeback because you had won) the two of you were making a plan for a hypothetical scenario if the rest of the city suddenly turned into zombies.
“As I was saying,” you stressed, steamrolling over whatever sentence he had wanted to start, “if there was one city that would be the start of a zombie apocalypse, it would be Gotham.”
“I’m not arguing, per se, I just think that in the grand scheme of things, Gotham would also be the best city for it. I think people here actually know how to behave in that scenario whereas, I don’t know, Metropolis would shatter to pieces after three days.”
“True,” you said, thinking about the gasmask you were storing in your first desk drawer, “can’t argue with that.”
“Right?” he lit up, obviously getting into the debate now, “and I think that a lot of people here actually know how to fight,” at your disbelieving look he added, “or at least defend themselves.”
“True,” you thought back to every single school year that started with a single day of self defense, to those two posts of his, “but I would still like a cool weapon, you know?”
“Really?” he asked, “and what would be your weapon in this scenario?”
You made a hm sound and thought for a bit. “A sword would be insanely cool, but we need to think realistically here.” A pause. “Maybe these things that Nightwing has, you know?”
“The escrima sticks?”
“Is that what they are called?”
“Yes,” Tim answered. “It emerged in the Philippines when the Spanish outlawed the carrying of knives and other weapons. A solid choice, all things considered. Even if you have to practice for a bit.”
“You know, I know that you mentioned liking martial arts before, but I honestly didn't really believe you.”
“What?”
“Don’t take this personally, like at all, but if a scrawny-” “Excuse me-” at his indignation you smiled, "nerdy electrical engineer student tells you that he likes martial arts, you just think that ‘yeah I’m sure he does’.”
He dramatically stopped in his tracks, but still held the umbrella outstretched, so that you did not get wet. “Okay, so first of all I am not scrawny–don’t laugh I swear to God–and second of all I am really, really good at hand to hand combat.”
Tim sounded so very sure of himself, even if you were still slightly unsure.
“Really?”
“Yes, really, is that really so hard to believe?”
“I mean kind of? I’ve never seen you fight, like ever. And you don’t give off very threatening vibes.”
“Wow,” he drawled sarcastically, but you could see the pure amusement in his eyes, as the two of you arrived at your platform, “I’m not sure if I should be offended.”
“Don’t be,” you said, “that means you aren’t, you know, scary. It’s a good quality in a man, I think.”
“Good,” he said, “I don’t want to scare the people around me, just, you know, the ones on the street.”
“Yes, of course, I forgot, Tim Drake, one of Gotham's vigilantes.”
“Well,” he leaned in closer, and the announcement of your train faded into the background and all you could see was the thin iris of his eyes, lighter than his pupil, even in the impossible dark of the night. “You never know who could be hiding behind the mask.”
The pounding of your heart was loud, too loud, and the sound of the opening doors snapped you out of it. Embarrassed to be flustered by Tim of all people, you only gave him a wave and disappeared into the safety of the train, a clear barrier between you.
Later that night, just before you went to sleep, you scrolled idly through your phone when you received a notification. You switched to your Instagram app, clicking on the notifications tab. Tim had followed you, and without hesitating you clicked on the blue square and watched it turn white gray.
Before you could actually scroll through his profile, you received a DM.
[Tim Drake]
give me 10min and then I’ll prove it to you
11:52pm
[You]
prove what?
11:52pm
[Tim Drake]
that I’d be a valuable asset of protection against the dark forces of Gotham
11:53pm
[You]
and how are you going to do that?
11:54pm
[Tim Drake]
Patience young Padawan
Just refresh my account in ten minutes
11:55pm
Sue you, but you were a bit curious now. Maybe a story of some award he won? Or a picture of a weapon he had at home?
You kept yourself busy by scrolling through his other posts. Most of them were some sort of brand deal or some sort of official picture, one for watches, one for some kind of moisturiser, another one by Getty Images that somehow didn’t even look bad. How he never looked bad, ever, was still a mystery to you.
But every once in a while was an artistic shot, mostly of Gotham, mostly at night. You recognised the Tower of your university, Miller harbour, Wayne mansion. For fun, he’d said about his pictures, but they were stunning, capturing the rawness of Gotham beautifully.
And sometimes there were messier pictures, usually with his family in it. There was one of Dick balancing Damian on his feet in a handstand, one of Jason with a dog and the caption ‘my dad and the dog he didn’t want’ and even some of the lesser photographed people like Bruce, reading the newspaper on a patio and Cassandra and Duke, smiling and mid laugh, respectively, leaning against each other.
And there, in those photo dumps you saw pieces of Tim.
A picture of him in a black tuxedo, messily brushing his teeth while taking a picture in the mirror with some sort of film camera that was then followed up with a cropped picture, probably from snapchat because of the overlaid text that showed toothpaste on the lapel of that suit saying ‘Bruce is going to murder me’. Another of him with his arm around Stephanie Brown, both smiling, the summer sun slightly overexposing the picture but the grainy texture of it making it charmin. A video of him with a bad audio quality that said “wait, no, look, I can do it-” before he fell off his handstand on his skateboard and someone was laughing in the background. Him drinking coffee, him in a red light room, him as a younger version with both his parents. Him, him, him.
[Tim Drake]
should be online now
i think that’s proof enough
00:05am
[You]
I’ll be the judge of that
00:06am
Sure enough, when you refreshed his feed, a new story loaded, the circle green which didn’t make you feel anything. It was him, in some sort of training facility, a blue mat underneath his bare feet. He was wearing shorts and some sort of dark compression shirt and he was already a bit sweaty. It shouldn't look as good as it did but you had accepted the fact that you were crushing just a bit last week when he had gotten you a chocolate croissant, just because. There was a mannequin popped up, and you recognised it from other Taekwondo videos you had seen online and sure enough Tim kicked up in the air once, before turning around, jumpkicking the air again and then hitting the cylinder once with enough force to throw it over. He then jogged back to his phone, carding his hand through his hair and smiling before turning the video off, a cocky grin on his face.
The overlaid text said ‘training in case of a zombie apocalypse’ and you grinned against your pillow. He was so stupid but God so were you. This was so very clearly for you it made something in your throat burn, so you swallowed it down.
Still, you clicked back to your DMs and texted him
[You]
the verdict is in:
I trust you to get me home safe
00:10am
[Tim Drake]
good.
sleep well
00:11am
[You]
you too
00:12am
And well if your dreams were filled with dark hair and bright eyes, a challenging grin and some fighting it was no one's business but your own.
(Tim looked over to where your umbrella was dried and packed up at his door, and he smiled at the memory, and when he looked down at his phone he deleted the note, not looking back. He knew he was crushing, badly.)
~*~
The next three weeks were a blur of exams, presentations and deadlines. Still, the two of you fell into some sort of routine together. Every second or third day you were seated at the table right in the corner, tucked away next to the emergency exit. You had brought home made brownies once, and ever since Tim seemed determined to one up you so he brought you a different hot chocolate every single time.
It was the evening before the advanced maths 4 exam, your very last for the semester, when Tim asked you, “this might be a bit out there, but you you wanna go on a date after tomorrow?”
“I,” you processed his words, “what?”
He blushed, and tucked his hand against the nape of his neck. “You know, you and me. Museum and coffee after?”
“Is this a tactic to distract me?” you asked, still baffled.
Tim laughed out loud, and the librarian shushed from her desk. Then he folded his arm under his chin and dropped his head on it. “Sure, this was my masterplan all along, distracting the only student better than me by catching feelings.” Skirting the truth, but not really, not anymore.
You made a sound, vaguely between flustered and mortified, before zoning in on what he said, “you have feelings for me?”
He blinked, stunned, and the smile fell off his face, “I didn’t mean to say that.”
“So you don’t? This is really is just a joke?”
“What? No, I didn’t say that. I just,” he paused, looked serious, “I want to take you out on a date, yes or no?”
If you were being honest, you hadn’t really thought about Tim like that. You had a crush, sure, but it seemed like an impossible thing, something to dream about, nothing more. There were moments, of course, like when he started taking the train just so that he made sure you got on yours safe, when the two of you sent each other reels until late at night, conversations moving onto different topics, or when he had bought you churros from that one stand at the Open Day where you had literally spent all of your time together, just pulled in by each other’s presence.
The thing was that you weren’t really asked out much. Or at all. You were one of the few women in your degree, sure, but when the guys realised that you were, in fact smarter and more dedicated than most of them, they quickly lost interest, pretending that you got an advantage simply because you were a woman. And if it wasn’t that then they realised that you were a bit too cocky, challenging and stubborn. “I’m annoying.”
“So? After the entire semester you think I haven’t noticed?”
But you continued, “and I’m stubborn. Really smart, too.”
“I know,” he said, smiling now, “that’s what I like about you.”
“And competitive,” you added, flustered because how was this real. Tim Drake, Tim Drake was asking you out.
“Once again: so am I. I think it matches rather well, don’t you?”
You thought about the countless pointless debates about nothing and everything the two of you have had, the silly competitions of who can throw more paper in the trashcan in one minute, the stupid spreadsheet you had started to rate each coffee you had shared, the not quite breakdowns before certain exams.
“I just,” you started, but you were out of arguments. He knew you, for better or worse, after spending so much time together over the past few months. “okay.”
“Okay as in yes?”
“Yes, Tim Drake, we can go on a date together.”
This time he smiled genuinely, a soft thing that spread across his face slowly, and you really did like it when he smiled. So far there was no expression you liked more than this, but you wanted to find out if that held up. “I’m glad. It’s going to be the best date you’ve ever been on.”
“It better be.”
~*~
It was. It really was. And so was the one after, and the one after that. The one after that one where you kissed for the first time, and the one after when you actually got together.
Now you were sitting at your desk while he was leaning against the wall, legs folded underneath him on your bed. It was the middle of February and for once, it was actually snowing in Gotham, even if it melted into puddles on the sidewalk.
There was something that bothered you, a half formed idea in your head that you weren’t able to talk about yet.
Tim was a wonderful boyfriend. Never forgot anything you told him, always texted you good morning, even at 12pm when he woke up, insisting on walking at the side of the road, carrying your bags. It’s just that sometimes, he was really, really suspicious.
There was that one time at the library, six months ago, when his little brother called him, and he had become deathly serious in the blink of an eye. There was that one time he spent twenty five minutes in the bathroom on one of your dates and when he came back to your table he was weirdly out of breath and some kind of green goo was sticking to the ends of his hair. There was the fact that he sometimes limped, slowly running out of plausible ideas. But most of all there was the uneven skin you felt underneath your fingertips when your hands wandered as you made out, scars, and too many of them. It wasn’t unusual, this was Gotham after all, but there was something more going on, and you were sure of this.
One of these days you would figure out what exactly that was.
There was just one detail missing, you knew that. Just one.
“Tim, I-” but before you could finish what you wanted to say, you heard the alarm bells. Your phone lit up with an emergency alarm, one all too familiar, but still a cold shiver ran down your spine.
“Blackgate, there was a,” he finished your sentence, “breakout. Everyone needs to stay put.”
You closed your blinds, standing up to fill up empty cups with clean water, just in case, when Tim pulled out his backpack and slung it over his shoulder.
“You can’t be serious,” you said, as he clearly got up to leave your apartment, despite the order.
“I’m sorry, I really am, I just have to, you know,” he motioned towards the door.
“Know what?”
“Go.”
You laughed, a bit disbelieving. “Are you serious?”
“Yes,” he said, in a too honest, too sharp tone, “I have to go.”
“Where? We just got the explicit order to stay inside because you don’t know what’s happening outside.”
“Home, I need to see the others, I need to know what is happening.”
You stood there, in front of your sink, completely shocked. Tim was one of, if not the most rational person you had ever met. There was a reason you respected his opinion, why you relied on him as much as you had these past few months. “Then we will turn on the news, the radio. You can call home and tell them you’ll be here.”
“No,” he said, moving closer to the door, further away from you, “you don’t understand. I have to go, now.”
“I really don’t, so explain it to me.”
You looked at his face, desperate, looking for a clue, some sign, anything. He seemed devastated, torn between something, but you just didn’t understand what. “Tim, don’t be stupid. It’s not safe out there.”
He came back to you, tugged you in close, but before you could wrap your arms around him, he gave you a kiss on the cheek and closed the door behind him.
Somehow, you knew that this was significant. This was bigger than you, than him.
Still, when you turned back to your room, your eyes automatically moved back to the place he had sat in just moments ago. He had left one of his journals, still open, with one pen stuck in the middle.
You pretended not to notice the floorplans of one of the highest security buildings in Gotham staring back at you.
Wordlessly you closed it and stored it in one of your drawers, hidden from plain sight.
The puzzle shifted, you had gotten the clue, but you were not sure if you liked the picture it formed.
~*~
Connecting everything you had gathered, it would make sense if you assumed that Tim worked for someone in Blackgate. It was hard to believe, sure, because Tim was, beneath all his layers of teasing, genuinely kind, but maybe that was what had been his downfall.
Both of his parents died, his mother due some sort of accidental poisoning, and his father years later in an accident. But what if none of it was an accident? What if someone was after Tim, because of his name, of his association or maybe just his brain? Or maybe it was just bad luck.
Tim knew Gotham like the back of his hand, seemed to be able to hold more than his own in a fight, and had access to the Wayne Enterprises for God's sake. Of course he was a valuable asset to every villain in the city. It made so much sense that you felt a little bit stupid for not realising sooner.
He had texted you that night, saying something along the lines of how he had to be quarantined along with his family, and you pretended to believe him, just glad he was alive.
Which leads you to this moment, a week and a half later, everyone safely behind bars again, and the city continued living, just the way it always did.
Tim looked up from where he was already waiting for you on the park bench.
He looked, frankly, worse than usual. He was paler, his eyebags darker and his hair messy, and you knew that this wasn’t an easy conversation to have.
“Hey you,” you greeted him, and at the sight of you he stood up and he folded himself against you, and you returned his hug. The two of you stayed like that for a while, together, sharing warmth in the cold.
When he leaned back and in to kiss you, you held his face in your hands, grateful, somehow, that he was back by your side, alive, breathing, even though you didn’t know what he had done.
It was soft, and you felt breakable in his arms, vulnerable in a way you usually never let yourself, but this was still him, the boy who had convinced five different coffee shops to add cinnamon to your hot chocolate, just because he knew you liked it. The same one whose hand was unsteady that first time he held yours, in the middle of an exhibition of Artificial Intelligence in a museum closeby.
“I missed you,” he murmured in the crook of your neck, into your scarf.
You carded your fingers through his hair, soft, despite the mess. Maybe because of it.
“I missed you too,” you let it linger before breaking the comfortable silence, “but I need to talk to you about something.”
“So let me get this right,” Tim repeated, shoulder against shoulder, thigh against thigh, a black tea in his hand, “you think I’m working for some sort of supervillain.”
“Yes,” you said, sipping your green one, “is that so far-fetched?”
He laughed, whole heartedly and while the sound was comforting you scowled into your cup, “don’t laugh, I’m serious.”
“As am I,” Tim said, prying one hand away from your cup and into his instead, “and you would still want to date me?”
“I mean,” you hesitated, “depends on who exactly you were working for. Joker probably not, Ivy maybe.”
“You really like me,” he repeated, retracing the shapes on your gloves.
“I do,” you said, “and I don’t want to lose you, but I think that you should still ask for help. Batman, maybe. Robin, or the police.”
“Okay,” Tim said, “I need you to trust me one last time, and then it’s over, alright? No more secrets.”
“Alright,” you let yourself be pulled up by him, and the two of you left the park, your footsteps making indents in the snow behind you. “One last time.”
“You are joking.”
“I’m not,” Tim confirmed, “I’m serious, this is my secret.”
You were standing in Tim’s room in the Wayne Manor, but not really. His bedroom had a small door, a closet you had assumed when you first came to his house, but that was wrong, that was so very wrong.
“You,” your grip on his upper arm still hadn’t loosened. If anything it had only gotten tighter. “You, Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne are Red fucking Robin?”
“Yes.”
“You,” you started, taking in the secret room, the four monitors, the plans of his suit, his weapons and other small trinkets on the shelves. “I just.”
Tim laughed and guided you to the chair, spinning it around for you and kneeling at your feet.
“I thought you were,” you paused, “evil. Like not evil evil but evil.”
“Surprise,” he said, taking your hand into his.
“That makes so much sense,” you started talking, “Bruce is Batman. Damian is Robin.”
“Yes.”
“Oh God, Dick is Nightwing? Who is Jason?”
“That’s a secret,” Tim answered gently.
“I’ll just find it out later,” you brushed him off.
Tim couldn’t help his smile at that. “Knowing you, you probably will.”
You looked down at Tim’s face and took it in your hands. “You are an idiot.”
Tim just closed his eyes, “I’m really not.”
“I know,” you said, suddenly realising the depth of this. He could have died last week. He could die tomorrow, or maybe the month after. He was human, the same way you were, but he still put on a suit every night to make sure that people like you made it home safe.
You dropped down to your knees in front of him, face to face and hugged him. “I don’t know what to say.”
“That’s okay.”
“I,” you started, hugging him tighter, “thank you for trusting me with this. But please always come back to me.” In your arms he was just Tim, the same guy who had tripped over his shoelaces, looked up at you and said that Newton had a personal vendetta against him. The same one that had cut up an apple for you because you insisted that it tasted better like that.
The same one, that was saving people, every week, risking his own life.
“‘Course, there is nowhere I’d rather be.”
“Good,” you said, “because I really need you to come back to me, in one piece, okay? Otherwise I’ll just find a way to revive you.”
“Naturally, you need someone on your team against the zombies,” he said, “but I could settle on becoming your experiment too.” “No, that won’t work,” you replied stubborn, “we need both of our brains, not decomposed, to think about how we can save the entire world, right?”
~*~
Later, much later, during an overly hot summer day the two of you lay in your bed, while you traced a yellowing bruise across his ribs.
“You know,” Tim starts, in the tone of voice that screamed repressed embarrassment. You prop your chin up on his chest, suddenly very much interested in what he had to say.
“Before we first met I vowed to take you down.”
“What?”
“I had an entire master plan when you approached me for our shared group project. I wanted to find out how you did better than me and beat you at any exam.”
Amusement curled up around your lungs, “really?”
“Yeah,” Tim admitted, “I was a bit obsessed, really. Even before we met, I spent too much of my time thinking about you, about the way you must spend your free time, about the way your brain worked.”
“This is the best thing you’ve ever told me.”
“I just,” Tim traced the curve of your eyebrow with his fingers, “I was interested in you, but I broke it down into something easier. I was really obvious about it, too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he admitted, “even Dick was sick of hearing me rant about you. I once asked him if he also got so determined to beat someone in something that you end up only thinking about your rival.”
“That’s embarrassing,” you said, “I love it.”
“Nah,” he said, “What’s embarrassing is that my masterplan worked out.”
You let out an indignant sound, righting yourself up against the bed “it did not.”
“Yes, it did,” he said, tugging you down below him. “I beat you at something.”
A very affronted noise left your mouth, “so not true!”
“So true,” he replied, easily and so very earnest, “I love you more.”
“Like I said,” you repeated yourself, “so not true.”
He avoided your kiss but gave you five half on your eyelid instead, pressing your into the pillow below. When you opened your eyes, determined to get your revenge, he looked at you openly, so you could only offer a truce. “We should make the agreement that we love each other the exact same amount. No winner here, not this time.”
“Hmm,” he pretended to think about it but then lamented, “fine, but just this once.”
“Pinky promise?” you offered him your finger, outstretched between the two of you, and he hooked his through yours.
“Promise.” He kissed you and it felt right. It felt like you found your equilibrium, finally someone who could meet you where you needed them to.
It felt like peace.
a/n: the pacing is bothering me, but I still really wanted to post it. Please come and talk to me about it! Lots of love <3
istg if no one is writing mark grayson x reader i’ll do it myself it’s been 2 days since season 4
robert can handle being a side hoe rn
feel free to rq mark but be aware i’m still in my writers block !!
My favorite fun fact is that all the Robins (except Steph) have first-name last names.
-Dick Grayson
-Jason Todd
-Tim Drake
-Carrie Kelley
-Damian Wayne
-Duke Thomas
springcore
Why are all the 'x reader' fics I see mostly smuts? Don't get me wrong, they're great and all but I barely see any fluff or angst around here. I literally just want to feel things without the character lusting over the reader 😭
Mark Grayson x Latina reader! Headcanons pt.2
(Ughhhh need more Latina representation fr any of you guys have recommendations?)
TW: Sfw and tooth rotting fluff
………………………………………………………………………………….
- Dates with Mark consist of him flying you to places around the world
- Whether it be your family’s country or wherever you want to go, dates aren’t ever boring
- When you’re both cuddling he loves to run his fingers through you hair, it’s soothing to him, even if his fingers get tangled through your knots
- Cecil annoys you a lot, between him putting your sweet boyfriend in danger all the time and overworking him, you give that man an ear full
- Once after a particular brutal battle, you were so distraught about Mark’s state, you barged right into the GDA and started yelling at Cecil
- Yeah that man is sort of terrified of you now
-Mark swears he fell in love with you even more if that’s even possible
- Lots of affection with this man, hugs, kisses, cuddles all day long (it honestly makes your siblings gag)
- Mark depends on you and your family for a lot of comfort.
- Don’t get him wrong, he loves his mom and Oliver, but something about the way your family is so openly affectionate really tugs on his heartstrings
- Your Tia’s and Abuela love calling him ‘guapo’ and hugging him to death. (No seriously, he can’t breath sometimes but it feels nice)
- Mark tries to learn Spanish (or Portuguese for my Brazilian latinas, love y’all) for your sake and your family’s, he knows some of your relatives only speak that language, and he wants to make an effort to communicate with them because he loves you
- He has a little accent but it means a lot to you that he learned just to talk to your family
- Can he tell your family that he’s Invincible? No he can’t, because we all know the Tia’s gossip way too much with each other, and if one knows than it spreads to the whole vecindario
- He loves loves loves listening to Spanish music with you whether it be Selena, Bad Bunny, Shakira, or whatever artist you grew up with
- This man will binge watch Chespirito with you even if you have to put the English subtitles for him because he’s still learning.
- His favorite character is probably El Chapulin Corolado because well, he’s a superhero duh
- Mark thinks it’s the funniest think when El Chapulin uses his chipote chillón to smack his enemies
- Honestly makes him want to get a big shiny red hammer too
- You’ll also make him watch La Rosa De Guadalupe with you
- He begrudgingly sits through the unrealistic drama and cliche tropes
- Mark won’t admit it, but he secretly enjoys watching novelas with the weird plot twists and dramatic acting
- Did I mention that he’s the test subject for your mom’s lícuados?
- She’ll blend something up and because you’re traumatized by her weird smoothie concoctions, Mark will take one for the team and chug them down
- He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that they don’t taste the best and your mom will continue to make them for him
- Sometimes you think that your mom loves him more than she loves you because she will cut him up fruit and fuss over him like he’s her own son
- Very wholesome relationship with your mom hands down
- As for your dad? Well, he’s had to earn his respect, but once he got it, Mark will literally be chilling with your dad on Sunday’s watching futbol (comment which team you guys root for)
- Rex questions everyday how Mark got a baddie like you. Mark asks himself the same thing, but he’s grateful for you nonetheless
Why are all the 'x reader' fics I see mostly smuts? Don't get me wrong, they're great and all but I barely see any fluff or angst around here. I literally just want to feel things without the character lusting over the reader 😭
I finished these two sketches too!
hii can u do just the full alphabet of cursive capital and lowercase letters? thank u love 🎀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 𝓐 𝓑 𝓒 𝓓 𝓔 𝓕 𝓖 𝓗
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀𝓘 𝓙 𝓚 𝓛 𝓜 𝓝 𝓞 𝓟 𝓠
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝓡 𝓢 𝓣 𝓤 𝓥 𝓦 𝓧 𝓨 𝓧
⠀⠀𝓪 𝓫 𝓬 𝓭 𝓮 𝓯 𝓰 𝓱 𝓲 𝓳 𝓴 𝓵 𝓶 𝓷 𝓸 𝓹 𝓺 𝓻 𝓼 𝓽 𝓾 𝓿 𝔀 𝔁 𝔂 𝔃
divider ctto !
