jason shows up at your apartment looking like he stepped out of one of those cliché dark romance novels he pretends not to read, leather jacket slung over one shoulder, hair messy, scars peeking from the collar of his shirt. you’ve been seeing each other for weeks now—stolen kisses turning heated, hands wandering but never quite there.
tonight you finally drag him to your bed, convinced jason’s done this dance before. he talks a big game, after all.
“been thinking about this,” he mutters against your mouth as you pull him down on top of you, voice already rough. “fuck, you have no idea.”
clothes come off fast. he’s hard and thick and trembling just a little when you guide him between your legs. you wrap your hand around him, stroking a few times, and he hisses through his teeth, eyes squeezed shut like he’s concentrating hard—probably thinking of whatever isn’t how his tip’s right up against your cunt. “easy, princess. don’t—shit.”
you think it’s just the heat of the moment. you line him up and he pushes in slow, groaning low and broken as your walls squeeze around him. he wasn’t lying about being big, his size stretching you just right, and for a second it feels perfect. then his hips jerk once, twice, and he buries himself deep with a wrecked sound, coming hard before you even get a chance to adjust.
the silence hits for a moment. you feel the warm rush inside you and blink up at him. “jason… did you just—”
“shut up,” he grunts, face burning red under the scars, but he doesn’t pull out right away. he’s still half-hard, breathing like he ran across rooftops. “it’s been a minute, alright? don’t make it a thing.”
you start laughing, soft and playful, hooking your legs around his waist to keep him close. “a minute? jay, be honest. was that your first time? you lied to me, you cocky bastard.”
he tries to play it off, smirking even as embarrassment floods his cheeks. “what? no. i’ve done this. plenty. you’re just… really fucking tight, okay? caught me off guard.” his voice cracks a little on the last word and it only makes you grin wider.
“plenty, huh?” you tease, rolling your hips experimentally and feeling him twitch inside you. “could’ve fooled me with that two-pump chump performance. my big tough red hood, coming the second he gets it in. that’s adorable.”
jason groans, burying his face in your neck, but you feel him starting to harden again already. interesting. you press further, voice sweet and mean all at once. “aw, poor virgin boy. all that talk about ‘handling’ me and you blow your load before i even moan your name. how embarrassing.”
“fuck you,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it. he lifts his head, green eyes dark and a little glassy, hips shifting like he just can’t fucking help it. “i’m not—okay, fine. maybe i haven’t. happy now? still gonna bust my balls about it or are you gonna let me make it up to you?”
you laugh again and squeeze around him on purpose. “oh i’m definitely busting your balls. look at you, getting hard again and all i’m doing is making fun of you. does the big bad vigilante have a little humiliation kink? that’s pathetic, todd. my virgin big mean boyfriend coming untouched basically.”
his breath hitches hard. fuck, your bullying’s getting him all riled up. he doesn’t know if he loves it or hates it. both. definitely both. “goddamn it, princess,” he rasps, voice gravel and shame and heat all mixed together. he rolls his hips experimentally, slower this time, hoping he won’t humiliate himself for a second time tonight. “keep running your mouth like that and i won’t last a second time either. you gonna keep bullying me or help me fix this?”
“both,” you say sweetly, dragging your nails down his back. “because it’s cute watching you try to act cocky while your dick’s betraying you. came so fast for me, baby. first time and you couldn’t even hold it together. how many times did you jerk off thinking about this and still fold instantly, hmm?”
jason curses under his breath, thrusting shallow and careful now, face flushed but eyes locked on yours with that stubborn defiance. “keep talking shit and i’ll make sure the second round actually lasts long enough to shut you up. virgin or not, i learn fast. and you,” he leans in, biting your shoulder lightly, “love having the big scary red hood embarrassed and leaking for you. don’t you?”
you do. and the way he’s getting harder with every teasing word tells you he loves it even more.
the grip he has on your hips seconds later tells you he’s about to redeem himself as best as he could. because he’s right, virgin or not, the guy learns fast.
𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 - whereas, you were expected to quit after Damian Wayne’s first vicious insult, but fueled by spite you stayed— only to end up hopelessly attracted to the despicable man. You decided to strut into work in stockings and a miniskirt, but he frustratingly refuses to notice. Inspired by ‘miniskirt’ - aoa
cw: no smut just fluff, no y/n mentioned (you will absolutely never catch me using y/n), bad first impressions, enemies(?) to lovers, comedy/humor, bad at feelings, slightly in denial with feelings, happy ending, reader is sick of damian, no angst, and a makeout session.
wc: 18.1k. | part 2
You don’t really remember how you ended up getting the job.
You just knew the economy is going to shit, much to your dismay. You were an adult and life as an adult isn’t what it’s cracked up to be, especially when you’re in a world that has heroes, vigilantes, and villains that pop a perc and run around causing havoc.
Just like many other people in the country, you’re applying to several jobs a day and receiving multiple rejection emails almost daily. However, you decided to run around Gotham with your applications after moving here. The hiring manager in front of you was skimming your resume, nodding along and telling you they were impressed, which felt like a small personal victory to you!
Yay! Pat yourself on the back!
They decided to have an interview with you, right then and there!
“That’s amazing! Could you tell me what made you interested in this position?”
Money.
“What made me interested—” And right in the middle of your interview with the hiring manager, the office door slammed open.
A woman that seemed to be in their late twenties or early thirties, long gorgeous blonde curls stumbled in, red-eyed and shaking, sobbing so hard her words broke apart as she begged you not to work here.
“THE CEO IS AN ABSOLUTE SHITHEAD—”
“Ma’am you need to lea—”
“Do not work with that sorry-excuse of a MAN!”
“Alright, that’s it—”
“Get your hands off of me NOW! I AM SAVING THAT POOR GIRL—” Security dragged her away while she kicked and cried, and the hiring manager cleared their throat like they were trying to swallow an entire cough drop.
“Anyway…” they awkwardly moved on.
Yikes didn’t even begin to cover it.
After the interview, you just went back to your life. You were cleaning your apartment, keeping your mind busy with chores the next few days, binge-watching a series, and applying to different jobs. Honestly, You kind of assumed that you weren’t going to get the job after that happened, I mean would you hire someone after that interruption? Yeah. After that incident, there was no way they were calling you back.
“I mean, that was the craziest thing I’ve ever experienced, and I just moved here!” You said loudly, half–talking over the sizzle of the pan as you stirred your dinner with one hand and kept an AirPod tucked in the other ear. “What do you expect, babe? You moved from Star City on the west coast all the way to the east coast.” Chelsea’s voice crackled lightly through your AirPod.
You glanced at your phone on the counter. The FaceTime screen showed your friend lounging on her couch in Metropolis, her hair tied up and a mug in her hand, looking far too comfortable compared to the chaos you had walked into this week. Her eyebrows were raised like she already knew you were regretting the relocation.
“You should’ve just come with me to Metropolis, I don’t know why you decided to end up in Gotham, New Jersey. For god sake's, have you seen the crime rate!?” You snort, rolling your eyes.
“I’d rather see dumbass people try to get into my nice apartment and not my whole ass apartment blown away by some creature from another planet—”
“Oh please! At least one of them erases the problem easily!” You frowned at that.
Okay. Maybe she got you there.
“Doesn’t Metropolis rip in half like every once a month—” Chelsea cut you a look through the screen, lifting her mug like she was preparing to smack you with it through FaceTime. Her expression said don’t even start, which you replied with your hands up in surrender, your spatula raised with it.
“Where’d you even apply, anyways?”
You shrugged and kept stirring your food. “I don’t even know. I applied to a bunch of companies, but I think the interview I actually went to was at Wayne Enterprises.”
Silence.
A dangerous, heavy silence.
“Are you dumb—!?”
“Chill! I have my AirPods in!” you shouted back, flinching from the raise of her voice. Chelsea let out a long, exhausted sigh that somehow felt like a lecture.
“Which position did you apply for?”
“…personal assistant?”
She immediately screamed your full government name, and you winced so hard your shoulders nearly hit your ears.
You decided to turn her volume down.
“Are you just going to keep screaming at me without actually telling me what’s wrong with applying there?” you snapped, waving your spatula like it could shield you from her judgment.
Chelsea grumbled, pure disappointment settling into every line of her face. “I cannot believe you live under a rock. Damian Wayne. One of the youngest, successful, and arguably the hottest CEO in the country— not my type, but his father is, he’s a standard DILF in my book and will always be in my heart. Ring any bells?”
You blinked.
Slowly.
Did she have to mention the fact her type is the CEO’s father?
“He is notorious for going through personal assistants,” she couldn’t believe your lack of knowledge while continuing. She gestures wildly with her mug with a click of her tongue. “Girl, they all leave within the first month, it’s all over Reddit! Constantly! And it’s not even because he fires them. They just cannot deal with him!”
“Not even the paycheck can make them stay in this economy?” Chelsea slapped her hand on the coffee table so hard her cat shot straight into the air and sprinted out of frame like it feared for its life.
“Not even the paycheck can make them stay in this economy!” She shouted, leaning so close to the camera you could see every stressed-out pore on her face.
“Well, it’s a good thing I won’t be hired then, right?” You begin to scoop your food into a bowl, turning the stove off while you listen to Chelsea relievingly sigh in approval, her shoulders relaxing when she recalls the story you’ve told her.
“Yeah, I doubt they’ll hire you since Goldilocks decided to save you from the trenches. You’re lucky you dodged a bullet.”
Chelsea was wrong.
The next day, you received an email from the poor hiring manager with stressed eye bags that showed straight through the concealer, informing you that you had been accepted for the job.
You stared at the screen.
You got the job.
You should reject it.
Yet, you’ve been rejected left and right.
And the salary was so good—
Chelsea’s vice echoes through your head, the warnings she has told you.
“They all leave within the first month!”
Well. If you’re expected to leave the first month, you might as well get your money and dip when it gets intolerable. I mean, like, fuck it, the worst you can do is ghost the job.
What’s the worst that can happen?
No one warned you.
Well, Chelsea technically warned you.
But, you knew he would be presentable, but not—
Not like this.
“Ah! There he is, this is your boss, Damian Wayne.”
He didn’t walk into the room so much as he cut through it like gravity pulled differently around him. Sharp posture, silent steps, and sharp narrowed eyes that hit you with the same force as a spotlight— green, but not soft. More like polished jade or a blade’s edge reflecting light. It spoke of calculation, assessing, and it felt so direct when it landed on you.
It felt like getting pinned to a corkboard.
His face was almost unfair.
They were clean, symmetrical, and sharp lines. He had a strong jaw that looked like it had been carved deliberately.
There was no boyish charm to him; he had the kind of beauty people hesitate to call beautiful because it sounds too delicate for someone who carries that much confidence. But handsome didn’t feel strong enough either. He was absolutely striking to look at, unattainable, and unforgettable. He had that kind of attractiveness that makes your brain lag for half a second while your mouth tries to remember how to say ‘hello.’
And his expression didn’t help.
He looked at you the way someone looks at a report they already expect to be disappointed by (it was awful), brows slightly drawn, and lips pressed flat in a line that made you painfully aware of just how nice his lips were, they were clearly well taken care of, moisturized and a hue of color on them.
His hair was annoyingly perfect too. Dark, thick, not a strand out of place, like it was styled by sheer discipline instead of product. The kind of hair you could imagine falling into his eyes if he let it grow even a little longer but he never would, of course.
Then there was the way he dressed: crisp, tailored, so flawlessly put-together that you suddenly felt underdressed in clothes you had ironed twice in your blouse and your slacks. He didn’t even have to try; he just existed and the room rearranged itself around him.
But the worst part?
He didn’t even seem aware of how attractive he was. Or maybe he was and just didn’t care.
He looked at you, held your gaze for a fraction too long, and said flat, cool, and without so much as a greeting.
“Um, it’s nice to meet you, I’m your—”
“Tt, I know who you are. You’re the new assistant. HR must be desperate nowadays. You look like someone they scraped off the bottom of the applicant pile.”
Your first impression of Damian Wayne?
You want to absolutely kill him.
Surely you misheard him. Right?
Surely no living person with a functioning sense of self-preservation would say that out loud. Right?
But no. Damian Wayne just stood there, expression carved from ice, like your existence itself was an inconvenience he was being forced to endure.
You inhaled slowly through your nose.
“I—” You forced your voice to stay even.
“I’m here to make your schedule easier, Mr. Wayne.”
“Good,” he plainly said with a monotone voice, already brushing past you like you were a piece of office furniture. “I don’t have expectations for you to stay here longer than a month, so don’t try too hard as a temporary assistant, they always do.”
Your eye twitched.
This aggravating piece of shit—
He stopped at his desk, not even glancing back before gesturing to a stack of folders that’s on his desk.
“Organize these by priority and competency.” He paused, glancing briefly at your figure.
“Assuming you’re capable of both.” You wore the most corporate expression you’ve ever worn in your life, a face that felt like you wanted to shatter yourself and slap the shit out of him. “Of course,” you said sweetly with the fakest smile you’ve ever worn on your life.
Venomously sweet.
“I’ll handle it.” You knew he could hear that sickening sweet fake voice.
“Good.” He simply stated, sighing before he shooed you away. “Try to keep up.”
You didn’t trust yourself to respond.
Not with words. Not with sounds.
You swallowed every snarky comment sitting on your tongue, because nothing in that office could legally be used against you in a workplace lawsuit. Instead, you scooped up the stack of folders he shoved into your arms and marched out before your own mouth created problems your paycheck could not fix.
God, you needed this job.
The salary alone was enough to chain you here for at least a few weeks, maybe even longer if your spite stayed strong. A traitorous part of you even considered turning this into a personal challenge. If you had to endure the daily torment of working for Damian Wayne, then fine. You would survive this place. You would outlast his attitude. You would make it to the one month mark just to prove a point.
And before you finally walked out of this corporate purgatory, you would leave a little surprise in his office, something truly unforgettable, something that would remind him that you had been here. The door shut behind you with a soft click that somehow felt like it saved your life.
The hiring manager trailed after you like a ghost fleeing the scene of a violent crime. Their footsteps were rushed, panicked, like they were afraid Damian might call them back inside if they didn’t move fast enough. They had been completely silent during the encounter, which— given what just happened— felt like its own form of apology.
Or guilt.
You didn’t speak at first.
You needed a second.
Your soul needed a second.
Your blood pressure needs at least 30 seconds.
Finally, once you’d made it a safe distance down the hall, far enough that Damian can’t hear the rattling cage of your heart that wanted to scream at him.
You exhaled.
“…Okay,” you muttered, gripping the folders so tightly they crinkled. You’re going to need to find different folders if they end up creased.
“So that happened.”
The hiring manager let out a strangled sound that might have been a laugh. It might’ve been a whimper. It was hard to tell. “That,” they said, “was… one of his better mornings.” You stared at them in stunned silence.
They avoided eye contact, shoulders tensed like someone with chronic fight-or-flight syndrome. “I hoped he’d be in a good mood today. He had coffee. And a board meeting went well. Usually that helps.”
“That was him in a good mood?”
They nodded, grimly. “Comparatively.”
You stared down the hallway toward Damian’s office door, half expecting it to burst open again just to finish you off.
Honestly? You kind of hoped he would. At least then you could be the first assistant in Wayne Enterprises history to get fired in under ten minutes.
But no.
You were still employed. And you wanted so badly to prove that dickhead wrong.
“Don’t take it personally,” the hiring manager mentions quickly, hands fluttering like they were trying to calm a spooked animal. “He’s usually like that! I mean, not worse, but not better either.” They winced at their own explanation. “Here, let me… let me just take you to your office.”
You followed with the folders clutched to your chest. Your inch-heels clicked softly against the sleek hallway floors, each step a quiet reminder that you were officially in too deep to turn back.
The office around you was alive in that overwhelming, corporate-machine kind of way. Murmurs drifted from half-open doors, printers whirred like they were running for their lives, phones rang nonstop, and people in tailored suits rushed past with urgent expressions and coffee cups that looked dangerously full.
It was the kind of place where everyone seemed to be moving toward something important.
Except you.
You were just trying not to drop the folders or spontaneously combust. You adjusted your grip, inhaled slowly, and forced yourself to match the hiring manager’s brisk pace.
Every passing face glanced at you, all of them were curious, sympathetic, or simply entertained by the existence of a new victim. The looks were so blatant you started to wonder if there was a running office bet on how long you’d last. If there was, you were absolutely putting your money on surviving a month.
A month and a day. And an extra minute just to spite all of them.
You were going to get through this.
You were going to make it through the first month, even if you hated your boss with the intensity of a thousand suns. If not out of ambition…
Then out of pure, unadulterated spite.
Within an hour, you’ve finally settled into your new office, which was far too large for any normal personal assistant, you began plotting. Every drawer, every neatly stacked folder, every perfectly lined pen became part of your mission to prove him wrong.
You were going to arrive early, organize everything to perfection, and carry yourself with the righteous fury of someone determined to weaponize competence.
You were going to be the best goddamn assistant he had for a month!
You’re going to look him in the eye, tell him to eat fuckin’ shit, and walk out of his office with your dignity intact and his pride dented.
Except.
This is going to be really awkward.
You have been his personal assistant for three months.
Chelsea sits across from you in a high-end Gotham café, the kind of place with marble tables, velvet chairs, and coffee so expensive it feels like a personal attack. It is a luxury you can finally afford thanks to the absurdly generous salary that comes with being Damian Wayne’s personal assistant.
“So what’s been up with you—”
Once she settles into her seat, you launch into the whole story, unpacking every chaotic detail of your first week under the city’s most insufferable, sharp-tongued, walking stress migraine of a boss while she gaped at you, even she choked on her coffee once you mentioned the fact you were originally going to plan to tell your boss to eat shit!
“You have been keeping this from me for months!?”
Chelsea nearly shrieks, her voice shooting up enough that you can practically picture her cat back home sprinting under the nearest piece of furniture in self-defense. She drags a hand through her hair with the kind of exasperation that suggests she is seconds away from either combusting or demanding financial reparations for emotional distress.
“I thought you worked at a different company! I thought you didn’t get the Wayne job!” You flinch and lean forward, shushing her as a few nearby patrons glance over with raised eyebrows.
“I’m sorry! Trust me, I am surprised too!” You exclaimed in a quieter voice, pinching the bridge of your nose before your nerves started leaking out of your mouth. “I thought you would have seen it on the news or Reddit. People keep making threads about Damian Wayne’s personal assistant. Me! I am the longest assistant he has ever had.”
Chelsea just stares.
It is the kind of stare reserved for witnessing small miracles, natural disasters, or an animal walking into a Walmart wearing a vest.
“He hasn’t fired you,” she says.
“He hasn’t fired me,” you repeat.
“Not yet.”
“Hopefully not.”
Chelsea sighs, not out of dialing but exaggeration. “At least it pays you well, right?”
“It does, it pays really well actually.” You point to your bracelet, displaying Tiffany and co., that you were surprised to even purchase with the first paycheck that came in, it could cover your rent, car insurance, and two months worth of groceries!
Chelsea hums.
“Well, it’s been a few months now, why haven’t you left your boss if you hate him, babe?”
Well. Things have changed.
You fiddled with your drink, turning the cup in slow circles before lifting it to your lips. The moment you glanced off to the side, pretending to admire the ridiculously pretentious light fixtures or the overpriced pastries behind the counter, you knew you were done for. Chelsea had known you for years.
She could read you like a billboard on a highway.
Her eyes narrowed. “That,” she said, pointing her straw at you like a weapon, “is your I am hiding something face.”
“I’m not hiding anything!”
“That’s your lying voice too.”
You groaned, slumping your shoulders. “I don’t wanna tell you.” You leaned against your arm on the table with a frown, looking at her with the most depressing gaze ever.
She sighs.
“Tell me, what’s wrong.” You mumbled incoherent words that she couldn’t catch.
“It can’t be that bad, but you gotta tell me clearly, babe.”
“I said I like him,” you folded your arms together against the table, slowly hiding your face while you looked at your friend.
Chelsea froze, processing your words slowly.
For a full three seconds, she did not blink, breathe, or otherwise behave like a living organism. Then she leaned forward, squinting at you like you had just confessed to worshipping a fantasy character.
“You what.”
You pulled your arms in tighter, sinking into yourself like you could physically escape the consequences of your own admission.
“I like him,” you repeated, quieter this time, feeling a burn on your neck and the tip of your ears, and your cheeks as well.
Was it getting hotter in this cafe?
Chelsea slapped both hands on the table so hard the silverware rattled. “You have got to be kidding me,” she hissed, keeping her voice just barely below a scream. “You like Damian Wayne?! THE Damian Wayne!? I thought you said you hated him not even five minutes ago!?”
You winced.
“I know.”
“He insulted you on sight!”
“I know.”
“He made three assistants cry before lunch in one week according to that Reddit post five months ago when I last went on there!”
“I know, I read that too.” You cringed.
She leaned in even closer, eyes wide with catastrophic disappointment.
“And you like him.”
You nodded, defeated.
Chelsea dropped her face into her hands.
“Oh my god,” she whispered into her palms. “There’s absolutely no way.” She dragged her fingers down her cheeks in slow, tortured disbelief, then lifted her head just enough to glare at you through the cracks.
“What happened to your standards!? He was rude, mean, a dickhead, a shit-head! And he said you wouldn’t last a month!”
You huffed, crossing your arms with a pout.
“It’s not my fault,” you muttered. “He’s… different when he’s not being… rude.” Chelsea scoffed loudly.
“Different how. Does he switch from dickhead to mildly tolerable asshat? Does he say please once every equinox?”
Chelsea shook her head, disbelief etched on her face.
“He basically insulted your existence before you even started!”
You glared at her, already feeling a creak of embarrassment from the reminder she’s given.
“He… holds doors sometimes.”
“Oh dear Jesus,” she groaned quietly, staring at you like you had personally disappointed the entire human race, shock was an understatement for her.
“Sometimes? Not all the time!? You are not just down bad. You are subterranean! You are in the Earth’s core and you are at the center of the planet melting!”
You were starting to feel like you were melting into a puddle.
“Holding doors? Are you kidding me!? I fear that’s the bare minimum!” She reiterated once more, shooting back with a cry.
You wilted a little.
“Babe! I literally held the door for you 30 minutes ago!”
She wasn’t wrong.
Chelsea sighed, long and heavy, like she was preparing herself for a friendship intervention. “Okay,” she finally came down from her thoughts, sitting upright again. “Start from the beginning. And tell me exactly how long you’ve had this tragic, misguided crush so I know how early the corruption began.” You glanced away, a small, knowing smile tugging at your lips.
You already knew where it began.
Damian Wayne didn’t just hold doors for you— sometimes, he could actually be kind.
Actually, erase that.
What the fuck are you talking about?
It started off when there was an office party at the end of your second week at the company.
The team decided it was best to celebrate after successfully completing a tough collaboration, and despite your reservations, you found yourself there, trying to blend in among Gotham’s elite.
The “party,” which was really just a glorified networking event, was held in a sleek, modern lounge with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering sprawl of Gotham. Soft jazz curled through the air, creating a warm atmosphere while coworkers clustered in small circles, murmuring over half-finished drinks. Glasses clinked. Ice chimed against the crystal. Someone laughed too loudly at a joke that probably wasn’t funny.
You lingered by the refreshment table, holding a champagne flute you had barely touched, watching the room from the safety of the sidelines. The dim lighting made everything feel softer, warmer, less like the corporate machine you worked in and more like a scene from a movie you didn’t belong in.
You were debating whether to grab a cheese cube or just take another sip of your second drink when you felt a shift in the atmosphere beside you. A quiet disturbance, like the air bracing itself.
Damian had appeared.
He stood a few feet away, dressed sharply as always, although the usual severity in his expression seemed dulled by the warm glow of the lounge lights. His posture was still rigid, but the sharp scowl you had come to mentally prepare for wasn’t as deep.
His gaze found yours immediately.
“Oh. It’s you. I wondered why all the birds stopped singing.”
Damian’s voice cut through the hum of conversation, quieter than usual but still carrying that cool edge that scraped your nerves raw.
You raised a brow and crossed your arms, turning to face him fully with a slight fire of irritation, faking a smile in his direction. “No one's forcing you to be around me? Pick another spot, or fire me. I don’t care.”
You were surprised he didn’t fire you right then and there.
It was only your second week.
His eyes flicked over you, assessing, unreadable, before he reached for a drink from the nearby table. “I highly doubt you want to be fired within two weeks.” You furrowed your brows, the anger rising quickly.
You cannot believe you work with this man.
Around the two of you, the soft buzz of the party carried on. Laughter drifted from a nearby table, someone popped open a bottle of sparkling water, and the jazz band eased into a slower melody. Yet despite the noise, the space between you and Damian felt strangely isolated, a small bubble of tension carved clean out of the room’s warm energy.
Please don’t stand next to me. Please don’t come stand next to me. Pleasenotnexttome!
But he shifted, stepping just slightly closer as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Of course, he stands next to you, but just far enough away that there’s an empty space between you.
“Do you really have to stand there?” you muttered, frowning at him.
“You don’t own the space,” he replied, rolling his eyes with that signature Damian Wayne disdain, the type that somehow felt personally designed to get under your skin.
Before you could bite back, the crowd shifted.
A girl you didn’t recognize wove through the party’s glittering mess of people, smiling so brightly it made your teeth ache. She slipped right between you and Damian, brushing your shoulder with a light, oblivious, “Oops, sorry!”
You step back, momentarily thrown off, while Damian’s eyes narrow slightly, but he says nothing.
Luckily, your drink wasn’t spilled.
Oh! Mr. Wayne,” she gushes, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in a move so practiced it should’ve come with choreography. “I didn’t expect to see you here. You look amazing tonight!”
Damian gives her a flat, polite look that is somehow more dismissive than if he’d ignored her entirely.
“Thank you.”
She steps a little closer, her shoulder nearly brushing his.
“I was just telling my friends I’d love to get to know more people in the industry. Maybe you could give me some tips?”
Damian’s expression doesn’t change.
“Tips,” he repeats, voice cool.
“I do not offer those.”
“Oh! Well, maybe you could show me instead?”
“Not interested.”
“Not even one minute of your time, sir?”
“I’m busy.”
“I could jus—”
“Are you deaf, woman?” you cut in before she can finish, smiling sharply when her head snaps toward you in offense.
Your tone is honeyed, your eyes absolutely not. You watch her expression, her mouth opening, outrage bubbling up.
“Excuse me?”
You tilt your head, taking a slow sip of your drink. Her jaw works soundlessly, cheeks flushing red, and she sputters a half-formed insult before managing,
“Who do you think you are?”
Before you can respond, Damian does.
“She’s my childhood best friend.”
You choke on your drink so violently you almost decorate the floor with it.
Childhood best—
The hell is this coming from?
The girl snaps her head toward Damian, frowning, irritation breaking through her forced sweetness.
“Really? She doesn’t look like it.”
You raise a brow so sharp it could cut glass.
What is that supposed to mean?
“Well, she used to be.”
She raised an infuriating brow at Damian with a twisted frown, clearly offended by your continued existence and a tad bit curiosity shining within them.
You mouthed seriously over her shoulder at your boss that completely ignored you.
You lean in slightly, lowering your voice in a conspiratorial tone that makes her perk up just enough.
“If you’re so curious,” you say, smiling with all the sincerity of a cat staring at a canary, “we’re not childhood friends for a reason.”
You lie through your teeth without hesitation.
And right beside the woman, Damian watches over you— quiet, unreadable, and unmistakably intrigued.
“Why is that?” she asks, hesitating, clearly torn between morbid curiosity.
You smile sweetly.
“When we were young, I went over to his house and watched him drink his own blood for breakfast, like it was some artisanal smoothie because he thought he was a vampire.” You shook your head. “His family had to send him to a mental hospital after he bit four of our classmates' necks, luckily he only killed two.”
There is a silence so thick you could scoop it with a spoon.
The girl’s eyes widened in absolute horror.
And beside her, Damian— Damian Wayne, Gotham’s coldest, most composed, most impossible-to-shake man stares at you over her shoulder, lips parted, expression stunned.
“Seriously?” She say, absolutely turning pale by the second with a hint of disbelief and skepticism in her tone, yet she’s starting to believe you.
You nodded solemnly, as if delivering a tragic, documented truth.
“One of the nurses put garlic in his sandwich and he absolutely freaked out. Therapists had to come in and talk him down while he kept yelling about curses, mortal treachery, and how garlic was the ‘bane of his eternal existence.’”
You shrugged.
“Thank god he’s on medication.”
Damian closes his eyes for one long, suffering second. When he opens them again, there’s a spark there.
A dangerous one.
“I’ll do you better,” he says, voice smooth and deadpan. “When she was younger, she used to crawl into the garbage at one in the morning because she was fully convinced she was a raccoon. She tried to square-up with the actual animal for dominance. She lost.”
Your smile freezes, peering over her shoulder. Raccoon? Are you serious? You mouthed. “She ate the wrappers in our garbage. Ate them. Like they were gourmet. A total nutcase. She walked on all fours so committedly she developed calluses. Hissed at anyone who got too close— neighbors, mailmen, and the mayor once. Animal control tried to trap her three separate times. A complete lost cause.”
The woman looks like she’s about to throw up, hand hovering near her mouth as if bracing for a second round of trauma.
Your jaw drops.
“She’s come a long way,” Damian adds, eyes glinting with quiet amusement, “but sometimes she relapses and we find her in a dumpster in the back of BatBurger.”
You stare at him, appalled.
You turn to her, lowering your voice like you are sharing the saddest, darkest secret of your generation.
“One time he didn’t take his meds and someone accidentally spilled water on him. He thought it was holy water,” you say gravely, watching her head swivel back to you. “So he started screaming about being burned alive like bread in a toaster. In public. Very loud. Very dramatic. He threw himself onto the floor and writhed like a dying Victorian child. People thought an exorcism was happening in aisle five.”
You sigh, shaking your head as if reliving the tragedy.
“He yelled that he was going to die. It took four security guards and his dad to calm him down.”
“She had to wear an ankle monitor that she bit off,” Damian cuts in, no longer staring at her, but at you.
What the absolute fuck.
“She sharpened her claws since she still thought she was a raccoon and gouged someone’s eyes out in a local church. She ate those eyeballs, but told the police that god took them. The victim is still alive. They’re blind and they no longer go to church.”
The woman swallows so hard you can hear it.
“You’re absolutely joking.”
Yes, he is,” you say sweetly, pinning the woman with a reassuring smile that is only a few degrees away from a threat.
“I’m not, he killed two of my cats and my other friend for one of his sacrificial rituals, trying to summon the damn devil to get immortality. At age ten. We had to get a priest, and the actual exorcist,” you continue, as if you’re giving her directions to the mall.
“We had to strap him to a bed. Full head spin. Latin chanting. He spoke in seven different voices— none of them his. One of them was an elderly Italian man who’s been dead since 1842.”
She looks absolutely sick to her stomach.
“Holy symbols were flying off the walls. The lights flickered, and the temperature dropped twenty degrees. At one point, he levitated. Horizontally. Like a possessed IKEA shelf.” You lift your glass, sipping unbothered.
“He nearly killed the priest, too. Launched him across the room with telekinetic rage. The priest survived only because we dumped an entire Costco-sized vat of holy water on him and force-fed him garlic cloves like he was a charcuterie board and faced him towards the sun.”
“You— both of you are absolutely insane!” The woman sways a little, looking between the two of you like she’s trying to decide whether to run, scream, or call the police.
“I thought this was a networking event. I’m not… I’m not spiritually prepared for whatever that was.” She makes a choked noise, turns on her heel, and speed-walks away like she expects one of you to start foaming at the mouth.
You watch her disappear into the crowd. Then you turn to Damian, giving him the flattest, most pointed look you can manage.
“Childhood friends? Seriously.”
He exhales through his nose, the closest he ever gets to an eye roll without actually doing it.
“A vampire. Are you kidding me?”
“I just wanted to tell someone that you drank blood for breakfast.”
After that incident, Damian had somewhat tolerated you.
You were going to make it— the first month, you’ve found yourself also tolerating Damian’s presence after that incident.
He stopped ignoring you like you were a ghost only he wished was dead.
You stopped fantasizing about strangling him with his own tie.
He stopped snapping at you every time you breathed within a three-foot radius.
You stopped wanting to shove him into the nearest supply closet (and lock it).
You started walking into his office without rehearsing three insults in your head first.
He started not sighing dramatically every time you would walk in, only because you told him to quit it.“What’re are you fuckin’ five years old? Get a grip.”
You were surprised you weren’t fired the minute you said that too.
There was honestly a lot of things that you’ve been lucky to get away with.
It was honestly nice.
He started becoming too nice.
He started holding doors for you.
Not in a showy, look-how-chivalrous-I-am way.
More like: he’d reach the door, pause, and wordlessly keep it open without looking at you. As if it was simply easier than watching you juggle your bag, tablet, water bottle, and your will to live all in one minute.
Then came the coffee.
Not just any coffee.
Your order.
Perfectly correct down to the amount of sweetener you never told him about.
It would appear on your desk at 8:07 every morning. The exact minute you usually sat down, being 23 minutes early as always with no explanation except a quiet, muttered:
“The barista on the first floor kept messing up my drink. They gave me this instead.”
He said it like it annoyed him.
He handed it to you like it didn’t.
And he walked away before you could question him about how the barista “accidentally” made your drink four days in a row.
Then there were the other things.
He’d push the elevator button for both of you without being asked.
He’d slow his stride by half a step so you could keep up with files in your arms to attend the next meeting with him, pretending it was unintentional.
If you were carrying too many folders, he’d take half without comment, eyes forward, as if he could pretend he wasn’t helping you.
Once, he even redirected a rude executive who barked at you in the hallway, stepping in with a clipped, cold:
“My personal assistant is busy. Speak to someone else.”
You almost dropped your tablet at that comment.
That was when your heart started racing. It was sharp, sudden, and betraying you before you even understood why.
It wasn’t the dramatic kind of fluttering people wrote about in books, nothing soft or romantic. It was a tight, startled thump in your chest, the kind that made your breath catch for half a second as heat crawled quietly up your neck.
It happened in the small moments, the ones you never expected to matter— when his hand brushed yours as he passed you a file, when his voice dropped lower than usual as he asked a question, when he stood just a little too close in the elevator and you could feel the faint warmth radiating from him.
Every quiet act of consideration, every glance that lingered a beat longer than it should have, stirred something unsteady beneath your ribs. It felt like your body realized something before your mind did, like your instincts were trying to tell you that Damian’s sudden gentleness wasn’t random at all.
And once you noticed it, once your heart reacted— you couldn’t un-notice it.
Each day it only beats a little faster.
Especially that one night, the night everything went sideways so violently it felt personal.
The office was unnervingly quiet after hours. Most of the overhead lights had already clicked off, leaving long stretches of the floor in a low, ambient glow. The only illumination near you came from your monitor, washing your desk in a cold, bluish light that made the scattered papers look like crime scene evidence.
Your shoulders ached from sitting too long.
Your eyes burned.
Your coffee had gone cold sometime around 7 p.m., and you kept drinking it anyway because the bitterness felt like fuel.
You had taken on too much work. You knew that. You felt it as soon as your fingers began to tremble over your keyboard.
The HVAC system hummed softly above you. Somewhere far down the hall, a printer woke up and made a lonely mechanical noise before going quiet again. Your own breath sounded too loud in the open, empty space.
You clicked into the project folder that was supposed to contain sixty-eight documents.
It had six.
Six documents blinking back at you like they were mocking you.
Your stomach dropped so fast it made you dizzy.
You refreshed the tab. Nothing changed. You tried again. Still six. The rest had vanished— scrambled somewhere across Wayne Enterprises’ ocean of internal servers.
You whispered, “No, no, no… oh, come on, not tonight.”
Your fingers flew, searching through subfolders, archives, misnamed files. You found some mislabeled under an entirely different project. Others were saved in outdated formats. A few looked corrupted, their icons taunting you with dull, broken symbols.
You spent the next hour piecing them back together, shuffling between windows, dragging things into place, the soft clicking of your mouse echoing in the cavernous silence.
When you finally rebuilt the folder and opened it again…
Half of it was still missing.
Gone.
Deleted.
Not even a ghost in the recycle bin.
Your pulse thundered in your ears.
The fluorescent light above your cubicle flickered once, dramatically, like it was judging your life choices.
The air felt too thin.
Your throat tightened.
All of this— every file, every signature, every revision— was due in two days.
You pushed both hands into your forehead and muttered, “This is it. This is where I die. Right here. In this stupid chair. They’ll find my corpse fossilized into this mesh ergonomic backing.”
You mumbled to yourself before glancing at the clock on your screen.
8:43 p.m.
The rest of the floor was a graveyard. Dark offices. Empty chairs. Silent conference rooms. Not even the janitorial staff had come by yet.
You forced yourself to sit down and get to work because no one else was going to fix this disaster, even if it wasn’t your fault. The responsibility still sat heavy on your shoulders if you didn’t do anything, almost like a physical weight pressing between your shoulder blades.
You had to track down every missing document, rebuild what was gone, and prepare the entire set before the deadline that glared at you from your calendar in a furious shade of red.
Your own workload sat beside it, equally demanding after you’ve redone the first five of the thirty documents.
Your email inbox kept chiming every few minutes, each notification a tiny reminder that you were behind.
The piles on your desk had grown uneven and tall enough to lean like stressed-out skyscrapers.
Half of Damian’s stack stared at you like it had been personally offended by your existence. Your shared calendar flickered on your monitor with overlapping meetings, last-minute adjustments, and bright color-coded tasks that all claimed to be the highest priority.
You glance at the time.
10:28 p.m.
Just as you’re about to dive back into the mountain of paperwork, the door to the office swings open. Damian steps in, his expression a mix of confusion and mild irritation.
“You’re still here?” His voice is calm but edged with disbelief.
You look up, blinking away the exhaustion.
“I have one more thing to finish.”
Multiple things actually.
He shakes his head slowly, eyes narrowing. “It’s late. Everyone else has gone home hours ago. Your light is the only one on.”
Oh.
You bite back the exhaustion creeping into your voice.
“I’m almost done.”
Damian’s gaze lingers on you for a moment, unreadable.
Then, without another word, he steps back toward the door, the quiet weight of the night settling once more around you.
You thought he had left, leaning against your chair to take at least a five minute nap without any interruption.
But moments later, he reappears, holding his jacket in one hand, his eyes fixed on you with that same sharp intensity.
“Let’s go.”
You blink in surprise.
“What—?” You shake your head, stubbornness flaring despite your exhaustion.
“I’ve got it under control. I just need a little more time.”
He cuts you off with a flat tone, hearing you yawn afterwards.
“It’s almost 11 p.m. I don’t trust you behind the wheel when you’re this close to falling asleep in your office chair.” You blink, caught off guard by his blunt concern, the tension in the room shifting just a little.
“I can just call an Uber?” you offer weakly, half out of stubbornness, half because you don’t know what else to do with the sudden warmth crawling up your neck.
What are you supposed to do in this situation?
“Don’t be stupid and waste your money on that…” he fiddles with his cuffs, “I’ll drive you home.” His tone snaps like a reprimand, firm and irritated, but underneath it is something unmistakably protective.
He clicks his tongue, already annoyed for you, at you, around you, like you were the one being unreasonable for… existing past 10 p.m. in a corporate building.
He gestures sharply at your desk with a small glare, the kind that isn’t really anger but more of a silent command.
Pack up. Now.
And despite yourself.
Despite how confusing this whole moment is, despite the way your face warms at the edges, you actually listen. Your hands move on instinct, gathering your things while your thoughts spiral in a confused, flustered whirl:
Why does he care?
Why is he doing this?
Why is he taking you home?
Is this normal? You thought.
It’s just work related, right?
Yeah. Work-related.
For a boss to take their personal assistant home?
The realization lands with a quiet, heavy thud— one that makes your fingertips fumble over the zipper of your bag, your breath catching for just a beat.
Did he do this to his other assistants?
You glance at the man and the calendar on your desk.
He shows up at your doorframe at almost eleven at night, jacket in hand, eyes lingering on you as he patiently waits for you to gather your things. And as you sling your bag over your shoulder, heart a little too light and a little too frantic, you can’t stop thinking:
Why is he still at Wayne Enterprise at 11 p.m. when his schedule was cleared after 6 p.m.?
You follow him out the door, steps quiet, falling just a half-pace behind him like your body hasn’t caught up to the situation yet. Confusion presses tightly across your face, your brows drawn together, lips thinned as you stare at the back of his head. His strides are steady, purposeful, like this is the most normal thing in the world.
Meanwhile, your thoughts are a mess, tumbling over each other as you trail him down the dim hallway lit only by recessed lights and the soft hum of overnight ventilation.
He doesn’t glance back once.
Of course he doesn’t.
Damian Wayne never does anything as obvious as checking if you’re following.
He just expects you to.
And you do.
You both get onto the elevator, pressing onto the garage floor button while you both stand awkwardly next to each other.
“I hope… you don’t mind me asking sir, but what were you doing here past 10 p.m…”
“Finishing reports,” he says simply. His tone is flat, businesslike, but not sharp. “Some of the board files were delayed, so I stayed to review them before tomorrow.”
You nod, knowing he can see it from the corner of his gaze.
The elevator hums around you, the soft whir of machinery filling the quiet. The two of you stand side by side, close enough that you can feel the faint heat radiating off his suit jacket but not close enough to touch. You could smell his cologne that lingers on him. It drifts toward you in soft waves: clean, subtle, and expensive in a way that doesn’t brag.
Something sharp at the start, like bergamot or cedar, softened by something warm underneath, like velvet.
The elevator quietly dings, the soft chime echoing through the empty garage as the doors slide open. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting long shadows across rows of empty parking spots. You trail after Damian, your footsteps sounding small in the cavernous space.
He walks with purposeful strides, not hurried but direct, straight past the reserved spaces, toward a sleek black car with two doors, a nice Porsche 911 that looks too polished for how late it is. He doesn’t check if you are keeping up, yet somehow you know he is fully aware of every step you take behind him.
You follow him through the quiet, cool air of the garage, watching the way his jacket shifts with each movement, the way he reaches into his pocket for his keys without slowing his pace.
He unlocks the car with a soft click.
He reaches the car and stops beside the passenger side, pulling the handle without hesitation. The door swings open smoothly, the interior lights blooming to life in a soft glow that spills onto the concrete floor.
He doesn’t look at you while he does it.
His gaze stays forward, jaw set, expression unreadable, as if this is purely routine and not an act of shockingly old-fashioned courtesy from a man who once told you “move faster” instead of “good morning.”
He steps back just slightly, giving you room. “Stop standing around and get in.” He says quietly.
You blink at him, unsure whether to be offended, flustered, or concerned that your notoriously rude boss is speaking to you like a person instead of a defective office appliance.
His hand still rests on the top edge of the door, waiting.
You feel more awake than ever.
You think you can drive home.
“Mr. Wayne, it’s fine, I can drive myself home—”
He gives you a look.
Just one sharply raised brow that communicates an entire paragraph:
You’re not driving. Get in the car.
Your protests die on your tongue.
You swallow once, pulse kicking up for reasons you refuse to examine, gather yourself, and finally slide into the seat. The leather is cool beneath you, the interior quiet, the door closing with a soft, final click that feels far too intimate for something so mundane.
He walks around the hood, steps measured, and unhurried.
Instead, he glances at you. Just once. Brief, unreadable, but with enough weight behind it to pin you to the seat.
“Seatbelt,” he says.
Two syllables. Low. Firm. Not unkind, which is worse somehow. Your fingers move before your brain catches up, tugging the belt into place with a soft click.
Dear god. Sitting this close to your boss, the one you’ve found attractive, annoying, tolerable, and infuriating in rotating intervals— has to be the worst experience of your entire life.
You stare firmly ahead, refusing to let your gaze drift even an inch in his direction, because if it does, you’re almost certain you’ll combust on the spot. Meanwhile, he shifts into gear, turning the notch of the volume of his music that slowly settles into the air with the same calm, controlled ease he applies to everything, as if your internal panic isn’t loud enough to fill the whole car.
You exhale once, quietly.
This is fine.
You’re fine.
You’re absolutely not fine.
“Your address.”
You blink, turning your head a fraction before you can stop yourself.
“What?”
Damian raised an amused brow, the expression subtle but unmistakable. “I can’t drive you home if I don’t know where you live. The address.”
You swallow, suddenly aware of how loud your pulse sounds in your ears. “Oh. Right. It’s—” you recite it, stumbling only once over the street name.
He inputs it into the GPS with the same calm efficiency he approaches everything with, one hand steady on the wheel, the other moving with practiced ease across the screen.
“You shouldn’t be working overtime without telling me.” You blink, taken aback.
“What? I didn’t— I mean, it wasn’t— that late.”
“It was past ten,” he counters, tone flat but unmistakably irritated, what’s with him and having that underlying tone of passive aggressiveness? This is why everyone’s scared of him.
“That qualifies as late.”
“It really isn’t that late,” you argue, crossing your arms even though it does absolutely nothing to make you feel less defensive.
Damian shifts his grip on the wheel, making a turn at an intersection, leading to the freeway. “For you, maybe,” he says.
“You look like you were five minutes away from face-planting into your keyboard.”
Your shoulders stiffen.
“I was fine.”
“You were drooling,” he adds without missing a beat. You snap your head toward him, scandalized.
“I was NOT—”
He doesn’t even look at you— just continues driving, voice maddeningly even.
He exhales through his nose, like you’re the unreasonable one here.
“You were unconscious in your chair. Head tilted back. Mouth open. Classic drooling posture.”
YOU DIDN’T EVEN SLEEP?!?
“I wasn’t drooling,” you repeat, slower this time, because you know— you know— you weren’t.
“You’re lying.”
Damian’s lips twitch.
Not a smile.
Not quite.
But close enough that your stomach flips.
“I don’t lie,” he says coolly.
“You’re lying right now.”
Silence. A beat.
“…You were about to drool.”
Your jaw dropped.
“You—!”
“That’s worse,” he adds dryly.
You’re ready to launch into a full rebuttal, but he cuts in before you can speak: “You should thank me,” he says. “If you had actually started, I would’ve had to mop you off your desk.”
You’re actually going to kill him.
“Get me out of this car now.”
He doesn’t even flinch.
“If I stop on the freeway, we’ll both die.”
“That’s fine.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Yes. It is.”
He finally glances your way, one eyebrow raised with a spark within his eyes, you knew he was reveling in it.
“You’re being dramatic.”
“You literally invented dramatic.” His fingers drum lightly against the steering wheel, betraying a flicker of amusement he refuses to acknowledge.
“That’s rich coming from you,” he says, voice calm but edged with something warm.
“If anyone here has a flair for theatrics, it’s the person who nearly face-planted onto a stack of financial reports and told that woman that I’ve supposedly killed two kids and was possessed.” You glare at him.
“It was for a good reason and I did you a favor!”
Damian turns his head just slightly, enough that you can see the curve of disbelief at the corner of his mouth.
“A favor,” he repeats, tone dry enough to evaporate water. “Your solution,” he says slowly, “was to convince her I bit a classmate, splashed with holy water by accident, summoned the devil, and committed— what was it?—‘multiple cat sacrifices.’”
You lift your chin. “To be fair, you added the part about me gouging out a guy’s eyes in church. And face-planting into the reports? Are you serious?”
“It haunts me to this day.”
“You didn’t even see it happen!” You scoffed.
“I didn’t have to. I heard the thud from halfway across the floor.”
Your jaw drops.
“You liar!”
“Possibly,” he admits, gaze returning to the road, “but you can’t prove it.” You grip your bag tighter, fighting the urge to throw it at him.
He’s impossible! A douchebag! A liar!
Despicable. Insolent. Smug. Humorous.
And Handsome with the capital ‘H’ annoying.
A soft, almost amused exhale slips out of him and you hate that your heart notices.
Your apartment building edges into view through the windshield. The familiar, worn brick and warm lights in the windows, something easy curls in your stomach.
You glance at him, then at the building, then back at him. You should probably at least have the decency to thank him for dropping you off to your place.
“Thank—”
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow before work.”
Your mouth snaps shut, staring at him.
“…What?” you finally manage, voice embarrassingly thin.
He wants to pick you up.
He’s planning to pick you up.
Damian slows to a stop at the curb in front of your building, the streetlight casting soft gold across the sharp line of his jaw. His hands remain steady on the wheel, expression irritatingly unreadable.
“I said I’ll pick you up tomorrow,” he repeats, this time he’s looking at you with a tilt of his head, like he’s informing you of the weather. “You clearly can’t be trusted to get adequate sleep, and I’m not dealing with you hallucinating through spreadsheets.”
Your jaw drops.
“I do NOT hallucinate— you’re— ugh! Unbelievable.” For a second of silence, there was a look of gentleness settling in his eyes, softening the sharp green into something that lingers a little too long on you.
“Seven thirty,” he says, ignoring your previous comment.
“Don’t be late.”
You grip your bag, still stunned, still not sure you’re hearing him correctly. “You don’t have to do that,” you protest, even though your voice comes out softer than you’d like.
“I know,” he replies simply.
You step out of the car on unsteady legs, heart beating far too fast for reasons you refuse to examine yet… but you do look back. You shift your weight, gripping your bag strap until your knuckles ache.
You watch the passenger window slide down. “Mr. Wayne, seriously. You don’t have to—”
“Damian.”
You ignore that.
Your front steps are only a few feet away now, but you suddenly feel like you’re standing on the edge of something a lot higher.
“You’re confusing me, you’re not making any sense at all,” you murmur, even though your voice betrays you by going soft again.
A cold breeze skims across your cheeks, the kind that promises Gotham’s autumn is heading towards the colder month. You pull your coat a little tighter, but it does nothing for the strange warmth curling under your ribs.
“It makes perfect sense,” he counters. “You run yourself into the ground. You forget meals and you revise everyone’s work.”
“I—”
“Twice,” he says without hesitation. “You revise their work twice.” He continues, quieter now, “you need to take care of yourself.” You blink, stunned by the simplicity of it.
By sincerity.
By the fact that it sounds dangerously close to concern.
“And that concerns you?” you ask, trying to keep it light, teasing, anything but the vulnerable thing it threatens to be. His eyes flick to yours, a spark of truth breaking through his usual restraint.
“It should,” he murmurs. “Shouldn’t it?”
There’s a silence that feels unsteady, fragile in a way neither of you dare acknowledge. He watches the faint cloud of breath that escapes you in the cold Gotham air, the way your frown tries and fails to hide the shift in your expression.
His gaze flicks toward your apartment, then back to you.
“Go inside. Get some rest.”
And even though you want to argue… you don’t. You can’t with him. Not when he’s looking at you like that. Your fingers curl around your keys. “Seven thirty,” you echo, trying not to sound as flustered as you feel.
He gives the smallest nod, the kind that somehow manages to feel like both approval and silent victory.“Good,” he says, a smirk across his lips.
You hesitate for half a second, then turn toward the entrance. “Goodnight,” he adds, voice low, steady and almost gentle if you weren’t careful with how you interpreted it.
You start walking, each step slow enough that you hate yourself a little for it. The lobby lights spill warm against the pavement, and just before you reach the door, something makes you glance back.
He’s still there, watching you get in safely.
One hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely by the gearshift, posture composed— but his eyes remain fixed on you until the very moment you slip inside with a scan of your apartment’s key and disappear from his sight.
Only then does he finally look away.
“And then? Did he pick you up?”
Chelsea asks, her face squished between her palms, eyes wide and sparkling like she’s watching the season finale of her favorite drama.
You stare at her.
She stares back, vibrating.
As if she wasn’t hating your boss 30 minutes ago.“Chelsea,” you say slowly, “I don’t even know what that was.”
“Oh my god, stop—did he pick you up?” She demands again, shaking your arm like she’s trying to rattle the answer out of you.
You sigh, drop your forehead onto the table, and mumble into the wood, “Yes.”
Chelsea gasps so violently you’re pretty sure she inhaled half the air in the café.
“There’s no way—”
“Not only that!” you cut in, throwing your hands up. “He would do it multiple times! My poor car would be stuck here at my job forever!” Chelsea doesn’t even try to hide her disgusted wince.
“Honestly… that thing has seen better days.”
“It still works just fine!” you snap, offended on behalf of your dented, aging, slightly rattling Honda civic. She raises a brow. “It screams when you turn left.”
“It groans,” you correct. “And only in winter.” Chelsea leans in, looking way too delighted while you picked yourself up from the table to sit up straighter. “And winter is here, with that next paycheck you should really get a new car.” You sigh, shoulders sinking because— annoyingly— she’s right.
But you can’t help it.
You’re attached to that stupid car. It was your first big purchase after high school, the thing you saved for through every miserable minimum-wage shift, every extra hour you picked up, every time you resisted food to stash a few more dollars away.
“It’s sentimental,” you mutter, poking at your empty drink. “I practically raised that car.”
Chelsea stares at you.
“It’s dying, babe.”
“It has character.”
“It has medical issues.” You glare.
“You’re rude.”
“I picked it up from the best,” she says, giving you a slow, pointed once-over before winking. “Don’t act shocked, you taught me to be quick with it.” Okay, maybe it was about time to get a new car.
“So… what are you going to do about it?”
“I’ll buy a damn new car,” you grumble, dragging a hand down your face.
Chelsea snorts.
“No— I mean Damian.”
You freeze. Of course that’s what she meant. “What about him?” you ask, already regretting it. Chelsea lifts both brows like she’s about to deliver a divine revelation.
“Well, are you going to shoot your shot…?” You blink.
“What shot?” She just stares at you.
“Look, you’re not that dumb, but you can’t be THAT dumb.”
“There’s absolutely no way,” you insist, shaking your head.
Chelsea throws her hands up before pointing her pretty manicure finger at you. “Babes, you told me what he’s done. It sounded pretty obvious he didn’t like you at first— sure, but clearly there’s something now.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose.
“Chelsea—”
“No, don’t ‘Chelsea’ me. He’s clearly teasing you. He picks you up. He drops you off. He notices when you haven’t eaten. He scolds you for working late. That’s not normal boss behavior. That’s not even barely normal human behavior!”
You blink.
She leans closer, voice lowering conspiratorially.
“It’s playground logic,” she says. “Pulling pigtails to get the girl’s attention. That man is either in love with you… or putting a suspicious amount of effort into someone he claims is ‘just an employee.’”
You fold your arms, leaning toward her, unimpressed and curious all at once.
“Okay, if you’re right. What do you think I should do then?”
Chelsea’s grin spreads slow and wicked, like she’s been waiting for you to ask.
“Babe, I know I am right. What’s your dress-code policy lookin’ like?”
You narrow your eyes at her.
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Oh, I will say it like that,” she fires back immediately, kicking her heel against your chair. “Because if your boss is driving you home, picking you up, buying you coffee, acting all nonchalant like a storm cloud with feelings—”
“He doesn’t have feelings.”
“—then,” she continues loudly, ignoring you, “it is time to… gently nudge the situation.”
You stare. “Gently nudge?”
She lifts her brows.
“Keep up, dummy.” She rolls her eyes. “Wear something that’s not what you’re wearing now.” She gives a pointed look at your cute button-up blouse and slacks. “You need to remind him you’re not just his sleep-deprived assistant who alphabetizes spreadsheets for a living, ya’know.”
You narrow your eyes at her theatrics, but she just lifts her chin smugly.
“A theory?” you echo, suspicious.
She nods, all-knowing, all-smug, infuriatingly Chelsea.
“Mm-hmm. A very important, scientifically proven theory.”
“What theory?”
“That if you dress even slightly hotter than usual,” she says, leaning in like she’s sharing a state secret, “your boss will start to make advancements.”
Your face heats. “He is not—”
“He is,” she interrupts, unfazed. “And I want updates. Detailed ones. Because when I’m right—”
“When,” you repeat flatly.
“When,” she confirms with a decisive nod, “I expect a thank-you gift. Preferably edible. Or expensive.”
You groan into your hands.
She pats your shoulder.
“Don’t worry. It’s just step one.”
“Step one?” you muffle.
“Oh absolutely,” she says, already pulling out her phone. “I’m making a checklist.”
“Okay,” she announces, displaying the screen of a small list. “Step one: act normal, but slightly hotter and slightly busier. Men go insane if they don’t receive attention.”
“I’m literally his assistant. I can’t ‘act busy,’ I am busy.”
“Perfect,” she says brightly with a wide grin. “You’re already a natural!”
You drop your face back into your palms.
“Chelsea, this is a terrible idea.” She leans in until she’s a mere few inches away from your gaze, nose nearly touching your hands.
“But you’re going to do it anyway.”
Your silence betrays you.
Chelsea gasps scandalously.
Loudly. Dramatically. Offensively.
“Oh my god, you’re already thinking about what you’re going to wear!”
“I’m not—!”
“You are,” she sings, grabbing your wrist and shaking it like you’ve won a prize. “This is amazing. I love this for you. I love this for me!”
You yank your hand back, trying and failing to will down the heat in your cheeks.
“This is not a romance novel,” you mutter. “He’s my boss.”
“And he’s driving to your apartment at seven-thirty in the morning to pick you up from overworking,” Chelsea retorts. “Sweetheart, you already skipped half the tropes and went straight into the slow-burn danger zone.”
You stare at her, she’s grinning like she’s narrating your funeral. “Text me tomorrow,” she says, gathering her purse. “And remember: make his jaw drop!” She winks, watching your face twist into a frown.
“You’re welcome in advance.” And like the good friend you were… you listened to her.
The next morning, you woke earlier than usual, the soft glow of dawn just beginning to filter through your curtains. You began your daily routine that made you groan at the crack of dawn, except this time— you carefully sifted through your clothes, weighing options, second-guessing, and finally settling on the outfit that felt just right.
You stood in front of your mirror with your arms crossed, face scrunched up, judging your own reflection with the same intensity Damian reserved for quarterly reports.
After a full minute of squinting, stepping back, stepping forward again, and muttering to yourself like a deranged tailor, you finally picked an outfit that was technically within the dress code.
It wasn’t your usual safe, comfortable, neutral-choice outfit.
You wore an outfit with clean lines, sharp edges, the kind of put-together that didn’t just fit you, instead it looked like it had been waiting for you. The skirt hit exactly where it should, the stockings gave just enough edge to balance the professionalism, sexiness, and confidence without tipping into trying too hard.
Your skin had that annoying, unfair glow too— not the “I slept a full eight hours” kind, but the lived-in, effortless natural appearance. It kinda gave you that youthful look with a charming smile. It was professional but warm. It made you look like someone who knew exactly what they were doing with both their life and their wardrobe, even if you’d spent the last thirty minutes pacing and overthinking every choice.
You told yourself it had nothing to do with him.
You were lying to yourself and you knew it.
Especially this morning, when you found yourself running later than usual. You had spent too much time trying to look good, carefully applying a light layer of makeup and a nice lipstick color that felt almost weightless on your skin and blended perfectly. It wasn’t just about professionalism; it was about feeling confident in your own skin.
Then there was the traffic. Slow, frustrating, testing your patience at every turn. This was exactly why you usually came in early— to avoid moments like this.
Today is going to be different.
It already felt different.
You clutched your bag a little tighter as you walked through the halls, acutely aware of the way heads subtly turned your way. The usual hum of the office seemed to shift around you, as if your presence had suddenly carved out a new kind of attention— one you weren’t quite used to but didn’t entirely dislike.
A few compliments floated your way, especially from the friendly female coworkers you often chatted with, all emphasizing how great your outfit looked.
“You look amazing today! Who are you trying to impress?”You shook your head with a laugh that escaped.
“Date tonight? You’re glowing!”
“I’ve never seen you in a skirt before! You look good!” Clearly, you were doing something right.
Yet, beneath the surface, your mind was racing, waiting for Damian’s reaction. You told yourself to follow Chelsea’s advice— play it cool and don’t give him any obvious attention. That should be simple enough, right? But the anticipation buzzed quietly in your chest, making it hard to focus on anything else.
You made your way down the hallway toward your office, the soft morning light filtering through the windows and casting long shadows across the floor. Your heart fluttered just a bit faster with every step, the nerves mixing with the rush of the new day ahead. The usual hum of early activity filled the air. The quiet chatter, the clatter of keyboards waking up, and the faint hiss of the coffee machine from the break room.
“Alright, time to get to work,” you muttered under your breath, already mentally bracing yourself for the long day ahead.
Your fingers wrapped around the cool metal of the doorknob as you pushed the door open.
Only to freeze mid-motion when you spotted the figure inside.
Damian was there, leaning casually against the edge of the desk, a cup of coffee in one hand, his sharp eyes fixed on you with that familiar unreadable expression.
He didn’t bother to hide his surprise or disapproval as his gaze flicked to the clock on the wall behind him before snapping back to you.
“You’re late.”
The words hung in the air, low and deliberate, cutting through the quiet hum of the office as if he’d been waiting for this moment all along.
His gaze briefly flickers to your outfit before meeting your eyes again.
You frowned, glancing at the time on your phone.
“I’m not even late, I just came in a bit later than usual.”
He lets out a quiet, almost amused sigh, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smirk.
“Later than usual still counts as late,” he mumbled, but there was a subtle shift in his voice. Less of a reprimand, more of a teasing edge that made it clear he wasn’t really mad.
“Are you going to fire me over it?” You raised a brow.
“…No, but do you have the documents I asked you to review before my next meeting?” His tone was calm, laced with that usual professionalism.
You nodded slowly, pressing your lips together as a familiar ache settled in your chest. There was disappointment, and something deeper that’s unspoken.
That quiet hope you’d been nursing quietly unraveled, leaving behind a sting of frustration that simmered just beneath the surface.
You fought the urge to let it show, burying the mix of longing and irritation behind a controlled expression as the silence stretched between you.
“Uh, yeah, it’s in the drawers in my desk, let me hand it to you.” You replied, moving around your desk and quietly pulled out the documents that’s given to him immediately.
Damian took the stack without looking away, his grip firm but not unkind. The faint rustle of the papers felt loud in the stillness between you. For a moment, you both stood there. He focused on the documents while you watched the subtle lines around his mouth soften just a fraction. It was small, almost invisible, but it made your chest tighten in a way you could not quite explain.
“I’ll review these now,” he comments, voice low and steady. “Make sure nothing is overlooked.”
You nodded, suddenly feeling the weight of the morning settle on your shoulders, relief and that quiet, stubborn hope that maybe, just maybe, he noticed more than just the paperwork today.
Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked out of the office, the door closing softly behind him.
Well, okay… fuck you too, I guess.
You slump into your chair, crossing your arms tightly while you lean back against your chair.
Why does he act like he doesn’t notice, yet does all these little things that say otherwise?
Like the way he always somehow knows your coffee order, or the way he holds the door without a word, takes you home and picks you up from your apartment to arrive at work together before anyone else,
You bite your lip, frustrated and confused. You want to ignore him, to stop caring so much, but it’s like he’s woven into the edges of your day whether you like it or not.
Maybe that’s the worst part.
“Men go insane if they don’t receive attention.”
Chelsea’s voice rang out in your head.
Hmph. Okay.
If there’s one thing Damian knew, it was this.
You were filled with spite.
Spite that rivaled his own.
Damian walked into your office again, the quiet sound of his footsteps sharp enough that you knew it was him before you even looked.
Not that you did look.
He carried the documents he’d reviewed, the ones covered in his perfectly neat handwriting. Normally, you would have glanced up. Maybe rolled your eyes. Maybe muttered something under your breath. Anything.
But not today.
Today, your spite had a bit of purpose.
You kept your attention fixed on your monitor, staring at a screen full of the usual information. Your schedule. A few reports. His own schedule, and a spreadsheet you’d already finished hours ago. You weren’t even pretending to work well— just clicking occasionally, scrolling through nothing.
You didn’t look at him.
You didn’t greet him.
You didn’t acknowledge him.
“Just set them down,” you swat your hand in the air calmly, voice flat and professional. “I’ll look over them and send next week’s project to your email. And the financial reports.”
You didn’t turn.
You didn’t give him a single glance.
You just kept staring at the monitor like he was irrelevant.
You could feel him pause beside the desk, like he was expecting you to react.
You didn’t.
Good.
Let him feel it.
Let him choke on it.
You clicked your mouse once, the smallest little sound, but in the silence of your office it felt loud. Almost pointed.
He set the documents on your desk carefully, almost too carefully, as if waiting for you to turn your head.
You didn’t.
Your heart was pounding, but your face stayed neutral. Your posture stayed still. Your eyes stayed glued to the screen. The stubborn part of you reveled in the fact that Damian Wayne, of all people, was just… standing there, trying to figure you out.
“You will have them done by the end of the day?” he asked, his tone cool but edged with something else. Something you weren’t used to hearing from him.
Irritation?
Annoyance?
Confusion?
Good.
“Of course,” you said, still not looking at him. “That’s my job, isn’t it?”
You heard him inhale very quietly, the smallest break in his composure.
For the first time, you realized something.
He didn’t like being ignored.
Not by you.
You could feel him lingering in your peripheral vision, the way someone stands in a doorway when they aren’t done with a conversation. Except you weren’t giving him the satisfaction of acknowledging it. You clicked again, scrolling through a report you had already memorized.
You could almost picture his expression without looking.
Brows drawn just a touch.
Mouth pressed into a thin line.
That proud, composed, annoyingly perfect face trying to figure out what exactly you were doing.
Good.
Let him think.
You kept your posture straight and your breathing even, even though your heart thudded a little harder with every second he didn’t walk away. Normally, you would have caved by now— just a glance, just a look.
Something.
But Chelsea’s voice was louder.
Men go insane if they don’t receive attention.
He exhaled quietly. You could feel his patience wearing thin, like the air itself tightened.
“You usually provide updates when I walk in,” Damian said, tone smooth but laced with something sharper.
“Are you not doing that today?” You moved your mouse, opening another tab, to click into your email.
You did not even blink in his direction.
“My updates will be in your inbox once everything is finalized,” you said in the same neutral, pleasant tone used with distant coworkers. “You’ll have them before noon, Mr. Wayne.”
A beat of silence, he was absolutely staring at you.
You could feel it.
The weight of it warmed the side of your face, heavy and irritated and trying to cut through your indifference.
“You seem…” His voice paused for a split second, almost like he was choosing the word.
“Preoccupied.”
You nearly smirked.
Nearly.
Instead, you let out the smallest hum of acknowledgement and said, “Just focused on work.”Your silence after that was deliberate. It was something Damian had felt when you began working here, and now it was back.
It was clean and sharp enough to make something in him twitch. For a man who commanded rooms, who intimidated CEOs twice his age, who was used to precise attention at all times… Being dismissed by you hit differently.
You could practically feel it.
He shifted his weight.
You heard the faint rustle of his suit jacket as he straightened, something colder slipping into his composure.
“Fine,” he said quietly. “I will expect the email.” There it was— that clipped tone he only used when something actually annoyed him.
He walked toward the door.
The sound of his steps was sharper this time.
More pointed.
But right before he left, he hesitated.
Just for half a heartbeat.
As if waiting for you to turn.
You didn’t move.
The door opened.
Closed.
And you finally let yourself breathe, jaw tight with a mixture of triumph and nerves.
Okay.
So ignoring Damian Wayne actually worked.
And that little discovery warmed you with the most satisfying, petty spark of victory.
You really did have things to handle. Your inbox was already overflowing with messages from partner companies, potential investors, a few overeager rivals, and the usual crowd of people who suddenly decided they “urgently” needed a meeting with Damian Wayne. You sifted through each request, drafting replies, rerouting calls, flagging anything even remotely suspicious.
If nothing else, it kept your hands busy.
It kept your eyes on the monitor.
And most importantly, it kept your attention away from him.
Except.
You see Damian Wayne’s email sitting at the very top, stamped with a fresh timestamp that tells you he sent it less than a minute ago.
Of course he did.
The room feels a little too quiet all of a sudden. You hover your cursor over the subject line, debating with yourself like the fate of Gotham depends on whether or not you open a single email.
But your pulse betrays you anyway.
DAMIAN WAYNE
Subject: Regarding the Adjusted Projection Report
Your amended notes are missing from page 14. Correct this and send the updated file before noon. You also forgot to attach the preliminary figures for the Q4 meeting. Re-send.
YOU
Re: Regarding the Adjusted Projection Report
Mr. Wayne, I’ll have the updated file on your desk before noon. The missing attachment will be included.
DAMIAN WAYNE
Re: Regarding the Adjusted Projection Report
Have them by my office an hour from now.
Your stomach drops. Your irritation flares. And something traitorous inside you sparks to life. And being the petty person you are, you did exactly what you were supposed to do.
You compiled the missing files, fixed the notes on page 14, double-checked the preliminary figures, then triple-checked them, because if you were going to be petty, you were at least going to be professionally petty. You formatted everything in the crisp, immaculate style you knew Damian preferred: every header perfectly styled, every section labeled, every graph aligned down to the pixel because God forbid you accidentally offend his sense of order.
Fine. He wanted flawless? You’d give him flawless.
With nothing else left to tweak, you stacked the pages, tapped the spine against your desk to neaten the edges, and slid the packet into a folder. A neat folder. A purposely nicer folder than the one he usually gave you.
You grabbed your things and stepped out of your office, heels clicking down the hall in a steady, determined rhythm. The Wayne Enterprises floor was quiet at this hour— most people had gone for lunch, leaving only the echo of distant printers and the hum of central air vibrating through the walls.
You rounded the corner toward Damian’s office, folder in hand, ready to slam it onto his desk with the polite professionalism of someone who absolutely was being petty and absolutely refused to acknowledge it.
But something shifted in the corner of your vision.
A familiar figure stepped out of the stairwell, head bowed over a tablet, moving with the kind of restless focus that suggested he hadn’t slept in three days.
Tim- ‘F’ucking- Drake.
Sometimes you ran into him in the café on the first floor, where he’d already be two coffees deep and debating whether a third was “necessary or just responsible.” Other times, you’d cross paths when Damian sent you to drop something off for him, because— according to Damian, seeing Tim’s face could “derail the productivity of an entire day.”
Dramatic much? Yes.
Always. Every single time.
Tim, on the other hand, never seemed bothered. If anything, he’d take the file with a blink, a grateful nod, and then immediately forget to breathe while reading it. One time you were pretty sure he walked into an elevator door while scrolling through an email.
IT also adored him.
Half the departments relied on him. He had an office here but never seemed to actually use it. And today, based on the speed he was walking straight toward Damian’s area, he was clearly on some kind of mission.
You slowed just slightly.
His gaze flicked to you, then paused, brow lifting in mild surprise.
“Oh— hey,” he said, offering a small, apologetic smile. His eyes dipped once, taking in your outfit, and he actually registered it. “You look really nice today, the skirt looks good.” He chuckles, which you replied with a coy smile.
“Thank you, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you around, Tim!” You smiled brightly.
At least someone in this building had functioning eyeballs.
“Yeah, I’ve been busy lately.” He hums, “Damian around? I need to drop something off and—” he looks at the folder in your hands.
The universe practically handed you the moment on a silver platter. “Yeah, he’s in his office.” You replied, having a plan already forming within your head. “I’ve actually got some documents for him.”
Tim nodded, stepping closer. “Want me to take them? I’m going straight there and you’re his personal assistant, right? You probably have better things to do than babysitting that kid.”
You laughed, “you don’t say?”
He chuckled under his breath, the tired kind that said he understood exactly what you had to deal with. You didn’t hesitate to give him the folder.
Not even half a second.
You placed the folder into his hands with a soft, grateful smile, one that hid the mild, sparkling pettiness coiling in your chest.
“Thank you, Tim.” He accepted it with the solemn responsibility of someone who absolutely did not realize the chaos he was about to deliver.
“Of course, anytime!”
And somewhere, in his office, Damian Wayne was probably waiting, expecting your knock, anticipating your appearance, ready to critique your delivery or your timing or your skirt or your existence—
Only for his brother to walk in instead.
You remembered turning back to your office, going back to your daily tasks and answering a phone call.
“Wayne Enterprises, this is the office of Mr. Damian Wayne. How can I help you?” The caller launched into a pitch about a potential collaboration, some sleek new product they believed could be mutually beneficial. You took notes, asked the right questions, nodded along even though they couldn’t see you.
By the time you hung up, your head was already drifting back toward your inbox, another email from a vendor, a reminder for next week’s meeting, and three new calendar changes—
A soft knock hit your door.
It wasn’t Damian’s solid, impatient rhythm.
It wasn’t security.
You looked up just as Tim Drake slipped inside, easing the door shut behind him like he was afraid of startling you, or maybe afraid of being seen. He moved with that deliberate quietness he always had, but this time something in his posture was different. His shoulders were too tight.
His mouth twitched like he was holding back commentary.
His expression said he had something to say and definitely something you would want to hear. “Hey,” he greeted, stepping in a little further. His voice carried a strange mixture of sympathy and amusement, as if he had walked straight into a soap opera and was still processing the plot twist.
“So… I delivered your files.” You raised an eyebrow, leaning back ever so slightly in your chair.
“Yeah? And?” Tim inhaled sharply, the way someone does before delivering bad news wrapped in entertainment, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Then he started laughing.
Not loudly, it was just that soft, incredulous laugh of someone who’d just witnessed pure, distilled bullshit and needed a moment.
“He was not amused,” Tim said finally.
You blinked. “Define not amused.”
“Oh, you know.” He waved a hand in the air. “Classic Damian. He gave me the look.”
“The… look?”
“He was both offended and confused.” You felt heat prick the back of your neck.
“Well,” you said, turning back to your computer as if you were totally unfazed, “maybe he should’ve specified how he wanted the files delivered.”
Tim leaned against the wall, studying you with that annoying detective perceptiveness he was born with.“No wonder why you’ve given me your files, for someone trying very hard not to care,” he said, rocking back and forth at the heel of his dress shoes.
“You are enjoying this a little too much.” You scoffed at Tim. “I’m not enjoying anything. I’m working.” He snorted at your response. “Sure. And I didn’t watch Damian stare at that folder like it personally betrayed him.” Your heart thudded but you kept your expression flat.
Tim shook his head, still amused.
“Whatever’s going on between you two… I don’t want to know,” he said with a little grimace. “But I do feel obligated to tell you that he told me— very coldly, very dramatically— to ‘inform his assistant she is expected to deliver important documents directly.’”
“Oh, he said that?”
“Word for word.” You let out a slow breath, releasing a very slow, very smug breath.
“Huh,” you murmured, eyes returning to your screen.
“Sounds like a him problem.”
Tim chuckled under his breath as he pushed off the wall.“For a personal assistant I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long, you’re driving him insane,” he laughs, heading for the door while you didn’t bother to look up, but you smiled when the door shuts.
DAMIAN WAYNE
Subject: Incompetence
You forwarded the documents through Timothy. Why? If you are capable of delivering them yourself, then do so. If you are not, inform me so I can make the appropriate adjustments to your workflow.
Confirm you received this.
You stared at the screen for a moment, feeling your pulse flicker between irritation and… something far less dignified. The man had the emotional intelligence of a cinder block, yet here he was, typing sentences that made you feel like you were being called into the principal’s office and dragged behind the bleachers at the same time.
Chelsea would call it a toxic cocktail.
You called it Tuesday.
Your fingers hovered above the keyboard before you slowly began to type your response.
YOU
Re: Incompetence
Received. Sent the files through Timothy because he was already going to your office. It was efficient for the both of us. Let me know if you have any other concerns regarding the workflow.
DAMIAN WAYNE
Re: Incompetence
Your definition of efficiency is questionable. Next time, deliver the documents yourself. I expect accuracy and consistency, not shortcuts. Report to my office in ten minutes. We need to review the adjustments together.
YOU
Re: Incompetence
You have a meeting in ten minutes. I’m busy, my schedule is booked out the entire week.
DAMIAN WAYNE
Subject: That Was Not a Request
You will make time. You have 5 minutes to get here.
The cursor blinked at the bottom of the screen, taunting you. Five minutes. Not ten. Not politely asking. A downgrade. A summons. You could practically hear the clipped irritation in every word.“Unbelievable,” you muttered, grabbing your tablet. “Now he wants to act like I’m late twice in one morning.”
You stood, smoothing down your skirt, steadying your breath, choosing professionalism over the urge to slam your forehead into the desk repeatedly.“Fine,” you said to the empty room. “If he wants a meeting, he’s going to get the most unbothered, least impressed version of me alive.”
And with that, you stepped out of your office, spine straight, chin high, fully prepared to make Damian Wayne question every life choice that led him to ordering you around in five-minute intervals. You walked down the hall with purpose, your heels clicking firmly against the polished floor, each step echoing your determination. The usual flutter of nerves twisted in your chest, but you shoved it aside.
Damian wanted your attention? He was going to get it on your terms.
As you approached his office, the door stood slightly ajar, the faint aroma of leather and coffee drifting out. You paused for a brief second, smoothing your blouse, making sure you looked every bit the professional, confident, composed, and untouchable. You stepped inside without knocking. Damian looked up from the sleek glass desk, his sharp eyes briefly scanning you before narrowing ever so slightly, an unreadable expression on his face.
“Five minutes,” he said, voice low but steady. No anger, no impatience, just that razor-sharp control you both knew too well. You nodded once, crossing your arms. “I’m here. What’s the emergency?”
His gaze flickered to the screen, then back to you. “Your revisions on the Q4 projection report. There are discrepancies in the sales figures for three key markets.” You raised a brow, already prepared with a mental list of where things might have gone sideways. “I triple-checked those. Unless you want to explain what you found, I don’t see the problem.”
Damian smirked, the faintest lift of his lips betraying his amusement. “I’m not here to argue. I’m here to make sure you’re not missing something.”
Something about the way he said it. It was calm, controlled, but not dismissive. It softened the edge of your frustration. You almost wanted to remind yourself to stop overthinking it.
Almost.
Instead, you pulled up the file on your tablet, ready to dive back into the numbers, ignoring the quiet thrum of something unspoken hanging between you. You tapped through the pages, fingers steady despite the fluttering in your chest. Damian watched you closely, leaning back in his chair with that same unreadable expression, as if waiting to catch you slipping.
“Here,” you said, pointing to the figures that didn’t line up. “This market’s revenue was recorded late, which threw off the totals. I flagged it in the notes, but it looks like your version missed that.”
He leaned forward, scanning your screen carefully.
“I see. Good catch.” The brief praise caught you off guard. He can compliment your work but not your fucking outfit—
“Is that it?” You said in the most infuriating tone ever, a leak of poison lying underneath it.
Damian quirked a brow.
“Is there something else you want to say?”
Oh, this infuriating man.
“No, sir,” you say firmly, trying to keep your irritation in check. Without a word, Damian rises and crosses the room with purposeful strides. He stops just in front of you, leaning casually against his desk with his arms folded, his eyes locked on yours.
“No, really,” he insists, voice low but laced with that unmistakable challenge. “Say it. I’m waiting.” You glare up at him, the frustration bubbling just beneath your skin.
You think back to all the little things he’s done. All those moments you tried to dismiss as nothing more than duty or habit, yet they added up— small cracks in the fortress he built around himself.
Say it? Say what? How maddening he is? How crazy does he makes you feel?
How every little thing he’s done, every unexpected coffee, every silent check-in, every begrudging act of care has tangled up your thoughts and emotions into a frustrating knot you can’t quite unravel. You want to blow up at him for making you feel like you’re under a microscope one moment, and the next, like you’re the only person who matters in his whole damn world.
You want to shout at him for how his sharp gaze can cut through your defenses, leaving you exposed and scrambling to catch your breath, yet somehow, it also holds a softness that drives you crazy because it’s so rare, so fleeting. You want to scream at him for the way he invades your thoughts when you least expect it, like the memory of a red scarf he wrapped around your neck, so unexpectedly gentle it made your skin burn with warmth, or the mysterious lunches that somehow felt like silent apologies or unspoken promises.
You want to tell him how unfair it is that he can act so cold and detached while making your heart race like you’re the most important person in the room. How annoying it is that despite every sharp word, every sarcastic barb, you find yourself wanting him to notice, to care, to see beyond the suit and the stoic facade.
“It’s—”
But most of all, you want to tell him that he’s become this impossible puzzle you can’t stop trying to solve, even if it’s driving you mad.
“Say it.”
And you’re absolutely sick of it.
You are sick of the way he pushes, prodding at you like a stubborn wound that won’t heal. The tension is thick in the air, every word a battle you don’t want to fight but somehow can’t avoid.
“You are—” you start, voice tight with frustration. He cuts you off with a slow, deliberate sigh that feels like it’s dragging the weight of the entire world. “Say it, right now.” He demands, eyes sharp and unblinking, daring you to defy him.
Fine.
You grit your teeth, trying to keep your voice steady, though it trembles with the effort it takes to keep everything inside from spilling out.
“I am trying to best to say it! Mr. Wayne, please, you’re so—” He raises a hand, silencing you without a word.
“No, that’s wrong, I’m not going to listen if you don’t say it.”
Say what?!?!! You’re absolutely done with Damian Wayne, the way he gets under your skin.
“Mr. Wa—”
“Wrong.”
Done with his cold, infuriating way of twisting your feelings into knots, like some cruel game only he knew the rules to.
“Fucking— eat shit, Damian!”
The words ripped out of your mouth, raw and unapologetic, carrying every ounce of frustration and anger you had held inside for far too long. They lingered between you, heavy and electric, like a spark igniting a fire that had been smoldering beneath the surface. It was a release, a challenge, and maybe the first honest thing you had said aloud in weeks.
You whipped around, determined to leave before your emotions could spiral into something even more reckless. Your chest felt tight, burning with a mixture of disappointment and hurt that you hadn’t allowed yourself to fully acknowledge. But before you could put space between you, his hand shot out and closed firmly around your wrist.
He pulled you back with quiet, steady strength. It was enough to stop you but never enough to cause pain. Slowly, deliberately, he turned you to face him.
His grip was warm and unyielding, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your skin prickle. Usually, his gaze was sharp and distant, but now it was something different—focused, unreadable, and strangely alive. The cold, controlled expression you expected softened just enough to reveal a small, almost smug smirk. It was the kind of smirk that said he was both amused and pleased by your outburst.
“Took you long enough to say my name,” he murmured, his voice low and edged with something like satisfaction, as if your words were exactly what he’d been waiting for all along.
Your breath caught. Excuse me?
“You wanted me to say your name?” you snap, incredulous, heat rising under your skin. “That’s what this was about?” You try to yank your hand back, fueled by a spark of irritation beneath the haze of desire, but he doesn’t let go.
His grip tightens just enough to stop you, not enough to trap you, his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist in slow, steady circles that make your anger stutter. “Don’t twist my words,” he says, gaze steady, unflinching. “But yes.” His voice softens, becomes something quieter, more dangerous. “Hearing you say my name like that…” His eyes hold yours, burning.
“I’ve wanted that for a long time.” Your heart skips, the fight in you wavering. “You’re unbelievable,” you whisper, torn between shoving him away and pulling him back in.
“You unravel me,” he cuts the tension, his fingers ghosting over your clenched hand, gentle but insistent. His touch was slow, like he was afraid to break something fragile, yet impossible to pull away from. Carefully, he eased your fingers open, one by one, before weaving his own through yours. His grip was quiet but absolute, as if claiming you wordlessly, without need for permission.
“Every time I told you to drop the titles, to leave the distance between us, you never did.” His voice was softer now, threading through the space between you like a secret. “You didn’t even realize… how long I’ve been waiting for this. Want you.”
You tried to pull away, heart suddenly thundering in your chest, mind spinning too fast to catch a single thought. But his hand stayed firm around yours, steady and warm, holding you not to restrain you, but to keep you from slipping out of the moment.
“Wait,” he breathed, and the word washed over you like a shiver. His grip wasn’t demanding, just certain. Certain in a way that made your pulse jump.
“Do you know you make me insane?” The words left him low, almost ragged, like he’d been holding them back for far too long. His gaze pinned you in place, sharp enough to cut through every layer you tried to hide behind. And the way he stood so close, his cologne wrapping around you in a rich, intoxicating warmth, made it impossible to pretend you weren’t affected.
You glared at him, a rush of heat blooming in your chest, a mixture of anger and something more tangled.
“Well, good,” you snapped, voice trembling despite yourself. “Maybe now you understand how it feels.”He didn’t let go. “No,” he murmured, low and rough, “I know exactly how it feels.” His eyes darkened, shadowed with something deeper than frustration or desire— something raw and aching.
“You walk into a room, and everything shifts. The air tightens around me, like a storm rolling in, and I can’t catch my breath.” He exhaled softly, as if confessing a truth too dangerous to hold inside any longer. “You wear your confidence like a second skin, like it’s as natural as breathing.” His gaze dropped for a moment down to your lips, then snapped back, sharp and consuming.
“And you think… you think I don’t notice?”
You face in a different direction, overwhelmed by the intensity burning in his gaze. But he leaned closer— just enough so that his breath warmed your cheek, sending a shiver down your spine. “You think I don’t notice the way your skirts sway when you walk, just enough to unbalance me. The stockings that catch the light, like they were made to break me. The way you move, commanding every eye without even trying.” His thumb traced a slow, deliberate path along your knuckles— tender and sure.
“You undo me.” he whispered, voice thick with something almost vulnerable. You tried again to pull your hand free, desperation flickering in your movements, but his fingers tightened around yours, firm, steady, and grounding. “With every step you take, every glance you try to hide, and every breath you draw like it’s meant for someone else. You think you slip by unnoticed—” He swallowed hard, eyes locking with yours, raw and unguarded.
“But you don’t.” His voice was a breath, a confession hanging in the space between you.
“You make a liar of everything I thought I knew about myself.”
You stand there, heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it, breath catching and unsteady. The room feels impossibly small now, like the space between you has been carved down to this one fragile moment.
His eyes flicker down, tracing the curve of your lips, hesitant but drawn.
The air thickens between you.
“Would you allow me to kiss you?” he breathes, barely more than a question, but charged with everything he’s held back until now.
Your eyes flicker downward for a brief moment, then back up, meeting him again.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, you give the faintest nod, a silent surrender that speaks volumes.
His fingers tighten around yours with a gentle yet possessive grip, grounding you. With his other hand, he reaches up, fingers brushing along your cheek before cradling your jaw with careful reverence, thumb tracing small circles that send a shiver through you. The warmth of his touch contrasts with the cool air around you, anchoring you to the moment.
Then, with deliberate, breathtaking slowness, he leans in. His lips hover just over yours for a heartbeat longer. It was soft, tentative, and reverent— before they finally meet yours in a brush of warmth and promise. The kiss is gentle but shattering, breaking down every wall you built, every doubt you held, leaving only the raw, undeniable truth between you both.
Then, his hand tightens on your jaw, tilting your face just so, as if commanding you to surrender, to feel everything he’s held inside. The intensity builds gradually, like a rising tide, each breath mingling, each movement deliberate and fierce.
Your heart hammers, your breath hitches, and his touch sends a shiver that steals what little air you have left. It’s a kiss that is deep, urgent, impossible to ignore, like he’s pouring every ounce of longing, frustration, and desire into this one perfect moment.
“Damian—” you gasp, barely able to get the word out as your breath catches in your throat. You try to pull away, desperate for air, but he’s faster, more urgent.
His hand slips from your fingers and moves with a firm, confident grip to your waist. Before you can steady yourself, he shifts you effortlessly, pressing you back against the desk that a few pens slip from his desk, laying on important papers that Damian didn’t care about at this moment. The sudden motion makes your knees wobble, a rush of dizziness swirling through you, but there’s no room for doubt or hesitation in this moment— only the overwhelming euphoria of his lips claiming yours again.
Your back arches slightly against the cool surface of the desk, every nerve igniting with electricity. Each breath is stolen and returned, shared between you as his kiss deepens, becoming more urgent, more intense. The world tilts and spins around you, overwhelmed by the raw heat of his touch.
His hands move with purpose, sliding up from your waist to hold you closer, anchoring you as if you might float away. Your fingers tangle in the soft strands of his hair, pulling him nearer, matching the hunger in his kiss.
You don’t remember the exact moment the kiss ended, only that when it did, you were left utterly breathless.
Your chest heaved, every inhale shallow and desperate, and you were certain you looked wild, your lips flushed and trembling from the way he kept chasing for them.
But Damian— he looked even more undone.
Damian looked worse off than you. His usual composed mask was shattered, replaced by a raw, almost vulnerable expression. His dark eyes were half-lidded, glazed with an unspoken hunger and something softer, maybe wonder, and maybe relief. His breathing was heavy, each breath a sharp intake that seemed to shake his entire frame.
Your lipstick was smeared across his mouth, a vivid stain that made his usual cold demeanor melt away. A few strands of his hair hung over his forehead, disheveled and rebellious, like the moment had stolen every last piece of control from him.
His fingers traced a slow line down your arm, thumb brushing lightly.
“I was beginning to think your spite would never stop pretending you didn’t want this.”
You met his gaze, fierce and honest.
“Maybe I was just waiting for you to admit it first, Mr. Wayne.”
Your tone was teasing, light, deliberately provoking. And it worked. His brows pulled together immediately, a sharp, irritated frown that would’ve been funny if your heart wasn’t pounding.
“Do not say that.”
The words weren’t raised, but they carried heat.
They carried want.
“Then what do you prefer?”
You tilted your head, pretending innocence, even though you both knew exactly what you were doing.
His glare deepened, steady and pointed, the kind meant to pin you in place. Not angry— not even close. Just frustrated that you were still playing when he was already past pretending.
He held your gaze for a long, heavy moment, eyes dark with meaning.
And in that silence, it was so clear:
He wanted to hear his name from your mouth.
Not the title.
Not the formality.
Him.
Only him.
He leaned in again, voice just above a whisper.
“You know patience was never my strong suit.”
“I know,” you mumbled, your thumb smudging the lipstick smear a little further with a small smile.
“You look good in this color, Damian.”
His eyes flickered over your face, lingering on your mouth, then dropping briefly to your hand still resting against his jaw.
Your name left his lips like a warning and a plea all at once.
“Do not say things like that unless you intend to finish what you started.”
━━━━┅━━━┅━━━━━━━┅━━━┅━━━
a/n: how we feel about this banger, my phone could barely handle 18k words ngl 🥹 but this was so fun to make, it was genuinely 4-5 days straight writing this out because I had so much ideas ! And miniskirt was the inspiration to write it out! And the BANTER?? I just knew I wanted A LOT OF BANTER in this oneshot, you guys have to let me know your favorite part, because I LOVE LOVEEEE the part/line when they started going back and forth with lies about each other at the company party!!!
𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆! your car breaks down and you meet your best friend's brother, jason.
𝘁𝗮𝗴𝘀! afab!reader, tension, no warnings otherwise!
𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁! 4213
𝘀𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁! find it here <3
the sun beat beat down against the back of your neck. burning in a way that boiled you from the inside out. the way only the rays of the mid-day sun could flame.
your baby had smoke coming out of the hood, one more kilometre away from practically bursting into flames with you behind the wheel.
this wasn't the evening you had envisioned for yourself. after a hard morning of classes, and long hours spent at the library with your gaze focused on your laptop screen — all you wanted to do was lay down and do nothing.
it was a friday evening, the first friday evening without an obligation.
the past month had been a flurry of papers, readings, assignments, papers, presentations, more papers. for once, you had one evening to yourself.
all those plans went to waste as the taste of smoke that curled up from your car invaded your senses.
you had texted a please of rescue to your best friend twenty minutes ago.
you were no car expert, and you had no desire to begin poking around under the hood of your car.
through the sounds of the birds singing in the trees, you finally heard the familiar rumble of tim's own car. a loud engine that rattled the pavement under it's tires. the white car pulled to a stop just behind yours.
his boot stepped out first, crunching the gravel below.
"please, just do this for me," you heard tim's grumble of annoyance. he ducked his head out of the car, phone raised to his ear. his knuckles were wrapped tightly around the device, bordering white with exertion.
you turned your face back towards your car out of privacy. the conversation seemed to be bordering tense.
the only indication of him coming closer was the continued thumping of his boot against the pavement. out of the corner of your eye, you could see the tips of his shoes stop just beside you.
"yeah, yeah. yes, bro, oh my fucking god. i'll see you soon," he muttered, his clipped tone becoming increasingly more annoyed before sliding his phone into his back pocket.
he smiled at you in greeting before leaning his head to inspect the undercarriage. his eyes roved over your battery, your transmission, before analyzing another part that you couldn't name.
you were utterly lost.
"how is this thing still going," he grumbled softly.
you frowned at his words, hand coming up to slap his shoulder.
"don't talk about shark like that," you scolded. shark was special to you. she was reliable (for the most part). she was a constant. she had been with you since your first year of university, after you had saved up 3 summers worth of money to purchase her off your neighbour's hands.
"listen, shark is beautiful, but constantly fucking you over," tim pointed out, waving a trickle of smoke out of his face.
"she's getting old, is all. she's fine," you defended weakly, though your voice held a hint of defeat.
"jason's on his way, he said he'll take a look," tim responded, turning around to rest his backside against shark's side. his arms crossed over his chest as he craned his neck to the side to gaze at you.
"jason? like your brother jason?" you asked, planting yourself beside him.
tim hummed in confirmation.
"i've never met this brother," you added hesitantly.
"he likes to keep to himself. got a small shop. doesn't take too many clients, but sells a lot of parts to other people. i think. i don't know," tim shook his head, pinching his nose slightly. "he'll bring the tow to get shark to the shop."
just as tim finished explaining, the sight of the bumbling tow truck came into view.
"go wait in the car," tim said, nodding his head in the direction of his own car.
"oh, but don't you want me to—" you began, furrowing your brows towards the tow truck that was backing into the space in front of yours.
"no, i'll handle it," he stated, turning to face his brother as his brother stepped out of the car.
your world stopped as you saw jason over tim's shoulder.
god, he was beautiful.
your mouth dried up, the bustle of nature quieted down, and tim's presence ceased to exist. he was large. comically so, yet he moved like he didn't know how much space he took up.
his brows seemed permanently furrowed, shoulders tense like the weight of the world constantly rested on his shoulders. though it didn't take away from his beautiful features. jet black strands with streaks of white in the front that flopped over his forehead, a strong set jaw that framed a plump lower lip.
"let's make this quick, shithead," his voice rang out, deep and smooth. your knees almost buckled under you. it was then that jason had noticed you, half hidden behind tim's frame. he barely blinked in acknowledgment, eyes shifting back to tim within a second of landing on you.
why hadn't tim let you meet jason before this?
you had been introduced to his other siblings at some point or another, even had established your own friendship with some of them. but jason, jason was a different ballgame. the way your breath thinned when you saw him scared you.
tim glanced at you over his shoulder before returning his attention back to jason. his eyes narrowed slightly at his brother, "dude, you owe me for covering your ass last week, stop being an asshole,"
their conversation faded when you finally opened tim's passenger door, sliding your body into the seat. their sibling squabble wasn't of interest to you. curt bickering over small shoves; side eyed glares and quick quips over memories that didn't include you. normal brothers is what they were. you were tired and annoyed — and the sight of jason did something to you, something you weren't ready to admit — and tim's desire to push his brother's buttons did nothing to help. your skin felt tight over your bones, a flush settled under your skin and threatened to restrict your airways. your jeans were sticking to your thighs under the piercing rays of the sun. the warmth felt unforgiving in this moment, cooking you from the inside out.
the road in front of you stretched for kilometres, a long-winded gray road that led nowhere, that led to home.
a short time later, tim opened the driver's side and slid into the seat.
"gonna drive you to the shop, jason said it's an easy fix," he explained, turning the car on and pulling out of his spot. your car had been hooked up to jason's tow truck, your heart sank at the sight.
"did he say what happened?" your voice was hoarse from lack of use.
"nothing to worry about," he responded, a finality in his tone — one that you had decided wasn't worth the questioning. your car would get fixed, you were sure. then yourself and shark could be on your way.
﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒
jason's shop was small.
quaint.
it was messy, yet clean at the same time. it was a dizzying paradox. the shelves of his shop were meticulous, not a spec of dust could be seen on any surface. though, his belongings overtook the area. his toolbox lay discarded on the floor next to the post-lift, with an assortment of tools laying scattered across the area. they each seemed placed with purpose — like each was there for easy access.
the melodic beat of a rock song was playing in the back, some old one from the 80s that you recognized instantly. though, the familiar tune did nothing to drown out the silence that stretched between you.
jason was under the hood, back on a trolley that was rolled under shark. his shirt had ridden up, exposing a sliver of his muscles stomach. the smooth patch of skin. you were sat beside of work bench, a small metal chair that froze the back of your thighs — a stark contrast to the sweltering heat you were stuck in only an hour prior.
tim had left shortly after dropping you off — he, himself, had papers, assignments, exams to study for just as you did.
your voice rang out into the air, introducing your name to the man under your car. the clanging of metal paused for a singular second, and the only sound heard was a guitar solo playing quietly through the speaker.
…okayy…
his lack of response unnerved you. you weren't comfortable in this silence. your teeth gnawed into your lower lip, your eyes raking down his lower half. dark blue jeans, faded with use, paired with brown boots with scuffed toes.
"so, what exactly is wrong? tim didn't tell me," you attempted again, leaning forward in your seat. his legs shifted, knees falling apart, as he changed the angle in the undercarriage. your eyes raked up the inside of his muscled, jean-clad thigh and sand filled your throat.
"when was the last time you got an oil change?" his muffled voice rumbled back, ignoring your questions.
"uhhhh, the previous owner did one before i bought it?" you recalled, brows furrowing with retrieving the information from your memory.
"which was when," he continued. a particularly loud clang erupted from beneath the car and you heard jason swear under his breath.
"since tim and i's first year?"
"the fuck?" he pushed the trolley from under the car, head lifted to regard you in shock. his features were even more pronounced in the dim lighting. the blazing sun was setting, coating the shop in a twilight. the overlight light fought to burn bright enough to light up the room, but fell short. you almost struggled to form another thought as you watched the cut of his jaw clench.
"what…?" your voice came out smaller than you intended it to. you cleared your throat quickly, masking it with a soft cough. "my car runs fine." there it was. your voice was steady. clearer. how you usually sounded. irritation laced your mind, fogging up your senses. you could have been home right now.
"you haven't changed the oil since you got this car?" he repeated. his tone disbelieving. a small pit of dread formed in your chest. you hadn't changed the oil, no, you didn't know that you had to.
your head shook before you even knew you were committing the action.
jason's only response was a huff — a puff of breath and a shake of his head as he rolled himself back under your car. his arm reached out, fingers curling around a tool — you didn't know which — that lay off to the side. you were amazed at how seamlessly he moved underneath your car. how he was able to grab each tool without hesitation, how he knew where each tool lay placed on the floor. it was a harmonious dance between himself and his tools.
the silence ate at you again. it was loud.
eventually, he wheeled himself out from below your car again, abs flexing through the imprint of his shirt as he pushed himself up. a small streak of grease lined his cheek, cutting a contour down his cheekbone. his hair stuck to his forehead, the white streaks mostly hidden by the black on top of his head.
"my cigarettes are beside you, do you mind?" his head nodded towards the pack of marlboro reds and a lighter neatly placed on his work station beside you. you nodded, the items laying heavy in your palm before tossing them to him — one after the other.
he shoved one in his mouth before glancing up at you again. his brow raised. "need me to step out? or?"
"oh! no, no, you're good,"
"want one?" an extra cigarette was pinched between his fingers, extended out towards you.
"no, thank you. i don't smoke," you declined politely, your hands settling under your thighs. your mind wandered to the situation at hand. the state of your car was unknown. tim had said there was nothing to worry about, but jason wasn't giving you a reason to believe otherwise. his tools were clanging around down there, creating all sorts of noises that were unfamiliar to you.
jason's eyes wandered to the clock on the wall, lips forming an 'o' around an exhale of smoke. the grey cloud streamed out of his lips and curled into the air. your nose wrinkled slightly at the smell, though, you didn't comment.
"shop's closed now, darling, gotta come back tomorrow," he inhaled around the cigarette again, eyes flickering over to you. his arms were perched over his bent knees. a position of leisure.
"what? no? what about my car?" you protested, back straightening instantly.
"it'll get finished tomorrow," his smokey words floated towards you.
"you were down there for an hour and a half? what the fuck takes that long?" you stood up in frustration, your hands flailing before your chest.
"car shit takes that long. like i said, shop is closing. your car'll be done tomorrow," he pushed himself up, height towering. imposing. his shoulders practically blocked out the little yellowed lighting the room already had.
"how am i supposed to get home then?" you snapped, going over to your car to retrieve your wallet from the glove compartment. your car had been lifted onto the post-lift so that jason could work comfortably underneath. you stood on your tip toes, sprawling your body across the height to reach into the consol and grab your belongings.
jason couldn't help the way his gaze lingered on your back, over the brown tank top that you wore that accentuated every dip and curve that had his mind spiraling for the past two hours. down to the jeans that hugged your figure like it was made for you. he tried to ignore the way your backside pushed out against the protrusions of your car, unknowingly displaying yourself in for his eyes to see — and hopefully only his eyes.
when you finally turned back around, his eyes snapped back up to meet yours.
"call your boyfriend to come and pick you up," jason stated flatly, turning his back to you as he began to reorganize his tools. his ears were tuned to your movements, though, tracking every sway of your hips as you shuffled in spot.
a scoff left your mouth before you had the chance to catch it.
jason paused momentarily, reigning in his silent victory. you didn't have a boyfriend. but he knew you'd call tim, he would retrieve you and jason would finally be able to breath again.
you had to bite your tongue. the weight of the situation was pressing down on you, threatening to push you into the earth's crater with every passing moment. it wasn't just your car — no, your car was minuscule in the grand scheme of things. it was life. it was school. it was your job. you didn't have time to deal with a broken down car, you didn't have the funds to repair it either.
suddenly, you felt slightly shameful at the sudden burst of attitude you had just given jason. this was his job, not his life. the inconveniences of your life had nothing to do with him. his shop hours were his shop hours, and you would just have to come back to deal with your car in the morning.
"well?" he turned to regard you with a raised brow, his eyes shifting up to the clock again. he couldn't be in your presence for another second. his senses were invaded by you. the sweet scent of your perfume that wafted through the air had been torturing him the second you had sat down in his shop. the sight of tim giving you a hug before he left had his nostrils flaring — something he wasn't particularly proud of.
but he couldn't stay away from you either. and he knew it too.
"yeah, no, that's fine. what time should i be here tomorrow," you blew a soft breath out of your mouth, smoothing a hand over the top of your head.
"anytime after nine is good," jason's muscles bulged from where they lay across his chest. the tight black t-shirt he wore scrunched against his biceps. you tried to hide your eyes wandering down his arms, down the sleeve of tattoos littering his arms. a few small birds in flight stood out from the rest.
cute.
you nodded in agreement, pulling out your phone. "okay. and the address of this place?"
he told you, his leg crossing over the other. he remained leaned against his work table, head cocked to the side. his bottom lip was pulled between his teeth. he told you slowly, words enunciating around each number and letter.
you nodded, giving a small polite smile as you moved to leave. "see you tomorrow then, jason, thank you for your help."
he dipped his head slowly, eyes never yours as he watched you leave.
by the time you had made it outside, your phone call to tim had already been declined. his contact picture — a picture of him asleep in his bed with a facemask on — stared back at you, the brightness blinding you in the setting sun.
you let out a sigh and looked around. jason's shop was in the middle of fucking nowhere. with navigation pulled up on your phone, you began to slowly walk in the direction of your home.
﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒
the road felt endless. not a person around for kilometres. you were unsure if that was a good thing, or a bad thing. the rumble of a car in the distance unnerved you. you wrapped your arms around yourself tighter, pushing yourself further away from the road while remaining on the walking path. your head remained high, giving the illusion of confidence.
a car slowed to a roll beside you, old and black, dark on the inside. you kept walking, your eyes shifting to the vehicle out of caution.
"get in," a gruff voice called out. a familiar voice. your brows ticked downwards before your head snapped towards the vehicle.
jason.
he was the last person you had expected to see. his car followed your pace, tires crunching over the cracked road. it was eerily quiet out, dark in a way that left you unsettled. once the sun had dipped below the horizon, a chill blanketed the city, extinguishing all traces of sweltering warmth that the daytime had brought.
"i'm almost home, i'm good," you called back, continuing to walk, flashing him a smile that he knew was made of plastic.
"i didn't know i had asked you a question," he quipped back. his car remained in a slow roll beside you. "i'm telling you to get in."
"and i'm telling you that i'm fine," you attempted again, shaking your head.
your name on his tongue stopped you in your tracks. he hadn't referred to you by your name yet, only nicknames that felt like a punch to the chest everytime he said them. but the syllables — your name — in his voice affected you more than any "darling" or "sweetheart" that had left his lips so far.
he didn't say anything further. letting your name linger in the air between you. you knew what words were meant to follow. and you knew he wasn't going to say them again.
"fine," you breathed out and stepped towards his car. jason leaned over the consol, shoulder muscles shifted under the strain. he opened the door for you from the inside, his gaze remained fixated on you until you settled with the seatbelt securely before he drove off again.
the only way to describe the atmosphere in jason's car was… awkward.
"you didn't have to do this, i was fine to walk," your voice was more clipped than you had intended, your shoulders shifted behind the seatbelt digging into your neck.
"don't think timbo would like it very much if i let the pretty lady walk home while it's dark out," he gave you a sidelong glance. "especially since her car is still in my shop."
"i can handle getting home just fine," you huffed, your arms crossing over your chest.
"never said you couldn't," his chin tilted slightly. his gaze remained fixed on the road ahead, eyes scanning the street.
you didn't know what else to say. your heart was beating so hard, you were sure jason could see it thumping out of your chest.
jason's appearance seemed calm — burdened, even. because he had refused to admit that he had secretly hoped tim declined your call so he could drive you home. rescue you, he had rationalized. he hadn't let you get far before he began following you. no, he was making sure you were safe.
you had the survival skills of a leaf, he had learned. you hadn't noticed him once. your eyes shifted between your phone and the road ahead, never once at the car that had been trailing you for the past 15 minutes.
and now that you were in his car, he was losing his mind. his grip was steadily tightening on the wheel with the force of his restraint. his back molars were threatening to crack with each clench of his jaw. you were killing him and you had no fucking idea.
you were infuriating. and you were kind. it pissed him off. the sight of your face, beautiful and angelic. he could see the fire that sparked in your eyes, and the glow that radiated under your skin. he was sure there was a fucking halo hovering over your head as well.
and you were sitting there. in his car. shoulders visible from your tank top. your skin on display. goosebumps raised your flesh, allowing him to see the visible sign of chill and the way you were fighting to hide the shivers that wracked your body. why the fuck weren't you wearing a jacket?
he couldn't stop the puff of annoyance that left his mouth. his arm reached into the backseat, fingers curling around a sweater he had left discarded in the backseat.
your brows furrowed when he dumped the sweater in your lap.
"what—"
"wear it. you're cold," he cut you off, his eyes flickering between you and the sweater.
you didn't fight this time, letting yourself be enveloped in the warmth of jason's sweater. the sweater was 3 sizes too big. but so warm. you continued to murmur directions to your home to him, letting the silence overcome you again.
the ride was coming to an end, and you were unable to tell if you wanted to stay in his presence or be as far away from him as possible. the conflict was eating at you. his car slowed in front of the building, the streetlights illuminating only a small patch of the otherwise dark street.
"well, thank you for the ride," your lips pressed together as you shot him a shy glance.
he nodded slowly, his fingers pressing the button of your seatbelt. the click echoed through the car. he placed the seatbelt back in it's rightful place near the door, his steady arm brushing against the front of your shoulder.
you tried not to let your breath stutter, but the pitiful sound escaped you regardless. if he had noticed, he didn't let on.
you were sure you were going to have a heart attack. his proximity was dizzying. you didn't even know him, yet his presence affected you to an embarrassing degree.
god, you were pathetic.
his arm shifted to the door handle, body leaning over the consol once again — across the front of your chest — to push it open. his fingers moved with precision. with a level of care that contradicted how much strength he visibly had. up close, you could see each freckle that dusted his cheeks and his nose; the slope of his nose that had a bump right at the bridge; and the dip in his cupid's bow that twitched with every word he spoke.
you were mesmerized.
jason's eyes met yours, face inches from yours. nose inches from yours. he gave you a languid blink before his gaze flickered down to your lips. his tongue darted out to wet his own before they snapped back up to meet yours.
his irises had dilated in size, sucking you into the black void.
"don't worry about it," jason murmured back. he was so close that you could feel his breath dust your cheek.
his gaze flickered down again, calculating. it would be so easy to kiss you, to taste you like he had been wanting to all evening. but he wouldn't.
he pushed the door open slightly before sitting back in his seat. another shudder crawled up your spin from his lack of warmth, despite his sweater covering your body. you pulled it off slowly, setting it in it's place in the backseat again.
see you tomorrow, pretty girl," he murmured as you climbed out. you froze momentarily before stepping out and turning to face him. your upper body ducked so you would be eye level with him.
summary : Hot summer night with your clingy boyfriend
tags : Fluff, just pure fluff
words : 590
a/n : A little something I wrote while unable to sleep in this scorching heat (attic bedrooms are not for the weak)
Summer in Blüdhaven this year around was absolutely agonising. The sun outside heating up the pavement and concrete walls to the point that you felt like a beef roast inside an oven.
The nights weren’t any better. The warmed up interior showing no mercy as you laid in front of your fan in hopes of some type of relief.
You felt like you were in a never ending fever dream. The air is incredibly stuffy and the sheets kept on sticking to your skin. It didn’t help either with an all grown up velcro baby sleeping beside you.
You feel Dick shift beside you for the 3rd time in the last ten minutes, flipping his pillow and kicking the blanket off the end of the Queen sized bed while huffing and puffing like a dog.
“Richard stop moving…”, you murmur against your pillow, eyebrow furrowed, earning you a small scoff from him.
“I can’t sleep when you’re so far away.”, he mumbles, turning around to face your back. You roll your eyes, hearing the inevitable pout in his voice as his hand inches closer to tug at your tank top.
As much as you love him, he’s a human furnace that you would rather stay far away from right now.
You glance over your shoulder sluggishly, eyes crusted up from the little sleep you managed to get before the heat woke you up.
The moonlight illuminates his features, catching a glimpse of his dark, curly hair sticking to his sweaty forehead as he shuffles closer, closing the small gap that has formed between you two - or rather the one you’ve created when trying to get away from him.
You groan the moment his beefy and very warm arm drapes over your waist and his nose meets the crook of the sweet spot where your shoulder and neck meet, kissing his way up to your jugular vein.
“Stop, Dick. I’m going to overheat.”, you murmur, trying to get him off you with a lazy push of your elbow but to no avail, his much bigger and heavier body draping itself over you like a blanket.
“You’ll be fine.”, he snorts into your hair, his leg slipping inbetween yours and arm wrapping around your neck, keeping you in gentle headlock.
“I’m serious. I’m moving to the couch if you don’t stop.”, you push his arm away and sit up, shooting a glare his way.
That made him back off momentarily. You sigh, wiping away his sweat from your skin and relaxing onto your sheets again, Dick sprawled out like a starfish with his eyes focused on the ceiling beside you.
“…Are you sure you don’t want to cuddle?”
You groan, eyebrows furrowing the moment his stupid voice hits your ears, “Richard, go to sleep.”
He huffs and sits up, “But I can’t sleep when I’m not touching you!”
“Hug your pillow and imagine it’s me..”, you sigh and rub your eyes.
“You know that’s not the same..”, Dick mumbles, leaning in once again to pepper your face with kisses with his arm propped up beside your head.
As much as you try, you can’t bite back the smile threatening to appear on your face as he chases after you when you gently push his face away, grinning like an idiot as he steals another kiss.
He pulls away enough to catch a glimpse of your eyes, his hand moving to brush through your thick hair.
✮ 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁. Bruce Wayne x Fem!Mother!Reader, slight Bat!Mom
✮ 𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆. Not wanting your kid to grow up with the dangers of Batman and all the enemies his had, you leave, only years later your kid starts asking about his dad
⭑ ᶜʷ. Divorce
You always knew this day would come. Being married to Bruce Wayne—and therefore to Batman—meant you had seen more than most could endure.
You watched Dick Grayson, the first Robin, return home night after night with new cuts, bruises, or broken bones. Then came Jason Todd, an angry boy at war with the world until Bruce gave him an outlet. But then it happened, Jason’s death. Your boy was torn from this world before he ever had the chance to truly live.
When Bruce brought home Tim Drake, another eager young boy ready to don the mask, you broke. You confronted him with the test in your hand, two pink lines clear as day. You couldn’t risk your baby falling into that same rhythm; not after Jason.
The divorce was quick—painful, yes, but quick. You needed that. Needed to escape the claws of Gotham. So you did, moving to Coast City into a small apartment, a newly single mother. It was rough at first: long, sleepless nights where you caught yourself almost asking Bruce for help before remembering he wasn’t there anymore.
But then your boy grew up. He became a spitting image of Bruce, so much so that whispers followed you through town. One night, he came home with questions.
“Can you… tell me about Dad?” he asked at dinner.
The question froze you, chills racing through your body.
“Why did he leave us? Why didn’t he… why didn’t he want me?” His sniffles started small, his cheeks flushed red as he gripped the chair. You rushed to him, wrapping him tightly in your arms.
“It was my fault, baby, not his,” you whispered, pulling back enough to meet his tearful eyes.
“Your dad- he always wanted to be there for you. He’s always wanted to be your father.” You brushed his hair from his face and wiped his cheeks. “But his job… it was dangerous. Too dangerous. I didn’t want you pulled into that. I’ve seen what it does to kids, sweetheart. I left to keep you safe.”
You swallowed hard, shame heavy but regret absent. “I take ownership of that choice. And I’d do it all again to protect you.”
He hugged you tighter, and you didn’t even realize tears were sliding down your cheeks.
“Is he… a bad guy?” he asked quietly, afraid of the answer.
“Oh no, baby. He’s the best man I know. Please don’t hold this against him. This was my decision, not his. And I hope someday you’ll forgive me.”
He looked at you, searching. “Do I look like him?”
A smile broke through your tears. “Oh, baby- you look just like him. You have his shoulders, his eyes, even his expressions. I see him in you every single day.”
You hesitated before adding, “Your father had other kids; adopted sons. Dick, Jason, Tim… But after Jason…” Your voice trailed, the old grief bubbling up again.
“Can…” he started, trembling in your arms. “Can I meet him?”
Your chest tightened. The thought of opening that door terrified you. But you couldn’t deny him his father, not anymore.
“On one condition,” you said firmly. “You must promise me you won’t put yourself in danger. If I even feel like something’s wrong, I’m pulling the plug. Do you understand?”
He nodded, and so you told him everything. The full truth; about Batman, the Robins, and the life you had once lived.
Two weeks later, after a long drive, you pulled up to the iron gates of Wayne Manor. You pressed the voice box, and Alfred’s warm voice crackled through.
“Who is this?”
“It’s me, Alfred,” you said softly. That was all it took—the gates opened, welcoming you home.
“Woahhh… Dad lives here?” your son whispered, leaning out the window. You laughed, nerves easing for a moment as the car crunched up the driveway.
Before you could open the door, the manor’s entrance swung wide. Alfred stood waiting, his smile as kind as ever.
“Hi, Alfred,” you greeted, hugging him before motioning to your son. Alfred welcomed him warmly, ushering you both inside.
“It’s been some time,” Alfred said gently as you walked through the halls. “Things have changed. Master Bruce… well, he never stopped adopting.” He motioned to portraits of children lining the walls.
“How much does he know?” Alfred asked quietly. You told him: everything. Bruce, Batman, the Robins, Jason.
“Master Jason…” Alfred hesitated. “That’s right—you don’t know. He’s alive. He’s well now. It’s a long story, but for now—you’ll want to see them. All of them. And him.”
Tears pricked your eyes, but you nodded.
“Dinner’s waiting. Come along.”
The closer you got, the louder the voices grew. Your stomach knotted until your son’s small hand found yours. You squeezed it tight.
“Alfred, who was at the gate?” That voice. Still the same as when you left.
“We have a guest,” Alfred said, holding the door open for you.
The room stilled the moment you stepped inside. Confusion, shock, joy; all written across some familiar faces.
“Hi, Bruce,” you whispered.
Your gaze swept the table; Dick, older but still Dick. Tim, grown. New faces you didn’t know. And then...
“Jace,” you breathed.
He pushed his chair back, his heavy steps quickening until he pulled you into his arms.
“Ma, I’m here,” he muttered, and the dam broke. You clung to him as tears streamed down your face. Dick joined, then Tim, and suddenly you had all three boys in your arms again.
“Who’s this?” Dick asked, glancing at your son who lingered nervously.
“This is my- our son,” you said, letting him speak for himself.
Your eyes locked on Bruce as he slowly stood. He crossed the room, kneeling before your boy. After a long pause, he pulled him into a tight embrace.
“Dad,” your son whispered, burying his face against Bruce’s neck.
Bruce lifted him into his arms, holding him close. Then he reached out, opening one arm to you.
You rushed forward, unable to resist. His warmth, his scent, the way he felt like home, everything you missed.
Your son looked just like him.
ɴᴏᴛᴇꜱ. I got this idea after listening to Like Him by Tyler The Creator so, I know the meaning of the song doesn't exactly match the story but I still liked this idea
or, you've had a bad day, and your boyfriend ends up taking the brunt of it.
pairings: dick grayson x reader, jason todd x reader
warnings: none, fluff
dick grayson
"Oh my god, Dick, can you shut up for five minutes?"
While your boyfriend's chatter usually can't be deterred, the genuine frustration lacing your tone makes him pause. Dick's mouth snaps shut, and he looks over at you with that wounded baby bird look that he wears so well.
"Did I upset you?"
No, he didn't. Not really. A million small frustrations accumulated under your skin today—from dropping your coffee on your walk to work to your pocket getting caught on the same doorknob twice—taking you to the edge that your boyfriend's incessant talking had shoved you right over.
"It's not like that," you mumble.
"Then what's it like?" Dick nudges closer and twines his fingers with yours. It's just like him to poke and prod in gentle ways. It was stupid to think he wouldn't notice you're feeling off and even stupider to expect him to let it go once he did. "You okay?"
Your head lolls against the back of the couch cushion, and tears finally start leaking from your eyes. You try to hide the dampness in the crook of your elbow, but Dick catches your wrist and redirects you so he's now holding both hands.
"So…that's a no."
"Shut up," you sniffle.
"Yes, ma'am." He shifts closer, drops your hands, and tugs you into his chest. "Y'know, I'm kinda glad you feel comfortable snapping at me like that."
The words are ridiculous, but they manage to break you out of your rumination. You finally lift your head and stare at him with a scrunched nose. "What?"
"I dunno. I like it. I mean, you're hot when you get mean, but…" Dick trails off for a moment to think, "it's just nice to know that you trust me."
"Me bitching at you means I trust you now?" Your question is posed with a skeptical brow raise and a dubious look.
"Mhm. You know I won't think less of you for expressing how you feel." Dick's fingers are carding through your hair now, rubbing soothing circles into your scalp that have you melting into his warmth. "And I don't, by the way. I love that you care enough to get angry."
"Mph." You let out a muffled noise against his neck and curl closer to him. "You mean that?"
"Of course I do. I love seeing you passionate about things. Even if those things include yelling at me about talking too much."
"I love when you talk to me, by the way," you mumble into his shoulder. Now that Dick's helped calm your frayed nerves, a bit of guilt has set in. "Just had a bad day."
"Soooo did you want to hear about Wally and his girlfriend, or…?"
"Yes, please."
Dick smiles a warm, dimpled smile, and snuggles you closer. "Okay, so…"
jason todd
Your work day has been incredibly stressful. From your boss dumping more responsibilities on you than you're technically paid to deal with to having to solve your coworker's problems for them all day, you're a little frazzled.
Typically, nothing soothes you more than going home to see your boyfriend, Jason. He moved in with you a few months into your relationship after telling you about the whole Red Hood thing. See, Jason doesn't really have a day job, but he spends his nights fighting and doing god knows what else. You're happy to accommodate and provide a safe space to come home to in the morning, but you do ask that he helps with simple upkeep.
Hence why you asked him to do the dishes and take out the trash this morning. Now, Jason doesn't typically slack when it comes to cleaning. He may be messy, but he's not a slob, and he knows how to clean up after himself. So imagine your surprise when you walk through your front door to see Jason sprawled out on your couch with a sink full of dishes and a trash can nearly overflowing.
You can feel the violent twitching of your eye.
"Hey, baby." Jason's quick to greet you at the door, taking your bag from you and placing it on the table. His touch lingers on your waist when he takes your coat from you, but it doesn't have you melting like usual.
Jason notices.
"Is something wrong?"
"The sink, Jason," you say curtly.
"What about…" Jason looks at the sink and grimaces, "About that…"
"I don't think asking you to clean a little bit is too much, do you?"
Something in your tone makes Jason tense. Whether it's the clipped restraint of your voice or the subtle bite behind your words doesn't matter. What matters is that Jason's guard is up now.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I'm tired, Jason. I asked you to do two things. You don't work. What do you even do all day—"
"Y'know I work on investigations, that's not fair—"
"—and everything's been shit, and I come home and see the mess that I asked you to clean up—"
"—I'm out all night trying to protect people, you think I'm not tired all the time either? I mean, seriously—"
"—we live together, Jason, I expect you to contribute somehow."
That makes Jason go still. "And what's that supposed to mean?"
You scrub a hand down your face with a sigh. "Nothing, I just…I'm tired, and I didn't mean—"
"You think I'm a bum or something?"
"That's not what I said."
Jason takes a step closer and ever so delicately grabs your wrist. Despite all his roughness, all his frustration, he'd never dream of hurting you out of anger. "It's what it sounded like."
"I just need some help, Jay. That's all." You curse everything in you for the way those words dredge up every feeling you've been trying to bury recently. Because everything is hard, and it's messy and exhausting, and somehow those dishes in the sink feel like the most important thing ever and—
"Shit, babe." You're tugged against a hard chest while two strong arms cradle you close. "Didn't mean to make you cry."
"'M not crying," you murmur. However, one swipe of your thumb over your cheek proves you wrong. When did you start crying?
"Yes, you are. I'm-I'm sorry." Jason pulls away from you after a few minutes, but he keeps his hands on your shoulders. "You go shower, and I'll take care of the dishes, okay?"
"We'll talk more after," you whisper, your thumb tracing his scarred knuckles.
"Anything you want. I'm here."
all written work and dividers belong to @ackpplepie!! do not plagiarize, feed my work into ai, or translate it. i do not own the characters or images used above.
summary: shy reader tries to figure out how to let jason know they want another night together
mentions of alcohol & ONS
It had been a week since you slept with Jason. Neither of you expected to sleep with a member of your friend group, but after a drunk night out, one thing led to another.
You didn't really know what to expect after Jason said the two of you "needed to talk," but after you apologized profusely and dismissed every statement he brought up, he figured it was a one time drunken mistake.
It wasn't until the next week that he learned what you really wanted.
/////
Jason opened the door to his apartment and used one hand to grab the case of beers you were holding in both of yours. "Hey." He greeted you nonchalantly. His eyes scanned you from top to bottom with no indication of him noticing the outfit you so meticulously chose for the night.
"Hey." You replied, stepping inside and taking your shoes off.
This wasn't your first time at his place. He'd hosted a few game nights, movie nights, and sleepovers for your shared friend group. But besides the rare occasions that you were the first one there, and last week of course, you two had never been there alone.
"So what's up?" He asked, putting the beers in the fridge. "Your text seemed pretty cryptic."
"Oh, uh nothing, I just thought we could hang out."
Confusion filled his face despite his obvious attempt to hide it. "Okay."
As if it was your first time there, you stood beside the table and fumbled with your own hands awkwardly. You were beginning to regret this decision. For hours beforehand, you danced around the idea of texting him. When you finally wrote and deleted your message at least six times, you held your breath and hit send. The only thing more surprising than your momentary spike of courage was Jason's instant response.
"You wanna sit?" Jason called out, making his way over to the couch.
A slight nod led you to walk over to his couch. Rather than assuming your usual position criss-crossed on the floor in front of the couch, you sat on the cushions, stiff as a board.
"We can watch something if you want." He spoke, leaned against the arm rest of his couch, his legs sprawled down the rug beneath the both of you. He held the remote with one hand that was lazily rested on his lap.
"Sure." You couldn't help but admire his form. It was this couch that got the two of you into trouble last time. When you announced you'd forgotten your make-up bag at his place after the usual pre-game, the two of you walked back to this very apartment together. Jason had left you to gather your belongings as he changed into sweatpants and plopped on his couch. With five shots of liquid courage coursing through you, you took it upon yourself to find your own seat right there on his lap.
"Let me know if you see something you like." He turned to look at you, breaking you out of your flashback. You turned your gaze back to the television quickly.
This must have caught his attention because he turned the TV off and sat the remote down beside him. "Seriously, what's up?" His voice was more concerned than it was anything else.
"Nothing, I told you." You doubled down, looking at the rug since the TV was no longer an option for avoiding eye contact.
Jason didn't buy it for a single moment. He went back to scanning you from top to bottom and stopped right at your eyes. There was a hint of worry in his face, and the silence was killing you. Even though it was only a few seconds, the lack of distraction from the fact that you were indeed at Jason's alone was too much to handle.
"I'm gonna get a beer-" You announced, standing awkwardly.
He grabbed hold of your wrist. "Sit."
You looked to him, debating on what you should do. A beer sounded really nice right about now, since your brief moments of confidence from earlier were fading all too quickly. But there was something about the tenderness in his tone that compelled you to listen. So, you sat back down slowly, nervously wiping your hands along your lap.
"Is this about last week?" Jason cut straight to the point, his green eyes piercing into yours.
Your face betrayed you as your head shifted down to your hands.
He pursed his lips together in a tentative manner. "Listen, I'm really sorry if I made things weird, or if I made you uncomfortable."
"You didn't." You replied, a little too quickly. After all, you were the one who initiated it that night, not him.
Jason's eyebrows furrowed. He took a moment to process your words before finally speaking up. "Then-" Before he could finish, you lunged towards him and kissed him, smashing your face into his.
"Woah," He leaned backwards, grabbing your shoulders.
"Sorry, I-" You felt your face heat in embarrassment. You couldn't find the words to say.
With his hands still on your shoulders, his eyes were slightly widened in curiosity. "You what?" He asked, calmly.
"I, um-" You moved back to your original spot on the couch, fumbling with your fingers. You didn't actually have any words prepared after the initial apology.
Jason remained silent, looking to you with raised eyebrows. His expectant demeanor made you want to crawl into a hole. But you couldn't give up yet. Not without at least being honest about why you were really there. Not after you failed to tell him how you really felt when the two of you first talked about your shared night together.
"I have condoms." You suddenly blurted out, surprising even yourself.
His face fell, and then a look of amusement took over. A single, uncertain laugh escaped his lips. "Okay?"
You took a deep breath. He really wasn't making this easy for you. Why wasn't he making this easy for you? Normally he practically reads your mind; speaking up for you, finishing your sentences, putting your thoughts into words. But tonight it seemed like he was determined to do anything but understand you.
After you finally had enough of completely humiliating yourself, you stood up, too flustered to continue the conversation. "Never mind, I um- I think I'm gonna go."
"Hey," Jason grabbed your arm once more, this time, standing up with you. "Talk to me, sweetheart. Just tell me what you want."
It wasn't uncommon for him to call you sweetheart. In fact, he called most of his friends some sort of pet name. But hearing it in this way did something to you that it had never done before.
He stood incredibly close to you. Since he towered over you by a pretty good amount, the only thing at your eye level was his chest. You kept your gaze there until you finally found the courage to meet his face.
"Do you wanna... Have sex?" You couldn't stand the eye contact any longer. "Again?" Each one of your words came out more timidly than the last. When you finished your sentence, you turned back to Jason to catch a glimpse of his reaction.
He was smirking, which didn't help your nerves. Jason placed a finger under your chin and guiding your gaze back to him. "I said tell me what you want."
There he goes again, making it as difficult as possible for you.
You moved his hand from under your head and took a frustrated sigh. "I want to have sex." You finally declared, swallowing. "If you-"
"Shh." He didn't let you finish what you were saying. "Are you sure this is what you want?" His voice was a gentle whisper and his lips were practically on yours already.
You nodded.
"I want to hear you say it." He moved a piece of your hair behind your ear and spoke so closely to it you could feel his breath bouncing off of you.
"This is what I want." Your eyes closed as you melted into his hand on the side of your face. "I'm sure."
He didn't hesitate to meet your lips with his. Finally, you were getting what you wanted.
"Should we go to the bed?" You asked boldly, your forehead pressed against his.
"I thought you'd never ask." He smirked, taking your hand.
you were lounged back against the pillows in dick’s oversized t-shirt, legs stretched out, completely absorbed in your book. fingers flipped through the pages with the occasional rustle while your boyfriend was out.
dick slipped in after patrol, still in his nightwing suit. he crawled onto the bed and settled between your legs, resting his head on your chest with a soft sigh. this was practically routine now. dick was obsessed with your tits—needed them after every patrol like they were what he came home for (which… they are.)
“baby… can i…?” he asked, voice low and warm and so sweet, that easy charm threaded with pure need. when you made a small noise that indicated permission, dick tugged the shirt up gently and latched onto one nipple.
his mouth was hot, his motions eager—lips sealing tight around the stiff peak as he sucked with slow, rhythmic pulls that made your breast ache oh so sweetly and sent heated jolts straight to your cunt. his tongue swirled and flicked relentlessly around the sensitive bud that had pebbled immediately under his tongue, then flattened to nurse harder, drawing your nipple deep into his mouth with wet, obscene slurps. cheeks hollowing, he moaned softly against your flesh, the vibrations buzzing through your tit while saliva dripped down the curve of your breast.
he ground his hips against your thigh like a desperate puppy, his thick cock rock-hard and straining through the thin suit fabric. the leaking head left a growing wet spot as he humped slow and insistent, rubbing his throbbing cock along your legs in needy strokes. the friction the suit provided was delicious—but nowhere near what it would feel like to thrust into those pretty tits.
“mm… baby,” he mumbled around your tit, switching sides effortlessly, latching onto the other nipple and sucking deeper, tongue lapping messily at the slick, spit-covered skin. “missed this. fuck… you’re so soft and warm.”
you slid one hand into his dark hair, holding him close but kept your eyes on the book. he couldn’t help but wonder what was so good about words that made you so distracted. “wait a sec, dick. i’m in the middle of this chapter.”
he groaned, the sound buzzing through your breast as he sucked harder, pulling your nipple taut between his lips before soothing it with hungry laps, spit trailing down your tits as he sucked like he couldn’t get enough—which is true. his hips rocked faster, cock sliding hot and slick with pre-cum against your thigh, dragging the swollen head in filthy up down motions. “c’mon… just look at me? i’m being good here.” his tone stayed playful, that signature wit light even in the plea. “feels good, right? tell me. please.”
you turned another page, fingers stroking his hair absently. he groaned, hips twitching. “you’re doing fine, baby. give me a minute.”
“okay… fine. i can wait,” he breathed, still nursing with greedy pulls that left your nipples swollen and glistening with his saliva, grinding harder now so his aching cock dragged along your leg with slick, filthy friction. “but god, these beauties… been thinking about them all night. don’t ignore me too long.”
after a few more minutes of his devoted sucking and puppy-like humping, you sighed, slotted your bookmark in and closed the book with a snap, setting it aside. you tugged his hair gently so he met your eyes, a teasing smile on your lips.
“aww, look at my needy dick,” you murmured, guiding his mouth back down while you laid back fully so you weren’t resting your back against the headboard anymore. which meant he could grind better now. “begging so sweetly while humping my leg like a puppy. can’t get enough, huh?”
dick pulled off with a wet pop, lips shiny and swollen, biting his lower lip up at you with that bright, boyish spark. “guilty. you bring out the best in me… or the neediest.” he chuckled softly. “you gonna tease me or finally give me all your attention?”
you laughed, arching your back to press your glistening tits closer. “go on then. keep going. make it good and i’ll take care of that aching cock next. you’ve earned it.”
he groaned happily and latched on again with fresh hunger, sucking deeper and sloppier while his hips kept grinding, cock pulsing hot and heavy against your cunt now that he’s got you under him properly. you held him close with both hands in his hair, finally giving him the full attention he craved.
