—𓏲𑁘 Damian yachting with his ridiculously spoiled wife
The Italian coast glittered around you. The sun turning the white cliffs and water to diamonds.
The sea was impossibly blue, bright enough to burn through your closed eyelids. You had melted bonelessly into the vinyl cushions at the bow with no intention of moving. Not from the overwhelming heat. The sun was warming its way through your skin to the marrow of you, turning your body loose and golden and heavy.
You were too hot. Overheated, definitely. Your breathing had gone shallow from it.
But it felt so good.
Eventually, you would roll off the side of the anchored yacht like some dramatic, half-dead thing and crash into the water to cool yourself down.
For now, you were content to sun like a spoiled lizard.
Till a shadow fell over you.
You did not open your eyes.
“You’re going to burn,” Damian said. “When’s the last time you applied sunscreen or drank water?”
“Mm.”
There was a disapproving sound above you. A click of his tongue. The sound your long-suffering husband always made when you were being unreasonable on purpose.
Then his hands were on you.
You whined, immediately going limp in protest. “Nooo, ’m all sweaty.”
He ignored you, of course. Gathered you to him with appalling ease, as if you were not a grown woman but some indignant cat. You made yourself dead weight just to be difficult, and he handled you anyway. He settled against the cushioned backrest and arranged you so you were lying atop him, front to his bare chest. His heartbeat slow under your squished cheek.
You huffed but made no attempt to move.
He tugged the strings of your bikini top, tossing the pesky thing away so he could run his broad hand lazily up and down the length of your spine uninterrupted.
“Open, beloved.”
You opened your mouth without opening your eyes to see what it was.
Blood orange burst over your tongue, sharply sweet and cold. Juice ran down the corner of your mouth before you could catch it.
Damian simply ducked his head, licking the red trail clean for you.
“Greedy,” you mumbled. Your eyes opened halfway to look up at him.
“My wife makes restraint difficult.” He placed another slice between his teeth and leaned close enough to make you lift your head for it. You took it from his mouth, licking your lips.
You inspected the plate that sat beside you. Washed fruit, cut neat and pretty because he had no capacity to do anything carelessly.
“Cherries next.” You demanded, because you had him wrapped around your finger and you both knew it.
And next came black cherries, dark and glossy as polished stones and already pitted. He hand-fed them to you one by one, letting your lips brush his fingertips every time. Crisp pears, cold and pale. Then blood orange again, peeled and segmented, ruby-bright and dripping between his fingers. He ate what you did not, had you lick the juice from his now sticky fingers, and kept his other possessive hand spread across the bare, sun-hot skin of your back.
Waves licked at the sides of the yacht and the whole world smelled like salt, sweat, citrus, and him.
You were still too hot. Still drowsy with it. Half-planning your escape to slip into the water.
But Damian’s chest rose and fell beneath you, steady and hot. His mouth pressed once to the crown of your head. His muscular arms wrapped around you, as if he had all the time in the world to keep you exactly where he wanted you.
So, you closed your eyes again.
DC Masterlist
WC: 619 (drabble)
if you want to be in my tagged for any character i write for let me know :)
summary: post-mission, you land yourself in the hospital with a concussion. in your daze, you plead for someone to tell damian so he won't tear the hospital down to find you, for him not to worry. only problem? you and damian are supposed to hate each other.
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
The faint beeping, the low hushed voices—it's an annoying, distant commotion disrupting your sleep, enough to rouse you from the heavy, dark haze enveloping your senses. Your heavy lids peel open, blinking slowly as your vision adjusts to the sight of the hospital ceiling.
The striking scent of disinfectant hits you, and your nose instinctively wrinkles. A low rasp escapes your throat, just enough to stop the whispers.
"—She's awake!"
It’s a familiar voice, you think. Dick. It wasn’t the voice you wanted to hear, no matter how reassuring—not when the one you're familiar with holds a much more begrudging tone.
"I need..." Who? There's an urgent pressure building up in the back of your mind, an important request hanging right off your tongue. "To tell him."
"Hey-hey, you're okay. Just a little disoriented." Dick’s face comes into view, his messy locks covering the fuzzy halo of light above you. “You have a minor concussion, but no fatal injuries.”
"No. You need to tell him." Your face contorts, straining with visible effort to rack your brain for a name, trying to fight past the thick fog. "I am okay. It's him you have to worry about."
The corner of Dick's mouth tugs down briefly, confusion lighting his features. "Who?"
There's that damn question you're trying to answer. The fluorescent lights are much too oppressive—overly bright and sharp. You needed a shadow, someone who would know what to do when your teeth grinds together in discomfort.
"...Damian." You mutter. Ah, there it is. You don't notice the abrupt confused glances exchanged around the room, of how Damian's name was the last thing they expected to hear.
Your lids fall shut not a second after your job was done, body screaming to rest. At least you won't have to deal with Damian tearing down the hospital to find you.
"They despise each other." Tim reminds for the fifth time.
"I am aware.” Dick mutters, thumb scrolling through his contacts list. "What did I say about hacking my contacts list, Best Robin?"
"You didn't say anything about that specifically." Tim's foot taps impatiently against the tiles. “And why'd you think that contact name was meant for the demon spawn—never mind, that's besides the point right now. She's clearly disoriented.”
“I just have a gut feeling.” Pressing the phone against his ear, Dick runs a habitual tug over his locks whenever another situation pops up that he has to solve. Being in this line of work is bound to give him early greys.
"A gut feeling." Tim huffs, shaking his head in disagreement. “We better hope this doesn’t start another scuffle. Wouldn't want to toss another bone to the press. 'Blood son of Bruce Wayne attacks hospital patient'. I can already smell the print.”
Dick's frown sticks as he eyes you through the open door frame, laying in a hospital bed—unconscious ever since your first waking. The dots aren't connecting, not when the soot from the explosion still singes the edges of his jacket and his mind is all fuzzed up from a lack of sleep and endless documents. Still, the world had a knack for surprising him whenever he least expects it.
The ringing on the other side stops after two seconds.
"Damian." Dick addresses, re-running his fingers habitually through his hair. "There's been a situation at the hospital..."
Here's the thing, Dick knows Damian. He understands the trait of impatience passed along their family, which is why he's already summarised the facts down to twenty seconds. The call abruptly ends at ten.
"Huh." Dick mutters, brows pressed together as he looks back to Tim. "He hung up."
Dick had barely made it beyond the mention of your name and their current location. Your voice echoes in reminder as he stares at his screen, the duration of the call staring back at him. It's him you have to worry about.
Damian's anything but subtle. Of his frigid attitude—his blatant dislike towards you. Putting the two of you in the same room, it was guaranteed disaster. Yet, Damian was the first name out of your mouth.
"Told you it doesn't make sense." Tim shrugs. "Logically, he's the last person we should've called."
"We'll see." Dick answers, head leaning back to rest against the wall. "He's surprised us both plenty of times."
"Yeah, by attempting murder on us both. Your point being?"
Dick restrains a much-needed sigh.
Barely fifteen minutes later, Dick stirs at a loud commotion beyond the walls of the waiting room. His neck is cramping from this unergonomic chair, and his feet are nerved with pins-and-needles. Tim's ears are plugged in with wired earphones, jammed high with Green Day as he concentrates on his tablet, opting to work through his insomnia instead.
There’s a slamming of doors, rapid footsteps thundering against the tiles, coming closer and closer. Dick barely has time to nudge Tim’s shoulder before the hallway door slams open.
Damian comes through like a storm, movements overly controlled in the way a person would seize up before a fight. As if he's expected the worst, and is prepared to battle whatever he might encounter—in a hospital.
“Where is she?” Damian commands, voice echoing off the tiles.
Staring back at Dick are frantic, darkened eyes pinpointed on locked targets—searching for his answer. It's so abruptly intense, almost inhuman, that his mind stutters in regaining its grasp on reality. He hasn't seen that look in a long time, not since their first meeting where one wrong answer would make Damian your enemy.
“She’s asleep.” Tim answers for him, one side of his earphones still plugged in throughout this entire mess. “She needs the rest.”
Damian disregards his words, brushing past him. “I have to see her.”
Dick must’ve subconsciously shifted his glance to your room, towards the shine of the metal carvings of 78 placed in the centre. Damian's gaze follows, and he doesn’t spare a second of hesitation in heading towards the door.
Dick catches Damian's forearm right before he enters, and the glare he receives? Murderous. As if everything in his way of getting to you has become mere obstacles he has to overcome.
"Grayson." Damian's voice is all wrong, shortened and taut, syllables used to convey only what was needed. "Unhand. Me."
"Dames." Dick tries to make sense of this adverse reaction, but nothing from that brief phone call provided him any clues. "She's still unconscious, and I don't think it's a good idea for you to be in there—in this state."
Damian's chest heaves once, but the storm in his gaze has only darkened. "She called for me, didn't she?"
Dick blinks once. "Well, yes but—"
“Then you’re in my way.”
Damian disarms his grip with an alarming quickness, and Dick doesn't even have time to recalibrate his mistake before he's slipped through.
Dick's palm splays onto the door right before it closes, pushing it fully open with a warning ready on his lips to not disturb your recovery, only to find that—Damian hadn’t moved from his spot since he entered. Dick feels Tim pressing into his side, curious eyes flickering at the situation, but Dick is too busy watching to care about how they're practically hanging onto the doorframe.
When Damian catches sight of you, his entire frame freezes into place. He's watching you, and Dick's watching him—and he sees it then, and realises what an idiot he's been.
Damian's entire expression immediately shifts. Loosening in relief at the sight of you mostly unharmed, at the sound of a calm beeping from the heart monitor. It's frighteningly out of place, the tenderness softening his wrath-like panic mere seconds ago. He moves almost mindlessly towards your side, forgetting the presence of his two brothers gawking at him from outside the doorframe, peering into what must be a fever dream.
"Idiot." Damian mutters, but it sounds more like a prayer answered.
"We've got it all wrong, didn't we?" Tim mutters, staring at the sight in awe.
"Told you." Dick whispers, his lips tilting upwards into a smile. "Gut feeling."
You stir not long after Damian’s arrival, as if your body is already attuned to his presence. Lids peering half-open, you squint at the shadow towering over you. For a moment, there was nothing but held breaths and a long pause as you familiarise yourself with forest green.
Then, the most miraculous thing happens. You smile, completely unaware of the turmoil and confusion you've caused.
“Dami.”
Dick decides today is an absolute possibility for the world to end.
“You're an idiot.” Damian hurls the practiced insult out like he’s been running it off in his mind for the past couple of minutes, but his weakened voice holds no bite in comparison to his overwhelming relief.
Under the sheets, Dick swears he sees his brother’s fingers intertwining with yours.
“I told them to tell you not to rush.” You mutter hazily, still readjusting to reality. “At least—I think I did.”
Damian sucks in a breath, low, undistinguishable mutters whispered. Your lip twitches up slightly, which could only mean another insult you're brushing off.
“Yet, you’re still here.” You tease. “Fretting.”
The thin line of his lips creases deeper. “I do not fret.”
“Arguing with the patient?” Your body shifts, tilting closer to Damian.
“I prefer arguing with you unharmed.” Damian mocks lowly. Dick sees the stiffness bleed out of Damian’s expression the longer his gaze is locked onto you, as if materialising your talkative state in his mind.
"I am unharmed."
"A mild concussion, a hospital bed." Damian's frown deepens. "At least attempt at a reasonable lie."
Damian’s body tilts just slightly, lowering to match yours, and the light catches your features once more. Your lips tilt downward for a single second, the sting of the fluorescent lights irritating your vision.
In a sudden movement without words exchanged, Damian adjusts. His shoulders block the light over your face once more, covering you with his shadow.
You can't help the grin that escapes. "That is what I was thinking about, before I passed out again."
Damian's expression contorts, as if his mind can't decide on hyper-focusing on the details of you falling unconscious again or on what you were imagining about him. You decide for him.
"The lights were all in my face and—" You suck in a breath. "I kept trying to remember your name. I tried so hard to find it, this person who knows that I hate hospital lights without me needing to say it. Then, your name just slipped out."
“Oh.” Tim murmurs from afar.
“Oh.” Dick agrees.
“Don’t do that again.” Damian mutters in the quiet buzzing of the machines.
“Save people?” You tease.
“Put yourself in harm’s way.” Damian pushes back.
"Hey, what about the two of us?" Tim calls out, and Dick's quick to shove his elbow into the idiot's stomach. "Ow—what? We never got this treatment and all the fretting."
Damian's gaze shifts at the disruption, the softness creased into the corners of his eyes fading into annoyance. "Leave us."
"Woah." Tim holds a hand to his abdomen, still feigning hurt. "That's just cold."
Damian's eyes narrow further, and Dick's reminded instantly of how the press is probably waiting outside the hospital for any hints of a scuffle. It's already news enough for not two, but three members now of the Wayne family rushing to the emergency ward. Grabbing Tim by his hoodie, Dick tugs roughly. "We'll leave you two be to—catch up. No attempted murders, if the reminder's still needed."
It had slipped out so easily, the old warning, but it feels strangely out of place with this tender atmosphere. Dick's most definitely intruding on something he's not meant to see, but questions can be reserved for later.
Eyeing Damian one last time, he sees the way his brother's vision is trained on you—and he knows his job is done here.
You snort, a sheepish expression caught between your teeth, watching for confirmation as the door shuts with a click. When you have a shred of confidence that they're at least out of hearing range, you turn your attention back to Damian, unable to hide your grin.
“You know they’re probably freaking out right now?” You mutter conspiratorially. "They'll never buy into us hating each other anymore."
“That is not my concern.” Damian frowns. “You are.”
“That might be the sweetest thing you've ever told me.” You coo. "I matter enough for you to deal with family dinner interrogations now."
Damian's stare remains unimpressed. “I will smother you with pillows.”
“That’s unhygienic—and cruel.”
His tongue clicks softly as his hand comes up behind the pillow, instinctively propping them up higher as you adjust your neck, an action completely unrelated to his threat. “Only you would be concerned of bacteria before attempted murder.”
“Yeah, I’m a piece of work." You murmur distractedly, choosing to gaze intently at him instead. His hair's fallen into different directions, all un-Damian-like. "That’s why you rushed all the way here, didn’t you?”
He stiffens, hand shifting away from the pillow, but still hovering near you. He's been holding back from the moment he's entered this damned institution, and his mind is ticking, battling between his habit to be the steady one, and the crushing need to hold you.
“Dami..” It’s a delicate art, softening your tone just enough to reach him—one you’ve learnt in secret. “Come here.”
Your voice slips past his defences, and it hits. The inner workings of his mind switching between his logic and his emotions finally falter, and his fingers move on command, a delicate twist to cup the back of your head. He doesn't move you towards him, choosing to come over to you instead, his body hovering halfway over yours before finally letting his weight topple gently over you.
His arms wrap around you gently as his comforting weight falls over you, and the first thing you feel is how quickly his heart is racing. He needs this, you realise, as he settles with his arms wrapped protectively around you. To be physically present as your shield, even when there is no danger present.
Damian is affected. More than he seems from his tightly concealed expressions, obvious now that you can physically feel the effects on his body. Slight twitches of his fingers that appear when he's still afraid, waiting for the noise in his head to calm down.
“I didn't want you to worry.” You mumble into his embrace.
“Impossible.” Damian huffs softly, tracing his other hand over your wrist, feeling the soft thudding of your pulse. “You're my problem to handle."
You feel a soft, imperceptible kiss pressed onto your temple, and your eyes flutter shut. This is the side of Damian only you get to have, the proof of its existence ghosting your skin. You have to force your eyes open, the lure of sleep already trying to dig its claws into you—and that's something you absolutely refuse. You don't want to miss this rare side to Damian, all soft and disarmed.
"You scared me." Damian admits after a long pause, barely audible.
You blink, surprised. "You're never scared."
"For you, I am." Damian confesses, his grip tightening slightly. "You tend to render me painfully exposed to weakness."
"Weakness, huh? Still haven't got rid of me though." You hum lightly.
"No." His tone is decisive, stern. "If I haven't decided that I've had enough of you, the world doesn't get to."
"I'm starting to think threats are your love language, Dami." Your hand lifts, struggling twice before you manage to run your fingers through his hair, resting its weight over the nape of his neck.
His body shudders slightly, and his nose buries itself deeper into the crook of your neck. If anyone were to look into hospital room 78, they'll encounter the strange sight of Damian Wayne embracing you as if you were his lifeline. No one would believe them, but the truth remains.
He was yours. Completely yours.
He was also definitely sentenced to a long interrogation the moment he steps out of this room.
"Who was the perpetrator?" He mutters after a moment.
"Damian." You're stuck deciding between a snort and a sigh. "It was an accident."
"You don't know that." He huffs. "I sincerely doubt in your ability to detect an attempted murder while you're unconscious."
Your grip tugs at his hair playfully, a pretty effective way of shutting him up. "Argue with me later."
You feel his lashes flutter against your skin, processing. "...Fine."
He breathes you in, his heart rate finally starting to calm the longer he hears your voice so close to his eardrums, your touch grounding his senses.
"It was torture." His voice is too still, stating the facts without the emotion that's driven behind them. "The drive here. I kept envisioning the worst, that you had called out for me—and if I didn't make it in time—"
His grip tightens with his words, and you're pressed into his chest, feeling what his words refuse to convey, starting to thud again below his ribcage.
"Damian." Your hand traces reassuringly over his neck. "I'm right here."
He listens, his rampant thoughts slowing in pace at the reminder. "I had never been so terrified." His voice remains level, his attempt at reinforcing his reality over his fears. "To receive a call from Grayson, hearing your name—I couldn't let myself think of anything else other than finding you."
"You did." You mutter reassuringly. "You found me. I'm safe."
He lets out a low breath, a slow exhale at the sound of those two words he'd been needing to hear. "Sometimes, I think you've ruined me." He murmurs in truth.
You think he's unused to this. Letting down his walls, experiencing the blatant terror for another person's life that is completely out of his control—that he's left with nothing but pieces to readjust, to compromise. By letting you into his life and allowing you to be his person, he has abandoned his need to preserve himself, to be above fear.
"You're not escaping the argument." He notes down distractedly, trying to regain his ground despite being wrapped into you. "I still have my reservations."
"Anything you need, Dami." You reassure softly.
"Anything?" He murmurs, head shifting out of the crook of your neck to face you fully.
His green eyes are narrowed with intent now, gazing at you with unhidden intensity.
You swallow, nodding slightly.
When he leans in, the palm of his hand slips from the back of your head to over your jaw. His thumb traces over your lips softly as he leans in, replacing the ghost of his touch with his own mouth. It's tender, a separate language to convey the emotions he hasn't learnt to spell out, on what you do to him. Yet, with the way he's handling you, nose brushing against yours, in a way so precious it makes your heart ache—you think that impending argument's worth it.
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
Summary: You decide to do a tik tok trend with your boyfriend. Unfortunately, you didn't realize how seriously he took your instructions.
Pairing: Damian Wayne x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 1.5k
Content Warning: fluff, cursing, established relationship, secret relationship, yearning, tik tok trend, batfam finding out
A/N: This is for this request by @dclover567 you are so sweet and this was so fun to write! This will be my last fic till after exams! I hope you enjoy my lovelies
•───────•°•[¯◉°]•°•───────•
“Damian come here.”
You watch as he pops his head out of the door frame from your shared bedroom. The use of his full name spurs him into an immediate reaction.
He was wearing grey sweatpants and a loose black long sleeve. You had about thirty minutes left with him before he leaves for the cave. Tonight, he had some training with Tim before they all went on patrol.
When he sees you trying, and failing miserably, to hide the smirk on your face, he raises an eyebrow.
“What are you up to my love?”
A hum comes from your lips, as you prop up your phone on the kitchen aid mixer. Noticing that the camera is open and facing in your direction, his arms stiffen at his sides.
This had not been the first time he had fallen victim to your shenanigans.
Realizing that he’s suddenly as stiff as a tree, a laugh escapes you. It’s a harmony to his ears when he’s blessed with the sound. The sight of your smile, causes a slight twitch of his lips. If you hadn’t been looking for it, you would’ve missed it.
“Can you do something for me?”
“Anything you ask beloved.” His answer was immediate, it always was when you asked him for something.
Damian would have burned the world to the ground if it meant you would smile at him like that every morning. There weren’t enough words in any language that could properly capture how he felt about you. It was more than love, more than devotion, it was something he was convinced only existed in the way you chose each other.
“Lift your arms in the air, straight up.” When he does, your palms rest on his bicep with a feather light touch. There’s a small amount of force in you pushing them together, so they’re parallel next to his head. “Okay perfect, make sure to keep them there.”
The eyebrow is back to being raised. The other one joins it’s partner when your arms wrap around his neck.
There’s a subtle flush dusting the beautiful tan skin of his face when you’re centimeters apart. There’s a subtle glint of mischief in his eye that he is too used to when your lips meet his.
He wasn’t sure what the test was, but he would retake it every night if it meant your lips never left his.
This was his favorite part of the day. When it was just the both of you in the intimacy of the night, sharing kisses stolen from his dreams.
He kept his arms in the air, a proper soldier following his orders. There was no wish he wanted to be granted more than for you to allow him to drop his arms. He yearned to hold you against him, the woman he dedicated himself too.
This was torture.
After a few more seconds, you slowly pull away. His swollen lips go to chase yours, for another kiss before he has to abandon you for some hours of the night.
When his eyes flutter open, he sees the small ounce of disappointment behind your eyes and his heart sinks.
Without hesitation, he goes against the only orders you gave him and his arms drop. The warmth of your lower back is more comforting than he’ll ever allow himself to admit out loud.
“What have I done qalbi?” His eyebrows furrow together.
At the term of endearment you shake your head with a small smile. His only response is to hold you tighter. It was common for you two to have conversations with little words, spoken in actions and longing glances. Damian had never been one for many words, but with you, he tried.
“It’s nothing.” When he pulls you tighter, you knew then that he wasn’t going to let it go. “It’s a stupid trend, basically you test your partner to see if they drop their arms and melt into the kiss.”
Understanding flashes across his face with a singular nod. His eyes catch the time on the oven clock and then glances back at you, in his arms.
“My love, I only kept my arms up because you instructed me too. Believe me, if I knew this was the test, I would’ve failed it immediately, or passed. I’m not sure which result is which.”
A laugh passes in between you. Something small and breathless, enough to make him debate on telling his father he cannot attend the patrol tonight.
“We have twenty seven minutes until I leave for patrol.”
A beat. Then,
“Okay…”
“What would you like me to do, to make it up to you?”
“Damian-”
“Please,” he rarely pleads. Even with you, he has never allowed himself to end up in a position where he has to beg for forgiveness or anything similar to it. “Allow me to make it up to you.”
“Well if you insist…” There’s a cheeky smile that appears on your face. “If you would like to cook up a quick dinner for your lovely amazing girlfriend who hates to cook, she would be very happy!”
And for the first time that evening, he laughs. Your hatred for cooking came in handy most days. Richard had told him once “happy wife, happy life.” While Todd advised him the way to anyone’s heart was through their stomach.
He took both of the recommendations to heart. They had worked so far for him, but he would never let them know that.
He drops a kiss to your forehead, holding you tighter. “Anything you desire.”
•───────•°•[¯◉°]•°•───────•
Damian had been in the cave for a little over forty five minutes. He had wrapped up his training and now they were waiting for him his father to join them in the cave.
Bruce had been on a date with Selina, but they should be back any moment now. Everyone was here for patrol and Selina was going to be joining them tonight.
“Wha….”
Stephanie’s voice echoes through the cave as she sits up in the chair she had been previously lounging in. Timothy, being as nosy as ever, looks over at her phone. His jaw drops and a sputtering noise comes out of him.
They now had the attention of all the occupiers in the cave, including even Alfred.
Tim and Stephanie look at each other, then his heat skips a beat as they both look to stare at him. Betraying no emotion, he merely moves his head the slightest bit, a motion to get them to explain their sudden hysteria.
“Damian, what the fuck is this?”
The use of foul language confuses him. He hadn’t done anything particularly out of the ordinary recently. Stepping closer to the odd pair he bends down to look closer at Stephanie’s phone.
Ah.
It was the video from the trend you had asked him to participate in earlier. When you asked him if it would be okay to post, he assured you that he wouldn’t mind.
He did however not factor in the possibility of his family finding out. A rather stupid thing to forget.
“From what I am told.” His throat bobs while he swallows, attempting to keep his cool. “That is a Tik Tok Trend.”
“Well no shit.” Timothy remarks. “Who’s she?”
At that, Damian cannot do much to hide the way his face could pass for a rose bush.
Richard, seeing the reaction, throws his arm around Damian’s shoulder with a wicked grin. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say our little Dami has a girlfriend.”
Todd snorts. “We gotta take the girl to Arkham and run a test on her. She’s gotta be messed up to go out with Demon spawn.”
“You will do no such thing.” Damian’s head snaps in the Frankenstein wannabe’s direction. “If I found out you even lay a hand on her, I will personally-”
“What’s going on?” Father steps off the elevator with Selina on his arm. Both of their eyebrows are about to fly off their face when they take in the scene.
“Damian’s got a girlfriend.” Cassandra says from her new place behind Stephanie.
“Oh, that sweet girl that works at the record store off Broadway and Seventeenth?” Selina asks with a faux innocent tone.
Damian’s eyes narrow in their direction. It was foolish of him to think that his father and Selina were not aware. He did however not enjoy that they had spied on her without his permission.
“Yes,” he swallows. “Her.”
Father nods with a small twitch of his lip. “She’s a nice girl, you should invite her to dinner.”
“I…” Damian pauses. “I will consider it.”
Father accepts the answer and directs Selina to the changing room. While they both change into the suit, Pennyworth approaches the young master Wayne and asks in a low voice,
“I assume, I should not mention that I have already met the young miss?”
•───────•°•[¯◉°]•°•───────•
A/N: Yes this is me projecting my hatred for cooking. Also say thank you to my bsf who sent me a video so I could write this bc I don’t have tik tok LOL (I was going to include duke in this no i didn't forget about him but i wasn't sure if it'd fit bc he patrols through the day im sorry )
ɞ You tell Damian you can't pay the rent this month.
ɞ Warnings: fluff, but you can see a tiny bit of sexual tension at the end.
The apartment was quiet in that rare, comfortable way; no comms, no alerts, no urgency. Just stillness. Damian sat on the sofa, one arm draped along the back, the other holding a book open with practiced ease. His posture was relaxed in a way very few people ever saw. And you were sprawled across him like you belonged there. Which at this point you did. Your head rested against his chest, legs stretched along the couch, one arm loosely draped over his side.
Damian turned a page. His hand, almost absentmindedly rested against your side, fingers lightly tracing slow, idle patterns.
Neither of you spoke for a minuate but then you shifted slightly, tilting your head just enough to look up at him. “Damian?”
He didn’t look up immediately. “Mm.”
Your tone changed with something soft. “I need to talk to you about something.”
That made him pause. He put the book he was holding down on the other side of the chair and straightened up with you in his lap.
“What is it?”
You clasped your hands together, just enough to look nervous. “I… I don’t think I can pay the rent this month.” You said, sighing.
Damian only blinked once. “I’m sorry Hayati, but what?”
You looked down, avoiding his eyes committing to the performance. You tried not to laugh at the confusion on Damian's face. “I’ve just had a lot of… expenses,” you said, quieter now. “Unexpected things.”
He leaned back slightly. Damian pushed a few strands of hair that had fallen across your face behind your ear, studying you like something in this equation had fundamentally broken.
“Y/N.”
“Yes, my love?”
“We do not pay rent.”
You nodded solemnly. “Right.”
“And you have never paid rent.”
“Yes.”
“And you own this property.” He said, as if stating an obvious truth, "You know I had your name put on the title deed, right?"
“Yes.”
He narrowed his eyes slightly. Damian spoke as his hand slid from your face to your waist. “Then clarify your statement.”
You finally looked up at him trying very hard to stay serious. “I just think,” you said carefully, “it would be irresponsible of me not to bring it up.”
Damian’s expression didn’t soften, but it changed just enough to notice something “You are testing me,” he said.
Your lips twitched. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You are simulating financial distress in a scenario where it is structurally impossible.”
“I wouldn’t say impossible-”
“It is impossible.”
Damian's hand tightened around your waist as you bit the inside of your cheek. He leaned forward slightly now, eyes narrowing you. “Oh,” he said quietly. “This is one of those… trends.”
You lost it, just a little. A small smile breaking through. “Maybe.”
Damian exhaled slowly through his nose. “You are aware,” he said, voice flattening in that very particular way, “that I am a physician with multiple income streams and access to-”
“I know baby,” you cut in, stepping closer, smile growing now. “I know.”
“You are also aware,” he continued, ignoring that, “that I would not permit you to assume financial burden regardless of circumstance.”
“I know that too.”
“And yet you chose to present this scenario.”
You nodded, completely unapologetic now. You could even call that shameless, because you were having so much fun. “Yes.”
“I don’t understand why.”
You tilted you head slightly, your eyes were soft but unmistakably amused. “Because I wanted to see what you’d do.”
“You wished to observe my response,” he said.
“Mm-hm.”
“And what outcome were you expecting?”
You shrugged lightly. “I don’t know. Maybe you’d panic a little.”
“I do not panic.”
“I’ve seen you panic.” You said, laughing. Because you'd seen him panic, especially when it came to you.
“You have seen me adjust rapidly.”
You smiled. “Sure.”
Damian leaned in, just slightly. Close enough that his voice didn’t need volume.
“If this were real,” he said quietly, “there would be no discussion.”
Your smile softened just a fraction. “Oh?”
“You would not be responsible for it,” he continued. “You are not responsible for any of it.”
Your expression flickered briefly, because even knowing him, hearing it like that still did something. “You say that like it’s obvious,” you said.
“It is.”
“So you wouldn’t make me sell my things? Or I don’t know, take on a second job?”
Damian’s expression shifted instantly, offended on a conceptual level. “I would prevent you from attempting either.”
You laughed softly. “I know you would.”
“You find this amusing, aren’t you?”
“Very.”
“You derive enjoyment from fabricating problems I cannot logically solve.”
“Yes.”
Something in his expression shifted again. “You are aware,” he said slowly, “that if you wished to test my responses, there are more… effective methods.” He said, his hand sliding from your leg down to your hip.
You raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“You could simply ask for something,” he said.
Your breath hitched, barely there. “Like what?”
He shook his head from side to side as if he was stating the most normal thing in the world. “Anything. You would receive anything you want.”
“Even if I asked for something unreasonable?”
“I would evaluate it,” he said.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I would still provide it.”
You huffed a small laugh, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet you persist.”
After a brief pause, you added, becoming serious. “For the record, I can pay rent.”
“I am aware.”
“I just don’t.”
“I am also aware.”
“And you don’t let me.”
“That is correct.”
You smiled, leaning just slightly closer. “Good.”
Damian didn’t move away. “Your concern is resolved, then,” he said.
“Completely.” You said, and murmured as your hands traced across his chest, “Actually, I think I want something right now.”
A glint appeared in Damian’s eyes, and he leaned back, encouraging the small movements of your hips.
“Will you provide for me?” you said while your lips curving towards him.
Damian murmured as he reached for your bra strap inside your shirt. “Always.” And that was the only answer needed to bring your lips together.
😝😝
Okay, okay, I'll stop writing for Damian. The last four posts I shared were all about him. I just can't stop myself 😔
request reader who acts as a healer for the team, and their ability on paper [and seemingly in practice] is just that they can heal anybody, no matter the damage or cause, except their power actually works by stealing the wound and inflicting it upon themselves. they can take any pain, mental, chronic, sometimes even emotional depending on circumstances and the degree of it. no one knows until they take on something far too bad: losing a limb, breaking their spine, guts spilling out, etc.
content gn! reader x damian wayne, healer! reader, reader gets hurt, aged-up adult damian wayne, severe injury, traumatic limb injury/near-amputation, blood, pain transfer, self-sacrificial healing, medical trauma, guilt, panic, league of assassins trauma references, emotional distress, anger after consent violation, angst with hurt/comfort
masterlist | word count 8.4k
Damian Wayne had been taught that a body was a weapon before he had ever been allowed to think of it as his own.
Hands were for blades. Feet were for balance. Bones were structure. Blood was consequence. Pain was instruction. A body was sharpened, trained, corrected, punished, and improved. A body was not precious. A body was not sacred. A body was not something one wept over unless its failure cost the mission.
Then he came to Gotham.
Gotham taught him many things. It taught him that rain could feel like grief made weather. It taught him that family was a battlefield where no one drew a blade and everyone still left wounded. It taught him that his father could love him deeply and still fail to say it in any language Damian understood. It taught him that Grayson’s hugs were inescapable, Todd’s anger was often fear wearing steel-toed boots, Drake’s silence was rarely empty, and Pennyworth could end a war with one raised eyebrow.
It taught him that bodies could be held. Bandaged. Fed. Carried to bed when sleep finally won.
It taught him that pain was not always a lesson. Sometimes it was only pain.
Then there was you.
You were not Gotham’s lesson. You were its contradiction.
You walked into the lives of heroes with no cape, no crest, no ancestral oath or alien sun burning beneath your skin. You arrived with steady hands, tired eyes, and a reputation that made even gods go quiet.
You could heal anything. That was what everyone said.
The Justice League said it with reverence. The Titans said it with relief. The Outlaws said it with reckless gratitude. Young Justice said it like they had discovered a cheat code and decided not to read the terms of service.
Jon said you were “basically a miracle.”
Damian said miracles were unreliable.
You had smiled at him when he said it. Amused.
“Good thing I’m not a miracle, then,” you had replied.
He had disliked you immediately.
Not because you were wrong.
Because he wanted you to be.
The first time Damian let you heal him, he was twenty-one and old enough to know better.
It was not a serious injury. That was what he told himself. A fractured wrist after a fight with a metahuman trafficking cell near the docks. He had taken the hit redirecting a collapsing beam away from a child. The child survived. His wrist did not.
A favourable exchange.
You found him on a rooftop afterwards, attempting to secure a splint one-handed with the grim concentration of a man personally offended by gauze. You stood in front of him for five seconds before saying, “That wrap is a hate crime.”
Damian did not look up. “It is functional.”
“It is shaped like unresolved childhood trauma.”
His eyes lifted. You smiled mildly.
He stared. “You are bold for someone within throwing distance.”
“You’re injured.”
“You believe that protects you?”
“No. I believe your wrist is broken and your left-handed aim with medical tape is probably worse than you think.”
Damian’s jaw tightened. The worst part was that you were correct.
You stepped closer but did not reach for him.
That was unusual. Most people reached. Medics, especially. Even kind ones often forgot that kindness could still become an invasion if delivered without permission.
You held your hands at your sides.
“I can heal it,” you said.
“No.”
“Okay.”
He paused.
You did not argue. No persuasive speech. No moral lecture. No “you don’t have to be tough with me,” which was a phrase Damian loathed almost as much as “calm down.”
You simply accepted his answer and leaned against the roof access door.
Damian narrowed his eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Waiting.”
“For what?”
“To make sure you don’t pass out from pain while continuing your one-man war against compression bandages.”
“I will not pass out.”
“Great. Then this will be boring.”
The silence that followed should have annoyed him.
It did. But not only.
You watched the skyline instead of watching him. You gave him privacy without leaving him alone. It was a surprisingly difficult balance, and Damian hated that you managed it.
Eventually, his splint slipped. You did not comment.
His wrist throbbed hard enough that his vision flashed white at the edges. You still did not comment.
He exhaled sharply through his nose.
“Fine,” he said. You looked over. “I will permit your assistance.”
“Assistance with the splint or healing?”
He paused. You waited.
Damian looked at your hands. They were steady. Scarred in small places, though no injuries lingered long on you. He knew that much. Everyone knew that. You healed quickly. You healed others faster.
A miracle, Jon had called you. A risk, Damian thought.
“To heal,” he said finally.
You stepped toward him. Slowly. “May I touch your wrist?”
“Yes.”
Your fingers settled around the fracture. Warmth bloomed beneath your palm.
Damian prepared for pain. There was none.
The ache vanished. The bone slid back into place with a painless shift that should have been impossible. Swelling disappeared. Torn tissue knitted itself whole. His fingers, stiff seconds before, flexed freely.
He stared at his hand. There should have been consequences. There were always consequences.
You released him and took half a step back. Your own fingers curled briefly against your palm.
A twitch. Almost nothing.
Damian saw it. “What was that?”
You blinked. “What was what?”
“Your hand.”
“My hand exists. Very observant.”
He frowned.
You smiled. It was a practised smile.
He would understand that later.
At the time, he only knew that he disliked it.
Trust came slowly.
Damian preferred it that way. Trust that arrived too quickly was either foolishness or manipulation. Real trust was built like a fortress: stone by stone, inspected from every angle, reinforced after every storm.
You never rushed him. That was the first stone.
You respected every no. That was the second.
You remembered details he did not expect anyone to notice: that he preferred tea without sugar, that he hated being touched from behind, that Titus became restless during thunderstorms, that Damian’s right shoulder tightened before he admitted exhaustion.
You learned the names of his animals before you learned the gossip about his family. That was several stones at once.
“You brought treats,” Damian said the first time you visited the Manor, and Titus abandoned dignity to shove his massive head into your hands.
“For Titus.”
“I can see that.”
“You sound offended.”
“You have bribed my dog.”
“I have respected his interests.”
Titus wagged his tail with shameless enthusiasm.
Damian crossed his arms. “He has betrayed me.”
“You love him anyway.”
“Unfortunately.”
You smiled down at Titus. “Good boy.”
Damian watched the way your hands scratched behind the dog’s ears. Gentle, sure, absent of fear. Titus leaned against you like a creature who knew exactly where kindness lived.
Damian did not realise he was staring until you glanced up.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Your smile became suspicious. “Was that almost fondness?”
“No.”
“It looked like almost fondness.”
“You are mistaken.”
“I’m choosing to believe otherwise.”
“Your delusions are your own burden.”
You laughed. Damian looked away too late.
After that, you became a regular presence.
Not constant. Damian would not have tolerated constant.
Familiar.
You appeared in the Cave after League missions, carrying medical supplies and the quiet authority of someone who had seen heroes at their worst and remained unimpressed by theatrics. You patched Grayson while he told a story with too many hand gestures and not enough respect for his own cracked ribs. You argued with Todd about antibiotics until he took them out of spite. You confiscated Drake’s coffee once and survived.
Damian had been impressed. Not that he said so.
Jon noticed, because Jon noticed everything Damian wished he would not.
“You like them,” Jon said one evening on a rooftop patrol.
Damian did not stumble. Barely.
“I tolerate them.”
Jon floated beside him, cape moving in the wind. “You gave them one of your sketches.”
“It was a medical diagram.”
“It was a drawing of their hands.”
“Hands are medically relevant.”
“You wrote ‘rest’ under it.”
“They do not rest.”
Jon’s grin widened. “You are so down bad.” Damian turned slowly. Jon backed up in the air. “I say that with love.”
“I will remove you from the sky.”
“You can’t fly.”
“I will improvise.”
Jon laughed.
Damian resumed walking. His ears were warm.
Jon landed beside him, quieter now. “They look at you differently, too.”
Damian’s step faltered. “They do not.”
“They do.”
“Kryptonian hearing does not make you an expert on human emotion.”
“No, but hearing their heartbeat change when you walk in is pretty compelling evidence.” Damian stopped. Jon also stopped, expression immediately apologetic. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You listen to their heart?”
“Not intentionally! It’s just loud when they see you.”
Damian’s own heart became deeply undisciplined.
Jon smiled softly. “You should tell them.”
“No.”
“Okay.”
Damian glanced at him, suspicious. “You concede too easily.”
“No, I just know you’ll do it eventually and pretend it was your idea.”
Damian glared. Jon grinned.
Two nights later, you found another drawing tucked into your medical bag. This one was of Titus asleep with his head on your knee. Beneath it, in Damian’s precise handwriting, was one sentence: He trusts you. This reflects well on your character.
You found Damian in the garden.
It was raining, because Gotham apparently believed subtlety was for lesser cities. He stood beneath a stone archway, pretending not to wait.
You approached with the sketch held carefully against your chest.
“This is beautiful,” you said.
“It is accurate.”
“It’s kind.”
“That is debatable.”
“No.” You smiled. “It isn’t.”
Damian looked away.
You stepped under the arch beside him. Rain whispered over ivy. The Manor glowed behind you both, all old stone and golden windows.
“Thank you,” you said.
He nodded stiffly.
There was a silence.
Not uncomfortable. That had become dangerous.
You looked at him, and Damian could feel the moment opening like a door.
“You’re allowed to want things,” you said quietly.
His jaw tightened. It was not fair, how gently you said it. As if the words were not a blade sliding between armour plates. “I am aware.”
“You know it intellectually.”
He looked at you sharply. Your smile was sad.
“What do you want, Damian?”
Many answers came to him.
Peace. Purpose. His father’s approval, though he had outgrown needing it and somehow not outgrown wanting it. A world where children were not trained into weapons. A self that did not sometimes still hear his grandfather’s voice and mistake it for his own.
But those truths were too large for the rain. So he chose the smaller one. The braver one.
“You,” he said.
Your breath caught.
Damian did not look away. Your face changed in a way he did not have language for. Softened, yes, but not with pity. With wonder. With wanting so open, it made his chest hurt.
“You have me,” you whispered.
He should have asked if you were certain. He should have warned you that he did not love gently by instinct, that his devotion had teeth, that he was still learning how to hold without gripping too tightly.
Instead, he leaned in.
You met him halfway.
The first kiss was rain-cold and mouth-warm, hesitant for only the first breath. Then your hand rose to his cheek, and Damian let himself lean into it.
Let himself want. Let himself be wanted.
Later, Jon would claim he heard Damian’s heartbeat “attempt to achieve escape velocity.”
Damian would threaten him. Several times.
But in the rain, beneath ivy, you kissed him like there was nothing in him that needed to be earned back from violence.
And Damian, foolishly perhaps, believed you.
He should have known the past would come for him with a blade.
The League of Assassins rarely wasted poetry.
When the case began, it looked like a string of metahuman disappearances. Three teenagers taken from Metropolis. Two from Gotham. One from Blüdhaven. All newly powered. All young enough to be frightened by what their bodies had become and old enough for someone cruel to turn that fear into compliance.
Oracle connected the disappearances to an abandoned hospital outside Gotham registered under six false companies, two shell organisations, and one name Damian had not heard spoken aloud in years.
A minor League sect. Old blood. New methods.
His father stood at the Cave computer, grim and silent. Grayson’s usual warmth had sharpened into focus. Drake’s fingers flew across keys. Todd checked and rechecked his weapons with quiet, murderous care. Jon stood beside Damian, tension radiating off him like sunlight behind storm clouds.
You stood near the medbay entrance. Damian saw you before anyone spoke.
“No,” he said.
Your eyes moved to him. “Excuse me?”
“You are not coming.”
Todd muttered, “Smooth, brat.”
Damian ignored him.
You stepped closer. “They’ll have injured kids inside.”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t want a healer there?”
“I do not want you there.”
The room went still.
Your face did not change, but Damian saw the hurt land. He regretted the phrasing instantly.
Not the meaning. The wound.
You folded your arms. “Because it’s dangerous?”
“Because it is League.”
Your expression softened, which was worse than anger. “Dami.”
“No.”
“You can’t keep me away from every shadow in your past.”
“I can keep you away from this one.”
“That isn’t your choice.”
“It is if I refuse to allow you through the Zeta-tube.”
Drake winced.
Grayson said, “Dami.”
You stared at him.
For a moment, he thought you would argue. Part of him wanted you to. Part of him wanted you angry enough that the fear in his chest had somewhere to go.
Instead, you nodded once. “Fine.”
Damian hated the word.
You looked at Bruce. “I’ll coordinate med support from here.”
Bruce’s gaze shifted between you and Damian.
Then he nodded. “Accepted.”
You did not look at Damian again.
Good, he told himself. He had protected you.
It felt like losing.
The facility beneath the hospital was exactly what Damian expected. That made it worse.
Stone corridors beneath sterile tile. Modern restraints bolted into old walls. Hidden sigils carved under steel plates. The League had always understood the value of layering cruelty beneath cleanliness.
The team split. Batman and Nightwing cleared the upper labs. Red Hood secured the escape route with a level of aggression that suggested several assassins would later require reconstructive dentistry. Red Robin disabled surveillance from the Cave with you beside him on medical coordination. Damian and Jon moved through the lower chambers.
They found the first two teenagers in a containment room.
Bruised. Dehydrated. Alive. One had burns from power-dampening cuffs. The other had a dislocated shoulder and a split lip. Damian’s jaw tightened as Jon broke the cuffs with careful rage.
You wanted to be there. You wanted to put your hands over the burns and make them vanish.
Instead, you gave orders.
He was proud. He was afraid. Both feelings sat together in him like badly behaved animals.
They moved deeper.
The final chamber was beneath the old surgical wing. It had once been an operating theatre. The League had turned it into something worse. Six teenagers were strapped to tilted metal tables arranged in a circle around a machine pulsing with stolen metahuman energy. Their powers fed into the device through cables bright with unstable light.
In the centre stood a man in black armour with a white sash marked in old League script.
Damian knew the title.
Not the man. That hardly mattered. The League was full of replaceable monsters wearing inherited arrogance.
“Blood heir,” the man said.
Jon’s eyes burned red. “I hate when they call you that.”
“As do I,” Damian said.
Then the fight began. Assassins dropped from the rafters. Red solar emitters ignited in the walls, flooding the room in pulses designed to weaken Jon without fully stripping him. Power-dampening fields snapped on around the captives. Blades flashed.
Damian moved.
He had been raised in rooms like this. He knew their rhythm. Strike before the second attacker lands. Never follow the obvious opening. The left wall hides a second blade. The floor sigil is not decorative. The man with the shorter sword is the true threat.
He fought like memory given teeth. Jon fought beside him, weakened but furious, each hit controlled enough to avoid collapsing the chamber on the children.
“Red Robin,” Damian snapped over comms. “Disable the solar emitters.”
“Working,” Tim replied. “They’re layered into the medical grid.”
Todd’s voice cut in, breathless and violent. “I can blow the grid.”
“Do not blow the grid,” Tim and Bruce said at once.
Todd scoffed. “No one appreciates vision.”
Your voice came through, tight. “Damian, behind you.”
He turned before the blade reached his spine.
An assassin fell.
Damian’s pulse sharpened. You were watching through hacked security feeds.
Good. Bad. You were seeing too much.
The lead assassin smiled.
“Still guided by softer hands,” he said.
Damian lunged.
Mistake.
Not fatal. Almost.
The floor beneath him flared with old script. Chains of black light erupted around his right arm and shoulder, locking him mid-strike. Jon shouted and tried to reach him, but two assassins drove him back beneath red solar pulses.
Damian twisted. The chains tightened.
The lead assassin drew a curved blade.
Not toward Damian’s heart. Toward his arm.
Damian understood at once. Maiming, not killing. A message. A punishment. A ritual humiliation. The blood heir made less whole.
He fought the chains with everything he had.
Not enough.
The blade came down. Pain went white.
For one suspended heartbeat, there was nothing.
Then sound returned.
Jon screaming his name. The teenagers crying out. The wet sound of blood hitting tile.
Damian looked down. His right arm was nearly severed below the elbow. Attached by ruined flesh, fractured bone, and a stubbornness his body had apparently inherited from him.
The sight was clinical in its horror.
He knew what losing the arm would mean.
Not death. Worse, in some ways.
Relearning everything. Sword forms. Drawing. Writing. Touch. Balance. The language of his body rewritten by another person’s blade.
Pain struck next, vast and blinding.
Damian dropped to his knees. His left hand clamped above the wound. Blood surged between his fingers.
“Robin!” Bruce’s voice cracked over comms.
That, more than the injury, frightened him. His father sounded afraid.
Jon hit the lead assassin so hard that the man flew into the far wall.
The solar emitters died.
Tim’s voice, “Grid down.”
Todd, “I still think explosions would’ve been faster.”
Your voice came next. Not steady. Not anymore.
“Damian?”
He clenched his teeth. Could not answer.
Jon dropped beside him, face white. He pressed both hands over Damian’s arm, trying to stem the bleeding without making it worse.
“Oh God,” Jon breathed. “Dami, stay with me.”
“I am… here,” Damian forced out.
“You’re losing too much blood.”
“I noticed.”
“Stop being sarcastic while actively bleeding out!”
Your voice came again. “Jon. Status.”
Jon looked at the comm on Damian’s collar, horrified.
“It’s his arm,” Jon said. “It’s—it’s almost gone.”
Silence. The kind that took all air with it.
Then the sound Damian dreaded most. The Zeta-tube activating in the chamber beyond.
“No,” Damian rasped.
Jon looked at him. “Damian—”
“No.”
He tried to push himself upright. Failed.
The chamber doors opened. Batman entered first, cape like a storm, medkit in hand.
You came behind him.
Your eyes found Damian. Everything in your face stopped.
No. That was his first thought.
Not relief. Not love.
No.
Because he knew you. He knew what you were seeing. Not only the blood. Not only the limb hanging by torn flesh. Not only the future unravelling in one brutal line.
You were seeing something you could fix.
“Do not,” he said.
Your face crumpled. You crossed the room anyway.
Bruce knelt at Damian’s other side, taking over pressure from Jon with controlled, terrible efficiency.
“Tourniquet,” Bruce said.
Jon was already moving.
You knelt in front of Damian.
“Hi,” you whispered.
Absurd. He loved you so fiercely in that moment that it frightened him more than the blood loss.
“No,” he said again.
Your hands hovered over his arm. Shaking now. The tremor was visible. He hated that.
“I can save it,” you said.
His vision blurred. “No.”
“You could lose your hand.”
“I know.”
“Your arm.”
“I know.”
“Damian.”
He looked at you. Your eyes were full of tears, but beneath the fear was something harder.
Resolve. The same resolve he had seen in you a hundred times when someone was hurt. When pain became a problem and your body became the answer.
“No,” he whispered.
You touched his face with one blood-slick hand.
He should have turned away. He did not.
“I’m sorry,” you said.
His heart stopped. “No.”
“I can’t let them take this from you.”
“No.”
“You draw with this hand.” His throat closed. “You hold your sword with it,” you continued, voice breaking. “You hold Titus. You hold me.”
“Beloved—”
“I can help.”
“You will take the wound.”
“Not all of it.”
“You do not know that.”
“I know my body.” A desperate, broken smile flickered across your mouth. “It changes things. It softens the transfer sometimes. I probably won’t get it as bad.”
“Probably,” Damian spat.
You flinched. Good.
No. Not good. Nothing was good.
Bruce’s gaze snapped to you. “What does that mean?”
No one answered him. The entire chamber seemed to narrow around you and Damian.
Your hand was still on his face. His blood streaked your fingers.
“I can’t watch you lose part of yourself,” you whispered.
Rage and terror rose together in Damian’s chest. “You think my hand is myself?”
“No,” you said immediately. “No. That’s not what I mean.”
“That is what you said.”
“I mean they took enough from you. The League took enough. Your childhood, your choices, your body, your pain, your name before you even knew what names meant.” Your voice cracked. “I cannot sit here with the power to stop them from taking one more thing and choose not to.”
His breath hitched.
There it was. The blade under the kindness.
Not pity. Fury. You were angry for him. You were choosing him. You were choosing him over yourself.
He wanted to weep. He wanted to shout. He wanted to beg.
“Ask me,” he said.
Your face broke. “Damian—”
“Ask me.”
The words cost him more than blood.
You stared at him. “I can’t.”
Pain lanced through him.
Not from the arm. From you.
“You can,” he said. “You must.”
“If I ask, you’ll say no.”
“Yes.”
“And then I’ll have to let it happen.”
“You will have to honour my choice.”
Your tears spilled over. “I’m not strong enough for that.”
Damian’s heart shattered.
Bruce went very still beside him. Jon made a small, broken sound.
You leaned closer.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered again.
And then your hands closed around Damian’s ruined arm.
The transfer hit like lightning.
Damian screamed. So did you. For one second, pain filled everything. Not leaving him gently, not fading like mercy. It ripped out of him, dragging fire and nerve and blood with it.
Then his arm healed. Bone snapped into alignment. Flesh knitted. Tendons reconnected. Skin sealed beneath your palms. Feeling surged down to his fingertips in a brutal rush.
His hand flexed. Whole. His.
Then you collapsed.
Your right arm buckled beneath you.
Not severed. Not as bad. You had been right. Somehow, impossibly, terribly right.
But the damage still tore through you. A jagged wound split from your forearm toward your wrist, deep enough to expose blood and white flashes of bone beneath muscle. Your fingers curled uselessly. Blood poured down your hand, splattering onto the tile. Your shoulder hit the floor, and your breath broke on a sound Damian would hear forever.
For half a second, he stared at his healed hand. Then at yours.
No.
No.
No.
He lunged toward you. His body, newly healed but blood-weakened, nearly failed him. Jon caught his shoulder. Damian shoved him away and dragged himself to you with both hands, both whole hands, which made it worse.
“Beloved,” he choked.
You were curled around your injured arm, face white with agony.
Bruce moved quickly, already applying pressure to your wound. You cried out. Damian flinched as if the sound had opened him.
“Do not touch them,” he snapped at Bruce.
Bruce’s eyes flashed. “They’re bleeding.”
Damian knew he was being irrational. He did not care.
“Damian,” you gasped.
His attention snapped to you.
You were looking at him. Not your arm.
Him.
Relief trembled through your expression.
Relief.
Because his arm was whole. Because you had succeeded.
Damian felt something inside him go cold and wild.
“How dare you,” he whispered.
Your eyes filled. “I’m sorry.”
“How dare you.”
“I couldn’t—”
“You could,” he said, voice shaking. “You chose not to.”
Your face crumpled.
He wanted to take the words back. He wanted to sharpen them. He wanted to kiss you until your pain disappeared. He wanted your blood off the floor. He wanted his wound back.
“You chose me,” he said.
Your lips trembled. “Yes.”
“Over yourself.”
“Yes.”
The honesty was a killing blow.
Damian’s breath left him.
Bruce tightened the pressure bandage around your arm. You whimpered, trying to stay still. Jon knelt nearby, crying openly now. Damian barely saw him.
“You were right,” you whispered. His heart stopped. “It’s not as bad.”
Damian stared at you.
Then laughed once. A terrible sound.
“You think that matters?” Your eyes searched his, confused through pain and shock. “You think because the wound is smaller, the violation is smaller?”
You flinched.
Bruce’s expression tightened.
Jon whispered, “Dami…”
“No,” Damian snapped. “Do not.”
Your breathing hitched.
Damian’s hands shook. His right hand, whole and healed, shook.
That made him angrier. That made him love you more. That made him hate everything.
“You did not save my arm,” he said, voice breaking. “You made it yours.”
Your face went slack.
There. Good.
No. Not good.
Truth. Necessary and brutal.
You looked at your wounded arm as if seeing it for the first time. Blood soaked the bandage beneath Bruce’s hands.
Your mouth opened. No sound came out.
Then the pain took you. Your eyes rolled back.
Damian caught you before your head hit the floor. “Beloved?”
No response.
“Beloved.”
Bruce pressed two fingers to your throat. “Pulse is weak. We need extraction now.”
Damian held you against him, his healed hand cradling your head.
His arm worked perfectly. He had never hated his own body more.
The Watchtower medbay smelled like antiseptic and fear. Damian sat outside the surgical suite with blood on his clothes.
Yours. His. Both.
He had refused to change.
Todd had said nothing, which was how Damian knew the situation had reached an unnatural level of horror. Jon sat on the floor across from him, knees drawn up, cape wrapped around his shoulders. He had cried himself quiet twenty minutes earlier. Bruce stood near the observation window like a statue carved by grief. Grayson paced. Drake typed furiously on one tablet, then another, then stopped as if realising no amount of data would make time move faster.
Todd leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, helmet off, face pale and furious.
“This is bullshit,” Jason said finally. No one answered. “This whole damn thing is bullshit.”
“Jason,” Dick said softly.
“No. They should’ve told us.”
Damian’s eyes lifted.
Todd looked at him.
Not accusing. Not pitying.
Understanding.
It was unbearable.
“They should’ve told us what healing cost,” Jason said. “Before any of us let them touch us.”
Damian looked down at his right hand.
He flexed his fingers. Whole. Obedient. Yours now, some treacherous part of him thought.
No.
No.
He dug his nails into his palm. Pain answered.
His pain. At least that remained.
“They knew I would refuse,” Damian said.
His voice was calm. Too calm.
Everyone looked at him.
“They knew,” he repeated. “So they did not ask.”
Jon’s face crumpled again.
Bruce said, quietly, “They thought they were saving you.”
Damian’s gaze snapped to his father. “They were.”
Silence.
Damian stood. His body swayed.
Jon scrambled up, but Damian lifted a hand. Jon stopped.
Damian looked at Bruce. “That is the problem.”
Bruce’s face tightened.
“I know,” he said.
Of course he did. Bruce Wayne understood being saved against his will. Understood surviving at a cost someone else paid. Understood the rage that followed gratitude so closely they became nearly impossible to separate.
Damian hated that he understood.
The surgical doors opened. Dr Mid-Nite emerged, expression grave but not hopeless. Damian was in front of him immediately.
“They’re alive,” the doctor said.
Damian nearly collapsed.
He did not. But Jon did, a little, against the wall.
“The transferred injury was severe,” Dr Mid-Nite continued. “Less catastrophic than yours would have been, but still serious. The arm is salvageable. There’s nerve trauma, tendon damage, blood loss. Their accelerated healing is responding, but slowly.”
“Will they regain function?” Damian asked.
“Likely, with treatment and time.”
Likely. Damian hated likely. Likely was probably wearing a white coat.
He wanted certainty. He got none.
“Can I see them?”
The doctor hesitated. Damian’s eyes narrowed.
Bruce stepped closer. “He won’t interfere.”
Dr Mid-Nite looked at Damian. Damian lifted his chin.
“I will not interfere,” he said.
He did not know if it was true. But he meant to make it so.
The doctor nodded.
You looked too small in the bed. Damian hated that thought. You were not small. You were not fragile. You were not a wounded bird cupped in his hands.
You were the person who had looked at the League’s attempt to maim him and said, No more. You were the person who had made yourself the answer.
You were terrible. You were brave. You were unconscious beneath white sheets, right arm wrapped from shoulder to wrist and elevated in a brace.
Damian approached slowly. Machines hummed. Your face was pale with pain even in sleep.
He stopped beside the bed. For a long time, he did nothing.
Then he reached out with his right hand. The healed one.
His fingers hovered over your bandaged arm.
He did not touch. He could not.
It felt obscene.
“Why?” he whispered.
You did not answer. The monitors did.
Steady beep. Alive.
Damian sat. He folded his hands in his lap. His right hand looked unchanged. Same calluses. Same scars. Same fine ink stain near his thumb from sketching two days earlier. Same knuckles bruised from training. Same fingers that had held yours in the garden.
It should have been a relief.
It was. That was the cruelty.
He was relieved.
He loved his hand. He loved what it allowed him to do. Draw. Fight. touch. Feed Titus scraps when Alfred was not looking. Hold his sword. Hold you.
He had not wanted to lose it. He had been prepared to.
You had seen the part of him that feared the loss, the part he would have hidden beneath pride, and you had chosen that frightened part over your own safety.
Damian hated you for it. Damian loved you for it. Both truths wrapped around his throat until breathing became difficult.
“You should have asked,” he said. His voice shook. “You should have asked me and allowed me to refuse. You should have trusted me to survive less than wholeness.” His eyes burned. “You should not have loved me like the League.”
The words entered the room and stayed. He regretted them immediately.
No. He did not.
Yes. Both. Always both with you now.
You stirred. Damian sat forward sharply. Your eyelids fluttered.
“Beloved?”
Your eyes opened slowly. Unfocused.
Then they found him.
Relief. Again.
Damian closed his eyes. When he opened them, you were trying to smile.
“Arm?” you rasped.
His jaw tightened. “Yours or mine?”
Your smile vanished.
Good. No. He was tired of good. Tired of bad. Tired of feeling everything.
“Damian,” you whispered.
He took the cup from beside the bed and held the straw to your lips. His right hand did not tremble this time.
You drank. Only a little. He set the cup down.
“My arm is whole,” he said.
Your eyes closed. “Good.”
The word struck him like a slap. He stood so quickly the chair scraped back.
Your eyes opened, startled.
“No,” he said.
Your face twisted with pain and confusion. “No?”
“No. You do not get to say good.”
Your throat bobbed. “I saved it.”
“You took it.”
“I saved it.”
“At the cost of your own.”
“It isn’t as bad.”
He stared at you. You seemed to hear yourself then. Your face faltered.
“It isn’t,” you said, quieter. “I knew it wouldn’t be as bad.”
“You did not know.”
“I was pretty sure.”
“Pretty sure,” he repeated.
Your eyes filled.
His hands curled into fists. Both hands. “You gambled with your body.”
“I gambled to keep yours.”
“I did not ask you to.”
“I know.”
“You did not let me refuse.”
“I know.”
“You did not trust me.”
That hurt you. Your mouth trembled. “I did trust you.”
“No.” Damian shook his head once. “You trusted that I would survive. You did not trust that I had the right to choose what survival looked like.”
Tears slipped down your temples.
“I couldn’t bear it,” you whispered.
“What?”
“The thought of you losing it.” Your gaze flicked to his right hand. “Your hand. Your arm. Your art. Your sword. The way you touch everything like you’re still learning you’re allowed to be gentle.”
Damian went still.
Your voice broke. “I couldn’t bear knowing I could help and choosing not to. I couldn’t bear seeing another piece of you taken by them.”
He looked away. The room blurred.
Damn you. Damn you for knowing that. Damn you for seeing the child beneath the blade, the boy raised by people who called ownership love, the man still trying to make his body his own. Damn you for choosing him. Damn you for being right that part of him was glad.
“I would have learned,” he said. You sobbed once. “I would have adapted.”
“I know.”
“I am more than my sword hand.”
“I know,” you said, crying harder now. “I know, Damian. I swear I know. I didn’t do it because I thought you’d be less. I did it because I love all of you, and I couldn’t watch you be forced to lose something when I had a chance to stop it.”
His anger fractured. Love rushed in through the crack.
Unwelcome. Unstoppable.
He sat down again, slower this time. “You chose me over yourself.”
Your eyes held his. “Yes.”
The honesty hurt worse than any lie could have.
Damian lowered his head. For a moment, he was back in the chamber. Your hand on his face. Your eyes full of tears. Your voice saying sorry because you already knew you were about to betray him for love.
He hated that he understood. He hated that if it had been you on the floor with your arm nearly severed, he did not know if he would have done better.
That thought humbled him. Humiliation would have been easier. This was grief.
“I love you,” he said.
Your breath caught. He looked at you.
“I love you for choosing me,” he continued, voice rough. “For looking at the worst thing the League tried to make me and refusing to let them take more. I love you for your fury. For your tenderness. For wanting me whole even when I was prepared not to be.”
Your face crumpled.
“And I hate you for choosing me over yourself.”
You closed your eyes. “I know.”
“No,” he said. “Listen.”
Your eyes opened again.
“I hate that you decided my wholeness was worth your damage. I hate that I am relieved. I hate that part of me wants to thank you while another part wants to never let you touch me again.”
A tear slid down your cheek. Damian reached for it.
Stopped.
“May I?” he asked.
Your face broke all over again. “Yes.”
He wiped the tear away with his right thumb. His healed thumb.
You leaned into the touch. He nearly broke.
“I am angry,” he whispered.
“I know.”
“I will be angry for some time.”
“I know.”
“I may not forgive you quickly.”
Your lips trembled. “Okay.”
“But I am staying.”
A sob caught in your throat. Damian leaned closer.
“I am staying,” he repeated. “Because love is not leaving when one has been wounded. Even by the beloved.”
You cried then.
Not quietly. Not beautifully. You cried like something in you had finally stopped bracing for abandonment.
Damian rested his forehead against yours, careful of the tubes, the bandages, the injured arm held between you like a third presence.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“I know.”
“I love you.”
His eyes closed. “I know.”
A faint, watery laugh escaped you. “Arrogant.”
“Yes.”
“Say it back anyway?”
His mouth softened. “I love you.”
Your breath shuddered.
“I love you,” he said again, because the words seemed to hurt you in a healing way, and Damian was beginning to understand that not all pain was harm. “I love you, and you were wrong.”
You laughed and sobbed at the same time. “That is very you.”
“I am consistent.”
“You are.”
His hand remained on your face. Your uninjured hand lifted slowly and covered his.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The monitor kept counting proof of your survival. Damian listened like it was scripture.
Recovery was not gentle. Yours rarely was.
The wound had not taken your arm, but it had changed it. Nerves misfired beneath the skin. Your fingers trembled. Grip strength came and went like a moody ghost. Some days, your hand curled stiffly and refused to open without coaxing. Some nights, the pain climbed from wrist to shoulder and left you pale, sweating, biting back sounds Damian wished he could tear from the world.
He did not offer to have you heal yourself. He had learned enough by then. You could accelerate your recovery only in fragments, carefully, at the cost of exhaustion that frightened everyone.
So you healed slowly. Humanly.
Damian stayed. Angrily. Devotedly.
He brought tea and corrected your posture with surgical precision. He read aloud when the pain made focusing difficult. He chose poetry at first because he thought it might soothe you. Then he chose murder mysteries because you criticised everyone’s investigative technique so fiercely that even Drake listened from the doorway with reluctant approval.
He brushed your hair when your arm hurt too much.
The first time, you cried. He pretended not to notice until you said, “You can notice.”
So he did.
“You are crying,” Damian said.
You laughed wetly. “Thanks.”
“I am uncertain what response is appropriate.”
“Just keep going.”
He did. His fingers moved through your hair with grave concentration.
Todd walked in, saw the scene, and immediately walked back out muttering, “Nope, too intimate, I’m emotionally allergic.”
You laughed so hard that Damian threatened him through the door.
Some days, Damian’s anger sharpened unexpectedly.
A dropped cup. Your wince while trying to flex your fingers. The sight of you struggling to button a shirt. Each small reminder of what you had taken from him and made yours.
One afternoon, you caught him staring at your hand as you failed to hold a pen.
“Say it,” you said.
Damian looked up. “What?”
“Whatever you’re thinking.”
“I am thinking many things.”
“The angry one.”
His jaw tightened.
You waited. Always waiting, even now.
He exhaled. “I am thinking that I should be the one unable to hold a pen.”
Your face softened with pain.
“I am thinking that you stole a consequence from me.”
“Yes.”
“I am thinking that I am grateful.”
Your eyes filled.
His voice hardened. “And that gratitude disgusts me.”
You set the pen down. “Damian.”
“No. You asked.”
“I did.”
He stood, restless, anger moving through him like a blade seeking a target. “I look at my hand and I am relieved. I draw and I am relieved. I hold my sword and I am relieved. I touch you and I am relieved.”
Your mouth trembled.
He looked at you, furious and wrecked. “Then I look at your hand.”
You said nothing.
“I do not know where to put the relief,” he confessed.
Your expression crumpled.
Oh. There it was. The truth under the anger.
He did not know how to be grateful for something that had hurt you. He did not know how to love the saved part of himself without feeling like he was betraying the wounded part of you.
You rose carefully from the chair. He stiffened. You came close but did not touch.
“I don’t need you to be only grateful,” you said softly. His throat tightened. “I don’t even need you to be grateful at all.”
“I am.”
“I know.”
“I despise it.”
“I know.”
Your injured hand hung between you, bandaged, trembling slightly.
Damian looked at it. Then, slowly, he held out his right hand. His healed hand.
You stared.
“May I?” he asked.
Your eyes filled. “Yes.”
He took your injured hand with unbearable care. The bandages were soft beneath his fingers.
Your hand trembled in his. He lifted it and pressed his mouth to your knuckles. You inhaled sharply.
“I am angry,” he said against your skin. “I am grateful.”
“I know.”
“I love you.”
Your eyes closed. “I know,” you whispered.
He looked up.
“And I hate,” he said, voice rough, “that those truths do not cancel each other out.”
You opened your eyes. “They don’t have to.”
“No.” He held your hand between both of his. “No,” he repeated. “They do not.”
It was not forgiveness. Not yet.
But it was contact. It was honest. It was enough for that moment.
Jon came often. He was terrible at pretending he was not checking on both of you. He brought snacks, flowers, terrible jokes, and one stuffed cow wearing a tiny Robin cape.
Damian stared at it. You stared at it.
Jon held it out with both hands. “For emotional support.”
Damian said, “Leave.”
You laughed immediately.
Jon brightened. “See? It helped.”
“It offended me.”
“That’s your love language.”
“I will make you eat the cow.”
“It has a name.”
“No.”
“Moo-bin.”
Damian closed his eyes. You laughed so hard you had to clutch your injured arm, which made Damian glare at Jon with genuine threat.
Jon winced. “Sorry. Sorry. Medium laughter only.”
You wheezed, “Moo-bin.”
Damian looked at you.
Betrayal. Absolute betrayal.
Jon smiled, then sobered. “Can I talk to Damian for a sec?”
You looked between them.
Damian stiffened. “If this is another emotional intervention—”
“It is.”
“No.”
“Dami.”
You touched Damian’s wrist gently. “Go,” you said.
He frowned. “I’m fine.”
“That word is banned.”
“I am stable, medicated, and entertained by Moo-bin.”
Jon looked delighted. Damian looked betrayed again. Still, he followed Jon into the hallway.
For several seconds, Jon said nothing.
Damian crossed his arms. “Speak.”
Jon looked toward the medbay door. Then back at Damian. “You’re allowed to be glad.”
Damian went still.
Jon’s face was open and earnest and far too difficult to dismiss.
“That your arm is okay,” Jon said. “You’re allowed to be glad.”
Damian looked away.
“They would want you to be.”
“That is part of the problem.”
“I know.”
“You do not.”
Jon’s jaw tightened.
“I watched them do it,” he said.
Damian looked back.
Jon’s eyes shone. “I watched you say no. I watched them do it anyway. I watched you heal and them drop. I’m angry too.”
Damian’s throat closed.
Jon stepped closer. “But I also heard your heartbeat when you saw your hand move again.”
Damian flinched.
“Sorry,” Jon said quickly. “I know. Accidental perceiving. Bad habit.”
Damian did not respond.
Jon continued anyway. “It sounded like hope.”
The words struck too deep. Damian turned away.
Jon’s voice softened. “I don’t think that makes you bad.”
Damian’s jaw clenched.
“The League made you think every gift is a debt,” Jon said. “But this isn’t that.”
“It feels like that.”
“I know.”
“They paid in blood.”
“Yeah.”
“For me.”
“Yes.”
“How is that not debt?”
Jon was quiet. Then he said, “Because they’re not asking you to repay it.” Damian shut his eyes. “They’re asking you to stay.”
Damian hated how simple Jon made things. How gentle. How impossible to refute.
“I do not know if staying is enough,” Damian said.
Jon stepped beside him. “Maybe not every day. But it’s a start.”
The hallway remained silent.
Then Damian said, “Moo-bin is a terrible name.”
Jon laughed, startled. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“You keeping him?”
Damian looked toward the medbay door.
Through the small window, he could see you holding the cow in your lap, smiling faintly at its ridiculous cape.
“Yes,” Damian said.
Jon wisely did not comment.
The first time you returned to the garden, your hand was still bandaged. The rain had stopped earlier, leaving the paths dark and shining beneath the evening lights. Titus wandered ahead, sniffing at wet leaves. The Manor windows glowed gold behind you.
Damian walked beside you. Close enough that your sleeves brushed.
You stopped beneath the same ivy arch where he had first told you he wanted you. The memory sat between you.
Soft. Cruel. Yours.
You looked at him. “I’m scared you’ll never look at me the same.”
Damian’s chest tightened.
He considered lying.
No. No more soft lies.
“I do not look at you the same.”
Your face fell.
He turned toward you fully. “I know more now.”
You swallowed. “That sounds ominous.”
“It is honest.”
Your mouth trembled.
He reached for your injured hand. Paused. You nodded.
He took it carefully. “I know you are capable of betraying my choice to preserve my body.”
You closed your eyes.
“I know you are reckless when afraid.”
A tear slipped down your cheek.
“I know you love me with a ferocity that does not always ask permission.”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“I’ll keep saying it.”
“I know.”
“I don’t know how to make it right.”
Damian looked down at your joined hands.
His whole one. Your wounded one.
“There is no undoing it.”
Your breath caught.
He looked back at you.
“There is only what comes next.”
You opened your eyes. “What comes next?”
He brushed his thumb lightly over the edge of your bandage. “You tell me when you are in pain.” You nodded. “You do not minimise it because it is less than what I would have suffered.” Another tear fell. “You let me be angry without deciding I no longer love you.” Your face crumpled. “And I,” he continued, voice roughening, “will learn to feel relief without turning it into shame.”
You stared at him.
The rain began again, soft at first. Gotham had timing. Terrible, dramatic timing.
You laughed through tears.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re negotiating emotional terms in the rain.”
“It is a serious matter.”
“It’s very romantic.”
“It is practical.”
“It can be both.”
He considered this. Then nodded once. “Fine.”
Your smile was small. “Fine?”
“It can be both.”
You stepped closer. “Can I kiss you?”
Damian’s heart moved painfully.
Even after everything. Especially after everything. You asked.
“Yes,” he said.
You kissed him gently. Too gently. As if afraid he would break beneath the weight of what you had done.
Damian’s left hand rose to your face. His right rested against your waist, whole and steady and unbearable.
He deepened the kiss. You made a soft sound against his mouth. He held you there beneath the ivy while rain gathered in your hair.
When he pulled back, your eyes were closed.
“You are not forgiven yet,” he whispered.
Your eyes opened. “I know.”
“But you are loved.”
Your face broke open with relief so bright it nearly hurt to see.
He continued before the words could fail him. “You are loved while I am angry. You are loved while I am grateful. You are loved while I do not understand how to carry either.”
Your injured hand rose slowly and touched his chest. Over his heart.
“I can live with that,” you whispered.
“You must.”
A faint smile. “Bossy.”
“Yes.”
“I love you.”
His throat tightened. “I know.”
You gave him a look.
He let the smallest smile touch his mouth. “I love you too.”
Titus barked from somewhere near the fountain, apparently offended that no one was paying attention to him.
You laughed.
Damian’s right hand flexed at your waist. He felt the motion. Felt every tendon obey. Felt relief. Felt guilt. Felt your warmth beneath his palm.
This time, he did not push any of it away. He held it. All of it. The anger. The gratitude. The love. The wound. The choice stolen and the life preserved. The hand he kept and the hand you injured to keep it for him.
Pain had gone somewhere. So had love.
Not cleanly. Not without consequence. But here, in the rain, with your hand over his heart and his over your bandages, Damian understood something he had never been taught in the League.
A gift paid in blood could still be wrong. A wrong thing could still come from love. Love could wound and remain love. And healing, real healing, was not the absence of scars. It was the choice to stay and learn the shape of them.
Damian pressed his forehead to yours.
“I will draw again,” he said quietly. Your breath caught. “And when I do, you will sit for me.”
You smiled through fresh tears. “What will you draw?”
He looked at your face. Your wet hair. Your tired eyes. Your stubborn, devastating tenderness. Then your bandaged hand. Then his own.
“Hands,” he said.
You laughed softly. “Again?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Damian lifted your injured hand and kissed the bandages. “Because they tell the truth.”
You looked at him like he had given you something fragile.
Maybe he had. Maybe he was learning. Maybe both of you were.
The rain fell harder, silvering the garden.
Inside the Manor, his family waited with tea, lectures, jokes, and the unbearable relief of people who had almost lost too much and were now determined to hover about it.
Out here, there was only you. Only him. Only the wound between you, no longer hidden.
Damian held your hand. You held his. Neither of you were whole in the way you had been before.
SUMMARY: damian wayne hates strawberries, so why does he suddenly love them?
"okay relax, it's probably nothing," dick tries to compromise as he and his brothers hide behind a bookshelf and spy on their youngest brother, damian.
"uh dickhead, the kid hates strawberries, so it's not nothing," jason retorts, craning his neck from behind the bookshelf to get a better look at the youngest wayne.
damian wayne, a current junior in high school, was currently laying on the couch in the wayne manor library, curled up with a good book and eating strawberries.
it was not that eating strawberries is a problem, damian wayne eating strawberries is a problem.
"to be fair, he does think they are the most repulsive fruit on the planet, and banned them from his vicinity the moment he stepped foot into the manor," dick says thoughtfully.
"cut the kid some slack," tim claims, "he said that six years ago, a lot can change in six years."
dick, jason, and tim then got so caught up in their arguing, they only then realized damian was standing right in front of them, arms crossed, and looking terribly displeased.
"you know i could hear your conversation right?" damian deadpans, "and for the record, i was just expanding my palate, there's nothing revolutionary about me eating a fruit."
with that, damian slams his book shut and turns on his heel, leaving the library.
oh what a lie that was.
EARLIER THAT MONTH
damian wayne leads a giggling you into his bedroom, you jump onto his bed, instantly inviting him to come join you.
you were the light of his life, you've been his secret girlfriend for the past few months, and this was the happiest he's ever been.
it's not that he was embarrassed of you, never that, it was just he wanted a few months to savor you all to himself. besides, his family would have a field day if they knew, and he would be teased relentlessly.
damian pulls out his sketchbook and leans against his headboard, while you rest your head in his lap, looking up at him.
"whatchu drawing?" you ask, looking up at him through your lashes.
"mm nothing qalbi, still deciding." he replies, leaning down and giving you a kiss on your forehead.
licking your lips, you instantly feel how dry they are. you sit up against the headboard next to damian and reach into your tote bag to grab some chapstick.
using your phone as a camera, you remove the cap and instantly feel the soothing sensation against your cracked lips.
damian looks over from his sketchbook where he started the guidelines of his drawing, "what's that?"
"oh just some chapstick," you reply, "you want some babe? it's strawberry flavored."
damian shrugs he isn't the biggest fan of strawberries but why not, "sure hayati."
an idea comes to mind and you grab his cheeks, pull him down and press a firm kiss to his mouth. he instantly relaxes against you, kissing you back, pulling you from his side and onto his lap.
damian smirks barely pulling away, "can i get some more?"
your laugh is all the confirmation he needs before he pulls you in closer, breathing you in.
Hi I was wondering if you could do a story about a girly reader with Damian. The reader gets insecure because she thinks Damian would do better with someone like Raven and not her. Since she is not a hero and is the type to put stickers on everything unlike raven-🌹
Stickers
navigation , dc navigation
requests are open
dividers by @cafekitsune
It starts, as most things do, with something small.
A comment. Not cruel — no one is cruel, that's almost the problem, because cruelty would be easier to dismiss. It's just a moment, just a thing that happens at the Tower during a joint visit that you're present for, and it lodges somewhere it shouldn't and stays.
Raven is helping Damian with something.
A tracking calculation, you think, or maybe something mystical, something that requires her specific knowledge and his specific precision and the shorthand of two people who have fought alongside each other for years. They're at the table with maps and diagrams, and they're talking in the low, efficient way of people who understand each other without having to explain themselves.
You're on the couch.
You're bedazzling your phone case.
This is a true and accurate picture of the situation, and you are aware of how it looks, and you sit with how it looks for longer than you should.
Raven says something. Damian responds. The shorthand continues. At one point, she makes a gesture over a diagram, and he nods with the specific quality he has when he respects something, the real respect, not the performed kind.
You press a rhinestone onto your phone case.
It catches the light.
You look at Raven.
You look at your phone case.
You look at Damian.
You don't say anything for three days.
This is, in retrospect, the problem — you are not the type to say nothing for three days, you are the type to say things immediately and at full volume, and so when you go quiet Damian notices in the way Damian notices everything, which is completely and without announcement.
He doesn't ask immediately.
He waits.
He is, when it matters, patient in a way that surprises people who only know the surface of him.
On the third day he comes to your apartment and sits on your couch — the pink one, the one with the throw pillows you'd made from fabric you found at a market, the one that has a small collection of plushies at one end that he has never once commented on negatively — and he looks at you.
"Tell me," he says.
"Tell you what," you say, from the other end of the couch.
"Whatever you've been not telling me for three days."
You look at your hands.
On the coffee table in front of you is your current project — a journal you've been decorating, floral stickers and washi tape and little star-shaped pieces of gold foil that you press on with a toothpick. It's half-finished. It's very pretty.
It is also, in this moment, extremely visible evidence of who you are.
"It's nothing," you say.
"It's not nothing," he says. "You haven't been yourself. I've been waiting for you to bring it to me, and you haven't, which means it's something you think I won't want to hear."
You look at the journal.
"At the Tower," you say. "The other day. You and Raven."
Damian is quiet. Listening.
"You were — good together," you say, carefully. "Like, working together. You understood each other. The shorthand and the — she knew exactly what you needed, and you knew exactly what she was saying, and it was very — " you stop. "She's like you. She's serious, and she's capable, and she does real things that matter, and I was sitting on the couch putting rhinestones on my phone."
The words are out now.
You wait.
"I see," Damian says.
"I'm not — I know it's stupid — "
"I didn't say it was stupid."
"I'm saying it's stupid." You pick up a star sticker. Put it down. "I put stickers on things, Damian. I have a pink couch. I cried at a dog food commercial last week. I'm not — I'm not like her. I'm not like anyone in your world. And sometimes I wonder if you'd be — if someone like Raven would be better suited to — "
"No," he says.
Just that. Clean and immediate.
"Damian — "
"No," he says again, same quality. Not dismissive. Certain. "The answer is no, and I'd like you to hear it before you finish that sentence."
You look at him.
He looks back with the expression that is fully Damian — direct, no performance, the one that means he's decided something and is stating it as fact.
"Raven is a capable ally and a person I respect," he says. "What you observed was a professional dynamic that has been built over years of combat. It has nothing to do with what I want from my personal life. Those are not competing categories."
"But she's — she's more like you — "
"She is not more like me," he says, with the particular precision of someone who has considered this and knows the answer. "She's more like the version of me that existed before I began to understand what I'd been trained to value and what I actually value." He pauses. "Those are different things."
You're quiet.
"What does that mean?" you say.
Damian looks at the coffee table. In the journal. At the stickers, the washi tape, and the gold foil stars.
"I was raised to believe that the only things worth valuing were capability and strength and precision," he says. "Everything decorative was considered excess. Everything soft was considered a weakness." He says it evenly, like he's recounting a fact he's made peace with. "I spent the first fourteen years of my life in an environment where what you are — the colors and the softness and the — the stickers — would have been considered worthless."
You look at him.
"And then I met people who were none of those things," he says. "Dick. Your family. You." He meets your eyes. "And I began to understand that the things I'd been taught to dismiss were not weaknesses. They were things I didn't know how to access. Things I'd been told not to want."
"Damian — "
"You put stickers on things," he says, and his voice has shifted slightly, the way it shifts when he's saying something that costs him something. "You make everything around you look like it's worth looking at. You cried at the dog food commercial because you feel things fully, and you don't apologize for it. You have a pink couch because you wanted a pink couch, and you don't require external validation to want what you want." He holds your gaze. "Do you understand what it is to be near someone like that when you have spent your entire life being told that softness is a liability?"
You don't answer.
"It's not a deficit," he says. "What you are is not less than what Raven is. It is entirely different from what Raven is. And it is — " he stops, and this is Damian stopping because the word he needs is one that doesn't come easily, one that requires him to reach for it. "It is what I want. Specifically. Not as a consolation for something more serious. As the actual thing."
The apartment is very quiet.
You look at the journal on the table.
"I decorated your sketchbook," you say, after a moment. "The new one. I put a little star in the corner. I wasn't sure if you'd — "
"I know," he says.
"You didn't say anything."
"I didn't want to make you think you'd done something wrong." He pauses. "I kept the star."
You look at him.
"You kept it," you say.
"It's in the corner of the cover. I could remove it if — "
"Don't you dare remove it," you say.
Something in his expression. The thing that happens when he's pleased about something and doesn't know how to hold it conventionally.
"I wasn't going to," he says.
You look at each other for a moment.
Then you reach over to the coffee table and pick up a small sticker — a flower, pink and yellow, the kind you put everywhere without thinking — and you hold it out.
He looks at it.
He looks at you.
"Don't," he says.
"You just said — "
"I said I kept the star in the sketchbook. That doesn't mean you can — "
"One sticker," you say. "Very small."
"Absolutely not."
"Damian."
"I am not — "
"You literally just gave a speech about softness being a thing you value now — "
"A speech that did not include consenting to being stickered — "
"It's a flower," you say. "Very small flower."
He looks at the sticker.
He looks at you.
"If you tell anyone," he says.
"I would never," you say, which is a complete lie, and he knows it.
He holds out his hand.
You press the flower sticker onto the back of his hand with the toothpick, carefully, the way you do all of them. It's small and pink and extremely visible, and Damian looks at it with the expression of someone who has made a choice and is currently experiencing the full consequences of that choice.
"There," you say.
"This is — "
"You look great."
"I look like I've been attacked by a craft store."
"You look like someone who is loved," you say, and then you hear yourself say it, and the air goes slightly different.
Damian looks at his hand.
At the flower.
"Yes," he says, very quietly. "I suppose I do."
He doesn't remove the sticker.
Not that evening. Not when he leaves. You find out later — from Dick, who finds out from Alfred, who says nothing but whose expression said everything — that Damian wore it until it fell off on its own.
Which takes four days.
You put a new one in the front cover of his sketchbook.
