#jtk robin

[jasontoddkissr]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦇 ݁˖ ݁𖥔 . Damian Wayne • Robin

damian wayne x freshman it-girl!reader series

part 1 • part 2 • part 3 • part 4 • part 5

[jasontoddkissr]

damian wayne x freshman it-girl!reader .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦇 ݁˖ ݁𖥔 . fluff

wc: 7K

Damian arrives early.

Of course he does.

The car idles at the curb outside Harper’s house, engine humming softly beneath the thick, insulated quiet of the interior. The neighborhood is well-kept and evenly lit, the kind of place where porch lights glow warm instead of harsh and hedges are trimmed with intention. Music drifts faintly from inside the house: something bright and rhythmic, punctuated by shrieks of laughter that carry through the open front windows.

Through the tinted glass, he can already see figures gathered on the lawn.

The other dates.

They stand in loose clusters near the walkway, hands shoved into pockets, jackets unbuttoned, shifting their weight in that particular way teenage boys do when they’re pretending not to be nervous. One of them gestures animatedly while the others laugh. Someone checks his phone. Another smooths down his hair using the reflection in a car window.

They look relaxed.

Familiar with one another.

Damian adjusts his cufflinks. Unnecessarily.

He is dressed impeccably. The suit is black and tailored within an inch of its life, cut sharp through the shoulders and clean along the waist. The white shirt beneath is crisp enough to suggest discipline without arrogance. His shoes are polished to a muted shine — not ostentatious, simply precise.

He has faced diplomatic galas with less composure.

And yet—

In the breast pocket rests a square of yellow silk.

Not bright. Not loud. A muted butter shade. Chosen with precision.

He remembers exactly how you said it two days ago, half distracted, scrolling through your phone while describing the dress.

“It’s yellow, but like soft yellow. Not highlighter.”

He had nodded at the time as if the distinction were mildly interesting at best. As if it were a passing detail that would fade with the conversation.

Instead, it had lodged somewhere permanent.

He’d rejected three other shades before settling on this one. Too pale. Too saturated. Too gold. This one, however, matched the image in his mind perfectly.

Beside him, Dick studies him with open amusement.

“You’re staring,” Damian says flatly, without looking away from the window.

“You coordinated,” Dick replies.

“It is a pocket square.”

“It is intentional.”

Damian exhales slowly through his nose. “It is courtesy.”

“It is a crush.”

He finally turns his head enough to level a glare in Dick’s direction.

Dick only grins wider.

There’s no malice in it. No mockery. Just that infuriating, affectionate understanding Dick seems to possess in surplus.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. The engine hums. Laughter rises again from the lawn. A car door down the street slams. Somewhere, a dog barks once and falls quiet.

Dick leans forward slightly, resting his forearms against the steering wheel. When he speaks again, the teasing edge is gone.

“You don’t have to be perfect tonight,” he says. “You just have to show up.”

“I am aware.”

“No,” Dick replies gently. “You’re planning like this is a mission.”

Damian’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

Planning is not anxiety. It is preparedness. It is efficiency. It is minimising variables.

“It’s not,” Dick continues. “It’s a dance. She already likes you. You don’t need to win anything.”

That lands.

Not because it is new information. But because it reframes the entire evening in a way Damian hadn’t allowed himself to consider.

Win.

The word had been there, beneath everything. Beneath the coordination, beneath the punctuality, beneath the careful calibration of how long to linger before entering the lawn.

Win her approval. Win her pride. Win the night.

He looks back out the window.

The lawn stretches wide beneath the soft spill of golden porch light. Harper’s house hums with that pre-event electricity — subtle strings of white bulbs looped carefully along the railing, glowing steady and warm against the darkening sky.

Inside, everything is movement.

Silhouettes pass in quick flashes behind curtains — four figures crossing hallways, doubling back, disappearing into bedrooms and reappearing with curling irons, garment bags, forgotten shoes. The choreography is chaotic but practiced. Someone calls for hairspray. Someone else yells that they can’t find the matching earring. Laughter ricochets off hardwood floors.

His pulse shifts.

It remains steady.

But not combat steady.

Not the clinical, detached rhythm he associates with danger.

This is heavier. Warmer. It sits lower in his chest.

Different.

“She already likes you,” Dick repeats quietly.

Damian considers the lawn again — the boys shifting, laughing, waiting. None of them look victorious. None of them look as though they are competing for anything. They simply look hopeful.

Anticipatory.

There is no battlefield here.

He reaches for the door handle.

Dick watches him carefully, as if gauging whether to say something else.

Damian pauses, hand resting against the cool metal.

“For the record,” Dick adds lightly, “if she gasps when she sees you, that’s a good sign.”

“She will not gasp.”

“Bet.”

Damian ignores that.

He opens the door. Cool evening air spills into the car, brushing away the trapped warmth of leather and colored lights. The distant bass of music carries across the lawn, a steady pulse that settles low in his chest as he steps out onto the pavement.

Before closing the door, he glances back once.

Dick offers a casual salute.

“Text me if you panic.”

“I will not panic.”

“Sure,” Dick says.

The door shuts with a solid click.

The world outside feels louder immediately. More exposed.

Damian smooths the front of his jacket once — precise, controlled — and straightens his shoulders.

Across the lawn, one of the boys notices him approaching.

There is a flicker of recognition.

A subtle shift.

Damian steps onto the grass anyway.

Not as a competitor.

Not as a strategist.

Just a boy in a black suit with a yellow pocket square, standing on the lawn, waiting for a girl in a pretty dress.

The grass is softer than expected beneath his shoes.

It gives slightly under his weight, not enough to destabilise him, just enough to remind him that this is not polished marble or concrete or reinforced steel. It smells faintly of recent watering and spring air: clean and alive.

The other boys glance up when he approaches.

There it is. That flicker.

Recognition.

Not dramatic. Not exaggerated. Just a quick recalibration in their expressions. Shoulders straighten. One of them nudges another subtly. His last name carries weight in rooms far more intimidating than this suburban front lawn. He has grown accustomed to the microsecond shift in atmosphere when people place him.

He braces for distance.

For politeness sharpened into formality. For the careful neutrality people adopt when they’re unsure how to categorise him.

Instead—

“Wayne, right?” one of them says.

The boy is tall, sandy-haired, jacket already unbuttoned like he’s trying to look less stiff. His tone is casual. Curious.

“You’re with her?”

There’s no edge in it. No territorial challenge. No implication.

Just confirmation.

“Yes,” Damian replies evenly.

A pause follows. Not heavy, not tense. Just the natural beat of social adjustment.

Then someone shifts over slightly, creating space in their loose semicircle.

It’s subtle. Unceremonious. But intentional.

An invitation.

Damian steps into it.

The circle closes again without ceremony, as if he’s been standing there all along.

They talk about safe things first.

The limo.

Apparently Ava’s father refused to “do anything halfway,” which has apparently resulted in a vehicle described by one of them as “longer than my future.” There’s speculation about interior lighting, whether it has a built-in minibar (non-alcoholic, someone clarifies quickly), and whether the driver will judge them.

Damian listens at first. Observes. Calculates.

One boy — Marcus, he gathers from context — does most of the talking. Another keeps checking his phone and pretending he isn’t. A third adjusts his tie every thirty seconds without noticing he’s doing it.

They are not competitors.

They are not adversaries.

They are, quite transparently, as nervous as he was.

“The DJ better not only play remixes,” someone says. “If I hear a techno version of a Taylor Swift song, I’m leaving.”

“That’s a lie,” another counters. “You’re not leaving. You’ve been practicing for this since middle school.”

There’s laughter.

Damian allows himself a small exhale.

No one asks him about combat training. No one makes assumptions about arrogance. No one treats him like an anomaly to be navigated.

“You been in a limo before?” Marcus asks, turning to him.

“Yes.” There’s a half-second where he considers leaving it at that. Then, because silence feels unnecessarily distancing, he adds, “They are inefficient for transportation but adequate for spectacle.”

There’s a blink.

Then a snort of laughter.

“That is the most Wayne answer possible,” someone says.

“It’s true though,” another agrees. “We’re literally taking the scenic route for vibes.”

Damian inclines his head slightly. “If one is going to participate in spectacle, one may as well commit fully.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Marcus says, pointing at him like they’ve just formed an alliance.

The conversation shifts again — this time to after-high-school plans.

Colleges. Gap years. Parental expectations thinly disguised as “suggestions.”

“What about you?” someone asks Damian. “You staying local?”

The question is direct, but not probing.

He answers without embellishment. “I intend to pursue international law. Or political science.”

There’s a brief silence — not the awkward kind, just recalibration.

“Of course you do,” Marcus says, impressed rather than intimidated. “That tracks.”

“It is a broad field,” Damian says evenly. “There are multiple applications.”

“Yeah, like running the world,” someone mutters under his breath.

Damian almost corrects him. Almost clarifies that governance is far more complex than singular leadership. Instead, he says, “One should at least attempt to improve one’s sphere of influence.”

That earns him a nod.

Not mockery.

Not skepticism.

Just acknowledgment.

The conversation deepens — not dramatically, but enough. They talk about which electives they’re thinking about next year. About which teachers already feel terrifying and which ones are secretly unhinged in the best way. About the strange hierarchy of upperclassmen and the quiet mystery of what high school is actually going to become. About how none of them feel entirely prepared for any of it — but are pretending they do anyway.

It turns into a real conversation.

Not hostile. Not forced.

There’s no posturing.

No subtle measuring.

Just boys in suits standing on a lawn under soft porch lights, discussing futures that feel both close and impossibly far.

At one point, someone admits, “I’m low-key terrified I’m gonna step on her dress tonight.”

A chorus of agreement follows.

“Yeah, if I trip her, I’m actually moving states.”

Damian considers this.

“You should place your hand at the midline of her back during turns,” he says calmly. “It stabilises both parties.”

They all look at him.

“Why do you know that?” Marcus asks.

He pauses.

Because he has trained in formal ballroom since childhood. Because footwork and balance are muscle memory. Because leading without appearing to dominate is a skill he was required to master.

“It seemed prudent to learn,” he replies.

“Okay, but if you’re secretly amazing at dancing and don’t tell us, that’s betrayal,” someone says.

“I am… competent,” Damian allows.

“That’s terrifying,” Marcus laughs.

The tension — if it ever truly existed — dissolves completely after that.

They begin speculating about slow songs. About who will panic first. About whether pretending not to know how to dance is a viable strategy.

Damian does not comment on that.

He stores it away.

As they talk, he becomes aware of something unexpected settling beneath his ribs.

Ease.

He is not performing here.

He is not being evaluated.

He is simply… included.

The porch light flickers brighter as the front door opens briefly — another appeal for hairspray. The boys glance instinctively toward the sound, collective anticipation tightening the circle.

They fall quiet for a moment.

Not because of him.

Because of them.

Because somewhere behind that door are four girls adjusting earrings and smoothing skirts and taking final steadying breaths.

Just… boys standing in suits on a lawn waiting for girls they are all slightly terrified of disappointing.

The realisation is oddly grounding. For once, he is not the anomaly in the vicinity. He is not the most intimidating presence.

He is just another fifteen-year-old hoping he does not misstep — literally or otherwise — when you walk out that door.

And when he glances toward the porch again, pulse steady but warm, he understands something simple and almost startling:

He is not alone in this.

And then the front door opens.

The conversation on the lawn cuts off mid-sentence.

Harper steps out first, framed by warm hallway light like she’s making an entrance onto a stage instead of a suburban porch. Her dress catches the light with every step, and she pauses dramatically at the top of the stairs, hand braced on the railing.

There is immediate applause from the lawn.

Someone wolf-whistles. Marcus executes an exaggerated bow. Harper rolls her eyes and does a mock curtsy, nearly losing her balance before recovering with a grin.

“Careful,” one of the boys calls. “We just got here.”

She flips him off affectionately and descends.

Then Ava appears.

There’s a collective intake of breath. She looks impossibly polished, confidence radiating from her like a second accessory. She pretends not to notice the reaction, but the corner of her mouth gives her away.

Chelsea follows, softer in her entrance but no less stunning. Compliments are thrown like confetti. Dramatic hand-over-heart gestures. Someone mutters, “We are severely outmatched.”

Damian watches politely.

He offers Harper a respectful nod when she passes close enough. He tells Ava she looks “exceptionally well put together,” which earns him a delighted laugh. Chelsea beams when he says her dress suits her.

He is composed.

Measured.

Present.

And then—

You.

Time does something treacherous. It stretches. Thins.

The porch light behind you flares softly, outlining your silhouette before you step fully into view. For a split second, you are just a figure framed in gold.

Then you move forward.

The world narrows.

The dress is softer than yellow should be. Not bright, not loud — just warm, like late afternoon sunlight distilled into fabric. The butter-toned background glows beneath the porch lights, and scattered across it are delicate florals in dusty rose and sage, painterly and almost dreamlike.

The structured bodice fits you perfectly, corset-like without being severe. The square neckline frames your collarbones, your throat, the gentle rise and fall of your breath. At your waist, sheer panels hint at structure beneath softness, the illusion of traditional corsetry rendered in something lighter, airier.

The sleeves — fluttering, ruffled straps — sit wide on your shoulders, barely there and impossibly elegant.

And the skirt…

Tiered and voluminous, edged in lettuce-frill ruffles that ripple with every step. The organza catches the air as you move, holding its shape just enough to look intentional, just enough to look like you’re walking through a cloud of your own making.

You descend the stairs carefully at first.

Then less carefully.

You are radiant.

Not in a loud way. Not in the way that demands attention.

In the way that makes attention inevitable.

Damian forgets to breathe.

The lawn disappears. The boys beside him fall away into peripheral blur. Even the porch light seems dimmer than you.

You spot him halfway down the steps.

Your gaze lands on his face first.

Then it drops.

To his chest.

To the pocket square.

Yellow.

Your steps falter — not from imbalance, but from recognition.

Your smile changes.

It shifts from something bright and performative into something softer. Smaller. Private.

Not the one you give to the crowd.

The one that belongs to him.

He feels it like a physical impact.

And then you’re moving faster.

You smooth the hem down instinctively, fingers brushing the fabric as you step forward. The short skirt sways with quick, nervous energy as you take the last two steps in a near-run, heels clicking sharply against the floor.

Someone behind you calls your name in warning.

You ignore them.

You bolt the final distance across the lawn.

Damian has half a second to brace before you collide into him with full momentum.

He reacts instinctively.

His hands come up, catching you at the waist, fingers splaying against the structured fabric of your bodice. The force of you knocks him back a fraction of a step, but he holds steady.

He lifts you slightly off the ground without conscious thought.

Your laughter bursts against his shoulder, warm and breathless and real.

For a moment, he is acutely aware of everything.

The faint scent of your perfume.

The softness of organza beneath his palms.

The way your arms wrap securely around his neck without hesitation.

“You matched,” you murmur, voice muffled against the fabric of his jacket.

He huffs the smallest breath of something that might be a laugh.

“Obviously.”

You pull back just enough to look at him, still close — close enough that he can see the careful detail of your makeup, the faint shimmer at the corner of your eyes, the way your lashes catch the light.

Up close, you are devastating.

He lowers you slowly, carefully, as if gravity itself might mishandle you.

Your heels touch grass again.

His hands remain at your waist.

Just a fraction too long.

The fabric is cool beneath his fingers, smooth and structured, but the warmth of you seeps through it anyway. He can feel the subtle rise and fall of your breathing under his palm, steady and close.

You do not move away. You do not step back. You linger.

Around you, the lawn erupts belatedly — cheering, teasing, someone dramatically gagging at the “cute factor.” Harper shouts something about “finally.” Ava demands pictures immediately.

But for one suspended second, it is just the two of you standing far too close beneath porch lights and early evening sky.

Your eyes flick down once more to the pocket square.

Then back up.

“I can’t believe you remembered,” you say softly.

Damian tilts his head slightly.

“I remember everything you tell me.”

The words come out before he can temper them.

Your expression shifts again — something tender, something almost shy.

The music inside swells. Someone calls everyone in for photos.

You slip your hand into his like it has always belonged there.

Photos are chaos.

The lawn transforms from soft anticipation into full-scale production in under thirty seconds. Parents spill out onto the porch with phones already raised. Someone produces a DSLR from nowhere. Harper’s mother begins issuing instructions with the authority of a seasoned director. Ava’s father stands near the curb, grinning like he personally funded the concept of spring.

“Couples first!”

“No, wait—group shot!”

“Chelsea, turn slightly—yes, like that!”

Damian has been in rooms with press conferences calmer than this.

He stands where he’s placed.

Too straight at first.

Too formal.

Shoulders squared. Chin level. Hands hovering at his sides like he’s awaiting inspection.

The porch lights glow warm against the gathering dusk, casting everything in a soft gold haze. The lawn smells faintly of crushed grass and perfume and someone’s overly enthusiastic cologne.

He does not know what to do with his hands. He is aware of them in a way that feels deeply inconvenient: at his sides looks stiff, behind his back looks severe, in his pockets feels careless. He settles for neutral. Which, unfortunately, reads as mildly militant.

You notice immediately. Of course you do.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him with fond exasperation before stepping closer—close enough that the ruffles of your skirt brush against his trousers.

“Okay,” you murmur under your breath, voice low enough that the chaos around you swallows it.

“Relax your shoulders.” He had not realised they were tense. He exhales deliberately and his shoulders lower a fraction. “Good,” you say softly.

Another parent calls out, “Closer together! You don’t bite, do you?”

You suppress a laugh.

Damian does not dignify that with a response.

You close the remaining space yourself.

“Put your hand here,” you instruct gently.

You take his wrist — light, careful — and guide his palm to your waist.

The contact is electric.

The structured bodice beneath his hand holds its shape, but he can feel the warmth of you through the layers. His fingers spread instinctively, settling at the curve of your back like they’ve rehearsed this placement.

It fits there.

Perfectly.

He did not anticipate how natural it would feel.

“Other hand?” you prompt.

He hesitates only briefly before letting it rest more loosely at your side. Your hand slides up to his chest, fingers curling lightly against his lapel near the yellow pocket square.

There’s something purposeful in that.

Something claiming, like your fingers where curling straight through his chest and to his heart.

“Now just…” You glance toward the camera, then back up at him. “Look at me.”

He does.

The first flash goes off.

Bright. Sudden.

He barely registers it.

Because he is looking at you.

Up close, your eyes reflect the porch lights, catching gold and brown and something softer. There’s a faint dusting of shimmer at the corners, subtle but intentional. Your lips curve like you’re trying not to laugh at how serious he still looks.

Another flash.

“Smile!” someone calls.

He does not.

At least, not for the lens.

You lean in slightly, your forehead almost brushing his shoulder.

“You look like you’re being arraigned,” you whisper.

His mouth twitches before he can stop it.

A third flash.

“You know,” you continue softly, “if you glare at my mother’s camera like that, she’s going to think you hate her.”

“I do not hate your mother.”

“Then maybe look like you don’t.”

There it is. The smallest upward curve at the corner of his mouth — unintentional, uncontrolled. Another flash captures it. You beam, victorious.

“There,” you murmur. “That’s better.”

The photographer — your mom, apparently self-appointed — adjusts her stance.

“Okay, now one where you’re both laughing!”

“That cannot be forced,” Damian replies automatically.

You stifle a giggle.

“Too late,” you whisper.

You lean closer again, this time brushing your nose lightly against his jaw as if by accident.

He inhales sharply.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he murmurs.

“Doing what on purpose?”

Flash.

The photo captures the exact second his composure fractures just enough to show something real.

They shift you into different configurations after that.

All four couples together. Then just the girls. Then just the boys. Then “everyone but parents.” Then “parents but no dates.”

Each time you find your way back to him without hesitation.

Each time, his hand returns to your waist more confidently.

By the third round of couple photos, he no longer needs instruction.

He angles slightly toward you on instinct.

When someone says, “Okay, look at the camera this time!” he tries. He truly does. But the moment you say something teasing about how serious he’s being again, his gaze flickers back to you automatically. The camera captures that instead.

Every photo where he is looking directly at the lens?

Impeccable. Composed. Polished.

Every photo where he is looking at you?

Unmistakable. Soft. Utterly yours.

There’s something in his expression that doesn’t belong to public events or gala evenings or carefully curated appearances.

It belongs here, on a front lawn under porch lights with your hand resting just over his heart.

At one point, you study him between flashes and tilt your head thoughtfully.

“You know,” you say quietly, “you’re allowed to have fun.”

“I am having fun,” he replies.

You raise an eyebrow.

He pauses.

“…I am attempting to.”

You grin.

“That’s progress.”

Another round of flashes goes off.

He doesn’t notice them this time.

Because you’re laughing at something Ava just said, and your head tips back slightly, and your hand tightens unconsciously against his lapel.

And he is looking at you.

Like you are the only thing in frame.

For a moment, everything else fades: the camera flashes, the shouted instructions, the shuffle of shoes on pavement. There is only the quiet gravity of his attention, steady and unguarded. Then a car horn chirps lightly at the curb, headlights sweeping across the driveway, and the spell breaks.

The limo is excessive.

Not merely large, but excessive.

It stretches along the curb like a glossy black statement piece, polished to a mirror sheen that reflects porch lights and camera flashes in warped streaks of gold. The driver stands near the front, composed and professional, as if shepherding groups of overdressed teenagers into luxury vehicles is a perfectly ordinary Friday night occurrence.

Inside, it’s even more absurd.

Leather seats wrap around the perimeter in a continuous crescent. The stitching is immaculate. The ceiling is threaded with fiber-optic lights that pulse softly in shifting colors — blue to violet to pink — like a restrained galaxy. There’s a speaker system embedded discreetly along the panels, already humming with bass-heavy music that makes the floor vibrate faintly beneath their shoes.

Someone whistles low. “Ava’s dad did not come to play.”

“He never does,” Ava replies serenely, ducking inside first.

There’s a shuffle of skirts and suit jackets as everyone piles in. The confined space forces proximity: knees brushing, shoulders bumping, hands steadying one another against sudden movement. The door shuts with a heavy, insulated thud that cuts off the outside world entirely.

For a brief second, the air inside feels tight.

Damian braces for awkwardness.

Confined spaces amplify social missteps. Limited exits. No strategic retreat. He anticipates forced small talk, uneven silences, the subtle exclusion that sometimes occurs when groups close ranks around familiarity.

Instead—

“Wayne, you good with sitting here?” Marcus asks, scooting over to create space.

“Yes.”

He slides into the seat beside you. The leather is cool against his back, smooth and faintly scented. Your skirt spills slightly into his lap before you gather it, laughing under your breath.

“Sorry,” you murmur.

“It is not an inconvenience.”

The limo lurches gently into motion.

Someone immediately connects a phone to the sound system. Music swells — bright, loud, unapologetically teenage. Colored lights shift rhythmically with the bass.

And then, without ceremony, the conversation resumes as if it had merely paused on the lawn.

Someone hands him a soda without asking what he prefers.

He accepts it with a nod.

Another boy leans forward from across the aisle. “So I heard you fence?”

Damian glances up. “Yes.”

“Like, with actual swords?”

“They are foils,” he corrects automatically. “And occasionally sabers.”

“Okay, that’s objectively cool.”

There’s no sarcasm in it.

Just honest interest.

He explains briefly — footwork, timing, discipline. He avoids sounding instructional. Keeps it conversational. When someone jokes about dueling rivals for dance dominance, he raises an eyebrow.

“That would be inefficient,” he says dryly.

Laughter ripples through the cabin.

The music changes again. Someone dramatically sings along off-key. Ava threatens to revoke playlist privileges. Harper counters with an even worse song.

Mild chaos.

The kind that feels harmless.

The kind that belongs to people who trust one another.

You’re pressed close at his side because the limo, for all its grandeur, was not designed for four girls in layered, pastel-hue dresses and their dates. Your knee rests against his thigh. Every time the vehicle turns, you shift slightly closer for balance.

He does not move away.

At one point, as the others argue about whether slow songs should be outlawed entirely, he leans down slightly so only you can hear him over the music.

“Did you instruct them to include me?”

You blink up at him, genuinely confused.

“What?”

“They are making a concerted effort,” he clarifies. “To engage me.”

Your brows lift, and then you laugh softly.

“No.” He studies your face for signs of mischief — there are none. “They just like you,” you say simply.

He leans back slightly, considering that. The phrase settles somewhere unfamiliar, like you are offering him something he hasn’t quite learned how to hold.

“They do not know me,” he says after a moment.

“They know enough,” you reply. “You showed up. You’re not being weird. That’s like eighty percent of it.”

“I am rarely ‘weird,’” he says.

You tilt your head.

He revises.

“In socially destabilising ways.”

You grin.

“Exactly.”

Marcus nudges him lightly with the toe of his shoe. “Wayne, hypothetical. If someone bumps into her during a slow song, what’s the recovery strategy?”

“Stabilise her first,” Damian replies without hesitation. “Create space second. Identify the cause third.”

“See?” Marcus says to the others. “He’s got plans.”

“It is basic situational awareness,” Damian insists.

But there’s warmth beneath it now.

Ease.

He takes another sip of his soda and lets the conversation flow around him instead of analysing it.

Someone asks you how long it took to get ready. You launch into a dramatic retelling involving hairspray casualties and a near-makeup emergency. The others chime in with their own disasters.

He listens.

He interjects when appropriate.

He lets out a brief, awkward chuckle — more surprised than amused — when Chelsea takes off her seatbelt and dramatically reenacts how Harper almost walked out wearing two completely different heels and didn’t notice until she tried to walk straight.

The limo glides through the city, lights streaking past the tinted windows in blurred ribbons of white and gold.

At some point, you shift again and rest your head briefly against his shoulder.

Just for balance, you’ll probably claim later.

He doesn’t comment on it, he simply adjusts slightly so you’re more comfortable.

He had expected this ride to feel like a test. An assessment. Instead, it feels like… transit. Like moving together toward something rather than navigating something alone.

“They just like you.”

He replays the words quietly in his mind. It unsettles him less than expected. Not because he fully believes it yet, but because it doesn’t feel impossible anymore.

The limo slows, tires humming against asphalt as the glow of the school comes into view. Music spills faintly through closed doors each time they open for arriving couples. Colored lights flicker through high windows, shifting like something alive inside. Conversations taper off. Jackets are adjusted. Dresses are smoothed. There’s a shared breath — that quiet, collective brace before stepping into something bigger than the ride there.

The gym is unrecognisable.

The harsh overhead fluorescents are gone, replaced with warm string lights draped from rafter to rafter like constellations pulled low. Streamers cascade from the basketball hoops. The bleachers are hidden behind fabric and glittering backdrops. A rented DJ booth pulses at the far end, bass vibrating through polished floors that usually echo with sneakers and whistles.

Tonight, it’s heels and dress shoes.

Music is too loud.

Laughter is louder.

You barely make it five steps inside before you’re intercepted.

“You look gorgeous.”

“Your dress is insane.”

“Oh my god, you guys are so cute.”

The words come rapid-fire, layered over perfume and camera flashes and quick hugs that threaten the structural integrity of your hair.

You thank them, glowing, breathless.

Damian stands slightly behind you at first.

Not hiding.

Just… offset.

Observing the patterns.

Who approaches first. Who commands attention. Who lingers at the edges. He maps it instinctively, like assessing a room for exits — but here, the exits are social.

He notes how easily people orbit you.

How naturally they lean in.

He is not unused to attention.

He is unused to this kind.

No calculation. No deference. No expectation.

Just warmth.

By the fifth interruption, you notice the shift in his posture. The way he angles half a step back when someone squeals over your earrings. The way he yields conversational space without trying to reclaim it.

So you adjust.

Subtle.

Intentional.

The next time someone approaches, you loop your arm through his before they fully reach you.

It’s fluid enough to look instinctive.

“This is Damian,” you say, tone warm, proud. “He actually helped me choose the color.”

It’s a lie. A clean one. But it hands him an opening.

The girl’s eyes widen. “Wait, really? That’s so sweet.”

He registers the cue immediately.

“It was statistically optimal,” he says smoothly. “The shade complements her undertones and photographs well under warm lighting.”

There’s a blink.

Then impressed laughter.

“Okay, that’s actually kind of genius.”

You squeeze his arm once, a small, approving gesture.

The next conversation is easier.

When someone asks where he got his suit, he answers with measured ease, then redirects: “She selected the boutonniere.”

Another opening.

Another shared detail.

You don’t overdo it, you just keep the door propped.

When someone compliments you both together, you tilt slightly toward him instead of away. When someone asks a question directed only at you, you occasionally widen the circle with your body language so he’s not peripheral.

You guide without making it obvious. He recognises the tactic by the fourth introduction; You are redistributing gravity. Not forcing him into the center, just ensuring he isn’t left at the edge.

It’s efficient.

Elegant.

Kind.

A group from your chemistry class approaches next. One of them squints at him.

“Wait. Aren’t you the guy who corrected Mr. Alvarez about the combustion ratios?”

Damian considers.

“Yes.”

“That was iconic.”

“It was incorrect information,” he replies evenly.

The group laughs. Not at him. With him.

You glance up at him, eyes bright.

Told you.

He exhales — almost imperceptible.

The conversations start to layer rather than stall. He finds himself asking questions back. Offering brief commentary that lands sharper than expected. Someone mentions debate club; he dismantles a recent argument structure with clinical precision and earns a chorus of amused groans.

“Okay, we get it, you’re terrifying,” someone jokes.

“Only selectively,” he says.

They grin.

And move closer instead of away.

At some point, as you’re pulled briefly into another round of compliments about your dress, he feels the absence of your arm through his.

It lasts maybe twenty seconds.

Long enough to register.

Long enough to miss.

Then you return, slipping back into place beside him as if that is simply where you belong.

“You good?” you murmur quietly, under the music.

“Yes.”

It’s honest.

He studies you for a moment. Really studies you. You engineered entry points without making him feel managed. You handed him space without spotlighting him. You trusted him to fill it.

He leans slightly closer so only you can hear.

“You are very strategic.”

You smile faintly. “I have my moments.”

“I noticed.”

There’s something unspoken there.

Gratitude, yes.

But also recognition.

You did not assume he could not navigate this world. You simply removed unnecessary friction.

Another classmate approaches. This time, before you can introduce him, Damian extends his hand first.

“Damian,” he says calmly.

The boy shakes it. “Ethan.”

They start talking. You watch for a second, then step back half a pace. He doesn’t need you to rescue him anymore.

Across the room, lights flicker over polished floors. Music swells. Laughter collides in bright bursts.

And for the first time since walking in, Damian is not observing from the perimeter.

He’s in it. He catches your eye across the small circle forming around him and there’s the faintest curve to his mouth.

You don’t say I told you so.

You don’t have to.

The lights dim without warning.

One second the gym is a riot of neon and noise — bass thudding, sneakers squeaking against polished wood, laughter ricocheting off fabric-draped walls — and the next, everything softens. The overhead glow fades into something warmer. Gold and violet wash across the streamers. The disco ball above the basketball court catches the new light and scatters it into slow-moving constellations.

There’s a collective groan-laugh from the crowd.

“Oh no.”

“Absolutely not.”

The opening notes of a slow song spill from the speakers: something earnest and dramatic and unapologetically romantic. The kind of song people pretend to hate and secretly know every word to.

Couples shift instinctively.

Friends scatter toward the edges of the floor with exaggerated theatrics.

You turn toward him.

Your expression changes. Not playful, not strategic. Soft.

“Dance with me.”

“I do not—”

“Yes you do.”

You don’t wait for the rest of his protest. You catch his hand and tug.

He follows.

Of course he does.

The center of the gym is no longer chaotic. It’s gentler now, clusters of couples swaying in uneven circles, some close, some awkwardly separated by too much space and too many nerves.

You stop beneath the drifting lights and turn to face him.

For a split second, he looks like he’s assessing a sparring partner.

Then he seems to remember this is not a duel.

He places his hands at your waist.

Carefully.

Too carefully.

As if you are something delicate. As if he is calculating pressure points and margin for error.

“Relax,” you whisper, stepping closer. “I’ll show you.”

His jaw tightens slightly.

He knows how to dance.

He has been trained in more formal styles than this — structured, technical, precise. He knows how to lead. How to anticipate movement. How to control rhythm.

But this isn’t a ballroom.

This isn’t a performance.

This is you, smiling up at him like you’ve just claimed something important.

So he pretends not to know.

He allows the slight stiffness to remain in his shoulders. Lets you adjust his stance with light touches, your hand nudging his elbow lower, guiding one palm a fraction higher on your waist.

“Here,” you murmur. “And just… sway. Like this.”

You shift your weight gently from one foot to the other.

He follows your rhythm.

Unpracticed.

Imperfect on purpose.

Because you are smiling like this is sacred.

The music swells softly around you. Other couples blur at the edges of his vision. The world narrows to the space between your bodies — the faint scent of your perfume, the warmth of your hands, the way the lights catch in your hair.

Your forehead nearly brushes his chin when you step closer.

He adjusts instinctively so you don’t have to strain.

Your hands slide up slightly, resting more securely against him.

“You know,” you say quietly, almost lost beneath the music, “I think you’re really sweet.”

His breath stutters.

It is subtle.

But it happens.

“That is inaccurate.”

You lean back just enough to look at him, brows lifting.

“It’s not.”

“It is statistically improbable.”

You laugh under your breath. “You walked me to every class this week.”

“That is efficient route alignment.”

“You stayed up helping me study for calculus.”

“You were distressed.”

“You carried my bag when my heel broke.”

“It was impractical footwear.”

You shake your head, eyes warm.

“You notice things,” you say softly. “You take care of people. You just pretend you don’t.”

There is nowhere for him to redirect that.

No tactical response.

Just the truth, sitting between you.

The song shifts into its chorus. The gym glows dimmer, more intimate. Around you, couples pull closer.

You hesitate for half a second.

Then—

You rise slightly onto your toes.

And press a soft, shy kiss to his lips.

It is brief.

Warm.

Gone too quickly.

He freezes.

Utterly stunned.

The world does not slow down.

It stops.

Your lips are gone before he fully registers them. The warmth lingers like an imprint, phantom and electric.

Your eyes widen instantly.

“Oh my God—I’m sorry—was that—too much? I just thought— I mean, you were looking at me like— I shouldn’t have just assumed—”

Your words begin to tumble over each other, panic rising in your voice. Your hands start to retreat from his chest.

He does not let you spiral.

He moves.

One hand at your waist tightens, not possessive, but certain. The other lifts, fingers brushing along your jaw, warm and steady.

He pulls you back in.

And kisses you properly.

Still gentle.

Still new.

But certain.

There is no hesitation this time.

His lips press against yours with quiet intent, learning the shape of you. It isn’t practiced. It isn’t perfect. It is real.

The world resumes in fragments — music humming low, lights shifting overhead, distant laughter that no longer matters.

Your fingers curl lightly into the fabric of his jacket.

He kisses you like he has made a decision.

When he pulls back, it is only far enough to look at you.

His composure is in ruins.

His hair is slightly disordered from your hand. His breathing is uneven. His usual carefully assembled restraint has cracked clean down the center.

“I think I have a crush on you,” he says quietly.

No sarcasm.

No deflection.

Just truth.

You blink.

Then your entire face softens into something radiant.

“I had a crush on you first.”

He exhales something that might almost be a disbelieving huff.

“You are certain?”

“I’ve been certain.”

You grin at him, a little shy now that the air between you has shifted into something undeniable.

“And for the record,” you add softly, “that was a very good kiss.”

He studies you for a long second.

Then something unfamiliar breaks fully loose in his chest. A sound escapes him, unexpected and unrestrained; he laughs.

It’s not the dry, clipped version he offers at strategic moments.

It’s real. Bright.

You stare at him like you’ve just witnessed something rare.

“There it is,” you whisper.

He shakes his head slightly, still smiling, as if he cannot quite believe the situation he has allowed himself to enter.

The song continues.

But neither of you are counting steps anymore.

His hands settle at your waist with less caution now.

Yours rest easily against him.

Around you, the gym glows and hums and sways.

But inside the small circle you’ve created, it feels quieter.

Intentional.

New.

You lean your forehead lightly against his chest this time, not nearly brushing — actually resting there.

He lowers his chin against your hair.

No performance.

No pretense.

Just warmth.

And for the first time in a long while, Damian Wayne is not analysing, not calculating, not bracing.

He is simply there.

With you.

And when the song fades, neither of you step away immediately.

Because some moments—

You don’t rush those.

You let them exist.

[jasontoddkissr]

damian wayne x freshman it-girl!reader .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦇 ݁˖ ݁𖥔 . fluff

wc: 6.1K

It doesn’t happen all at once.

There’s no cinematic shift, no confession pinned between lockers, no sudden downpour that forces you under the same awning. If anyone were looking for a moment to point at — there, that’s when it changed — they wouldn’t find one.

It’s quieter than that. Softer. The kind of change that only reveals itself in hindsight, when you realise something has been different for weeks and you never noticed the exact day it began.

You start stopping by his table at lunch.

Not every day. You couldn’t, even if you wanted to. Your life moves in bright, overlapping circles: club meetings and cheer practice and birthday dinners and someone else’s crisis that requires your presence and your patience and your perfectly timed reassurance. Your calendar is a living organism. People rely on you to be visible.

But sometimes, weaving through the cafeteria with your tray balanced expertly on one hand and your friends in orbit around you, you slow down.

Because he’s there.

He always is.

Same table. Same seat. Back straight. Lunch arranged with almost ceremonial precision. A book open beside him. Philosophy one week, a weathered novel the next, once a slim translated poetry collection that made three sophomore girls whisper about him like he’d stepped out of a foreign film.

He doesn’t try to be seen, and that's exactly why you see him.

The first time you stop, it feels incidental. You’re mid-story, animated, gesturing with your fork as you recount a chemistry catastrophe.

“And she really thought sodium was a gas,” you’re saying, half-laughing. “Like—confidently. She said it with her whole chest.”

You’re already angling toward his table without consciously deciding to. Already slowing.

He looks up.

There’s that flicker again — the one from the art room months ago, when you’d held his gaze too long. The one from your bedroom, when fairy lights reflected in his eyes and he’d pretended not to notice the Dr Pepper.

Recognition. Focus.

“It is,” he says evenly.

You blink. “Wait. No, it’s not.”

“Sodium is a soft alkali metal,” he replies, calm as ever. “But under certain conditions—”

“Okay, nerd,” you cut in, laughing.

A few nearby students glance over. Not because he spoke. Most of them don’t register that. But because you’re standing there. Because you’re laughing. Because you, with your glossy hair and your impossible social gravity, have paused at Damian Wayne’s table.

He notices the glances.

You don’t. You’re looking at him.

“You’re so annoying,” you tell him, smiling like you mean something softer.

Then you drift back to your friends as if nothing unusual happened.

He watches you go.

The next week, you do it again. This time you sit.

Not across from him — that would feel too deliberate — but beside him, perching on the edge of the bench with your tray balanced on your knees. Your friends freeze three tables away, mid-conversation, watching like you’ve just walked into a lion enclosure for sport.

You don’t seem to notice.

“What did you get on the history test?” you ask casually.

He closes his book before answering. He always does that now when you approach. It’s subtle, but it’s intentional; your presence merits full attention.

“A ninety-eight,” he says.

You gasp. “You beat me.”

“You received a ninety-one.”

Your eyes narrow. “How do you know that?”

“I saw it under mine. You looked dissatisfied when Ms. Keating returned it.”

You stare at him for a moment, something shifting in your expression.

“You’re observant.”

“It is a useful skill.”

You grin, tilting your head. “It’s kind of cute, actually.”

He chokes on his water.

Actually chokes.

The sound startles you for half a second before you dissolve into laughter. Bright, unfiltered and impossible to ignore. Across the cafeteria, your best friend grips someone’s arm hard enough to bruise.

“Oh my God,” she whispers. “She’s flirting.”

You stay for maybe seven minutes. You complain about a group chat imploding over Spring Fling dress colors. You rant about someone accusing someone else of copying a Pinterest aesthetic. He doesn’t follow all of it, but he listens to the cadence of your voice, the way your nose scrunches when you’re annoyed.

And then, almost absently, you say, “I kinda hate that everyone assumes I’m running for Spring Fling Court. Like… what if I don’t want to?”

That’s not cafeteria-you. Not hallway-you. That’s something quieter.

“What do you want?” he asks.

You blink at him, caught off guard.

No one asks you that.

You recover quickly, smiling. “Something low-key. For once.”

He nods as if that makes perfect sense. As if it isn’t a contradiction for the most socially magnetic person in the building to crave invisibility.

When you stand to leave, you hesitate just long enough to soften your voice.

“Bye, Dami.”

You don’t call him Damian anymore.

Weeks fold into a rhythm.

You still move through school like sunlight. People still make space for you without realising they’re doing it. But now, sometimes, you lean toward him too.

You ask what he’s reading. You borrow a book once just to prove you will. You return it with pastel sticky notes tucked between pages. He pretends to be irritated. He keeps every note.

And then one night, bored and sprawled across your bed under the golden haze of fairy lights, you send him an 8-ball game with no explanation.

He accepts.

The next morning in Math, your phone buzzes quietly from your cardigan pocket. You glance down.

He’s sunk the eight ball.

Without calling it.

You have to bite the inside of your cheek to stop from laughing out loud.

Three rows over, he sits perfectly composed, pen moving in steady strokes. But when his eyes flick up and catch you shaking with silent laughter, something in his expression shifts.

You tilt your phone just slightly so he can see.

He checks his own screen.

You watch realisation dawn.

His gaze snaps back to you — not angry, not embarrassed. Just narrow-eyed in accusation.

You completely lose it, ducking your head to disguise the laugh.

Your phone buzzes again.

Rematch.

No words. Just a silent escalation.

For the rest of the lesson, you play. Subtle glances. Hidden smiles. The low hum of fluorescent lights overhead and the electric awareness that he is on the other end of something meant only for the two of you.

At one point, the teacher calls on him. He stands, answers flawlessly, sits.

His phone buzzes almost immediately after.

Your move.

He doesn’t look at you this time, but you see it. The faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

He’s enjoying it.

Not the competition.

This.

When the bell rings, chairs scrape and backpacks zip. You pass his desk on your way out and lean down just enough to murmur, “You’re really bad at this.”

“I was assessing your strategy,” he replies smoothly.

“You lost three times.”

“A temporary setback.”

You grin, straightening. “See you next period, pool shark.”

This time, when he looks up at you, the warmth isn’t hidden quite as carefully.

And as you step into the hallway, your phone buzzes again.

Another game request.

You laugh out loud.

It doesn’t happen all at once.

But somewhere between a cafeteria bench and a vibrating phone beneath a math desk, the space between you shifts — quietly, steadily — into something that belongs to both of you.

Your friends notice before you do.

They notice the shift in your trajectory first. The subtle change in angle. For months, your path through the cafeteria has been muscle memory. Straight past the vending machines. Slight right toward the long table by the windows. Sunlight catching in your hair like it’s part of the school’s interior design.

Now, sometimes, you veer left.

Toward him.

The first few times, they assume it’s temporary. A curiosity. You sampling something new the way you sample lip gloss shades or extracurriculars — trying it on, seeing how it fits.

But this isn’t casual.

This is consistent.

You don’t hesitate anymore when you see him. You don’t glance back to make sure your friends are following. You just pivot, like gravity adjusted without asking anyone’s permission, and slide onto the bench beside him as if the social hierarchy of the cafeteria is theoretical at best.

And they notice him, too.

The first week you started doing this, he’d gone rigid every time you approached. Shoulders squared. Jaw tight. Like he was preparing for impact. Like attention was something to withstand rather than welcome.

Now?

Now he looks up before you even say his name.

Now he closes his book the second you reach the table, a quiet, deliberate motion that feels suspiciously like prioritisation.

Now he shifts. It’s barely noticeable unless you’re watching for it, but he’s making space for you before you have to ask.

“Oh my God,” Harper breathes one afternoon, fingers digging into Ava’s wrist as they watch from a safe observational distance. “She’s doing it again.”

“Doing what?” Ava whispers back, even though she hasn’t looked away.

“Taming him.”

Across the cafeteria, you’re animatedly complaining about a Spring Fling rumor, completely oblivious to the documentary-style commentary unfolding three tables over.

“I am not taming him,” you insist later when they corner you by the lockers, eyes bright with accusation.

“Yes. You are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“He smiled at you.”

You pause.

“He did not.”

“He did,” Harper says, like she’s presenting courtroom evidence. “Tiny. But it was there.”

“It was, like, a quarter of a smile,” Ava adds.

Heat creeps up your neck before you can stop it.

“It wasn’t a smile,” you mutter, adjusting the books in your arms. “It was probably a facial twitch.”

They stare at you.

“You’re blushing,” Harper says.

“I am not blushing.”

“You are literally pink.”

You slam your locker shut harder than necessary. “You’re being dramatic.”

They exchange a look that says we’ll revisit this.

The escalation is gradual. So gradual he almost doesn’t notice it happening.

Until one day he walks into English, scans the room on instinct, and feels something settle in his chest when he finds you.

Third row from the back. By the window. Sunlight catches in your hair, turning the edges gold. You’re half-turned in your seat, laughing at something the girl behind you said, your hand moving as you talk like the air itself belongs to you.

He looks away first. He always does.

But now he knows where you are. And that knowledge has weight.

You start smiling at him in class. Not just looking. Smiling. Not constantly, not theatrically — just sometimes. When the teacher says something particularly absurd. When someone answers a question with catastrophic confidence. Your eyes find his across the room like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The first time it happens, he freezes. It feels like being singled out beneath a spotlight, like everyone must be able to see the invisible thread stretching from your desk to his.

He doesn’t smile back.

You tilt your head slightly, amused.

The second time, he tries. It’s stiff, controlled. More a softening than a smile. A subtle easing at the edges of his expression.

You beam at him like he’s just handed you something precious.

After that, he adjusts. Not in front of a mirror — he would never admit to something so absurd — but he studies the mechanics. The faint lift at one corner of his mouth. The quiet shift in his eyes. The difference between guarded and open.

It’s never wide. Never obvious.

But it’s there.

A small acknowledgment.

A private language.

At lunch one Thursday, you appear without warning and set something beside his tray. Cold plastic. Familiar red label.

He looks at it. Then at you.

“I noticed you didn’t have one today,” you say lightly, already unwrapping your sandwich. “The vending machine actually worked for once.”

You don’t linger on it. You don’t watch for his reaction. You just start talking about a quiz you bombed and how it feels like a personal betrayal.

He stares at the Dr Pepper for a second longer than necessary.

“You did not need to do this,” he says.

“I know.”

A brief pause.

“Thank you,” he adds, quieter.

You shrug like it’s nothing.

But he notices.

Two weeks later, he sets a book down between you during study hall.

You raise an eyebrow. “What’s this?”

“A recommendation,” he replies, opening his notebook as though this were incidental. “You expressed interest in character-driven narratives with unreliable narrators.”

You stare at him. “I said I liked messy main characters.”

“That is what I said.”

You flip the book over, skim the summary. “You brought this for me?”

“It was in my bag.”

“You put it in your bag for me.”

He finally glances at you. “It is coincidental.”

You smile slowly. “Sure it is.”

He pretends not to hear the warmth in your voice.

One afternoon, your friends are gone — cheer practice ran late, lacrosse meet, dentist appointment. The usual orbit has scattered, leaving you standing alone in the hallway during free period with nowhere particular to go.

You hesitate for half a second.

Then you turn left instead of right.

He’s in the library, of course. Corner table. Back to the wall. Book open. Highlighter aligned perfectly parallel to the desk’s edge.

He looks up when your shadow falls across the page. There’s no surprise in his expression. Just awareness.

“Your entourage is absent,” he observes.

“Rude,” you reply, sliding into the chair across from him. “They have lives.”

“And yet you are here.”

“Am I unwelcome?”

“No.”

The answer is immediate. It makes you smile.

You sit in companionable quiet for a moment. You scroll through your phone; he reads. The library hums softly around you, fluorescent lights steady overhead.

Then you sigh. “Do you ever get tired of being the composed one?”

He looks up slowly. “Clarify.”

“Like… people just assume you’re fine. Or that you don’t care. Or that you’ve got everything handled.”

He studies you.

“Frequently.”

You blink. “Oh.”

You hadn’t expected that.

You lean back in your chair. “Everyone thinks I’m confident all the time.”

“You are,” he says.

“Not always.” You hesitate. “I get scared before presentations. Even though everyone thinks I love attention.”

“You perform well regardless.”

“That’s not the same.”

He considers that, then nods once. “No. I suppose it’s not.”

The conversation drifts after that; from school to books to whether pineapple on pizza is morally indefensible. From future plans to places you’d travel to if you could. You talk about nothing, and somehow everything.

He listens. Not waiting for his turn. Not distracted. When you say something small and vulnerable, he doesn’t rush past it. He holds it carefully, like it matters.

At some point, you realise you’ve been there almost the entire period. Your phone buzzes — Harper asking where you are.

You glance at the time. “Oh my God.”

You gather your things quickly. “I didn’t mean to hijack your whole free period.”

“You did not.”

You pause, softer now. “I like sitting with you.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, but something in his expression shifts.

“As do I,” he says.

You smile like it’s the simplest truth in the world.

And when you leave, he watches you go. Not out of suspicion, not out of habit, but because he wants to.

Somewhere along the way, the space between you has changed. It’s no longer curiosity. No longer novelty. It’s steadier than that. Quieter.

You seek him out without thinking. He looks for you without meaning to.

And in the stillness of the library, beneath fluorescent lights and the soft thud of closing books, it settles into something heavier. Something that feels less like a passing orbit and more like gravity.

He overhears it by accident.

He is not eavesdropping; he has no need to. People speak at full volume in hallways as if privacy has become a historical concept. He’s at his locker, exchanging textbooks with mechanical precision, when your voice carries clearly around the corner.

“I just… don’t know if I’m going.”

He stills.

There’s a sharp inhale from one of your friends. “You have to go.”

“With who?” you ask.

It’s light. Casual. But there’s something thinner beneath it, stretched tight under the surface of your usual confidence. The question lingers in the air a beat too long.

He does not intend to listen.

He listens anyway.

“You don’t have a date?” someone demands, scandalised.

You laugh, but it isn’t the laugh you use in the cafeteria. Not the bright, unbothered one that fills space without effort.

“No,” you say. “It’s fine. I don’t need one.”

He finds himself staring at the inside of his locker door.

That does not compute.

You could have anyone. He has seen the way boys orbit you — the way they straighten when you walk past, the way they calibrate their tone as if speaking to someone just slightly out of reach. You move through the school like gravity has a preference.

Anyone.

He shuts his locker quietly just before you round the corner, your group dissolving into a storm of opinions and theatrical outrage. You don’t see him. You’re mid-gesture, shaking your head, but he catches the slight lift of your shoulders.

Defensive.

Bracing.

Later that afternoon, the classroom is half-empty, sunlight slanting low and warm through the windows. You’re at your desk stacking books into a neat pile, movements precise, composed. He is about to leave when your voice stops him.

“Are you going to the Spring Fling?”

Your tone is neutral. Almost offhand.

“No.”

You pause. He doesn’t look at you, but he feels it — the disruption in rhythm, the fraction of a second that stretches too long.

“Oh. Why?”

“It does not interest me.”

That is the truth. Or at least, it has always been the truth. A crowded gymnasium, loud music, ritualised social performance. None of it appeals to him.

You nod. “Fair.”

You say it easily. Too easily.

You slide your bag onto your shoulder. Your expression is polished, composed, but something lingers in your eyes when you glance at him. Expectation.

Or perhaps that is projection.

“Are you going?” he asks before he can stop himself.

You hesitate.

“Maybe.”

That is not what you said in the hallway.

He notices.

“You do not have a date,” he says, the thought escaping unfiltered.

Your lips press together in surprise. “Wow. Word travels fast.”

“I overheard.”

You tilt your head slightly. “And?”

“And nothing.”

You look away as you adjust the strap of your bag. “It’s fine,” you repeat. “I don’t need one.”

There it is again.

Fine.

You always say fine when the truth is more complicated.

He studies you with a focus he usually reserves for strategy. You do not need a date. That is objectively true. You do not need anyone.

But that is not the same as wanting.

The bell rings in the distance, voices rising in the hallway like a tide coming in. You step around him toward the door.

“I’ll probably just go with my friends,” you add lightly. “Or not go at all. It’s not that deep.”

Not that deep.

You say it like you’re trying to convince yourself.

You offer him a small smile — quieter than the ones you send across classrooms, softer than the ones in the cafeteria — then you leave.

He remains where he is for several seconds after the room empties.

It does not make sense.

You could have anyone.

Anyone.

And yet —

You had asked him first.

It isn’t you who tells him.

It happens after school, when the building has emptied into that strange, echoing quiet that follows the final bell. Lockers slam distantly. Sneakers squeak against polished floors. Late afternoon sunlight spills through the high windows, cutting the stairwell into bands of gold and shadow.

He’s halfway down the staircase when he hears quick footsteps behind him.

“Wayne.”

He pauses and turns slightly.

It’s Harper. Arms crossed. Expression sharp enough to cut glass.

He waits.

“You’re so stupid,” she says flatly.

He blinks once. “I beg your pardon?”

She exhales like she’s been holding this in for weeks. “She’s been waiting for you to ask her.”

The words don’t register at first. They land near him, heavy and indistinct.

“…What?”

“For the Spring Fling,” Harper clarifies, as if he’s the one struggling to keep up. “She hasn’t said yes to anyone. Because she thought you would.”

The stairwell feels abruptly smaller.

That is not possible.

You, the girl who moves through school like gravity bends around you. You, who could have any boy in the building with half a smile and a slightly tilted head.

Waiting?

“For me,” he repeats, because the sentence still feels incorrectly assembled.

“Yes. For you.” She throws her hands up. “Bradley asked her. Dejon asked her. That sophomore from soccer asked her. She said no to all of them.”

His mind blanks.

He tries to reconstruct the last few weeks with this new information inserted, and the memories shift under the weight of it. You asking him, almost casually, if he was going. The pause after he said no. The hallway conversation he wasn’t meant to hear — I just… don’t know if I’m going.

“She assumed you didn’t want to,” Harper continues, exasperation edging her voice. “Which, apparently, you don’t. But like obviously she would if you asked.”

Obviously.

There is nothing obvious about this.

He searches for the flaw in the logic, the exaggeration, the misinterpretation.

“She did not state this explicitly,” he says carefully.

Harper stares at him like he had just kicked a dog. “Jesus H. Christ, do you need her to submit it in writing?”

He doesn’t answer.

Because no.

He doesn’t.

He just hadn’t allowed himself to consider it.

Harper shakes her head. “You’re both impossible,” she mutters, already turning away. “Five days, by the way.”

She leaves him there. Mid-staircase, sunlight stretching long across the floor, the building hollow and quiet around him.

He stands very still.

Processing.

He replays everything.

The way you detoured to his table without hesitation. The Dr Pepper placed beside his tray without ceremony. The book he pretended was coincidental. The iMessage games during Math, the way you’d laughed and looked at him like he was in on something with you.

The free period in the library.

“I like sitting with you.”

“As do I.”

Every smile across classrooms. Every text sent too late to be casual. Every time you chose him publicly, lightly, as if it weren’t a risk at all.

He had categorised it as curiosity.

As kindness.

As an anomaly.

But what if it wasn’t? What if it was deliberate? The realisation settles slowly, like a blade being drawn with deliberate care. You were not tolerating him. You were not studying him. You were choosing him.

And the terrifying part is not that you might want him.

It’s that he wants you.

Not abstractly. Not theoretically. Specifically.

He wants to stand beside you in a crowded gymnasium and know you are there because he asked. He wants to see you in whatever dress you would have worn for someone else. He wants to be the reason you said yes.

The thought tightens something in his chest.

He has faced assassins. He has faced expectations carved into him since childhood. He has faced rooms of men who underestimated him and lived to regret it.

This feels infinitely more precarious.

Because this requires vulnerability.

Because this requires asking and the possibility of rejection.

He exhales slowly.

Five days. He has five days.

He can dismantle a security system in under three minutes. He can anticipate an opponent’s movement before it happens.

He does not know how to ask a girl to a dance.

Sunlight fades inch by inch along the stairwell as the afternoon wanes, shadows stretching, the building settling into evening quiet.

And for the first time in a very long while, Damian Wayne feels entirely, catastrophically unprepared.

He waits until he’s alone.

Not because this is classified information, and not because it requires operational secrecy, but because it is humiliating.

He stands in the middle of his room for a full minute with his phone in his hand, staring at the contact name as if it might rearrange itself into a better option. He considers texting. He considers abandoning the idea entirely.

Instead, he presses call.

It rings twice.

“Hey, little demon—”

“I require assistance. With a girl.”

Silence.

Two full seconds of it.

Then, very softly, like someone who has just uncovered buried treasure, Dick Grayson breathes, “Oh my God.”

Damian closes his eyes.

“You like someone.”

“That is not the point.”

“It is absolutely the point.”

Damian pinches the bridge of his nose. He should hang up. He knows he should hang up.

Instead, stiffly, he says, “The Spring Fling is approaching.”

Dick gasps as though this is breaking news on national television. “No.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And it has come to my attention that a particular individual has declined other invitations under the assumption that I would extend one.”

There is a beat.

Then another.

Dick’s voice lowers into something dangerously delighted. “Let me get this straight. This girl has been waiting for you to ask her to the Spring Fling.”

Damian does not respond.

He does not need to.

The silence confirms everything.

“Buddy,” Dick says, awe creeping into his tone, “you are so gone.”

“I do not need commentary. And don’t call me buddy.”

“You absolutely need commentary. This is the best day of my life.”

Damian exhales sharply. “I require logistical guidance.”

There’s a pause, then an audible grin. “Oh, this is better than I thought. You’re asking for help.”

“I am not asking for—”

“You are calling me because you don’t know what to do,” Dick sings. “That is asking for help.”

Damian hates that this is accurate.

He moves to sit on the edge of his bed, posture rigid. “I am unfamiliar with the social protocol surrounding such events.”

Dick hums thoughtfully. “Translation: you have no idea how to ask her.”

“I could simply inquire.”

A snort echoes through the line. “You could. If you want her to think you’re inviting her to a board meeting.”

“There is nothing inherently wrong with directness.”

“There is when it’s the Spring Fling.”

Damian’s jaw tightens. “Explain.”

“You need a sign.”

“A sign,” Damian repeats flatly.

“Yes. A poster. Something creative. Something that makes her smile.”

“…Absolutely not.”

He can face down trained assassins without hesitation. He will not parade through a hallway holding construction paper.

“Do you want her to say yes?” Dick asks, suddenly serious.

Damian hesitates.

The answer sits in his chest, heavy and undeniable.

“…Yes.”

The word is quieter than he expects.

There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line — the kind that means Dick has registered the shift in tone.

“Then we’re making a sign,” Dick says gently.

Damian leans back against his pillows, staring at the ceiling.

“This is absurd.”

“Correct.”

“It is performative.”

“Also correct.”

“It will draw unnecessary attention.”

“Very correct.”

“I despise you.”

“You love me,” Dick replies cheerfully. “Now. Tell me about her.”

That part is worse.

Because describing you feels exposing.

“She is,” he begins, then stops. The language refuses to cooperate.

“She is well-liked,” he settles on.

Dick laughs. “Wow. Poetry.”

“She commands attention without requesting it,” Damian continues, more controlled now. “She is frequently underestimated.”

“Mm-hm.”

“She pretends not to care about certain things. But she does.”

Dick is quiet again — listening this time, not teasing.

“And,” Damian adds, almost reluctantly, “she believes I did not wish to attend.”

“And you do,” Dick says.

It isn’t a question.

Damian stares at the ceiling.

“I wish to attend with her.”

There it is.

Clear. Unavoidable.

Dick exhales slowly. “Okay. Then we do this right.”

“I will not wear a costume,” Damian says immediately.

“No one said anything about a costume.”

“I will not dance in a public space while holding glitter.”

“No glitter,” Dick promises solemnly. “Probably.”

“Grayson.”

“I’m kidding. Relax.”

Damian doubts that reassurance.

“Tomorrow,” Dick continues, fully energised now. “You and me. Hobby Lobby. Poster board. Markers. Maybe a pun.”

“I will not use a pun.”

“You absolutely will.”

“This is degrading.”

“This,” Dick says, warmth threading through the teasing, “is you doing something scary because you care about someone.”

Damian falls silent.

He has done countless dangerous things. He has risked physical harm without flinching, stepped into rooms designed to test him, to break him. But this? This feels like stepping into open air without armor.

“You’re sure she’ll say yes?” he asks before he can stop himself.

Dick’s answer is immediate. “If she’s been waiting? Yeah. I’m sure.”

Damian swallows.

Five days.

Five days to construct something that will not make him want to disappear on contact.

“Fine,” he says at last.

Dick gasps dramatically. “Oh, we are so making this adorable.”

“It will not be adorable.”

“Sure, kid.”

The call ends with Dick still brainstorming slogans and color schemes as if planning a military operation.

Damian lowers the phone slowly.

He sits there for a long moment in the quiet of his room.

He thinks about you in the cafeteria, sunlight catching in your hair. About the way you laughed in Math when he lost at iMessage pool. About the softness in your voice when you’d asked if he was going.

He exhales.

He does not know how to do this.

But he knows one thing with startling clarity.

He wants to.

Damian Wayne has faced international assassins. He has disarmed explosives with seconds to spare, pulse steady, hands precise. He has interrogated men twice his size without raising his voice.

He has never, in his life, stood in the middle of a fluorescent-lit craft store staring at glitter glue with this level of dread.

The aisle is an assault on the senses. Neon poster boards. Foam letters. Heart-shaped stickers.

“This is ridiculous,” he mutters.

Beside him, Dick Grayson is vibrating with delight.

“This,” Dick says, gesturing broadly at the chaos of ribbon and cardstock, “is romance.”

“It is arts and crafts.”

“Same thing.”

Damian picks up a marker, examines the tip critically, and sets it back down. “Why is everything scented?”

“Because teenagers,” Dick replies.

They debate for twelve full minutes about color schemes. Dick suggests red. “Bold. Dramatic.”

“No.”

Blue. “Classic.”

“No.”

Glitter. “Fun.”

“Absolutely not. No.”

They finally settle on something simple. Not over-the-top. Just enough. A black poster board. Clean. Sharp.

“Very you,” Dick says approvingly. “Broody but intentional.”

“I am not broody.”

“Sure.”

Back at the manor, they spread everything out across the kitchen island. Damian stands rigidly over the poster board like he’s preparing for surgery.

“Want me to write it?” Dick offers, reaching for a marker.

“No.”

It’s immediate. Firm.

Dick pauses.

“It has to be mine,” Damian says, more quietly.

Dick’s expression softens before he lifts his hands in surrender. “All you.”

Damian exhales and lowers the gold paint marker to the board.

The first attempt is unacceptable. The lines are too tight. The spacing uneven. He stares at it for three seconds before sliding it aside.

“Perfectionism is very attractive,” Dick comments.

“Silence.”

The second attempt is worse. His hand is steady — it always is — but this is different. There is no blueprint. No schematic. Just intention and ink.

He discards that one too.

By the third, he slows down. He stops trying to make it impressive. He focuses on clarity. On sincerity.

The final version reads:

I would like for you to go to Spring Fling with me.

No puns. No glitter. No excessive decoration. Just gold lettering against black. Direct. Honest. Very him.

Dick leans back against the counter and wipes imaginary tears from his eyes. “Poetic. Mysterious. Vulnerable.”

“It is a sentence,” Damian says flatly.

“It is a sentence with emotional risk.”

Damian stares at the poster. He imagines holding it in the hallway. Imagines your friends’ faces. Imagines you reading it. He wants to disappear.

“This is ill-advised,” he mutters.

“And yet,” Dick says lightly, nudging the edge of the board closer to him, “you’re going to do it anyway.”

Damian grips the sides of the poster, jaw tight. He has faced down far worse. He tells himself that. He tells himself that walking into a crowded hallway with a sign is not equivalent to combat. His pulse does not seem convinced.

Dick claps him once on the shoulder. “She’s going to love it.”

Damian doesn’t trust his voice enough to respond. He only knows one thing with absolute certainty: he would rather face an army than watch you read that sign and hesitate.

And that, more than anything, is why his hands are not entirely steady.

He waits until lunch.

It would be strategically unsound to do this in a hallway between classes. Too chaotic. Too rushed. He needs you stationary. Surrounded by your orbit. Exactly where you always are.

The courtyard.

He spots you immediately. You’re perched on the low stone wall near the fountain, sunlight threading through your hair, one hand mid-gesture as you laugh at something your friend just said. There’s a circle around you, as there always is. Effortless. Magnetic.

For a moment, he considers retreat. This is absurd.

Then he steps forward.

People notice when Damian Wayne moves with purpose. Conversations dim. Not completely, but enough. Heads turn. A subtle shift in atmosphere ripples outward ahead of him.

You feel it. You turn. You see him first. Then you see what he’s holding. Your eyes widen.

He keeps the poster steady, though his pulse is violent beneath his skin. He is acutely aware of every step he takes toward you. Of every pair of eyes tracking him. Of the weight of the gold lettering against black.

He stops a few feet away. Up close, you look stunned.

“You told me,” he says carefully, voice even through sheer force of will, “that you are without a date.”

A beat.

“I have been informed that this was… intentional.”

Your friends have gone completely still. Harper’s hand is clamped over her mouth. Ava looks like she might faint. The courtyard might as well be frozen in glass.

“If that is accurate,” he continues, each word deliberate, “I would like to rectify the situation.”

He tilts the poster toward you. The gold catches in the sunlight.

I would like for you to go to Spring Fling with me.

Then, more plainly — because he refuses to hide behind ink —

“Go to Spring Fling with me.”

Silence.

It stretches. A fraction of a second. But in that fraction, his mind races with catastrophic recalculations. Perhaps Harper was mistaken. Perhaps you had reconsidered. Perhaps—

You move.

Not slowly. Not delicately. You drop your bag without looking. It hits the pavement with a thud he barely registers. You step forward and throw your arms around him. Hard. Not polite. Not careful. Hard.

The impact knocks the air from his lungs. He stiffens in pure shock. Your sweater presses warm against his jacket. Your arms wrap around his shoulders with certainty, like you were always meant to stand this close. Your cheek brushes his collarbone.

You’re laughing. Bright. Breathless. Disbelieving.

“Oh my God,” you breathe against him. “Yes, Dami. Obviously yes.”

The courtyard explodes. There’s actual screaming. Applause. Someone wolf-whistles. Your friends are losing their minds at a volume that defies physics.

He doesn’t hear any of it. Because you’re hugging him.

And slowly he allows his arms to move. They come up around you. He could hold you lightly. He does not. He holds you back. Firm. Certain. One hand settling at the middle of your back, the other steady at your shoulder. Not tentative. Not unsure. Steady. Like this is something he intends to keep.

You pull back just enough to look at him, hands still gripping his jacket. Your eyes are bright. Almost shining.

“You were really not going to ask me?” you whisper, half-laughing.

“I was under the impression you preferred other options.”

You stare at him.

“Idiot,” you say softly. But you’re smiling when you say it.

Around you, the courtyard is still buzzing. Phones are out. Your friends are sprinting toward you like this is the final scene of a sports movie.

Damian doesn’t care. Sunlight glints off the fountain. The gold lettering trembles slightly in his grip. Your hands are still on him.

In the collapse of every wall he ever built and every careful distance he maintained, he understands something with startling clarity. This was never a battle. It was never strategy. It was never about who would yield first. It was a choice.

And in front of everyone —

In front of the entire school —

You chose him.

And he chose you right back.

[jasontoddkissr]

damian wayne x freshman it-girl!reader .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦇 ݁˖ ݁𖥔 . fluff

wc: 1.8K

The partner announcement comes the week after the art room. The week after he made the mistake of looking at you for too long, letting his gaze linger in a way that made the air feel too thin. The class seems to hum with that memory, unspoken but present, a quiet ripple under the usual chatter.

Damian sits at his desk, still as ever, but the stillness carries weight now, a careful precision that seems impossible to ignore.

When the teacher says, “Pairs only,” the room reshapes itself instinctively.

Friends lean toward each other, forming predictable alliances. Chairs scrape against the floor as people shuffle and whisper, comfort and familiarity drawing them together.

You don’t need to move. People are already glancing your way. You can feel it in the quick, surreptitious looks, in the subtle tilts of heads, in the way a chair seems to open just a little wider when you approach.

It’s normal for you. The laughter that follows your jokes, the way conversations curve toward you naturally, the way someone almost always makes space without thinking about it. But today, your attention is elsewhere.

Across the room, Damian hasn’t moved. No one approaches him. His posture is perfect, shoulders squared, chin level. There’s a quiet brilliance about him, a precision that marks him as untouchable, as if anyone who comes too close might be burned.

He does not look at you, not even once, and you know why.

After last week, after the way your eyes met across the art room, he knows exactly how dangerous it would be. Not for him. For you.

A boy near the back teases without thinking, a half-laugh spilling into the air: “I call her.”

Your friend snorts. “You wish,” she says, but the words carry less bite than usual.

The humor in the room feels lighter, as if everyone is testing the edges of what they know, seeing how close they can get before the tension snaps.

Another voice, softer this time, drifts from near the window. “Guess Wayne’s alone.”

Eyes flick in his direction. A few eyebrows rise. Murmurs follow.

He doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t look up.

He remains a statue of discipline and control.

And yet, there is something about the way he sits that draws attention anyway. People sense it. They always do. Not just the brilliance, not just the reputation, but something raw and taut in his presence, a cord strung too tight to ever fully relax.

And still, he refuses to look at you. Not out of indifference, not because he does not want to, but because he cannot. He knows what happens if he does. He knows now what happens if your gaze finds him first.

You catch yourself noticing, as always. The precise angle of his jaw, the faint dark shadow under his eyes, the way his hands curl lightly around his pencil. The room, the students, the chatter — all of it fades a little.

And somewhere beneath it all, you feel the trace of last week: the echo of the art room, of him looking at you in a way that was far too deliberate to be accidental.

Your friends follow the shift in attention, leaning in slightly as if bracing themselves.

“I’m not working with him,” one mutters, voice low but sharp, like it’s already a verdict. “He’ll make it miserable.”

“He’ll rewrite everything,” another adds, the words spilling out before she realises.

“And he hates people,” a third says, shaking her head as if disgust alone could cancel him out.

You tell yourself not to care. You really do. This isn’t a popularity contest, not really. Damian Wayne doesn’t need your defense. And yet…

You can’t stop thinking about the art room. The way he’d looked at you, that impossible, measured glance that lingered just long enough to make your chest skip. The faint quirk of his eyebrow when he noticed you noticing him. The way he didn’t look away.

Something shifts in your chest. Something quiet, insistent, that pushes past your logic.

“I’ll do it,” you say before you can second-guess yourself.

Your friends freeze mid-laugh, mid-whisper, mid-expectation.

“Do what?” one of them asks, eyebrows raised like they just caught a misstep in the matrix.

“I’ll partner with him,” you repeat, softer this time, but firm. The words settle around the group like a small shockwave.

Heads turn. Not because it’s shocking that you volunteered. You’ve always been the girl everyone notices, the one who lights up the room without trying. But no, that’s not why.

Because it’s him.

You stop before you can back out. The air feels heavier somehow, charged, like the room itself is holding its breath. Your skin prickles. Your friends’ chatter fades to a dull hum.

Damian senses you before he looks up. You’ve never seen him move so deliberately, so slow, like every motion is measured to keep something in check.

When his gaze finally meets yours, it’s sharp, appraising, and just a fraction off from being startled. Up close, the composure he wears like armor looks thinner, almost vulnerable in a way you weren’t expecting.

“Wanna be partners?” you ask, letting your voice stay light, casual, like this is nothing. But the weight in the air tells you otherwise.

There’s a pause, just long enough for your chest to notice it.

“You are certain?” he asks, voice low, steady — but there’s disbelief buried in the edges. It isn’t mockery. It isn’t irritation. It’s the kind of disbelief reserved for things he never thought would touch his life.

You tilt your head, smile faint, teasing. “Do you not want to be?”

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. “That is not what I said.”

Behind you, you feel the subtle shift of eyes.

Curiosity.

Surprise.

The class measuring, recalibrating the social order as your choice tips it slightly off balance.

You can almost hear the whispers forming, but you don’t care. You’ve already made your move.

You smile again, small and bright and entirely unbothered, the kind of smile that carries both an invitation and a dare.

“Cool… uh, can I get your number so I can text you my address?”

The bell rings before he can respond, and the room exhales as one. Your bag is slung over your shoulder, but for a second, the world narrows, caught between the unspoken acknowledgment in his eyes and the quiet pulse of anticipation threading between you.

When he arrives at your house that Saturday, his hand hovers over the doorbell longer than necessary. He almost turns around. This is a mistake, he thinks, every instinct screaming at him to retreat.

You’re you.

You with glossy hair that catches the sunlight spilling through the windows, effortless and untouchable. A presence that bends the room around you, like people instinctively make space for you without thinking.

The girl everyone notices, everyone follows, everyone envies.

And last week, in the art room, you had looked at him. Not like he was some sharp-edged, inconvenient obstacle. Not like he was invisible. You had seen him. Really seen him.

The door swings open before he can reconsider.

You stand there, smiling, as if the pause, the hesitation, the unspoken warning he’s given himself doesn’t exist. And somehow, it makes it harder to leave.

You’re in an oversized sweater and soft shorts, hair loose around your shoulders instead of perfectly styled. Somehow it makes you even more striking, more effortless. He swallows, caught in the small gravity of you.

“Oh, good, you found it,” you say, casual, like the idea of him getting lost in your neighborhood was absurd. Like he was ever going to.

Inside, your house is warm and lived-in. Not sterile. Not echoing. It smells faintly of laundry detergent and something sweet he can’t quite name. It feels like home.

Your room, though, is another level entirely. Fairy lights drape across the walls, soft and golden.

Your vanity is cluttered with glosses and perfume bottles, a controlled chaos of color and scent. Magazines are stacked unevenly across your desk, edges curling from being thumbed through again and again.

The mirror is surrounded by photos — snapshots of you and your friends at games, at parties, at events he’s always observed from the edges, always watched from afar.

This is your world.

And you invited him into it.

You’re already talking as you clear a space for him at your desk, moving with that easy, practiced confidence that makes the room bend around you without even trying.

“I thought we could split the research evenly,” you say, like this isn’t a social gamble at all. That it’s natural, obvious even, to include him.

On your desk sits a bowl of snacks. And a large bottle of Dr Pepper.

His gaze lingers on it, sharp, measuring.

“I noticed you drink it a lot,” you add, casual, as if it’s nothing. As if you hadn’t been paying attention in a room where most people barely notice him at all.

Something tightens in his chest. Unease. Recognition. Something unfamiliar.

You really do notice him.

Not academically. Not competitively. Personally.

And suddenly, all his careful control feels insufficient, like he’s being pulled into a world he doesn’t know how to navigate — one that smells like jasmine perfume and laughter and all the things he thought he had to keep out.

He sits beside you, every sense sharpened by the nearness. When your shoulder brushes his when you lean toward the laptop a jolt runs through him, sharp and traitorous, and he has to remind himself to breathe.

You talk as you work, your voice a soft, familiar rhythm. You complain about presentations, about how people expect you to shine at them when you secretly dread the attention.

You laugh about your friends, how dramatic they were about him being your partner, though you insist they exaggerate.

He expects you to dominate the conversation, as you do every room you enter, as you do every social stage you grace. But you don’t.

You include him.

You ask what he thinks.

You let him adjust slides without commentary.

You listen when he suggests restructuring an argument.

There’s no condescension. No assumptions. No performance.

You don’t treat him like a problem to manage. You don’t treat him like a project.

You treat him like a person.

And for Damian, that is entirely disarming.

At one point, you laugh — bright, unfiltered, spilling across the room like wildflowers in spring — and it’s directed at something he said.

He’s not used to that.

He’s used to being respected. Feared. Tolerated. Never enjoyed.

When he finally mutters a quiet thanks, it’s soft enough that you almost miss it.

“For what?” you ask, curious.

“For the beverage,” he replies, clipped, careful.

You grin, casual. “You’re welcome.”

He doesn’t clarify that he meant more than that. He doesn’t admit that being here, surrounded by your warm, chaotic, glitter-soft world, feels dangerously close to wanting something he’s never allowed himself to want.

And when your eyes meet, it doesn’t feel like a battle anymore.

It feels like a line he’s already crossed.

[jasontoddkissr]

damian wayne x freshman it-girl!reader .𖥔 ݁ ˖🦇 ݁˖ ݁𖥔 . fluff

wc: 1.5K

Damian notices it the first time because he notices everything.

Art class is loud in a way he finds utterly intolerable: cheap pop music playing from someone’s phone, the smell of acrylic paint thick in the air, water cups turning murky at every table. He prefers precision. Clean lines. Discipline.

You are none of those things.

You’re three tables away, perched on a stool like the room arranged itself around you. Light from the high windows catches in your hair when you lean forward, and for a second it almost looks deliberate, as if the universe tilted just enough to make you glow. Your friends laugh at something you say, and the sound carries, bright and careless. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, distracted, focused on your canvas, completely unaware of the way you’ve pulled the air out of his lungs.

You shouldn’t be interesting.

And yet.

When he looks up from mixing a careful shade of ultramarine, your eyes are already on him.

Not wide. Not guilty.

Just there.

The moment stretches.

Most people, when caught staring at Damian Wayne, flinch. They look away too fast. They pretend they were examining the clock, the ceiling, the existential dread of freshman year. You don’t.

You blink once. Slow. Thoughtful. Like you’re committing something to memory. Then you turn back to your painting as if nothing monumental has occurred.

He scowls. It’s irritation. Obviously.

He returns to his palette. Adjusts the pigment ratio. Adds a touch more white. His pulse should not be noticeable. It is.

Ten minutes later, he forgets himself and looks up again.

There you are.

Looking.

Not whispering to your friends. Not laughing. Not performing.

Just looking.

Like he’s interesting.

His grip tightens around the brush. The bristles drag too hard against the canvas, leaving a harsh, unintentional streak through an otherwise flawless wash of color. Annoying.

The third time, he tells himself it is coincidence.

Statistically plausible. The human eye wanders. The classroom is small. Sightlines intersect.

He refuses to look first this time.

He lasts approximately thirty seconds.

When he glances up, you’re already there again, gaze steady across the room. There’s something different now. Curiosity. Almost softness.

You don’t smile. You don’t look away. You just tilt your head slightly, like you’re trying to solve him.

His stomach drops.

The fourth time, it is war.

Because now he knows it isn’t accidental.

Now there is a rhythm to it, like a thread pulling tight between tables and easels and the sharp scent of acrylic. Every time he lifts his head, you’re there, like you’ve been waiting. Like you knew he would.

It’s infuriating.

He does not wait for people to notice him.

He does not participate in silent games across crowded rooms.

And yet his awareness of you sharpens to an unbearable degree — the way your fingers smear cerulean across your canvas, the way you tuck your bottom lip between your teeth when concentrating, the faint streak of paint along your wrist you haven’t noticed.

He shouldn’t see these things. He doesn’t want to see these things.

He looks up again.

You’re smiling this time.

Not at him.

Just… in general. A small, private smile at something your friend says.

Damian Wayne does not get observed.

He studies.

He critiques.

He stands apart.

He does not sit three tables away from a girl who looks like she was designed for daylight and feel something small and treacherous split open in his chest every time she glances his way.

He does not lose track of his brushstrokes because she’s laughing.

He does not become acutely aware of the way she tilts her head when she’s concentrating, or the way she chews the inside of her cheek when she’s deciding on a color.

He certainly does not feel his pulse misstep when her eyes catch his and hold.

That would be absurd.

He is Damian Wayne.

He does not fracture because a girl looks at him.

This ends now.

He sets his brush down with controlled precision, wipes his hands, and rises.

If this is a battle of will, he will win it.

He sets his brush down with surgical precision. Wipes his hands. Stands.

Your friends notice him before you do. Of course they do. Their conversation hiccups. One of them nudges your elbow.

You turn.

And there it is again — that eye contact across the room. Charged now. Intentional.

Damian crosses the classroom like a general approaching a battlefield. He knows exactly what he’s going to say.

Cease staring at me.

Have you nothing better to occupy your time?

It is distracting.

He stops at your table.

Up close, you smell faintly of something warm and clean, and it unsettles him more than it should. Not overwhelming. Just there. Close. Real.

The overhead lights catch in your hair when you tilt your head up at him, and for a brief, traitorous second, he thinks it looks unfair. You’re not meant to exist under harsh classroom fluorescents but somewhere softer, somewhere golden.

He swallows.

This proximity was a mistake.

You look up at him expectantly.

His brain empties.

“I—” he begins.

Your friends are staring. All of them. Openly. Like he’s an exhibit.

He feels heat crawl up the back of his neck.

“I require—” No, too formal. Abort. “May I borrow your eraser?”

Silence.

Behind you, someone snorts.

You don’t.

You blink once, twice. Then, without pointing out the obvious — that you are all painting in acrylics and have not touched a pencil in forty minutes — you calmly reach into your pencil case.

You actually rummage.

Damian stands there, rigid, acutely aware that he has asked for an eraser in a room full of paint.

You hand it to him like this is perfectly reasonable.

“There you go.”

Your fingers brush his palm. Brief. Accidental.

He forgets how oxygen works.

“…Thank you,” he says stiffly.

This is where he leaves. That would be the tactical move.

He does not leave.

Instead, as if possessed by some humiliating external force, he adds, “Your hair looks nice today.”

The words fall out of him and shatter on impact.

One of your friends chokes. Another covers her mouth.

You go pink. Not dramatic. Just a soft bloom across your cheeks.

“Oh. Um. Thanks.”

He nods once. Sharp. Military.

Then he turns and walks away with all the dignity he can salvage.

The moment he’s out of earshot, your table detonates.

“Oh my god.”

“Did he just—?”

“An eraser?”

They dissolve into laughter, mimicking his tone. “May I borrow your eraser?” one of them drones dramatically, straight-backed and severe.

You don’t laugh.

You watch him instead.

He’s back at his table, staring at the eraser in his hand like it personally betrayed him.

He’s back at his table, staring at the eraser in his hand like it just exposed him to the entire class.

“Stop,” you mumble, heat climbing up your neck.

They all swivel toward you.

“Stop what?” one of them grins.

“He was just being nice,” you say, a little too quick.

“Nice?” another repeats, dramatically.

“Yes. Nice,” you snap, though you’re smiling despite yourself. They fall into a quieter kind of teasing after that. Less sharp.

You turn back to your canvas, but your chest feels strange. Light. Fluttery.

Across the room, Damian tries to resume painting.

He cannot focus.

He replays it. Every second. The way you didn’t laugh. The way you handed him the eraser like it wasn’t ridiculous. The way you thanked him with that small, genuine smile.

Worse — he hears it.

When your friends mock him, he tenses.

When you defend him, he stills.

“I think he’s sweet.”

The word lands somewhere deep and unfamiliar.

Sweet.

No one has ever used the word sweet in the same breath as Damian Wayne.

He keeps his eyes on his canvas for the rest of class, brush steady, posture perfect. Anyone watching would think he’s unaffected. Focused. Entirely composed.

He does not look at you again.

Not because he doesn’t want to.

But because he is almost certain that if he so much as lets his gaze wander three tables to the left, he will find you already looking back.

And he has faced assassins without flinching.

He is not nearly as confident about surviving that.

When the bell rings, the room breaks apart in a rush of scraping chairs and half-finished conversations. You move slower than the rest, sliding brushes into their case, zipping your bag with careful hands like you’re not aware of the way your pulse has picked up.

You tell yourself you’re just being thorough.

You stand.

And before you can stop yourself, you look.

Across the room, through the shifting bodies and fluorescent glare, he’s already watching you.

Not by accident. Not mid-glance.

Watching.

And somewhere in the pit of Damian’s carefully guarded chest, something shifts, quiet and dangerous and entirely out of his control.

He keeps the eraser.

He has no use for it.

But he keeps it anyway.