Ingrid ☆ @supergirlfish - Tumblr Blog

the kent problem.

summary: the kents are warm, inviting—frustratingly likeable. all except for you, the kent who is somehow more disastrous for damian’s well-being than the rest. you are a case of destructive tendencies and a good-natured smile that irks him. he has to keep an eye on you, even if it means lingering around you, using poor jon as an excuse.

pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader

content: fluff, grumpy x sunshine, reader stands her ground, reader is jon's cousin & is briefly described to hv superabilities (flying, superstrength)

In less than ten minutes of stepping into the Kent’s residence, Damian already finds himself caught in a mess. Or more specifically, captured in your arms.

He should've known better than to attempt at finding a moment of silence in the grass fields, watching over the cows roaming in search of sweet dew to chomp on. The noise levels within the farmhouse must have exceeded precautionary suggestions for a mere human. It was definitely more than he anticipated, despite Jon's warnings of how.... enthusiastic his family can be.

"You should see my cousin—" Jon snorts. "Now, she's lively."

At least that cousin of his hasn't arrived yet, Damian had wishfully thought, and now—he only feels foolish.

You’re much too close, noses nearly brushing, and you share that same supernatural strength that dominates the Kent family, with your feet floating off the ground. It’s not any of your supernatural abilities that unnerves him. No, it’s him being swept up in your arms like some sort of damsel in the air that has him ready to bury his dignity in the muddied soil.

“You’re Damian!” Much too chipper, much too… much. “Jon mentioned a Wayne coming to visit, but I didn’t expect you to actually show up.”

Shares the same capacity of being over-talkative too, then. He resists a groan, words strained through his gritted teeth. “Put. Me. Down.”

“Ah—right!”

You let go of him abruptly, as per his demand, and his bottom finds the soil once more—right where he was nearly stampeded by cows earlier. Not that he wouldn’t have been able to dodge, but right as he leapt mid-air, a pair of arms caught him and—your blinding smile as he quickly rises to dust himself off helps him make a decisive assumption.

You’re trouble. Packaged in chaos and a terrifying over-eagerness—his gut only screams to keep a distance. Dealing with one Kent was more than enough, he certainly did not need the most enthusiastic Kent to catch him off-guard.

It doesn't help that you're pretty. Objectively, from a completely unbiased standpoint. Bright like the sun, glimmering in the rims of your gaze, and warmth encompassed into your demeanour. Words run dry on his tongue, and he's been staring at you for at least two minutes in complete silence.

"You're the cousin." His voice is gruff when he finally speaks, and he immediately winces. Stating the obvious, is there truly anything else he could conjure to make himself sound more like a fool?

"That I am." Your words run off your tongue in a familiar accent, shared with Jon, but more cheeky—playful. "You're Jon's best friend."

Best friend. It warms him more than it should. Despite the Kent's invitation obviously meaning that he mattered to Jon enough to be invited to his family's personal home, there was still a reassurance Damian could never truly give up on searching for.

A low 'Tt' escapes his lips, gaze averting yours, all up-close and all in his personal space. Seriously, could you be any closer?

"What has he told you about me?" He prods, brows furrowing into its usual, settled line.

"That you're grumpy." You tease. "Most often than not, you have a stern look on your face as if you'd rather be anywhere than the ground you're standing on." Leaning in with a conspiratorial look, you whisper. "He also told me that under your tough act, you're a big softie."

His expression immediately seizes with incredible offense. What nonsense has Jon been spouting to you, ruining his reputation so callously?

"I am not soft."

"Mhm." Your grin never falters, and his brow twitches.

"Jon mentioned you're impulsive." He shoots back. "Overly-enthusiastic. Loud. Refuses to take no for an answer."

"Glad we established our initial impressions." You muse. "I was kidding about Jon's description. I based that off the first two minutes since I caught you in my arms."

Something warm flushes at his neck, and he's... never felt this intense, surging range of emotions enrapturing inside of his chest. You're impossible to decipher, and that smile of yours is a gateway to a pounding headache.

“And for the record, Jon would use the word, optimistic.”

"You're impossible." He grunts.

"Is that Jon's words, or yours?" Winking at him, you don't give him a chance to process your taunts, or to regain enough composure for a come-back, because you're already off on your feet—no, mid-air in flight back towards the farmhouse.

"Not to intrude on your personal time-out!" You yell back towards him as you swing the back-door open, feet brushing the wooden steps once more as you land. "Jon's Pa makes incredible lemonade."

With that, your hair whips with your sudden movement as you round the corner and disappear back inside, leaving him writhing in fury, shame—and dread at the thought of having to return inside with soil covering his trousers.

Jon’s father—just Clark, as he likes to deem himself, does indeed make good lemonade. A begrudging admission from Damian’s lips practically livens up the atmosphere and he winces, surrounded by a bright, sheepish smile from Superdad himself, puffing his chest over still remembering his Ma’s recipe and to his dismay, your own gleaming eyes directed at him for having been proven right again.

That’s another thing Damian easily noticed from the moment you entered the picture. You’re irritably persuasive. Easily fitting yourself by his side, seated at the barstool as you catch up with your relatives. You’re—delightful, and it grates his nerves.

Including him easily on inside-jokes, making sure he wasn’t left out—when he’d much preferred if you did. Hearing all this unheard information about your life, it’s a nuisance to have to block his mind from capturing unrecognisable data and cataloguing it in his mind for later research. He didn’t want to get to know you, and yet, you’re treating him as if you’ve known him for as long as Jon.

”You wouldn’t guess Metropolis’s most common crime.” You grin. “A whopping forty-five percent of the population has stolen hot dogs.”

“Impressive.” He mutters dryly.

“Guess it won’t compare to much to the ones I’ll see when I move to Gotham.” You shrug casually.

Move… to Gotham. The moment the words form clearly in his mind, Damian nearly spits out his drink. The citrusy flavour stings the back of his throat as he chokes out. “You’re moving to Gotham?”

“Yep!” You pop your ‘P’s, and he hates that he notices. “A change of scenery.”

“Gotham’s scenery is horrendous.”

You snort. “You think everything is horrendous.”

“I do not.” He grits. “Stop assuming you know anything about me.”

“I bet—” Leaning in teasingly, you mutter. “—you think my attitude is horrendous.”

He raises a brow, unimpressed. “Take an astute guess.”

“Considering that you’ve been living in a place you say is horrendous for years, maybe that’s not such an insult.” You wink. “There’s gotta be something you like about Gotham.”

His lips part, but he’s at a loss of words. Not such an insult—you’re either horribly optimistic or doing this on purpose to antagonise him. He bets on the latter. “Take my word for it.” He grunts. “You won’t suit Gotham.”

“Hm.” Your head tilts, assessing. “No personal bias involved?”

“Only common sense.” He tuts. “You’re much too—” Everything. “—You’ll stand out. There’s enough distractions in the city without you adding yourself into the mix. Who knows what sort of chaos you’ll attract with your move?”

“You think I’m distracting?” You grin.

“Do you listen to anything I say?” He grits. “Or do you make it a habit to avoid any viable points in a conversation.”

“I’m listening.” You shrug. “Just to the important stuff. What’s being said underneath the words.”

His jaw twitches. “You’re impossible.”

“You used that one already.”

That’s it. Under the sealed promise of an Al Ghul prodigy and the singular Wayne's blood heir, Damian swears your move to Gotham will be anything but steady. That’ll prove to you that his city will never be yours.

How did he end up here, with boxes stacked in his hands? He couldn’t possibly be helping you with your move. No, he’s merely—observing. The smartest choice, as his father always says, is to infiltrate from within.

You’ve picked possibly one of the worst neighbourhoods without your own knowledge. The crime rate’s peaked over eighty percent in this area at least four times within the last quarter of the year, which can be easily checked through a simple Google search. The nearest public transport is a ten minute walk away, and he’s forced to carry your belongings, because you didn’t hire any movers.

When he had demanded for Jon to convince you that you’re making the wrong move within your first twenty-four hours of horrific decision-making in the city, Jon merely said: “She’s got it figured out. It’ll be fine, I know her.”

Evidently, Jon does not know that his cousin is a walking disaster. If Damian hadn’t immediately sought after you—you would have taken the wrong turns, dragged around your belongings through Gotham’s dirt-filled streets, and ended up just as lost as you had been four hours ago when he found you staring blankly at the vandalised street signs, trying to figure out if the number sprayed on stood for a four or seven.

“Thanks for helping me out!” You grin. “I knew you’d warm up to me.”

Warming up? He’s tempted to scoff, because that is not what this is. He was only concerned because it was Jon’s relative. It shouldn’t be his responsibility, but since his best friend lacked the initiative to look after his own cousin—Damian couldn’t stand to sit still and wait for a disaster to happen. He’s merely doing it because he knows Jon would fret and panic if anything happened to you, and he’d have to deal with the fall-out. That’s all.

“Jon asked me to.” The lie slips easily from his mouth. It’s easy, and Jon practically insinuated it by mentioning in an off-handed comment of your arrival.

“Really?” Your eyes widen. “He’s not the type to pester me, though.”

Pester? Is that how you saw his help, as pestering? Damian’s grimace worsens, the end point of his lips tilting downward. “I’m sure he’s had a change of heart, after hearing about your decision to move to one of the most dangerous cities in the world.”

“It can’t be too bad if it’s the only city that’s got a Robin.” You shrug.

He falters, boxes shifting in weight at your sudden comment. He quickly readjusts them, tossing you a glare as if you did it on purpose. Maybe you had, he’s beginning to suspect you’re purposely saying the strangest things to catch his off-guard reaction.

Clicking at his tongue, he answers. “It’s because this city is dangerous, that’s why it needs a Robin.”

You hum, hands digging through your pockets to find your new key—which he also had to accompany you to collect to ensure you weren’t being scammed. The last resort if that happened would be to offer you a place to stay in Wayne Manor, and he hates that he even thought of the proposal in the first place.

He watches as you slot the key through the keyhole with a frown, already predicting that whatever was behind this door would be a security nightmare. His grip on the boxes unintentionally tighten in what—anticipation? This is ridiculous. He is merely doing his duty, somewhere in the mess of ill-fitting banter and allocating his steps with yours. The door hinge creaks as you push through, and it’s—exactly what he expected from Gotham.

Creaky floorboards, thin bars on the windows that are more decorative than purposeful, yellowed heaters, and—his gaze keeps flickering back to the door lock. He’ll have to fix that too.

“So, is this everything you dreamed it to be?” He mutters wryly, turning with the expectation to see your face dampened of its permanent glow.

“Yep.” You nod, completely unfazed. “It’s exactly what I pictured.”

He can’t stop his lips from parting in disbelief, the closest he’ll come to his jaw hanging. There must be a screw loose in your head. You pictured… this? Even when he first arrived in Gotham, the city had soured from his initial impressions.

He almost wanted you to admit that your move was a mistake, to give him a reason to persuade you back to Metropolis. It's still an unregistered fact in his head that you actually moved to Gotham, despite all that he's done to stain the city's reputation, not that it needed much assistance on that. Yet, here you are—unshaken and much more grounded than he expected you to be in a city that wasn’t yours. Looking at your bright eyes, he won’t be surprised if you could truly make Gotham yours.

He shakes his head, settling the boxes on the floor. If you're truly set on your ambition, he has no choice but to oblige. “You’ll need a better door security system.” He says gruffly. “And window bars. Practically everything needs to be revamped.”

“No way.” You gasp. “Are you offering, Damian?”

He heaves a long, dreaded sigh, feeling it in the cavity of his chest. “…It’s what Jon would want.”

Damian finds himself over at your apartment more than he'd like to admit. First, with the upgraded door lock—then, the list begins. When your door hinge broke next from your excess strength, he had arrived with a toolbox from the Cave, and a steady ‘I told you so’ expression as you grin at him sheepishly.

Then again, when you break your sink’s tap. Again, when you lose yourself in Gotham’s streets attempting to find a grocery store that was supposedly down the street.

It’s small, little inconveniences that he shouldn’t concern himself with. If anything, it should irritate him because it’s supposed to be Jon’s duty to accompany you during your new gracing period of getting used to the city—not him, someone who does it begrudgingly with a set frown across his lips to remind himself that he’s not supposed to enjoy being in your company. He isn’t enjoying being around you. He is simply observing.

Observing how you liked scouting for fresh fruits to try out in your home-brought blender because you tend to gravitate towards summer beverages, even when Gotham’s temperatures invites mist into the early mornings. How you liked old cartoon shows because it makes you laugh till your stomach hurts, and the couch has ripped chunks from your unintentional grip tearing out cotton buds onto the floorboards. How your eyes have a slight glimmer when you look at him, as if you’ve brought all the sunlight from Metropolis and stored it in your gaze, softened and glistening in the most dangerous way.

“It’s cheap entertainment.” He grumbles, eyeing an episode you're rewatching of Scooby Doo with genuine disdain.

“Then I’m the target audience.” You grin, eyeing him with that look again. “Plus, I don’t see you looking away.”

”…Tt. You’re imagining things.” He scoffs, forcing his eyes back towards the sink tap. He'd sooner pummel himself through training than admit that he wasn't truly looking at the screen, but at your comical reactions to your favourite scenes. “They are no true detectives.”

“As opposed to you, Wonder Boy?” You tease. “You’re the best of the best, I already know that.”

His cheeks warm, but he finds your flattery… to be not too straining on the ears. “Stop claiming that you know me.”

“Right—and you’re not thinking of how Titus would be a better replacement for Scooby?”

“…”

Damian refuses to admit that you disarm him. That he’s begun to look for your company, more than anything else. Till the point where he frequently makes a stop after this patrol to your small, sketchy apartment, with a sarcastic quip of how he detests the neighbourhood—only to end up being dragged by your hand inside past the fire escape. You’re warmer than the cold wind that whips at his uncovered skin in the night—and you’re nothing like him.

"My family runs warmer than others." You admit, your hands clasped around his.

Mr. Freeze had tested his new technological advancement during a run-in on his patrol, and Damian still hasn't quite lost the chill from his fingers. It's weakness, he thinks—to not bare the cold when he was raised in the mountains where winter was a permanent frost over the landscape.

You didn't see it that way. Of course you didn't. No, you simply took his hand into yours, and started massaging at his fingers. He had tried pulling away, but the warmth that physically bled from your touch rendered him immobile from the relief.

It's as if you're sunshine reincarnate, it irritates him how his body instinctively leans into your warmth. Not because of survival instincts trained within his limbs, but because he wanted to. He liked the feeling of your hands intertwined with his, and that thought confused him more than Mr. Freeze's new projects or even the chill running through his fingers.

He’ll never acknowledge it as anything more than looking out for you, out of consideration for your close bond with Jon. To keep an eye on you, even when he’s practically confirmed that you’ll never be a threat to anything other than your sink tap. Even then, he finds his chest swelling when he receives the notification that you’ve broken something again. A handle, a tap—he can’t find it in himself to reason fast enough before he’s already over at your place with a practiced grimace that doesn’t make it past the doorstep.

It’s dangerous to place a term for it, but he knows something’s changed. What started out as caution, has evolved into something that’s slipped out of his hands—his control. He can’t find it in himself to stop, and there’s something addictive in the contrast you bring to his city. He was right about one thing. You have claimed the city as yours, and… he’s beginning to struggle to see Gotham without you in it.

Damian very quickly realises that your choice in your neighbourhood wasn’t an idiotic, impulsive coincidence. He wishes he didn’t have to find out this way, landing in your arms again.

“Oh—for the love of—” He hisses. “Put. Me. Down.”

High up in the air, you've opted for quick transport by lifting him without permission towards your fire escape.

You’re quick to let him go, letting him tumble back down to the fire escape, but your grin is unreasonably bright. Your feet descend back onto the ledge of the fire escape, and you hop back down, rattling the metal railings. “You know, it’s weird it happened twice—”

“Whose fault is that?” He nearly yells, but the bruising at his side prevents him from raising his voice any louder with his ribs aching. “I never asked for your help. In both occurrences.”

You shrug, tugging your windowsill and pushing it upward. “You didn’t have to. I helped you out cause I wanted to.”

He’s ready to snarl about how he didn’t want your help either, but you had already snuck into your apartment, and out of habit, he follows. It’s only because he’s worried that if he doesn’t, you’ll sneak out and chase after criminals again—when Gotham isn’t your jurisdiction. You’re meant to stay in Gotham for your education, not vigilante work.

He should’ve tried harder to convince you not to move here, because your bleeding heart will only be sucked dry by a city like Gotham. He knows deep down that nothing can change your mind once you’ve set a vision to follow, but he can’t accept just how easily you run into the face of danger. From the moment you snatched him away from the stampede of cows, he already knew you were selfless—the type to look out for others without a second thought.

It frightens him of just how willing you had been in that alleyway earlier, and Damian does not know how to be scared. So, his frustrations vent out as anger. Now, all that’s keeping his conscience intact is keeping an eye on you, making sure you aren’t causing more trouble. That’s the reason he’s here in your bedroom, arms crossed and body tense as you search for a first-aid kit despite his own repeated denials of not needing medical attention.

“I have X-ray vision, and you still wanted to lie?” You muse, unaware of his turmoil. “I know the Bats are stubborn, but you may be the worst one.”

His lips part, wanting to argue and you raise a brow as if him doing so will just prove you right. There’s nothing he hates more than doing that. Clamping his mouth shut, he forces himself to sit at the edge of your bed, stiff and back straight as you open the first aid kit, sitting beside him.

This close, he feels it again. How out of breath he becomes when the distance between you and him decreases, when he’s able to truly memorise your features without having the needed space to process—to think and realise what he’s doing. Gawking, like an idiot schoolboy.

”Your heart rate is rising really quickly.” You mutter in acknowledgment, gaze trained on his chest. “Are you sure you don’t want to get it checked?”

His ears feel hot. Tearing his gaze away from your face, his fists dig into your sheets. “There’s nothing wrong with me. You should get your sight checked.”

You snort, a genuine laugh nearly bubbling out from your lips. “Sometimes, I think you’re the most hilarious person I’ve ever met.”

His brows furrow. “I did not intend on being funny.”

“Exactly.” You hum, taking out soothing patches from your kit. “You're straight as an arrow. You do things with purpose, and you never back out.”

He lets out a controlled exhale when the coolness of the patch meets his bruised skin. “Another assumption of yours?” He grits.

“You tell me.” You answer. Your eyes fleet between the patch you’re holding onto his skin, and his averting gaze. “Why did you follow me, Damian?”

“I was not following you.”

He was. Rather indiscreetly too. It was careless, impulsive—unlike him. He blames it on you, naturally. Being indiscrete, impulsive—these characteristics perfectly describe you, and keeping an hyper-vigilant eye on your antics since that horrendous first meeting has begun to corrupt his mind too.

You raise an unimpressed brow at his answer, and his teeth churn against one another.

“Fine.” He sighs. “I was concerned.”

“For?” You push. “The safety of Gotham?”

He restrains a sigh. Must you miss every point underlaying his words, forcing him to spell his shame out loud? “For you. You may be stronger than the average mortal, but you’re still vulnerable. You have weaknesses and act as if you are invisible. Someone needs to keep an eye out, to watch your back.”

“That someone is you?” You voice out, surprise coating your features.

He swallows dryly, and his favourite lie slips out in preformed habit. “Jon asked me.”

An uncharacteristic scoff, loud and brash, leaves your lips and catches him off-guard.

“Come on, Damian.” For the first time, your voice teeters on the edge of veiled patience, one he is unfamiliar with. You couldn’t possibly be cross with him when that was his role. “I called Jon two weeks ago. He never asked you to do anything for me.”

His lips part, the realisation that he’s been caught processing slower than it should. This means—that you’ve known all along. With every pretence of lingering in your presence, showing up unannounced as if it were a task forced onto him. He can’t come up with a reasoning that makes sense, one that doesn’t make him sound like a lunatic.

“Be honest. You’re here on your own accord.” Your finger lifts, pushing into his chest. “So, why did you show up in that alleyway?”

That is something he can barely answer for himself. His lips purse into a thin line, before he eventually mutters. “I was on patrol.”

Your expression doesn't shift. “And?”

“I’m getting there.” He huffs, features wrinkled with frustration. “I was patrolling the Fashion District. Your neighbourhood wasn’t my assigned location.”

He remembers vividly of the alert from Barbara through the comms, of a civilian attack on a street not too far from yours—and how he didn’t even pause to think and left his patrol borders. Disregarding his duty, his responsibility without thinking twice, all on a mere flash of the possibility that you could be in danger.

Knowing you had super-human abilities, he still went anyway, with his chest thudding with what he refuses to be panic.

“My suspicions were proven right.” He frowns. “You were in the center of the chaos, pinning a thug to a wall without realising his accomplice was holding a gun to the back of your head.”

Your own lips form a matching downturn to his. “You know I could’ve taken it. A normal bullet won't harm me.”

“So?” He scoffs. It comes out harsher than intended. “Was I supposed to just stand there and let you take the shot?”

You blink, not expecting his adverse reaction. He sighs, running a hand through his dark locks.

“I couldn’t stand to see the bullet go off.” He mutters, his bare expression hidden by the shadow of his palm. “Bruises are a common occurrence for me, and if I could turn back time, I would have done the same."

“Why?”

He scoffs. “Would you like to experiment the chances of a bullet piercing your skull—”

“No.” You cut him off, voice growing sharper. “I mean—why did you rush here, Damian?”

His words die off his tongue.

“You mentioned countless times that I’m a nuisance.”

“You are.” He mutters distractedly.

Your frown deepens, not believing his front in the slightest. “If you can’t tolerate me, you wouldn’t have rushed over at the first thought of me potentially being in danger.”

He falls silent. He doesn’t want to think of this, of the way his body seizes with unfamiliar tension just at the thought of you injured. Of how even standing here with this stifling conversation stuffed down his throat—he can only consume the sight of you with a hungry, overwhelming relief at the sight of you unharmed, even with your eyes narrowed and smile no longer intact.

“Why are you here, Damian?”

He falters. The excuse of Jon is no longer an option, and being trapped into a corner of his own making frustrates him—and the conflict writhing in his chest redirects onto you instead.

“Why are you here?” He tosses back, fury stirring in his gut. "Gotham is already a fool's choice, coming from Metropolis, but to choose this district in Crime Alley?"

Idiotically placing yourself in the most crime-ridden neighbourhood, getting yourself caught in a crossfire—he’d sooner collapse from the stress of your impulsivity affecting his conscience than the growing soreness from the bruising near his ribs.

Your brows furrow. “I chose this place because it's located in the most crime-ridden neighbourhood in the city.”

“Exactly, you haven't done your research and you already—” He freezes, processing your admission. “You knew?” He asks incredulously.

You stare at him blankly, as if he hasn’t gotten the entire picture. “Did you seriously think I came all the way here without purpose, even knowing about the crime rates? That I’d sleep perfectly fine—knowing that I have the ability to protect others, and refused to do anything about it?”

“I know you think lowly of me.” You mutter, expression breaking. “—but I’m not just going to stand around like a bystander. My family raised me to be someone who will stand up for those who can’t. To face danger head-on, if it means giving others the chance to go home.”

His breath stops short. He has never seen that expression on your face. One of complete disappointment. He has never hated anything more, and it feels as if invisible hands have begun to crawl up his chest, rising to squeeze at his throat.

“No.” His voice comes out weak, frail. “I do not—think lowly of you. That is not what occurred in my mind.”

“Then, what?” You plead. “What do you think of me, Damian? You keep me company, for seemingly no true reason, and you act as if I forced you to.”

“I—” Damian has never struggled with admitting his thoughts aloud. He believes firmly in speaking his mind. Yet, staring into the vivid picture of hurt pooling in your eyes, he finds his reasonings have all gone blank.

“I had assumed you to be impulsive.” He admits after a moment, his heart thudding in his eardrums. “I kept an eye on you in the case of emergency that you might invoke trouble.”

It wasn’t obvious before, the hope that was lit in your gaze. It only hits him that you had been holding out the smallest flame—a spark of hope for him, when it snuffs out at his response.

“You’ve been…. keeping watch?” You ask, your voice going stale.

He swallows dryly. “…Yes.”

“So... all along while I was considering you as someone who I was lucky enough to have—who I thought was kind enough to look out for me, even if he struggled to show it.” Your expression closes up, and he realises he’s never seen you this way. Guarded—detached. “You’ve been treating me as some—potential casualty?”

His jaw twitches, his response rushing out in desperation. “No. I was mistaken.”

You blink slowly before you meet his gaze. Truly looking at him, without that glimmer he’s gotten used to beholding. It stings him more than he expects. “So was I.” You mutter.

His chest physically deflates, sinking into the ground. He calls out your name weakly, sensing the gravity of his mistake is not one that can be easily undone. He has never felt at such a loss, where every step forward feels as if it’s only sinking him deeper into the scratched floorboards.

“The bruising will need serious ice.” You utter, your expression a careful blank. “It’s best you get back to your Cave.”

The tension in his brow falters, shock flashing through his features. He’s never had a situation where he wasn’t able to defend himself, or prove his point right—winning the situation. In the face of your blatant distance, he realises he’s been a fool. He has lost. Your trust, your favour—all over his own stupidity.

“The apartment has a lease.” You mutter distractedly. “But I’ll figure something out, if you truly want me out of Gotham so badly. In the case that you don’t trust my word that I won’t destroy your city.”

“That is not what I meant.” He grits.

“Weren’t you the one who tried his hardest to dissuade me from moving here?” You reply coolly.

His voice raises uncontrollably. “That’s—it had been the case, but it’s different now.”

“Damian.” Your voice, stern and absolutely stops him in his tracks. Your gaze is piercing, and he feels completely bare under it. “I'm hearing your deflection, but I have come no closer to understanding you. If you won’t explain to me on why it’s different, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

He blinks once, expression drawing together in tight tension. Conflict fights its winning battle, visible in the clenching of his fists, the clamping of his lips together into a thin line.

“It’s not fair of you to toss around your words and decide when they matter and when they don’t.” You breathe out a shaky exhale. “I may be strong, but I feel just as much as a normal person. I’ve been seen as part alien for my whole life, and I thought that you of all people, wouldn’t see me that way. You’re confusing me on where I stand, on what you see when you see me—and it hurts.”

“So—” You swallow, hand unconsciously going to squeeze the fabric right above your heart. “—if you can’t find it in yourself to explain yourself to me, I need you to give me space."

Your back turns to him, hands closing over the clasp of the first-aid kit. "I deserve that, at least.”

He watches as your back faces him fully, slowly out of reach. It hits him again—a brief flash of what he's considered from the moment you turned the key in that abominable lock. A Gotham without you. Without your laughter, your smiles, your warmth that spreads through his numbed skin when he sneaks onto your fire escape after his patrols. You as a willing accomplice to his antics, offering your company without once asking him for a reason as to why he sought you out.

Now that he's had a taste of what it's like to be with you, he can't go back.

“You’re right.” He spits it out before he regrets it. The words echo against the brick walls, and his nails dig into his palms. “I never back away from what I set my mind on. The only problem is that my mind is set on you.”

You whip your head, turning back to meet his gaze. Shock faintly replaces your resigned expression, and he pushes on the moment he has your attention.

“From the mornings I wake to the nights I patrol, you were the one singular thought I couldn't shake.” He admits. “Your presence—consumes me. I found myself gravitating towards you naturally, as if there isn’t anywhere else I’d rather be than by your side."

“I don’t see you as alien.” His voice is a low murmur, a plea for you to believe him. “I never have. It was because you made me feel so painfully human, that I became wary. I had never felt so vulnerable to the existence of another, till the point where my day is made depending on whether I managed to be apart of yours."

“It was terrifying to admit that there was no magic, no genetic enhancement, no other reasoning except for the fact that I wanted to see you. All the time.” He confesses. “It was all on me. From the moment I first saw you, I had already known that I would be affected, and... there was nothing I could've done to stop it.”

His admission leaves him more vulnerable than he's ever been in his entire life. Not even when he was under the League's control, had he ever felt this exposed in the hands of another person. He waits, and waits as you process his words in complete, utter silence. It does not suit you to stare at him wordlessly, and he wishes so desperately to hear your voice.

“...From the first moment." Your realisation that widens your eyes briefly—it’s terrifying, daunting, and beautiful. "You mean—when I caught you?”

“You are maddening.” He huffs, half in amusement and half in disbelief. “That was the only part that registered for you?”

“Like I told you.” The smallest of smiles lifts the corners of your lips. “I pay attention to the important details, not just words. You’re telling me that you fell for me the moment I caught you mid-air, Damian.”

What’s the point in refuting your point, when you could already hear his heartbeat? It would have already spelled out the truth in its erratic nature that only existed because of you. “Maybe I did.”

Your smile loosens into something genuine. “I knew you warmed up to me.”

“It’s more than that.” He murmurs, shaking his head. “Warming up implies that it's something that can be controlled on my part. No, you’ve ignited something I can’t destroy, no matter how hard I tried.”

You hum. “And you know what’s your problem, Damian?”

He freezes the moment he hears the word 'problem'. What has he done wrong? He's torn out his heart and splayed it all out in the most excruciating confession, and he was being honest in the only way he knew how. Maybe he had been too direct, too much—or maybe his mistake was too wrongful to forgive. His mind is calculating in overdrive, that he fails to notice how close you've come to him.

“You always say I make too many assumptions about you.” You point out, and your voice brings him back to reality. His breath hitches at the sight of you near, almost in his grasp. “Yet, from what I’m hearing—I was right all along, and it was the other way around. You made all the wrong assumptions about me.”

“You assumed that I was impulsive.” You start, and he winces.

“That I didn’t understand you.” You continue.

Your smile lifts, amusement flickering in your gaze. “And most inaccurately of all, you assumed that this is all on you alone.”

He blinks slowly, and finally, he looks at you. Truly—looks at you. That glimmer he was so afraid he lost, there again in your softened gaze.

“I knew from the moment I saved you from that cow stampede.” You break, laughter slipping through your voice. It’s warm, light—and he could listen to the way it trails along with your grin for eternity. “I don’t do things halfway either, Damian. I choose you, even when you’re being stubborn, and mean, and assuming all the wrong things.”

You… chose him. As undeserving as he was, you've seen him in this broken, desperate state and you still look at him with that softened gaze that drives his mad. The revelation is what finally pushes him forward.

His lips meet yours, clumsily and in a broken, inexperienced mash of misplaced energy. Your laughter spills out of you freely, and he follows after that sound. He wishes to consume it, and have it live in the breadth of his heart so he could carry it wherever he wished. To banish that ache you’ve caused now that he knows what life before and after you feels like—and he’s decided he could never survive the former ever again.

Your arms wrap around his neck, and he instinctively registers your feet lifting off the ground when you kiss him back. It’s so mindlessly adorable, that he doesn't hesitate in tugging you closer into his hold, wrapping his arms around your waist.

He nearly lost the chance to have this—have you, over his own foolish delusions. His pride, his defences—he’s never been more willing to shed it all if it was for you. From the start, he had only been forming excuses to hide it from himself that you had invaded his conscience from the moment he saw you—and there was nothing he could've done to prevent it.

You’re the most maddening Kent he’s ever met, and you’re the only one who can wrap him around your finger so easily, leaving him wanting more and more. To have been swept into your arms mid-air—shamefully and endearingly, might have been the most miraculous thing that’s ever happened to him.

"Don't leave Gotham." He whispers. "Stay here with me."

"How could I leave my favourite damsel?" You tease, nose brushing against his, your eyes shining in earnest.

"Tt." His ears are reddened, but he's not fond of the idea of letting you go anytime soon. Without admitting it, he is quite liking this change—of him holding onto you, instead of vice-versa. Damian supposes he'll still have to personally thank Jon and the stampede of cows on his next visit.

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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 @favorite-fan-fics @radheadphones @freakkay09 @mydeliciouscookies (to be added, check masterlist)

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