sade!!!

your friendly neighbourhood dc and marvel fan <3

[scissorhvnds]

      𝘀𝗰𝘂𝗳𝗳 𝗺𝗮𝗿𝗸𝘀 - 01

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴! mechanic!jason todd x reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆! your car breaks down and you meet your best friend's brother, jason.

𝘁𝗮𝗴𝘀! afab!reader, tension, no warnings otherwise!

𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁! 4213

the sun beat beat down against the back of your neck. burning in a way that boiled you from the inside out. the way only the rays of the mid-day sun could flame. 

your baby had smoke coming out of the hood, one more kilometre away from practically bursting into flames with you behind the wheel. 

this wasn't the evening you had envisioned for yourself. after a hard morning of classes, and long hours spent at the library with your gaze focused on your laptop screen — all you wanted to do was lay down and do nothing. 

it was a friday evening, the first friday evening without an obligation. 

the past month had been a flurry of papers, readings, assignments, papers, presentations, more papers. for once, you had one evening to yourself. 

all those plans went to waste as the taste of smoke that curled up from your car invaded your senses. 

you had texted a please of rescue to your best friend twenty minutes ago.

you were no car expert, and you had no desire to begin poking around under the hood of your car. 

through the sounds of the birds singing in the trees, you finally heard the familiar rumble of tim's own car. a loud engine that rattled the pavement under it's tires. the white car pulled to a stop just behind yours. 

his boot stepped out first, crunching the gravel below. 

"please, just do this for me," you heard tim's grumble of annoyance. he ducked his head out of the car, phone raised to his ear. his knuckles were wrapped tightly around the device, bordering white with exertion. 

you turned your face back towards your car out of privacy. the conversation seemed to be bordering tense. 

the only indication of him coming closer was the continued thumping of his boot against the pavement. out of the corner of your eye, you could see the tips of his shoes stop just beside you. 

"yeah, yeah. yes, bro, oh my fucking god. i'll see you soon," he muttered, his clipped tone becoming increasingly more annoyed before sliding his phone into his back pocket. 

he smiled at you in greeting before leaning his head to inspect the undercarriage. his eyes roved over your battery, your transmission, before analyzing another part that you couldn't name. 

you were utterly lost. 

"how is this thing still going," he grumbled softly. 

you frowned at his words, hand coming up to slap his shoulder. 

"don't talk about shark like that," you scolded. shark was special to you. she was reliable (for the most part). she was a constant. she had been with you since your first year of university, after you had saved up 3 summers worth of money to purchase her off your neighbour's hands. 

"listen, shark is beautiful, but constantly fucking you over," tim pointed out, waving a trickle of smoke out of his face. 

"she's getting old, is all. she's fine," you defended weakly, though your voice held a hint of defeat. 

"jason's on his way, he said he'll take a look," tim responded, turning around to rest his backside against shark's side. his arms crossed over his chest as he craned his neck to the side to gaze at you. 

"jason? like your brother jason?" you asked, planting yourself beside him. 

tim hummed in confirmation. 

"i've never met this brother," you added hesitantly. 

"he likes to keep to himself. got a small shop. doesn't take too many clients, but sells a lot of parts to other people. i think. i don't know," tim shook his head, pinching his nose slightly. "he'll bring the tow to get shark to the shop."

just as tim finished explaining, the sight of the bumbling tow truck came into view. 

"go wait in the car," tim said, nodding his head in the direction of his own car. 

"oh, but don't you want me to—" you began, furrowing your brows towards the tow truck that was backing into the space in front of yours. 

"no, i'll handle it," he stated, turning to face his brother as his brother stepped out of the car. 

your world stopped as you saw jason over tim's shoulder. 

god, he was beautiful. 

your mouth dried up, the bustle of nature quieted down, and tim's presence ceased to exist. he was large. comically so, yet he moved like he didn't know how much space he took up. 

his brows seemed permanently furrowed, shoulders tense like the weight of the world constantly rested on his shoulders. though it didn't take away from his beautiful features. jet black strands with streaks of white in the front that flopped over his forehead, a strong set jaw that framed a plump lower lip. 

"let's make this quick, shithead," his voice rang out, deep and smooth. your knees almost buckled under you. it was then that jason had noticed you, half hidden behind tim's frame. he barely blinked in acknowledgment, eyes shifting back to tim within a second of landing on you. 

why hadn't tim let you meet jason before this?

you had been introduced to his other siblings at some point or another, even had established your own friendship with some of them. but jason, jason was a different ballgame. the way your breath thinned when you saw him scared you. 

tim glanced at you over his shoulder before returning his attention back to jason. his eyes narrowed slightly at his brother, "dude, you owe me for covering your ass last week, stop being an asshole," 

their conversation faded when you finally opened tim's passenger door, sliding your body into the seat. their sibling squabble wasn't of interest to you. curt bickering over small shoves; side eyed glares and quick quips over memories that didn't include you. normal brothers is what they were. you were tired and annoyed — and the sight of jason did something to you, something you weren't ready to admit — and tim's desire to push his brother's buttons did nothing to help. your skin felt tight over your bones, a flush settled under your skin and threatened to restrict your airways. your jeans were sticking to your thighs under the piercing rays of the sun. the warmth felt unforgiving in this moment, cooking you from the inside out. 

the road in front of you stretched for kilometres, a long-winded gray road that led nowhere, that led to home. 

a short time later, tim opened the driver's side and slid into the seat. 

"gonna drive you to the shop, jason said it's an easy fix," he explained, turning the car on and pulling out of his spot. your car had been hooked up to jason's tow truck, your heart sank at the sight. 

"did he say what happened?" your voice was hoarse from lack of use. 

"nothing to worry about," he responded, a finality in his tone — one that you had decided wasn't worth the questioning. your car would get fixed, you were sure. then yourself and shark could be on your way. 

﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒

jason's shop was small. 

quaint. 

it was messy, yet clean at the same time. it was a dizzying paradox. the shelves of his shop were meticulous, not a spec of dust could be seen on any surface. though, his belongings overtook the area. his toolbox lay discarded on the floor next to the post-lift, with an assortment of tools laying scattered across the area. they each seemed placed with purpose — like each was there for easy access. 

the melodic beat of a rock song was playing in the back, some old one from the 80s that you recognized instantly. though, the familiar tune did nothing to drown out the silence that stretched between you. 

jason was under the hood, back on a trolley that was rolled under shark. his shirt had ridden up, exposing a sliver of his muscles stomach. the smooth patch of skin. you were sat beside of work bench, a small metal chair that froze the back of your thighs — a stark contrast to the sweltering heat you were stuck in only an hour prior. 

tim had left shortly after dropping you off — he, himself, had papers, assignments, exams to study for just as you did. 

your voice rang out into the air, introducing your name to the man under your car. the clanging of metal paused for a singular second, and the only sound heard was a guitar solo playing quietly through the speaker.

…okayy…

his lack of response unnerved you. you weren't comfortable in this silence. your teeth gnawed into your lower lip, your eyes raking down his lower half. dark blue jeans, faded with use, paired with brown boots with scuffed toes. 

"so, what exactly is wrong? tim didn't tell me," you attempted again, leaning forward in your seat. his legs shifted, knees falling apart, as he changed the angle in the undercarriage. your eyes raked up the inside of his muscled, jean-clad thigh and sand filled your throat. 

"when was the last time you got an oil change?" his muffled voice rumbled back, ignoring your questions.

"uhhhh, the previous owner did one before i bought it?" you recalled, brows furrowing with retrieving the information from your memory. 

"which was when," he continued. a particularly loud clang erupted from beneath the car and you heard jason swear under his breath. 

"since tim and i's first year?" 

"the fuck?" he pushed the trolley from under the car, head lifted to regard you in shock. his features were even more pronounced in the dim lighting. the blazing sun was setting, coating the shop in a twilight. the overlight light fought to burn bright enough to light up the room, but fell short. you almost struggled to form another thought as you watched the cut of his jaw clench. 

"what…?" your voice came out smaller than you intended it to. you cleared your throat quickly, masking it with a soft cough. "my car runs fine." there it was. your voice was steady. clearer. how you usually sounded. irritation laced your mind, fogging up your senses. you could have been home right now. 

"you haven't changed the oil since you got this car?" he repeated. his tone disbelieving. a small pit of dread formed in your chest. you hadn't changed the oil, no, you didn't know that you had to. 

your head shook before you even knew you were committing the action. 

jason's only response was a huff — a puff of breath and a shake of his head as he rolled himself back under your car. his arm reached out, fingers curling around a tool — you didn't know which — that lay off to the side. you were amazed at how seamlessly he moved underneath your car. how he was able to grab each tool without hesitation, how he knew where each tool lay placed on the floor. it was a harmonious dance between himself and his tools. 

the silence ate at you again. it was loud. 

eventually, he wheeled himself out from below your car again, abs flexing through the imprint of his shirt as he pushed himself up. a small streak of grease lined his cheek, cutting a contour down his cheekbone. his hair stuck to his forehead, the white streaks mostly hidden by the black on top of his head. 

"my cigarettes are beside you, do you mind?" his head nodded towards the pack of marlboro reds and a lighter neatly placed on his work station beside you. you nodded, the items laying heavy in your palm before tossing them to him — one after the other. 

he shoved one in his mouth before glancing up at you again. his brow raised. "need me to step out? or?" 

"oh! no, no, you're good," 

"want one?" an extra cigarette was pinched between his fingers, extended out towards you. 

"no, thank you. i don't smoke," you declined politely, your hands settling under your thighs. your mind wandered to the situation at hand. the state of your car was unknown. tim had said there was nothing to worry about, but jason wasn't giving you a reason to believe otherwise. his tools were clanging around down there, creating all sorts of noises that were unfamiliar to you. 

jason's eyes wandered to the clock on the wall, lips forming an 'o' around an exhale of smoke. the grey cloud streamed out of his lips and curled into the air. your nose wrinkled slightly at the smell, though, you didn't comment. 

"shop's closed now, darling, gotta come back tomorrow," he inhaled around the cigarette again, eyes flickering over to you. his arms were perched over his bent knees. a position of leisure. 

"what? no? what about my car?" you protested, back straightening instantly. 

"it'll get finished tomorrow," his smokey words floated towards you. 

"you were down there for an hour and a half? what the fuck takes that long?" you stood up in frustration, your hands flailing before your chest. 

"car shit takes that long. like i said, shop is closing. your car'll be done tomorrow," he pushed himself up, height towering. imposing. his shoulders practically blocked out the little yellowed lighting the room already had. 

"how am i supposed to get home then?" you snapped, going over to your car to retrieve your wallet from the glove compartment. your car had been lifted onto the post-lift so that jason could work comfortably underneath. you stood on your tip toes, sprawling your body across the height to reach into the consol and grab your belongings. 

jason couldn't help the way his gaze lingered on your back, over the brown tank top that you wore that accentuated every dip and curve that had his mind spiraling for the past two hours. down to the jeans that hugged your figure like it was made for you. he tried to ignore the way your backside pushed out against the protrusions of your car, unknowingly displaying yourself in for his eyes to see — and hopefully only his eyes. 

when you finally turned back around, his eyes snapped back up to meet yours. 

"call your boyfriend to come and pick you up," jason stated flatly, turning his back to you as he began to reorganize his tools. his ears were tuned to your movements, though, tracking every sway of your hips as you shuffled in spot. 

a scoff left your mouth before you had the chance to catch it. 

jason paused momentarily, reigning in his silent victory. you didn't have a boyfriend. but he knew you'd call tim, he would retrieve you and jason would finally be able to breath again. 

you had to bite your tongue. the weight of the situation was pressing down on you, threatening to push you into the earth's crater with every passing moment. it wasn't just your car — no, your car was minuscule in the grand scheme of things. it was life. it was school. it was your job. you didn't have time to deal with a broken down car, you didn't have the funds to repair it either. 

suddenly, you felt slightly shameful at the sudden burst of attitude you had just given jason. this was his job, not his life. the inconveniences of your life had nothing to do with him. his shop hours were his shop hours, and you would just have to come back to deal with your car in the morning. 

"well?" he turned to regard you with a raised brow, his eyes shifting up to the clock again. he couldn't be in your presence for another second. his senses were invaded by you. the sweet scent of your perfume that wafted through the air had been torturing him the second you had sat down in his shop. the sight of tim giving you a hug before he left had his nostrils flaring — something he wasn't particularly proud of. 

but he couldn't stay away from you either. and he knew it too. 

"yeah, no, that's fine. what time should i be here tomorrow," you blew a soft breath out of your mouth, smoothing a hand over the top of your head. 

"anytime after nine is good," jason's muscles bulged from where they lay across his chest. the tight black t-shirt he wore scrunched against his biceps. you tried to hide your eyes wandering down his arms, down the sleeve of tattoos littering his arms. a few small birds in flight stood out from the rest. 

cute. 

you nodded in agreement, pulling out your phone. "okay. and the address of this place?" 

he told you, his leg crossing over the other. he remained leaned against his work table, head cocked to the side. his bottom lip was pulled between his teeth. he told you slowly, words enunciating around each number and letter.

you nodded, giving a small polite smile as you moved to leave. "see you tomorrow then, jason, thank you for your help." 

he dipped his head slowly, eyes never yours as he watched you leave. 

by the time you had made it outside, your phone call to tim had already been declined. his contact picture — a picture of him asleep in his bed with a facemask on — stared back at you, the brightness blinding you in the setting sun. 

you let out a sigh and looked around. jason's shop was in the middle of fucking nowhere. with navigation pulled up on your phone, you began to slowly walk in the direction of your home.

﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒

the road felt endless. not a person around for kilometres. you were unsure if that was a good thing, or a bad thing. the rumble of a car in the distance unnerved you. you wrapped your arms around yourself tighter, pushing yourself further away from the road while remaining on the walking path. your head remained high, giving the illusion of confidence. 

a car slowed to a roll beside you, old and black, dark on the inside. you kept walking, your eyes shifting to the vehicle out of caution. 

"get in," a gruff voice called out. a familiar voice. your brows ticked downwards before your head snapped towards the vehicle. 

jason. 

he was the last person you had expected to see. his car followed your pace, tires crunching over the cracked road. it was eerily quiet out, dark in a way that left you unsettled. once the sun had dipped below the horizon, a chill blanketed the city, extinguishing all traces of sweltering warmth that the daytime had brought.

"i'm almost home, i'm good," you called back, continuing to walk, flashing him a smile that he knew was made of plastic. 

"i didn't know i had asked you a question," he quipped back. his car remained in a slow roll beside you. "i'm telling you to get in."

"and i'm telling you that i'm fine," you attempted again, shaking your head. 

your name on his tongue stopped you in your tracks. he hadn't referred to you by your name yet, only nicknames that felt like a punch to the chest everytime he said them. but the syllables — your name — in his voice affected you more than any "darling" or "sweetheart" that had left his lips so far. 

he didn't say anything further. letting your name linger in the air between you. you knew what words were meant to follow. and you knew he wasn't going to say them again. 

"fine," you breathed out and stepped towards his car. jason leaned over the consol, shoulder muscles shifted under the strain. he opened the door for you from the inside, his gaze remained fixated on you until you settled with the seatbelt securely before he drove off again. 

the only way to describe the atmosphere in jason's car was… awkward. 

"you didn't have to do this, i was fine to walk," your voice was more clipped than you had intended, your shoulders shifted behind the seatbelt digging into your neck. 

"don't think timbo would like it very much if i let the pretty lady walk home while it's dark out," he gave you a sidelong glance. "especially since her car is still in my shop." 

"i can handle getting home just fine," you huffed, your arms crossing over your chest. 

"never said you couldn't," his chin tilted slightly. his gaze remained fixed on the road ahead, eyes scanning the street. 

you didn't know what else to say. your heart was beating so hard, you were sure jason could see it thumping out of your chest.

jason's appearance seemed calm — burdened, even. because he had refused to admit that he had secretly hoped tim declined your call so he could drive you home. rescue you, he had rationalized. he hadn't let you get far before he began following you. no, he was making sure you were safe. 

you had the survival skills of a leaf, he had learned. you hadn't noticed him once. your eyes shifted between your phone and the road ahead, never once at the car that had been trailing you for the past 15 minutes. 

and now that you were in his car, he was losing his mind. his grip was steadily tightening on the wheel with the force of his restraint. his back molars were threatening to crack with each clench of his jaw. you were killing him and you had no fucking idea. 

you were infuriating. and you were kind. it pissed him off. the sight of your face, beautiful and angelic. he could see the fire that sparked in your eyes, and the glow that radiated under your skin. he was sure there was a fucking halo hovering over your head as well. 

and you were sitting there. in his car. shoulders visible from your tank top. your skin on display. goosebumps raised your flesh, allowing him to see the visible sign of chill and the way you were fighting to hide the shivers that wracked your body. why the fuck weren't you wearing a jacket?

he couldn't stop the puff of annoyance that left his mouth. his arm reached into the backseat, fingers curling around a sweater he had left discarded in the backseat. 

your brows furrowed when he dumped the sweater in your lap. 

"what—"

"wear it. you're cold," he cut you off, his eyes flickering between you and the sweater. 

you didn't fight this time, letting yourself be enveloped in the warmth of jason's sweater. the sweater was 3 sizes too big. but so warm. you continued to murmur directions to your home to him, letting the silence overcome you again. 

the ride was coming to an end, and you were unable to tell if you wanted to stay in his presence or be as far away from him as possible. the conflict was eating at you. his car slowed in front of the building, the streetlights illuminating only a small patch of the otherwise dark street. 

"well, thank you for the ride," your lips pressed together as you shot him a shy glance. 

he nodded slowly, his fingers pressing the button of your seatbelt. the click echoed through the car. he placed the seatbelt back in it's rightful place near the door, his steady arm brushing against the front of your shoulder. 

you tried not to let your breath stutter, but the pitiful sound escaped you regardless. if he had noticed, he didn't let on. 

you were sure you were going to have a heart attack. his proximity was dizzying. you didn't even know him, yet his presence affected you to an embarrassing degree. 

god, you were pathetic. 

his arm shifted to the door handle, body leaning over the consol once again — across the front of your chest — to push it open. his fingers moved with precision. with a level of care that contradicted how much strength he visibly had. up close, you could see each freckle that dusted his cheeks and his nose; the slope of his nose that had a bump right at the bridge; and the dip in his cupid's bow that twitched with every word he spoke. 

you were mesmerized. 

jason's eyes met yours, face inches from yours. nose inches from yours. he gave you a languid blink before his gaze flickered down to your lips. his tongue darted out to wet his own before they snapped back up to meet yours. 

his irises had dilated in size, sucking you into the black void. 

"don't worry about it," jason murmured back. he was so close that you could feel his breath dust your cheek. 

his gaze flickered down again, calculating. it would be so easy to kiss you, to taste you like he had been wanting to all evening. but he wouldn't. 

he pushed the door open slightly before sitting back in his seat. another shudder crawled up your spin from his lack of warmth, despite his sweater covering your body. you pulled it off slowly, setting it in it's place in the backseat again. 

see you tomorrow, pretty girl," he murmured as you climbed out. you froze momentarily before stepping out and turning to face him. your upper body ducked so you would be eye level with him. 

"see you tomorrow, jason,"

𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁! @batwngs , @boo-123456 , @xuzui , @starshine-girl , @brinawing , @jasontoddsthunderthigh , @outpostsworld , @xx-kino-v , @currentblasphemy , @m-0ona , @vayabenson , @deadbeatphobos , @igotcrabs4u , @anne-chloe , @inesvisible , @ftkats , @branchesofmagic , @wrldbloom , @pantone2617c , @loserinadress , @optimisticalmondbananabiscuit , @patientofarkhamasylum , @arkhamknightmares

general taglist: @mollymal , @redhooduwu , @girlmeetsolivia , @athenxt , @nightlights-and-twiklingstars , @silverjaysz , @l0singctrl , @drea18881 , @calicocat-ina-tuxedo , @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger , @mrbusinessman , @starr-jazz , @bat2nsignia , @champagnesbiggestproblem , @indigoscribe , @luviery , @kennlovespink , @jiasfiles , @arfemiz , @givemefinganame

scuff marks masterlist

an: happy death day, jason, i luv u pookie

[starr-jazz]

TATTED UP MECHANIC TODD IM,,,,,,,,,,,,malfunctioning

🎶LIFE IS WORTH LIVINGGGGGHH🎶

THANK YOU MOTHER ASIA🙇‍♀️🙇‍♀️

[fawnindawn]

reign over my heart.

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)

[fawnindawn]

runnin' back to you.

summary: damian wayne, in your memories, was the child assassin prodigy who had a horribly obvious crush on you in your shared childhood. years later, your return to wayne manor shocks you when the kid you once teased relentlessly has grown taller, meaner, into his looks... and is determined to make you regret ever tormenting him.

pairing: damian wayne x fem!reader

content: fluff, damian wayne yearns and time has only amplified his intensity, childhood attachment combined with emotional suppression, little mix of jealousy

"That is not Damian."

"I believe you are referring to the growth spurt." Alfred answers, unsurprised at your reaction. "All the masters have gone through quite a change while you were away."

That couldn’t be it. Growth spurt didn't answer for the unfair angles that make up his face, or the way his lashes framed the captivating green of his eyes, or the way his sleeves fit tight around his arms.

You harshly avert your gaze, feeling something hot burn at the back of your neck. Was this a form of punishment, for all your teasing years ago? You sure hoped he didn't remember that.

His looks may have become a weapon of its own, but you didn't need a clear reminder on his temper. The way his glare used to pierce through you, ears reddened in shame when you had pointed out that he was staring for too long, before hurling threats that contained illegal methods of torture and certain death, then storming off in a hurry.

Spying Damian from the corner of your eye, he must've certainly forgotten about you by now. He's probably used to the mass attention from The Gotham Times, enough to forget the mess that happened between you and him. That you made horrible, ruthless fun out of his feelings, taking every chance you could to piss him off, using the fact that his heartbeat would race around you against him.

"Master Damian and you have fond childhood memories together." Alfred comments. "I'm sure he will be delighted to see you."

Is that what it looked like to the adults? The strange push-and-pull you once had with the only blood heir in Wayne Manor?

"Hi." Your voice comes out brash—awkward, not at all the confident persona you wanted to portray. Damian was even more intimidating up close, with his gaze narrowed down on you, emotions completely hidden behind a perfect blank, towering over you in a way he never did before.

"How are you, Damian?" You try again when he doesn't answer. You might as well ask for the foundation of Wayne Manor to swallow you whole. You'll find better use supporting the infrastructure than in this dead-end of a conversation.

He blinks slowly, at least a suggestion that he's somewhat human. His scowl deepens, arms crossed. "You've somehow become more unimpressive, if that's even feasible."

Your jaw drops. Out of everything, forced curtesy, straight-up ignorance, you didn't expect that. It takes you a second to recover, and it only makes you feel more foolish. "That's uncalled for."

"I don't recall you taking consideration of what others think before spouting nonsense." His assault lands roughly, despite his tongue never quickening in its pace or abrasiveness. In fact, his coolness as he directly insults you only buries you deeper in shame.

It's a strong sense of alert, to abort this mission of reconciliation. "This is making me nolstagic already." Your grin splits too wide, desperation seared into your tone. "Good to see you haven't changed either."

His expression darkens, and you've somehow pissed him off with your harmless comment.

"I have changed." He answers briskly. "And I can guarantee that this new version of me... won't tolerate you so easily."

Before you can even blink or process his outright threat, you feel his shoulder brush harshly against yours, bumping you to the side as he walks off.

Yeah... he definitely remembers you.

Damian proves to be relentless in his promise to be intolerable of your presence.

When you had wandered your way down to the West Wing’s kitchen in your Superman pajamas, you’re greeted with a glare from Death himself when you find Damian sitting across the counter.

"Hi." You greet, almost afraid your voice will shatter the pin-dropping silence the atmosphere has suddenly descended into. You really have to stop with that horrible greeting.

His expression sours further at the sound of your voice, as if you've confirmed his worst nightmare really exists at eight in the morning, standing in his kitchen decked out in Superman merch. His gaze drops pointedly to your attire and grimaces, before shoving another spoonful of his breakfast down his throat.

"No trimming Alfred's hedges included in your morning routine?"

Your joke in an attempt of familiarity clearly strikes the wrong nerve, as the only response you receive is the harsh creak of his chair. He stands abruptly with a point to look on forward as he makes his exit, as if you didn't even exist in the very room.

It's fine. It's only been your first day back. He'll warm up to you... eventually. You just have to prove that you're not that annoying kid anymore, who thought poking fun at a child assassin prodigy who harboured grudges like no tomorrow was a smart move.

You’ve still managed to harness some luck. When you open the cabinets, you find it fully stocked with all your favourite tea brands and flavours. Bless Alfred, his kind soul.

Damian does not warm up to you. When you found him resting in the study, laid out on the leather couch, you barely make it past the barrier of the wooden doors before he slams his book shut. The loud echo vibrates through the entire room along the oak bookshelves, freezing the atmosphere before you even have a chance to say a word.

When you take a seat beside him for dinner, he makes it a mission to have a pointed remark for every attempt of yours at small talk. That slithered tongue of his somehow turns every conversation into a violent game of chess, with his strategy as outright assault, leaving you on the defense.

It's tiring, infuriating. This wasn't even punishment; this was hatred.

You’re at your wits end when you find yourself in a moment of surrender, perched at your balcony, watching the starless sky above you. Sleep doesn’t find you easily when the person roomed beside you hates your guts.

You don’t deny that stationing out here in the cold didn’t serve a purpose. At least there was one thing you could still predict about Damian, and that was his habit of lingering on his balcony, only a few feet away from yours, for a moment of reprieve after his patrols.

He’s just come out from the shower, water droplets catching at the ends of his dark locks, dripping small streams down to the towel around his neck. His eyes are closed, head pressed against the brick stone, but a furrow deepens between his brows. He knows that you’re watching him.

Your fingers tighten around the railing, and for once, you keep your mouth shut. The silence stretches, taut and timed with each vivid heartbeat that hammered against your rib cage.

“Are you going to keep staring?” His voice, raw and tired from patrol, finally breaks through the tension. Yet, you can’t conjure a semblance of hope, even if this was the first time he started a conversation since you arrived at the Manor.

“Depends on how long you plan on avoiding me.” You answer truthfully.

He scoffs, a low unamused rumble in the back of his throat. “You are unbelievable.”

Your frown deepens, irritation flaring at his tone. “You’re seriously the one to say that? You’ve been—”

His green eyes peer open, meeting yours. There’s a challenge in his gaze, daring you to address his behaviour.

Swallowing back your insults, you force yourself to look away. “If I'm making you that uncomfortable, fine. I’ll keep my distance. I wasn’t planning on staying long anyways.”

Eyeing his reaction from your peripheral vision, you expect him to be relieved, ecstatic even that you’re leaving after all the effort he's gone through to be a horrible host. You don’t expect to see the rare look of hurt displayed on his face.

Your head twists fully to face him, convinced you must have hallucinated, but he’s already turned his back. His imprudent leave ends with the harsh slam of his door, leaving you alone to the freezing wind whipping at your face. Yet, you feel that being on the receiving end of his hatred is much colder than being out here alone in the dark.

When Tim returns from his mission, you’re practically in tears in the light of your saviour. You love Alfred, but even he is beginning to tend to the gardens more, in an attempt to avoid your distractive antics from his never-ending tasks around the manor. Bruce is a terrible converser outside of the cameras, too tired to put on his charm or his patience when he’s busy sleeping till noon, and off on another patrol by sundown.

Tim, the second closest person you have to your age, and often too insomniac to garner the needed strength to send you away—is your closest chance of normal bantering without feeling like you’re one step away from becoming a murder victim.

"He hates me." You rant, hands resting over Tim's armrest, watching Tim sort through his cases using a system he calls 'chaotic orderliness'. "I’m not kidding. Damian genuinely despises me."

Tim snickers, placing another unceremonious stack on the desk. You doubt there was much improvement from his sorting, but he's convinced it works. "Trust me. Damian does not hate you."

"What will you call it then, Wonder Genius?" You groan. "Annoyance? Irritation? Loathing?"

"Did you know he personally restocked the kitchen with all your favourite tea packets?" Tim blurts out.

Your frown dissipates, his words slowly sinking in. "I—thought that was Alfred's doing."

Tim shakes his head. "He claimed that you would only be more of a nuisance if it wasn't done right."

He continues on, suggesting that he was paying attention more than he led on. "The bookshelves were completely revamped by genre too, even when he finds it distasteful. He also lets you tackle Titus, which he has never allowed any of us to do."

"He has a hard time communicating how he feels." Tim mutters. "Trust me. I’m well aware of that. So, don't take it too personally. He's just processing your presence and what you mean to him."

"Processing?” Your brows furrow. “What could he possibly need to process on such a level?"

Tim tosses you a ‘Are you seriously asking me that question?’ look, but the sound of a loud revving of an engine cuts off his further explanation. You spot the Batmobile entering the cave, its lights blinding your sight as the giant machine stops in its tracks.

The wing door lifts, and out steps Damian, home from his patrol. His domino mask is nowhere to be found, and that's how you witness firsthand that he's glaring daggers into your soul. His gaze doesn't leave you when he shuts the door with a solid slam, even when it flickers between you and Tim, assessing the situation.

For some reason, seeing Damian in his suit makes your mouth dry, eradicating all line of thought from your conscience, leaving you to stare at him speechlessly like a gaping fish. Gone were the silly tights and hooded cape. You don’t recall Robin ever looking that sinfully good, it was almost unfair.

You’re distracted—and the fact that he was coming towards you in a rapid, terrifying pace as if he's found his next victim, steals away precious time for a proper escape. Realising you’re still leaning over the armrest in contact with Tim's arm, who's watching the entire exchange with unhidden amusement, you inch away with your hands raised.

"Damian, if you're mad I snuck into the cave—"

He doesn’t deign you a second more to explain, grabbing your wrist and tugging you harshly towards the exit.

He's definitely mad. His entire body is tense, forming harsh movements as he drags you across the hallway. It takes you a moment to guess where he's heading, when he passes the study, the kitchen, up the stairs—to his bedroom.

He was going to murder you, and no one would be any wiser of his crime. Except for Tim, who betrayed you seamlessly, still typing away at the Bat-Computer after giving you a sarcastic wave when you had twisted your neck, silently begging him for non-discreet assistance.

Damian’s hands never part from you when he slams the door closed with you pinned against the wood. His glower alone is enough to incinerate you.

"What did I do this time?" Your sigh is honest, a tired numbness of this pretense of trying to be amiable with him. Your ability to read his deflecting moods has long gone dormant.

"Did you seriously think it wouldn't affect me?" He sneers. "You've made a big show of making Drake the next victim of your tiring schemes."

Your lips part, brows creased in frustration. "What are you talking about?"

"Isn't it enough?" He snaps. "Driving me insane with your presence. Now, you must attack Drake as well?"

"I am not doing anything!"

"Really?" He scoffs. "So, you laughing over his jokes during dinner, finding him in the Cave, asking him to show you around the city as if you didn't live in it yourself once—it's all just you naturally being insufferable?"

Your brows furrow in utter confusion. This sounds maniacal, and... seething with jealousy?

"It's not like I can ask you.” You retort. "You'll probably blow up the city before you would even consider the suggestion of showing me around."

"I would never consider taking you anywhere." He hisses.

"Exactly—"

"You'll just wrap me around your finger, and render me incapable of all sense."

"...What?"

"You're a weakness." He mutters. "Being around you only amplifies this fact. But—"

"I refuse to let you parade around Drake." Inching closer to you, you can’t tell if his desperate refusal is pointed at you… or himself. "That will only ruin me more."

Your lips part and close, shock visible in every nerve pulled from your facial expression. "You sound... jealous."

His jaw ticks, and he stares down at you, lips pursed.

"So, what if I am?"

His hands come up to either side of your face, trapping you with nowhere to face but his cold expression. His eyes have darkened to an almost-black, swarmed by his pupils that are focused on you.

"What will you do then?" He mocks. "Will you terrorise me? Laugh in my face? Trample my heart and smile as if you didn't do anything?"

"I'm curious." His voice grows bitter, almost resentful. "Just how will you torture me this time?"

His question sucks all the oxygen out of your lungs. There's something all-consuming about his gaze, staring at you with such vivid conflict, a desperation swirled with frustration... and longing.

"I thought your crush on me was over." You whisper.

His jaw flexes, annoyance on full display. "Of course, you would still use that infuriating term."

You don't even have time to process it. His lips meet yours in a harsh clash, but it's only fitting that a kiss broken out between the two of you would be a fight of push-and-pull. You've long driven each other mad, and now this tension, dragged to its peak, has finally crashed—and it feels akin to tectonic plates shifting off-course.

You expect him to push you off when he realises his impulsive mistake—or pull you closer, you don't know. In his strength, he can easily do it. Break this kiss and berate you as he once did, cheeks flushed and rage consuming his vision.

Yet, you find your hands tangling into his hair, releasing a series of groans that sound inhuman coming from his mouth. He chases your every movement, consumes, and you're left with nothing to hold onto, to think of—but him.

His hands find their way through your hair, maneuvering you easily to slot your lips however he wanted against him. You've never felt him so unrestrained, so destroyed and desire-driven.

"Damian." You gasp, twisting your head when you realise just how intense the session was getting. You still didn't know his intentions, the reason why he dragged you into his room. "Wait, we need to talk."

He's half-conscious, kisses peppering your jaw from the access you've given, and when he finally stops, parting just enough for you to face him again without him attacking you—you sense his impatience, his detested longing bridling right below his mask.

“Did you ever think about me?” His question comes out softer than you expected, weak and hoarse from his lips that are bitten.

“What?" You breathe out, chest still heaving from the intensity only he could create. "Of course I did.”

Suspicion clouds his gaze, because for some reason, he can’t seem to fathom that you’re wrapped around his finger just as much as he claims to be around yours.

“Why did you think I teased you so much?” You confess. “I was a silly kid, who had a big crush on a boy who refused to admit he has a heart! I wanted to get a reaction out of you... because it proved to me that you liked me even half as much.”

His frown deepens, unsatisfied. "Yet, you don't even remember."

Your brows furrow. "Remember?"

"The—" The rarest shame coats his features. "Promise you made. Before you left."

You try to recall a promise, anything you must've said that remained in his memory for as long as it did. Before you left—yes, Damian had bid you farewell. If you could call it that.

"You're leaving." Damian states. It's a fact, not a question.

Honestly, you thought he'd be more pleased. He was always going on about how you were a distraction, a nuisance, and some other colourful vocabulary you've added to your adjectives list for your English homework, which you'd proudly shown him in retaliation.

Yet, here he was, standing at the front door like a barrier to the outside world, staring holes into your luggage as if it had done a personal crime against him. Knowing how easily offended he could get, maybe the wheels ran over his polished shoes once.

"I'm not leaving forever." You tease. "Promise I won't let you be free of me so easily.

"Who says I want you back?" He scoffs, ears reddening as he averts his gaze. "You'll just cause more problems, as you always do."

You grin, hand parting from your luggage handle and tackling him into a hug. He lets out a string of curses, all Arabic and undecodable to you. Still, he doesn't push you off like you expect. Maybe he's deigning you some honour, because this will be the last you'll see him in a really long time.

"I'll come back soon." You promise. Casually. In an after-thought. Unknowing of its effects on a boy who took each promise as a solemn vow. "So you won't be alone in this big, lonely manor all by yourself. Who else will you threaten to kill at six in the morning?"

You feel the stutter of his voice, the huffs in his breath as he tries to restrain himself. Cute.

You part from him, pressing a soft kiss on his cheek just to tease him further. His cheeks blossom that signature red and you see the sizzling in his gaze, like he's ready to blow from shame and rage.

"Don't change, Dami." You murmur. "I want everything just the way it is now when I come back."

You never expected him to hold you to a ten years old promise. You wouldn't have remembered it, if it weren't for the look he was giving you now. Your vision was fracturing, multiplying with the Damian of your past and the one right in front of you.

Right. Back then—hadn't he looked at you in this same way? With a quiet, desperate plea to not leave him alone? It had stuck with you, as the car turned away from the Manor, watching his silhouette disappear into a smaller frame at the door, unmoving till you were out of reach.

"You waited." Realisation creeps in with an unexpected guilt. He held you to that promise. That’s why he kept the arrangement of the books the same way in the study, and the tea packets, and your room.

"And you came back." He huffs. "Carelessly smiling as if you had forgotten. I should've guessed that you did. You handled promises as easily as you handled my heart."

"We were kids—" You splutter.

His gaze narrows. "I was four when my grandfather handed me the expectations he had of his heir. Six when I understood what an assassination attempt meant. Eight when I learnt not to flinch when ending a life. How much do you think promises are worth to a boy who went down that path?"

"...Everything." You whisper.

"Everything." He mutters. "You had always been different. Light, free of burdens. I despised you for it, and… I craved your normalcy. You made me feel human, and I had mistaken that for weakness. When you left, I realised then that your absence felt worse than keeping any weaknesses near."

"Dami..."

His body shudders involuntarily at your call, arms still caged around you. He grits his teeth, glare enough to pierce through your skin. "Don't do that."

"I'm not pitying you." You answer, even if he hasn't uttered his accusation. You can see it in his vulnerability, how it aches for him to even admit this to you. That you matter, and your promises matter.

"I'm sorry I didn't keep my promise." Your hand comes up to cup his cheek, and his lashes flutter, shock registering at your warm touch. He doesn't pull away, even when conflict arises in his gaze. "I really am. I know you think I'm some trickster, and that you can't depend on my words."

"But truthfully, I was most excited to see you." You admit. "I had been away for so long, but whenever I thought of Gotham, of home, I thought of you. I wondered about how you must've become so much stronger, smarter, and still carried that heart you tried so desperately to keep hidden. That you were the most capable, and striking boy I ever laid my eyes on."

"Now, I see who you've grown up to be." You exhale, eyes tracing over his features, and you can't help but smile. "Even all of my dreams couldn't have pictured who you are now. You're amazing, Dami, and I'm sorry if I ever made you feel small, or unworthy of promises."

Pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, as you once did when you were children, you think it's time you made a proper promise. One you'll remember, and one you hope he'll give you a chance to keep. "I've fallen for you, Dami. Whatever crush I had on you when we were kids? It pales in comparison to this—snowballed into something even I can't control."

"I'm here now." You remind him. "With a promise to stay. I'm no longer that silly kid, who runs her mouth without thinking. I keep my promises, especially if it's for the one right in front of me, who's taken my heart from the first moment I laid my eyes on him."

A low rumble escapes his chest, satisfaction hidden within his features. In moments like this, he really reminds you of a feline. Hard to please, and yet, you find yourself in awe of that soft glow in his eyes.

“You’re mistaken.” He murmurs, and your heart drops. “What I feel for you is not even close to half.”

"I waited, even when I knew the chances of you remembering was close to zero." He admits. "Because I chose you. From the moment you entered my life, my heart already sealed its fate to yours, even if you hadn't known."

"I would've kept waiting—and if you took too long." He leans in, nose brushing against yours. "I would find you. And make you live up to that promise."

"And now?" He smirks, turning his head as his lips brush against your palm. Even a soft touch like that was enough to make your heart combust, and the trace of his lips makes you hyperaware of your own, still swollen from the kiss earlier. It's the intimacy, the way he's completely unraveled in your hands that reminds you of just how much power you have over him.

"I'm holding you to your new promise." He mutters. "You'll stay. In Gotham, with me."

You nod breathlessly. "I'm staying."

"Good." Even in his composure, you sense the drop of his shoulders, his relief in hearing you say it again. "You have a lot of wasted time to make up for."

"How should I make up for lost time?" You tease, lashes fluttering as your gaze diverts between his lips and his darkened gaze.

"I'm sure you've invented all sorts of new ways to terrorise me." His voice deepens into a dangerous lure, rendering you speechless. "I'll give you some freedom to explore that."

Your hand still lingering on his cheek traces past the corner of his mouth, right over his lip. His gaze lowers to your touch, and you sense the impatience that slips through his restraint.

You tilt his head to face you, and he's waiting. You never realised how patient he was when it came to you.

Leaning closer, your lips brush over his again, and you feel his fingers still tangled in your hair tighten, inching you closer.

"Is this allowed?" You tease, gaze flickering back up to his.

He huffs out a low breath, and when he descends, you get your answer. Damian Wayne has always held restraint like a perfected soldier, but when it came to you... he finds that control is an overrated concept.

Now that you're finally here, in his arms, all his, he's making you live up to your promise.

extra: timmybird: have you guys worked on processing his feelings? ;)

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 (to be added, check masterlist)

[sxdie-sun]

between midnight and morning - tim drake x reader

you have insomnia, tim has a caffeine addiction - it works.

wc: 2.5k

themes: fluff, crack, light swearing, all good vibes :)

a/n: WHERE ARE MY TIM DRAKE FANS ATTTTT. honestly the amount of fics this man has is unacceptable, so i'd like to contribute <3 I tried to write insomnia!reader as best as i could, i'm sorry if it's not an accurate potrayal, i hope you enjoy tho !!

You blink slowly, trying to lull yourself to sleep as your hands fold around the smooth handle of a mug. Leaning back against the counter, the kitchen is dimly lit by a warm lamp in the corner. The cold marble counter is cool under your touch as you lean on it. The steam from your tea wafts gently through the air – some leafy organic tea Cass suggested. And you’re the only one awake which is surprising, especially in a house— manor, full of vigilantes. 

A few weeks ago, Bruce called you in from Central City to help with the sudden rise in weekly shambles on the streets of Gotham, which left you living in his giant manor that has way too many bathrooms. The corridors are like a maze, and you’ve stumbled into Jason’s room one too many times, mistaking it for a loungeroom. But staying here has been surprisingly entertaining and better than what you expected.

In your short time at the Wayne Manor, you've grown accustomed to Damian’s sharp tone which you somehow find endearing, Dick’s awful jokes that always seem to be very ill-timed, Jason’s jokes that are received poorly by his family but are made up by his good looks, Steph and Cass’ friendliness and instantaneous connection with you, Duke’s outgoing nature and…Tim. 

Tim you’re not so sure of. He’s definitely an odd one. Or maybe it’s because he seems to be the only other person who’s awake when you are, and it bothers you for some unknown reason. He’s always busy, nose buried in a book or down in the Batcave minding his own business and sometimes you’ll see him wandering through the hallways of the manor at ungodly hours – like you. 

The kitchen is quiet and you try to allow yourself to relax, but sleepiness doesn’t seem to come. You let your gaze fall onto the oven clock in the corner which blinks slowly showing the time – 4:03AM. Having insomnia as a vigilante doesn’t really go hand in hand, which is why you haven’t mentioned it to anyone but Cass and Steph, who both seem adamant to find you a solution. However, none have worked so far. 

So here you stand in the kitchen, in your hand a mug with tea that is having no affect on you whatsoever, dammit. 

You’re about to pour your tea down the sink when you hear a soft patter of footsteps across the kitchen tiles behind you. You whip around and see a very tired looking Tim standing by the coffee pot with his back to you. His shoulders are slouched but you can tell he’s still alert. His dark hair is wet and poorly dried but he seems to be content in his little bubble of silence as he pours himself a fresh cup of coffee.

Geez, what is he doing awake? 

He doesn’t seem to have noticed you in the corner so you quickly weigh your options; engage in awkward 4AM conversation with him or quietly slip out of the kitchen before he can spot you. But before you can decide, Tim slowly turns around, his tired eyes meeting yours and widening to the size of saucers. He visibly jumps, the coffee mug in his hands falling from his grasp and shattering across the tiles with an awful cracking sound, breaking the peace and quiet of the night. 

Your first instinct is to laugh, but you don’t because you’re not sure if it’s something he would appreciate. Instead, you open your mouth, not entirely sure what to say, sorry about your mug? What the fuck are you doing up so late? 

Thankfully, he breaks the silence first. 

“Holy shit, you scared the hell out of me.” 

“Uhh… sorry. I didn’t mean to… cause the death of your favourite mug.” you offer with a forced smile, hoping he laughs. Thankfully he does, but it seems to be laced with a tiredness you know the feeling of all too well. “Don’t worry about it.” he assures with a drained smile, his friendliness taking you by surprise. He then bends down, disappearing behind the counter to pick up the ceramic pieces of what’s left of his mug. You feel a pang of guilt, not only having ruined his favourite mug but also having ruined his coffee. Which now that you think about it explains a lot of the reasons why you’ve seen him out and about so late at night. 

Before you can walk over to help him, he pops back up from behind the counter. He eyes you for a second, eyebrows pulled into a frown. “Wait, what are you doing up so late?” he asks, in his hand the handle of his now broken mug. You bite your tongue, debating whether or not to tell him. Instead, you settle on telling him a mix of the truth. 

“I just can’t sleep,” you say and you catch the twitch near his eye and know he doesn’t believe you. “Is that so?” he muses so skeptically if makes you want to laugh. You shrug holding back a smile, “Something like that,” you say, walking over and crouching down to help him pick up the ceramic pieces that litter the kitchen floor. His elbow brushes your side and you suddenly realise how dang close he is. 

“Well, what about you Mr. Coffee At 4AM?” you ask, hands full with the biggest pieces of what once was a mug. You follow him to the rubbish bin and dump the remnants. Tim shrugs, “I just can’t sleep,” he echoes your earlier answer, tired tone replaced by something light and playful. But you see him biting back a yawn. You roll your eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips, “Liar.”

“Maybe,” he grins, “but sleep can wait, I have things to do.” he explains, reaching above you to grab paper towels from a cabinet, his body impossibly close to yours, He’s so close you can smell the lingering smell of shampoo and soap through his hoodie. You’re grateful he doesn’t look down to see the red flushed mess you are below him. Heat rises to your cheeks for the split second he’s there before he’s pulling back. Swallowing hard, you blink furiously and you nearly miss the smile on his face as he turns away to clean up the spilt coffee. You clear your throat, brain still haywired and foggy as you try to find the words to answer him. 

“I’m sure they can wait until tomorrow-” you squint at the blinking oven clock, “well, at least until the morning. You should try to get some sleep.” you say, ignoring the mad fluttering feeling in your stomach. Attempting to settle your nerves, you take a sip from your tea which is now warm and bitter. “Shouldn’t I be the one telling you that, Miss Insomniac?” Tim asks, looking up with a faint smile. 

You choke on your tea. 

“But I didn’t…” you trail off as Tim passes you a paper towel to wipe your mouth. You can’t suppress a smile this time as you dab the corner of your lips. He shrugs, dark hair falling into his eyes, “You’re not the only one who wanders around the manor at night.” is all he says as he continues to wipe the ground. You lean back against the counter, “What, so you’ve been watching me like a creep?” you ask but there’s a hint of teasing in it. Tim looks up, almost offended that you would even say that. 

“Hey, I could say the same about you,” Tim retorts with a light chuckle as he rolls up his jumper’s sleeves. Your eyes trace the light veins across his forearms and his frame, now that he’s closer you can see that he isn’t as lanky as you first thought. 

Geez, the sleep deprivation is really getting to me, you think. 

“Fair point,” you nod and you see Tim grin as he brushes the hair out of his face. He stands up, and discards the paper towels in the rubbish bin. Your eyes follow him as he quietly busies himself with making another coffee, and you can tell he’s being especially careful this time. The silence stretches out but it’s not the uncomfortable kind. “I take it you’re not going to sleep anytime soon?” you ask, breaking the silence, already knowing his answer. 

“Nope, unless you’ve got a better idea than staying up sorting through files for Bruce,” he says, pulling a bitter face. You chuckle lightly, and don’t think so much about it when you ask: “How does a movie sound?” 

Tim glances over at you and he looks like he’s actually considering it, “Yeah, I could do a movie,” he confesses, “but it’s got to be a good one.”

“What do you consider ‘good’?” you ask as he falls into step beside you. Together you walk out of the kitchen in the direction of one of the living rooms inside the manor. Your footsteps are padded on the carpet as you both walk down the hallway which is dimly lit, your shadows dancing across the walls. Tim scrunches his nose and thinks for a moment. “Anything that isn’t a sappy rom com,” he finally decides. Horrified, you freeze in your tracks and turn to stare at him, mouth hanging ajar.

 “You’re kidding.” 

Tim stares back at you, as if scared you’ll hit him at any moment. “I just don’t like how cliche and unrealistic they are.” he backtracks, laughing. You roll your eyes, shaking your head in exaggerated disappointment. “That’s the point!” you hiss but there’s no real bite behind it. He follows you into one of the living rooms, one of the smaller ones away from the bedrooms so that there’s no chance of you guys waking the others. “And just for that, we’re watching a rom-com, and I’ll even make it a musical just to piss you off,” you decide as you plop down on the couch, feeling fully awake. Tim takes a seat on the opposite end of the couch, keeping a safe distance between you both, but he shuffles a bit closer in your direction and kicks his legs up onto the futon in front of him. “I actually don’t mind musicals,” he quips and you send him a bewildered look, “You’re weird, Tim Drake.” you sigh with a shake of your head. 

He rolls his eyes, picking up the remote, “Please, the ladies love me, the guys too, it’s vital to my charisma,” he explains as if it’s a fact. You hold back a laugh, though you don’t doubt what he says even a little bit. “Do they love the musical-loving side of you too?” you ask teasingly, letting a small grin onto your face. 

“Especially that side, how do you think I charm them?” he insists with a shrug. You eye him for a moment, trying to stop yourself from giving him the satisfaction of making you laugh. 

“I feel like you’re the type to pull the brushing-hands-in-the-popcorn-bucket move,” you say instead. He turns to you, eyes wide, a hand placed on his chest in mock offense. “Okay, firstly I’m offended, that’s a rookie move and has like, a success rate of 73.9%.” 

“Right, of course, I’m sorry I doubted you,” you say, words laced with sarcasm. You stretch out your hand for the remote, “Anyways, c’mon, hand it over, you agreed to my terms.” you say, flexing your fingers. Tim shoots you a look, “I believe I said ‘I don’t mind musicals’.”

“Well it’s this or you hit the file sorting pile for Bruce, so take your pick.”

He thoughtfully weighs his options for a moment just to mess with you. “Don’t disappoint me.” he finally agrees, reluctantly passing you the remote. His fingers briefly brush yours but it’s enough to send a jolting spark through your body. You lean back into the couch, a small content smile on your face. He unhelpfully proposes to watch ‘Hairspray’ and ‘Mamma Mia’ which makes you question his hate for rom-coms. He then explains how a while back Bruce insisted on weekly movie nights with the whole family and Dick had been a very avid musical and rom-com fan. 

Ultimately you both decide on La La Land – well, more like you force Tim to agree to watch it. You silently hope you don’t cry at the end this time, because you know you wouldn’t be able to face him tomorrow if you did. Awkward. 

Beside you, Tim relaxes into the couch, sipping at his coffee quietly as the opening song plays. He catches your eye and a warm smile touches his lips before he turns, refocusing on the screen. You try to do the same but find yourself realising how dang close he’s shuffled over as his arm gently brushes yours each time he moves. You draw out a deep silent breath, ignoring the way your heart rate spikes at the proximity. You allow your eyes to follow the movements of the dancers on the screen and the way they move with practised ease. Soon you find yourself enjoying the movie, paying more attention to the colours of each scene and the small details this time than you did on your first watch. 

But as the movie progresses, you’re not focused on the way Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone dance across the screen, instead you’re distracted by how unexpectedly nice of a night it’s been. You find yourself appreciating his company, even if you’re not talking, he makes you feel less…alone. Which is a nice change for once. And the way Tim doesn’t judge you or your fucked up sleep schedule – if you can even call it that. He didn’t press about it, he just understood. 

Soon enough you find your eyelids growing heavy, the unfamiliar feeling seeping through your body slowly. You stifle a yawn behind your hand and catch Tim glance over at you. “Tired?” he asks, voice deep, laced with a small hint of surprise. You shake your head slowly, a small unconvincing smile spreading across your face. 

“Sleeping is for the weak and wrong.” you murmur, trying to grasp onto the sleepiness before it disappears. You shift around on the couch, trying to find a comfortable position, arm brushing against Tim’s. “Which is why you should sleep, because you are weak and wrong, or whatever King Julian said.” you humm, words slurring slightly as you lean your head back uncomfortably against the back of the couch. Tim watches you as you move around stiffly. 

“Sure, sleepyhead,” he murmurs, offering you his shoulder with a little nudge. You blink warily, “I can’t promise I won’t drool all over you,” you warn, voice above a whisper. Before he can reply, your head plummets down and meets his shoulder, your hand clutching onto his sleeve subconsciously. You feel a small chuckle vibrate through his chest as he leans into your touch ever so slightly. You hear the volume turn down until the sounds fade into background noise. Closing your eyes slowly, you focus on the rise and fall of Tim’s shoulders as he breathes deeply. He faintly smells of coffee and it’s enough to allow you to reluctantly let sleep pull you under for the first time in a long, long time.

i hope you enjoyed !! lmk if i should make this into a series/part 2 !!

[sxdie-sun]

between midnight and morning - tim drake x reader

you have insomnia, tim has a caffeine addiction - it works.

wc: 2.5k

themes: fluff, crack, light swearing, all good vibes :)

a/n: WHERE ARE MY TIM DRAKE FANS ATTTTT. honestly the amount of fics this man has is unacceptable, so i'd like to contribute <3 I tried to write insomnia!reader as best as i could, i'm sorry if it's not an accurate potrayal, i hope you enjoy tho !!

You blink slowly, trying to lull yourself to sleep as your hands fold around the smooth handle of a mug. Leaning back against the counter, the kitchen is dimly lit by a warm lamp in the corner. The cold marble counter is cool under your touch as you lean on it. The steam from your tea wafts gently through the air – some leafy organic tea Cass suggested. And you’re the only one awake which is surprising, especially in a house— manor, full of vigilantes. 

A few weeks ago, Bruce called you in from Central City to help with the sudden rise in weekly shambles on the streets of Gotham, which left you living in his giant manor that has way too many bathrooms. The corridors are like a maze, and you’ve stumbled into Jason’s room one too many times, mistaking it for a loungeroom. But staying here has been surprisingly entertaining and better than what you expected.

In your short time at the Wayne Manor, you've grown accustomed to Damian’s sharp tone which you somehow find endearing, Dick’s awful jokes that always seem to be very ill-timed, Jason’s jokes that are received poorly by his family but are made up by his good looks, Steph and Cass’ friendliness and instantaneous connection with you, Duke’s outgoing nature and…Tim. 

Tim you’re not so sure of. He’s definitely an odd one. Or maybe it’s because he seems to be the only other person who’s awake when you are, and it bothers you for some unknown reason. He’s always busy, nose buried in a book or down in the Batcave minding his own business and sometimes you’ll see him wandering through the hallways of the manor at ungodly hours – like you. 

The kitchen is quiet and you try to allow yourself to relax, but sleepiness doesn’t seem to come. You let your gaze fall onto the oven clock in the corner which blinks slowly showing the time – 4:03AM. Having insomnia as a vigilante doesn’t really go hand in hand, which is why you haven’t mentioned it to anyone but Cass and Steph, who both seem adamant to find you a solution. However, none have worked so far. 

So here you stand in the kitchen, in your hand a mug with tea that is having no affect on you whatsoever, dammit. 

You’re about to pour your tea down the sink when you hear a soft patter of footsteps across the kitchen tiles behind you. You whip around and see a very tired looking Tim standing by the coffee pot with his back to you. His shoulders are slouched but you can tell he’s still alert. His dark hair is wet and poorly dried but he seems to be content in his little bubble of silence as he pours himself a fresh cup of coffee.

Geez, what is he doing awake? 

He doesn’t seem to have noticed you in the corner so you quickly weigh your options; engage in awkward 4AM conversation with him or quietly slip out of the kitchen before he can spot you. But before you can decide, Tim slowly turns around, his tired eyes meeting yours and widening to the size of saucers. He visibly jumps, the coffee mug in his hands falling from his grasp and shattering across the tiles with an awful cracking sound, breaking the peace and quiet of the night. 

Your first instinct is to laugh, but you don’t because you’re not sure if it’s something he would appreciate. Instead, you open your mouth, not entirely sure what to say, sorry about your mug? What the fuck are you doing up so late? 

Thankfully, he breaks the silence first. 

“Holy shit, you scared the hell out of me.” 

“Uhh… sorry. I didn’t mean to… cause the death of your favourite mug.” you offer with a forced smile, hoping he laughs. Thankfully he does, but it seems to be laced with a tiredness you know the feeling of all too well. “Don’t worry about it.” he assures with a drained smile, his friendliness taking you by surprise. He then bends down, disappearing behind the counter to pick up the ceramic pieces of what’s left of his mug. You feel a pang of guilt, not only having ruined his favourite mug but also having ruined his coffee. Which now that you think about it explains a lot of the reasons why you’ve seen him out and about so late at night. 

Before you can walk over to help him, he pops back up from behind the counter. He eyes you for a second, eyebrows pulled into a frown. “Wait, what are you doing up so late?” he asks, in his hand the handle of his now broken mug. You bite your tongue, debating whether or not to tell him. Instead, you settle on telling him a mix of the truth. 

“I just can’t sleep,” you say and you catch the twitch near his eye and know he doesn’t believe you. “Is that so?” he muses so skeptically if makes you want to laugh. You shrug holding back a smile, “Something like that,” you say, walking over and crouching down to help him pick up the ceramic pieces that litter the kitchen floor. His elbow brushes your side and you suddenly realise how dang close he is. 

“Well, what about you Mr. Coffee At 4AM?” you ask, hands full with the biggest pieces of what once was a mug. You follow him to the rubbish bin and dump the remnants. Tim shrugs, “I just can’t sleep,” he echoes your earlier answer, tired tone replaced by something light and playful. But you see him biting back a yawn. You roll your eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips, “Liar.”

“Maybe,” he grins, “but sleep can wait, I have things to do.” he explains, reaching above you to grab paper towels from a cabinet, his body impossibly close to yours, He’s so close you can smell the lingering smell of shampoo and soap through his hoodie. You’re grateful he doesn’t look down to see the red flushed mess you are below him. Heat rises to your cheeks for the split second he’s there before he’s pulling back. Swallowing hard, you blink furiously and you nearly miss the smile on his face as he turns away to clean up the spilt coffee. You clear your throat, brain still haywired and foggy as you try to find the words to answer him. 

“I’m sure they can wait until tomorrow-” you squint at the blinking oven clock, “well, at least until the morning. You should try to get some sleep.” you say, ignoring the mad fluttering feeling in your stomach. Attempting to settle your nerves, you take a sip from your tea which is now warm and bitter. “Shouldn’t I be the one telling you that, Miss Insomniac?” Tim asks, looking up with a faint smile. 

You choke on your tea. 

“But I didn’t…” you trail off as Tim passes you a paper towel to wipe your mouth. You can’t suppress a smile this time as you dab the corner of your lips. He shrugs, dark hair falling into his eyes, “You’re not the only one who wanders around the manor at night.” is all he says as he continues to wipe the ground. You lean back against the counter, “What, so you’ve been watching me like a creep?” you ask but there’s a hint of teasing in it. Tim looks up, almost offended that you would even say that. 

“Hey, I could say the same about you,” Tim retorts with a light chuckle as he rolls up his jumper’s sleeves. Your eyes trace the light veins across his forearms and his frame, now that he’s closer you can see that he isn’t as lanky as you first thought. 

Geez, the sleep deprivation is really getting to me, you think. 

“Fair point,” you nod and you see Tim grin as he brushes the hair out of his face. He stands up, and discards the paper towels in the rubbish bin. Your eyes follow him as he quietly busies himself with making another coffee, and you can tell he’s being especially careful this time. The silence stretches out but it’s not the uncomfortable kind. “I take it you’re not going to sleep anytime soon?” you ask, breaking the silence, already knowing his answer. 

“Nope, unless you’ve got a better idea than staying up sorting through files for Bruce,” he says, pulling a bitter face. You chuckle lightly, and don’t think so much about it when you ask: “How does a movie sound?” 

Tim glances over at you and he looks like he’s actually considering it, “Yeah, I could do a movie,” he confesses, “but it’s got to be a good one.”

“What do you consider ‘good’?” you ask as he falls into step beside you. Together you walk out of the kitchen in the direction of one of the living rooms inside the manor. Your footsteps are padded on the carpet as you both walk down the hallway which is dimly lit, your shadows dancing across the walls. Tim scrunches his nose and thinks for a moment. “Anything that isn’t a sappy rom com,” he finally decides. Horrified, you freeze in your tracks and turn to stare at him, mouth hanging ajar.

 “You’re kidding.” 

Tim stares back at you, as if scared you’ll hit him at any moment. “I just don’t like how cliche and unrealistic they are.” he backtracks, laughing. You roll your eyes, shaking your head in exaggerated disappointment. “That’s the point!” you hiss but there’s no real bite behind it. He follows you into one of the living rooms, one of the smaller ones away from the bedrooms so that there’s no chance of you guys waking the others. “And just for that, we’re watching a rom-com, and I’ll even make it a musical just to piss you off,” you decide as you plop down on the couch, feeling fully awake. Tim takes a seat on the opposite end of the couch, keeping a safe distance between you both, but he shuffles a bit closer in your direction and kicks his legs up onto the futon in front of him. “I actually don’t mind musicals,” he quips and you send him a bewildered look, “You’re weird, Tim Drake.” you sigh with a shake of your head. 

He rolls his eyes, picking up the remote, “Please, the ladies love me, the guys too, it’s vital to my charisma,” he explains as if it’s a fact. You hold back a laugh, though you don’t doubt what he says even a little bit. “Do they love the musical-loving side of you too?” you ask teasingly, letting a small grin onto your face. 

“Especially that side, how do you think I charm them?” he insists with a shrug. You eye him for a moment, trying to stop yourself from giving him the satisfaction of making you laugh. 

“I feel like you’re the type to pull the brushing-hands-in-the-popcorn-bucket move,” you say instead. He turns to you, eyes wide, a hand placed on his chest in mock offense. “Okay, firstly I’m offended, that’s a rookie move and has like, a success rate of 73.9%.” 

“Right, of course, I’m sorry I doubted you,” you say, words laced with sarcasm. You stretch out your hand for the remote, “Anyways, c’mon, hand it over, you agreed to my terms.” you say, flexing your fingers. Tim shoots you a look, “I believe I said ‘I don’t mind musicals’.”

“Well it’s this or you hit the file sorting pile for Bruce, so take your pick.”

He thoughtfully weighs his options for a moment just to mess with you. “Don’t disappoint me.” he finally agrees, reluctantly passing you the remote. His fingers briefly brush yours but it’s enough to send a jolting spark through your body. You lean back into the couch, a small content smile on your face. He unhelpfully proposes to watch ‘Hairspray’ and ‘Mamma Mia’ which makes you question his hate for rom-coms. He then explains how a while back Bruce insisted on weekly movie nights with the whole family and Dick had been a very avid musical and rom-com fan. 

Ultimately you both decide on La La Land – well, more like you force Tim to agree to watch it. You silently hope you don’t cry at the end this time, because you know you wouldn’t be able to face him tomorrow if you did. Awkward. 

Beside you, Tim relaxes into the couch, sipping at his coffee quietly as the opening song plays. He catches your eye and a warm smile touches his lips before he turns, refocusing on the screen. You try to do the same but find yourself realising how dang close he’s shuffled over as his arm gently brushes yours each time he moves. You draw out a deep silent breath, ignoring the way your heart rate spikes at the proximity. You allow your eyes to follow the movements of the dancers on the screen and the way they move with practised ease. Soon you find yourself enjoying the movie, paying more attention to the colours of each scene and the small details this time than you did on your first watch. 

But as the movie progresses, you’re not focused on the way Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone dance across the screen, instead you’re distracted by how unexpectedly nice of a night it’s been. You find yourself appreciating his company, even if you’re not talking, he makes you feel less…alone. Which is a nice change for once. And the way Tim doesn’t judge you or your fucked up sleep schedule – if you can even call it that. He didn’t press about it, he just understood. 

Soon enough you find your eyelids growing heavy, the unfamiliar feeling seeping through your body slowly. You stifle a yawn behind your hand and catch Tim glance over at you. “Tired?” he asks, voice deep, laced with a small hint of surprise. You shake your head slowly, a small unconvincing smile spreading across your face. 

“Sleeping is for the weak and wrong.” you murmur, trying to grasp onto the sleepiness before it disappears. You shift around on the couch, trying to find a comfortable position, arm brushing against Tim’s. “Which is why you should sleep, because you are weak and wrong, or whatever King Julian said.” you humm, words slurring slightly as you lean your head back uncomfortably against the back of the couch. Tim watches you as you move around stiffly. 

“Sure, sleepyhead,” he murmurs, offering you his shoulder with a little nudge. You blink warily, “I can’t promise I won’t drool all over you,” you warn, voice above a whisper. Before he can reply, your head plummets down and meets his shoulder, your hand clutching onto his sleeve subconsciously. You feel a small chuckle vibrate through his chest as he leans into your touch ever so slightly. You hear the volume turn down until the sounds fade into background noise. Closing your eyes slowly, you focus on the rise and fall of Tim’s shoulders as he breathes deeply. He faintly smells of coffee and it’s enough to allow you to reluctantly let sleep pull you under for the first time in a long, long time.

i hope you enjoyed !! lmk if i should make this into a series/part 2 !!

[miffysmittens]

being a tim drake fan in a world full of jason todd and dick grayson fans is a cruel and fiery hell that i’m not sure i can survive any longer

pls write more fics for my boy cuz lord knows i cant do it myself

[justjjkin]

he’s drunk and clingy [dc]

pairing: damian wayne (aged up) x reader

synopsis: after a few drinks at the gala, damian wayne is unusually clingy and needy, refusing to stop showering you with affection

a/n: i love this idea sm TUMBLR DIDN’T SAVE MY INITIAL DRAFT LUCKILY I WAS MOTIVATED otherwise i would’ve just deleted this app. please enjoy!!

damian wayne rarely attended his father’s galas. moreover, he rarely ever drank at them.

today, he had done both.

the moment damian had turned eighteen, a plethora of expectations had been thrust upon him in preparation of if he were to ever take upon the mantle of his father, bruce wayne.

thus, he was expected to ‘behave’ at tonight’s gala, forced to host alongside his father; especially ever since he had been ‘allowed’ to be in a relationship, (an affiliation bruce— ironic, isn’t it?— believes to occasionally be a distraction from one’s duties), there were certain roles he had to work extra hard to fulfil.

tonight, he was expected to socialise. his least favourite activity as his main duty.

but alas, damian always strived to prove his worth to his father, even if the means to do so often clashed with his own areas of interest, and so he was behaving.

he made sure his ironed tailored suit did not have a single crinkle. he begrudgingly engaged in fruitless conversations and nodded along to business endeavours he knew nothing about from adults he knew nothing about, with proposals going in one ear and straight out the other, regardless of how important they might’ve been. caring was bruce’s job. he was only to maintain appearance. he even trained his perpetually creased eyebrows into a faux display of amusement— slightly raised instead— for the entire night to disguise his signature scowl.

it had been exhausting: pretending to entertain the socialite life— pretending to respect entitled adults who were all hypocritically pretending to enjoy one another’s company. sure, damian himself was often entitled too, a quality he was working on improving, but at least he never pretended to regard others simply for ‘networking’. these people seemed to know nothing about the real streets of gotham.

damian had been trying to placate his point blank boredom by really attempting, at random times, to care, when truly, he just really despised each fragile counterfeit interaction; every pathetic comment neatly packaged in the ruse of ‘fraternisation’. instead, he continuously found himself returning to any one of his brothers sides to complain about his apathy. god, he needed to get out of here before he lost it, yet he knew that wasn’t possible.

but there was one thing keeping him sane.

you.

but bruce had not been lenient— you had a task too. if you were to be damian’s partner, you had to play your respective part, and in your own opinion.. you were smashing it.

charmingly wide toothy smile, managing the drinks being served, participating in conversations about topics you had spent the prior day studying so you could speak on them. you had been exceptional. on top of your mannerisms, you were glowing, your energy attracting all the right people and creating just the perfect ambiance of hospitality for the night.

damian is enamoured watching you in action. his eyes are sharp and glued to you when he gets a break from lousily intermingling, a drink seamlessly plucked from a butler with a tray. he brings the glass to his lips, the alcohol stinging the back of his throat, burning away the desire that blossoms at the sight of you. the elegance of your dress. the poise of your stature. the shine of your teeth when you grin at guests. the crinkle of your sparkling eyes. the curve of your shoulders. the dip of your waist.

the colour of your lipstick.

what does a guy have to do to get a kiss from you around here?

damian doesn’t even realise he’s downed the entire glass of alcohol until he plants it on the table. he doesn’t realise when he approaches other guests to converse that he’s picked up another glass, his eyes continually glancing over at the mesmerising sight of your radiating charm.

this continues throughout the night. he has possibly drank four champaign glasses, which is four over his limit since he never drinks, and he’s feeling increasingly loopy as the gala comes to an end.

damian tries to convince himself he’s fine.

as the people disperse over time, the last few enjoin into a large group discussion until everyone decides to shuffle out, the manor beginning to look spacious again. when it’s completely emptied out leaving just the batfamily for a post-gala debriefing, damian barely lets you contribute before he walks up to you, hooking his arm with yours— not caring to wish his brothers or father goodnight— dragging you back up to his room.

your eyebrows raise as he walks you upstairs, simpering in confusion.

“damian,” you breathe, following helplessly. “everything alright?” you tilt your head, eyebrows tilting upwards.

damian doesn’t respond. you notice he looks a little buzzed, and your eyebrows shoot up in amusement.

“no way. did you drink?” you question as he approaches his bedroom door, lazily drawing it open.

that’s when he finally turns to you.

damian’s usually sharp emerald eyes are lazy and barely open, his lips pressed into a flat line, bottom lip slightly jutted out. he lets out a deep breath, running a hand over his face and through his neatly made hair, ruffling it up.

“yes,” he rasps out, throat burning. “i drank.”

you snort. “wow,” you grin in amusement. “you never do. what happened?”

damian grumbles, and that’s when he takes a stumbling step forward, his head plummeting onto your shoulder. an enlightened smile crawls onto your lips and your hand moves up to his lower back, carefully holding him for support.

“everything was so excruciatingly boring,” he mumbles against your shoulder, voice muffled against your bare skin. his voice is slightly slurred, something you wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t known he was drunk. “had to distract myself.”

damian lets out a long breath against your skin, and then almost suddenly realises that it’s your bare skin, and so immediately puckers his lips, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. goosebumps erupt on your skin.

you’re not used to damian initiating affection or being clingy. he rarely lets his guard down, and in exploitation of his weakened defences due to the alcohol in his system, you experiment.

you soothingly rub up and down his back. “aw,” you coo, holding him closer. “you must be exhausted.”

you bite back a smile at your intentionally patronising voice.

you’re babying him.

sober damian would’ve been disgusted by that.

instead, damian who is never vulnerable, never sappy, never emotional, groans in agreement against your shoulder. he drags his nose up your shoulder to your neck, burying his face in your skin. his hands lazily reach out, one at your abdomen, one sliding around your lower back.

your heart skips a beat.

damian is clinging onto you. damian. the boy who can barely ever instigate intimacy without feeling pathetic. the one who hates feeling weak.

you’re still revelling in your shock, brain thinking of a million ways to cherish this adorable version of damian when you feel the ticklish sensation of his lips moving against your neck.

“you were so perfect tonight,” damian’s voice is low and hoarse from drinking, his words sounding as if they were roughly pushed out of his dry mouth.

and then he lifts his head from your neck, staring at you for a long moment with hazy emerald eyes. he’s almost pouting, just a little, his brown cheeks decorated pink. his hair is slightly disheveled from it being the end of the night, his heart rate slow and comfortable in the embrace of his lover.

“kept looking at you..” he breathes, lips parting, and then his eyes drop down, shamelessly looking over your figure. the way your dress hugs your every curve. your cleavage. you raise an amused eyebrow, your own cheeks turning hotter.

“gorgeous,” he muses, leaning in and rubbing his nose against yours. his eyes flutter shut. meanwhile, your heart is racing, butterflies in your stomach.

damian is never like this.

you can barely keep it together when his lips graze yours.

“everyone,” his voice is a hoarse whisper as he puckers his lips against the edge of your mouth. “was talking about,” he nudges a harder kiss to your cheekbone, “how i don’t deserve you.”

he sounds petulant. sulky.

your whole body is hot.

he sighs against your lips, and then lets out a throaty whine. long and rough. he sounds exhausted and desperate all at the same time.

you can’t contain your goofy grin any longer. the smile on your face is oozing sugar with how sweet and sincere it is.

“that’s not true,” you whisper back softly. damian’s eyelids blink against your skin, his eyelashes tickling your cheekbone as his lips press a wet open-mouthed kiss to the edge of your mouth. your shiny gloss coats his mouth. he doesn’t care.

“it is,” his voice is deep and rough. his hands slide over your abdomen and your back, large and slender, framing your whole body in his palms.

“i don’t deserve you,” he whispers, another leisurely kiss pressed to the side of your nose, kissing wherever his lips can reach and touch, desperate for any form of affection.

“hayati,” he breathes, mouth just brushing your cheek, grazing your skin. “my beloved,” he murmurs, soft chants of nicknames, completely enamoured by you in his arms. “zawjati,” his voice is low, lips tickling your fuzzy skin.

(zawjati means ‘my wife’)

an uncontrollable grin is plastered on your face, cheeks crimson.

and then it gets worse.

“i adore you,” his mouth ghosts over yours with his shy whisper, and that’s when he finally presses a firm kiss to your lips. it’s pathetic and barely a kiss, his lips bumping against yours, just needing to feel you.

you’re not believing this is real. damian who never professes his love, ever. damian who responds ‘hm,’ with flushed cheeks every time you tell him you love him, until you force him to confess how he ‘possesses similar affections for you’.

you are, to say the least, pleasantly surprised by his sudden and random displays of affection. you’re melting until you can’t contain yourself anymore, wanting to practically devour your boyfriend.

you beam a soft smile, cradling his warm cheek. “so tipsy,” you tease, and he huffs against your cheek.

“can i touch you?” he whispers, completely ignoring your comment, hand moving up from your abdomen to over your chest, unabashedly trailing his palm over the curves of your chest.

wow. this man is in his own world, not realising nor paying heed to how he’s torturing you.

your breath hitches.

“i want to have you tonight,” he stumbles slightly so his body weight presses right into you, putty against you.

you blush, bright wide smile glued to your face. you scoff-chuckle. “you’re soo drunk.”

“still need you,” he breathes back, cheek pressing hard into your warm supple skin, as if trying to fuse with you, needing the contact. the proximity. “mine,” he adds, squeezing your chest.

his hand then slides down to your tummy, rubbing up and down over the fabric of your dress, just possessively feeling the softness, as if he is discovering for the first time that you are all his.

your smile softens tenfold. “baby,” your voice is low. “maybe you should get some rest. you said you were tired.”

at that, damian pulls away. his lazy eyes meet yours, and he tugs you closer with his arms around you.

his eyes shift from one of your pupils to the other, completely dazed. his lips are slightly pouted, cheeks now fully flushed. his face is centimetres from yours.

“you..” he breathes, eyes digging into your soul, slightly glossy. “are the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

your heart aches at his slurred words. your hand moves up to cradle his jaw in cuteness aggression. “damian,” you squeak, heart racing in your chest. “i’m going to eat you.”

at that, his eyes flutter shut, eyebrows crinkling upwards in amusement. there is the faintest curve of his lips, the ghost of a smile. “like a blowjob?”

you blow a raspberry, squeezing his jaw. “aaand you’ve ruined it,” you joke, but then damian’s eyes open, and he frowns.

“i always do.”

your eyes widen. drunk damian is not only clingy, but overly sensitive too. “no, baby,” you pull his face closer. “i was just kidding. you never ruin anything.” you lean closer until your lips are brushing his.

damian puckers his lips, clearly asking for a kiss. it’s so petulant you smile, attending to his wish, cutting the distance and pressing your mouth to his. the kiss is sloppy and lousy, the taste of alcohol lingering at damian’s throat when your tongue dives into his mouth. his mouth is leisurely against yours, savouring the effort you’re putting in to make out with him. he desperately bites your lower lip when you pull away, trying to keep your lips glued to his.

you grin, cheeks pink, face still close to his.

“resting time,” you hold his face, thumb caressing his jaw. “you can have me tomorrow.”

damian’s eyes are big, pupils dilated. he looks like a puppy, shimmering brown skin, tired eyes. you want to shower him with unlimited affection with how adorable he looks, and he’s drunk, so this would probably be the only time he’d let you. he nods slowly, lips slightly sulky.

you sigh dreamily. “you’re so cute i wish you were like this all the time.”

“i do love you all the time,” damian responds, voice lazy and growing quieter as the level of his exhaustion increases. his eyes are gentler and heavier. his hands casually slide up your arms to the straps of your dress, languidly tugging them down.

at first your eyes sparkle with affection, and then your lips purse at his cheeky behaviour. this boy. “that’s very sweet,” you offer a smile while your own hands reach up to hold his steady at your shoulders, softly tugging the straps of your dress back up.

damian frowns petulantly. your heart aches.

“i will—” gosh, he looks so beaten. “i will take it off. i promise. just get into bed first, okay? you’re tired.” you try to reason with puppy eyed damian.

damian sighs. and then his head falls into your neck again. “can you help me change?” he exhales, breath warm. “my head is spinning.”

your demeanour softens. “of course,” you wrap your arms around him. “come on. my turn to take care of you.”

damian hums as you guide him to stand back in front of his bed. his arms come around your waist, caressing and holding on to you for balance. “i am too lucky,” he grumbles while pressing his lips to your neck in a myriad of pecks. you smile, unbuttoning his shirt for him.

“you’re just soo sappy drunk, aren’t you? don’t give me incentive to tell bruce to host more galas,” you tease, eyes focused on your task.

“that’s cruel,” damian mumbles against your skin, eyes fluttering shut. “he’d give me all his social work and then i’d never be free,” he murmurs, his voice becoming more and more slurred as he feels sleepier.

you chuckle, pulling his shirt off for him. “and if i let you touch me after every one?”

his response is instantaneous.

“deal.”

“yeah. go to bed, buddy.”

[boomgshakalaka]

The way that Tim drake is maybe top 2 most attractive batboys but he has barely any fandom to support him.

Like I swear there’s so many panels of the batboys looking fugly but I haven’t seen nearly as fugly panels of Tim as I have the others. Like he is 89% of the time looking good.

Justice for my man Tim 🧎🏻‍♀️😞