╭ ִֶָ☾.࣪࿐ 2007. future engineer. the moon incarnate. kohled eyes and midnight curls. supporting the arabic /middle eastern damian agenda. companion of cats. manifesting a sword. daughter of koriand'r. from the river to the sea palestine will be free.
╰┈ ‧₊˚ ☾.— ao3 , masterlist.
Dividers used — @priestboy @chrisssiren @anitalenia @uzmacchiato @somebitchprobably-graphicdump @dollywons
No armed robbers to take care of, no treacherous evil plans to foil, no villains from other dimensions to beat.
Which is why Damian Wayne was currently sitting in his room, doing nothing of great importance on a random Tuesday.
Propped up against a stack of pillows, Damian was lounging, a random book he stole from Bruce’s office in hand. One hand came to adjust his wired earbuds—which he still can’t believe he let you influence him into using.
A couple of steps away, you were seated on his desk chair, completely unbothered.
The fancy oak desk—usually used for studying, or some kind of intensive detective work, currently served as a temporary resting spot for your beauty products, and a smallish mirror you found in Damian’s bathroom.
Could you have done your makeup in the bathroom like any other person? Yes, but that would defeat the purpose of coming over to spend time with your boyfriend. Even if you two barely spoke a word to one another, save for when Damian decided to bless you with his melodic voice.
Truthfully, you had not interest in the contents of whatever old leather book your beloved had swiped from his father’s stash. You were,however, entirely content to let the relaxed rumble of your boyfriend’s voice wash over you whenever he decided to quote the texts.
Damian had just finished reading a rather dense paragraph detailing some medical procedure. He knew you weren’t paying any semblance of attention to anything he rambled about, but that didn’t deter him from shifting his focus from the inked pages and onto your form, hoping to gauge your reaction to the information.
You were far too busy, a careful hand dipping the applicator into its antique kohl bottle, gathering the fine dark powder onto its blunt tip. Leaning slightly closer to the mirror, you gently rested the applicator against your waterline, a seamless swoop with a closed eye.
Damian was transfixed, watching as you did it once, twice, thrice with unwavering precision. Each swipe deepening the rich, dark powder lining your pretty eyes, before steeping the applicator back in the kohl and repeating the same ritual onto the other eye.
Damian was stuck, book forgotten between his fingers, helplessly gazing at your reflection.
The muted Gotham sun was begging to dip lower outside, filtering through the sheer curtains of Damian’s room, casting your form in a haze of soft golden light. The melody of a beautiful love song started filtering through his wired earbuds—a track he had certainly not added to his playlist himself after you forced him to listen to during your date last week, all while singing the lyrics dramatically—accompanied the light, making the serene moment look like a page taken straight out of one of the many shojo mangas housed in his bookshelves.
“Are you alright, Damian?” Your voice pulled him out of his trance, it took him a second to realize you were teasing him, not genuinely asking about his wellbeing. “If you keep staring at me like that, I will have no choice but to assume that you have missed me.”
Damian stiffened, a pretty shade of red dusting his cheeks. He looked down, pretending to be enamored with the dry medical text, one hand shooting up to stop the music.
“Do not flatter yourself.” He replied, voice dropping back into its usual defensive tone, even if its effect was ruined by the subtle softening of his demeanor, and the hint of love in his eyes. “I was merely observing your technique, which for your information is quite sloppy.”
You chuckled. Damian’s critique was empty, he always compliments your kohl, and you know he thinks it graceful. It was merely a not very good attempt at halting your teasing comments.
“Is that so?” You sassed, turning to address him directly, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Why don’t you show me how it’s done then, beloved?”
Never one to back down from a challenge, Damian abandoned his resting place.
He possessed no knowledge of how to correctly apply kohl beyond what he had seen his mother do, and the few times she applied it on him herself. He hoped that would be enough to one up you, at least for today.
He took his seat on the chair with you standing behind him, handing him the precious bottle of kohl.
“Go on.” You urged.
Damian held the antique vessel with the kind of intense care reserved for disarming an explosive weapon. He twisted the decorative crown of the bottle, revealing the kohl stained applicator.
It reminded him of his mother, how he would watch her sit on her vanity, twisting open her own kohl bottle and applying the powder to her eyes. Often, she would urge him to kohl his own, a habit that slowly faded away after his move to Gotham.
Concerned by his abnormal stillness, you called out his name while placing a hand on his shoulder.
Going off of his muscle memory, Damian brought the applicator up to his eyes, lining them. The action was a familiar sense of comfort, the rare moments when he wasn’t training or fighting, but spending time with his mother in mundane ways.
“This is a simple task, and my technique is clearly superior.” He boasted, turning to rest his free hand on your waist.
You allowed him to situate you on his lap, taking advantage of the proximity to dust off some stray kohl dust from under his lower lashes.
“Not bad, I don’t know about superior tho.”
He gave you one of his signature ’Tt’ in mock offended disbelief, acting as if the lack of your praise and approval was a blow to his honor.
“It is superior, beloved.” He persuaded, tightening his hold on you.
“Uhm, no.” You pushed back, holding back a fit of giggles. “It’s literally not.”
“Hayati.” He warned, his lips desperately wanting to stretch into a smile. However, he suppressed the urge.
Eventually, the fight over whose technique was better died down, leaving you snuggled up in silence.
You kept gazing at him, specifically his eyes. You couldn’t help it, the kohl complimented his sharp green eyes and you were impossibly weak for his gaze.
Unable to hold back your aggressive affection for the boy currently serving as your resting place, you surged up, brushing your lips to his cheek in a firm kiss, imprinting the shape of your lips in gloss on his honeyed skin.
He was not surprised, having learnt to anticipate your random displays of love.
“You are impossibly distracting, Damian.”
A satisfied hum vibrated through his chest. He would never admit it, but having you—his beloved—praise him for any reason did something funny to his chest.
“Am I now?” He lowered his head, resting his forehead against yours and making sure to maintain the eye contact; all to watch you unravel slowly under his intense, love filled gaze.
You pursued your lips in a pout, trying and failing to keep your heartbeat in check, much to the content of your boyfriend. Cracking under the pressure, you let your eyes stray away from his. Only for Damian to tilt his head, keeping himself in your line of sight.
“Do not look away from me, Habibti.”
Knowing that he had rendered you speechless, Damian decided to repay the kiss you gave him with one of his own, firmly pressing his lips to your glossed ones.
“There, now we are even.” He whispered against your lips, a slight smirk gracing his face.
“You are insufferable.” you stated, crossing your arms as he walked off with you still cradled safely in his embrace, being carried off like a disobedient princess.
Unfazed, Damian dropped himself back on his bed, adjusting you so you were more comfortable.
“You were the one who initiated the display, beloved.”
You huffed, finally dropping the defensive fold of your arms as you let your head rest against his shoulder. There was no point in arguing with him when his body was this warm, and his hold on you was this comforting—besides, Damian would never let you win, and this argument could last for days if you let it.
“Now hold still, beloved.” He whispered into your hair, already resting his cheek onto your head, and closing his eyes.
Oh, how you two wished Gotham would stay quiet. Just for a little longer.
Masterlist
a/n : hi hi, I came to you with another one shot. I am going to be honest moonbeams I really didn’t know where I was going with this one beyond the fact that I wanted it to contain kohl. I personally love wearing authentic kohl powder, and it’s my favorite and only way of lining my eyes. This is also posted on my ao3. As always thank u for reading <3
🪼 — bkg. k x f!reader | quirkless-college au | fluff | headcanons
★ College bf!Katsuki who is in his third year of college, taking up engineering. He’s also been part of the soccer team since his freshman year, and now that he’s a junior, he has become the team’s captain.
★ College bf!Katsuki who is two years older than you. He’s also your neighbor, so you’ve known each other for years. And since you’re younger than him, his friends— aside from Izuku, don’t know much about you and your relationship with Katsuki. They only get to know you once you start attending the same university as them, finally putting a face to the person Katsuki had been talking about sometimes.
★ College bf!Katsuki who has been insanely popular with the ladies from different departments since his freshman year. They’d slip love letters into his locker or sometimes personally hand him an energy drink after practice. Unfortunately for them, Katsuki flatly rejected every confession, saying there was already someone else.
★ College bf!Katsuki who somehow created a rumor during his second year, about him having a girlfriend because he kept rejecting everyone who confessed to him. What they don’t know is that he wanted you to become his girlfriend so badly— he just never had the courage to ask you out.
★ College bf!Katsuki who finally got the courage to ask you out on a date right before you entered college. So when the first day of classes came— with him as a junior and you as a freshman, people were surprised to see Katsuki walking around campus with a girl without his usual grumpy expression.
★ College bf!Katsuki who never actually tells anyone he has a girlfriend. People figure it out by watching how he interacts with you— they just connect the dots. They finally understand why Katsuki has been rejecting those girls all this time. And whenever his friends or classmates ask him if the two of you are dating, he just answers with a casual “yeah.”
★ College bf!Katsuki who insists on walking you to your class while carrying your bag if it gets too heavy with your laptop and books. Sometimes, he’s even seen holding a small paper bag from a nearby cafe with your favorite pastry inside. Him walking you to class would occasionally make him late by three minutes, but none of his teachers care since he’s always at the top of the class anyway.
★ College bf!Katsuki who intimidates any guy who gets too close or flirty with you. He quietly hovers behind you whenever someone is taking too much of your time, making them know you’re taken by subtly resting a hand on your lower back or around your waist.
★ College bf!Katsuki who isn’t a big fan of PDA but gladly holds your hand or rests an arm over your shoulders when you walk together. And if the hallway is getting too crowded, he’ll walk in front of you, holding your hand as he guides you through the crowd.
★ College bf!Katsuki who knows all the quiet spots around campus. He’ll take you there whenever you both have an hour or two between classes just to relax together. It’s also where he can hug you, hold you, or steal a kiss without a lot of people watching,
★ College bf!Katsuki who waits for your classes to end every day. Since he has a soccer practice after his own classes, he can’t walk you home, so he waits until you’re dismissed just to say goodbye properly before heading to practice.
★ College bf!Katsuki who sometimes asks you to wait for him until practice is over. Usually, you’ll sit on a nearby bench doing your school or watching the team scrimmage. And during water breaks, he’ll jog over and sit beside you under the excuse of taking a drink— where he purposely left his water bottle with you just so he could come over.
★ College bf!Katsuki who tutors you in the subjects you’re not good at. It’s common knowledge that Katsuki is incredibly smart, constantly ranking in the top three of the engineering department. Although, what’s surprising is how good he is at teaching. He’ll take you back to his dorm and patiently teach you through every problem until you understand it. He’ll then leave you completely flustered when he compliments you every now and then— “good girl.”
★ College bf!Katsuki who takes you out to your favorite diners whenever you ace a major quiz or an exam, saying it’s a celebration for surviving and studying hard. And if you try to tell him he doesn’t have to “reward” you every time, he’ll just brush it off and say you earned it.
★ College bf!Katsuki who sometimes sits in on your classes whenever he has free time. He’s not there to disrupt the class or distract you from learning— he just sits beside you, quietly working on his own assignments or projects.
★ College bf!Katsuki who knows your entire schedule by heart even though you never gave him a copy of it. He just memorized it after walking you to class so many times. So whenever he hears that one of your professors canceled a lecture, he’ll immediately text you to ‘meet me at the spot.’
★ College bf!Katsuki who takes you to every one of his soccer matches. He insists that you wear his away-jersey and makes sure you sit near his team’s bench. And before every match officially begins, he’ll come over to collect what he calls his “good luck kiss.”
★ College bf!Katsuki who also takes you to every after-party whenever his team wins. He stays by your side most of the night, but if you insist on him having fun with his friends, he’ll make sure you’re always within his line of sight, making sure you’re safe and enjoying with your girl friends.
★ College bf!Katsuki who always has a black hair tie around his left wrist because you kept forgetting yours. He knows how annoyed you get whenever strands of hair fall into your face while you’re trying to take notes, or when the heat and sweat makes your hair stick to the back of your neck. And just when you start looking for your hair tie, you remember you forgot it again for the nth time. Without fail, Katsuki will give you the one from his wrist.
★ College bf!Katsuki who makes bento boxes for the both of you. The two of you always eat together at your favorite lunch spot. 80% of the time, Katsuki cooks something spicy. At first, you could only handle the milder version of his cooking, but now your spice tolerance is waaay higher. What you don’t know is that he’s been increasing the spice level just a little everyday.
No armed robbers to take care of, no treacherous evil plans to foil, no villains from other dimensions to beat.
Which is why Damian Wayne was currently sitting in his room, doing nothing of great importance on a random Tuesday.
Propped up against a stack of pillows, Damian was lounging, a random book he stole from Bruce’s office in hand. One hand came to adjust his wired earbuds—which he still can’t believe he let you influence him into using.
A couple of steps away, you were seated on his desk chair, completely unbothered.
The fancy oak desk—usually used for studying, or some kind of intensive detective work, currently served as a temporary resting spot for your beauty products, and a smallish mirror you found in Damian’s bathroom.
Could you have done your makeup in the bathroom like any other person? Yes, but that would defeat the purpose of coming over to spend time with your boyfriend. Even if you two barely spoke a word to one another, save for when Damian decided to bless you with his melodic voice.
Truthfully, you had not interest in the contents of whatever old leather book your beloved had swiped from his father’s stash. You were,however, entirely content to let the relaxed rumble of your boyfriend’s voice wash over you whenever he decided to quote the texts.
Damian had just finished reading a rather dense paragraph detailing some medical procedure. He knew you weren’t paying any semblance of attention to anything he rambled about, but that didn’t deter him from shifting his focus from the inked pages and onto your form, hoping to gauge your reaction to the information.
You were far too busy, a careful hand dipping the applicator into its antique kohl bottle, gathering the fine dark powder onto its blunt tip. Leaning slightly closer to the mirror, you gently rested the applicator against your waterline, a seamless swoop with a closed eye.
Damian was transfixed, watching as you did it once, twice, thrice with unwavering precision. Each swipe deepening the rich, dark powder lining your pretty eyes, before steeping the applicator back in the kohl and repeating the same ritual onto the other eye.
Damian was stuck, book forgotten between his fingers, helplessly gazing at your reflection.
The muted Gotham sun was begging to dip lower outside, filtering through the sheer curtains of Damian’s room, casting your form in a haze of soft golden light. The melody of a beautiful love song started filtering through his wired earbuds—a track he had certainly not added to his playlist himself after you forced him to listen to during your date last week, all while singing the lyrics dramatically—accompanied the light, making the serene moment look like a page taken straight out of one of the many shojo mangas housed in his bookshelves.
“Are you alright, Damian?” Your voice pulled him out of his trance, it took him a second to realize you were teasing him, not genuinely asking about his wellbeing. “If you keep staring at me like that, I will have no choice but to assume that you have missed me.”
Damian stiffened, a pretty shade of red dusting his cheeks. He looked down, pretending to be enamored with the dry medical text, one hand shooting up to stop the music.
“Do not flatter yourself.” He replied, voice dropping back into its usual defensive tone, even if its effect was ruined by the subtle softening of his demeanor, and the hint of love in his eyes. “I was merely observing your technique, which for your information is quite sloppy.”
You chuckled. Damian’s critique was empty, he always compliments your kohl, and you know he thinks it graceful. It was merely a not very good attempt at halting your teasing comments.
“Is that so?” You sassed, turning to address him directly, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Why don’t you show me how it’s done then, beloved?”
Never one to back down from a challenge, Damian abandoned his resting place.
He possessed no knowledge of how to correctly apply kohl beyond what he had seen his mother do, and the few times she applied it on him herself. He hoped that would be enough to one up you, at least for today.
He took his seat on the chair with you standing behind him, handing him the precious bottle of kohl.
“Go on.” You urged.
Damian held the antique vessel with the kind of intense care reserved for disarming an explosive weapon. He twisted the decorative crown of the bottle, revealing the kohl stained applicator.
It reminded him of his mother, how he would watch her sit on her vanity, twisting open her own kohl bottle and applying the powder to her eyes. Often, she would urge him to kohl his own, a habit that slowly faded away after his move to Gotham.
Concerned by his abnormal stillness, you called out his name while placing a hand on his shoulder.
Going off of his muscle memory, Damian brought the applicator up to his eyes, lining them. The action was a familiar sense of comfort, the rare moments when he wasn’t training or fighting, but spending time with his mother in mundane ways.
“This is a simple task, and my technique is clearly superior.” He boasted, turning to rest his free hand on your waist.
You allowed him to situate you on his lap, taking advantage of the proximity to dust off some stray kohl dust from under his lower lashes.
“Not bad, I don’t know about superior tho.”
He gave you one of his signature ’Tt’ in mock offended disbelief, acting as if the lack of your praise and approval was a blow to his honor.
“It is superior, beloved.” He persuaded, tightening his hold on you.
“Uhm, no.” You pushed back, holding back a fit of giggles. “It’s literally not.”
“Hayati.” He warned, his lips desperately wanting to stretch into a smile. However, he suppressed the urge.
Eventually, the fight over whose technique was better died down, leaving you snuggled up in silence.
You kept gazing at him, specifically his eyes. You couldn’t help it, the kohl complimented his sharp green eyes and you were impossibly weak for his gaze.
Unable to hold back your aggressive affection for the boy currently serving as your resting place, you surged up, brushing your lips to his cheek in a firm kiss, imprinting the shape of your lips in gloss on his honeyed skin.
He was not surprised, having learnt to anticipate your random displays of love.
“You are impossibly distracting, Damian.”
A satisfied hum vibrated through his chest. He would never admit it, but having you—his beloved—praise him for any reason did something funny to his chest.
“Am I now?” He lowered his head, resting his forehead against yours and making sure to maintain the eye contact; all to watch you unravel slowly under his intense, love filled gaze.
You pursued your lips in a pout, trying and failing to keep your heartbeat in check, much to the content of your boyfriend. Cracking under the pressure, you let your eyes stray away from his. Only for Damian to tilt his head, keeping himself in your line of sight.
“Do not look away from me, Habibti.”
Knowing that he had rendered you speechless, Damian decided to repay the kiss you gave him with one of his own, firmly pressing his lips to your glossed ones.
“There, now we are even.” He whispered against your lips, a slight smirk gracing his face.
“You are insufferable.” you stated, crossing your arms as he walked off with you still cradled safely in his embrace, being carried off like a disobedient princess.
Unfazed, Damian dropped himself back on his bed, adjusting you so you were more comfortable.
“You were the one who initiated the display, beloved.”
You huffed, finally dropping the defensive fold of your arms as you let your head rest against his shoulder. There was no point in arguing with him when his body was this warm, and his hold on you was this comforting—besides, Damian would never let you win, and this argument could last for days if you let it.
“Now hold still, beloved.” He whispered into your hair, already resting his cheek onto your head, and closing his eyes.
Oh, how you two wished Gotham would stay quiet. Just for a little longer.
Masterlist
a/n : hi hi, I came to you with another one shot. I am going to be honest moonbeams I really didn’t know where I was going with this one beyond the fact that I wanted it to contain kohl. I personally love wearing authentic kohl powder, and it’s my favorite and only way of lining my eyes. This is also posted on my ao3. As always thank u for reading <3
a/n : moonbeams<3 how are you? I am going to be honest, I was shocked by the amount of love you guys showed to the first chapter and would like to thank you so much for that, i even doubted if I could do this idea justice after. However, I pushed through and here I offer you chapter two. It ain’t much but it’s honest work. Here is the masterlist (is that what you call it?) for this work. Thank u for reading<3
Chapter 2. Of course it requires magic
°。 ⋆༺ 𓋹༻⋆。 °
To say Damian didn’t sit still for long would be the understatement of the year.
Long gone was the brooding, injured boy who was on lockdown under your blankets glaring at nothing, while you tended to his injuries. In his place was a creature of absolute hyperactivity.
It started at dawn. You were fast asleep on the couch, you weren’t about to let someone in a state such as his sleep anywhere but on a bed, when the lack of stillness and peace began.
First, it was the rhythmic thuds echoing through the old wood, ones that you were more than willing to block out and submit to the sweet lull of sleep. But because you can’t have nice things in this world, the soft thuds soon transitioned into grunts, groans and occasional war cries that pulled you out of your unconscious state every time you slipped into it.
Peeking out of your quilt, the time on the mounted clock read 4:12 am. Too early for any human—let alone one in a questionable state —to be doing any kind of actual activity, but apparently the boy you are housing does not operate on human logic, or anything adjacent to it.
Just yesterday he was complaining about his ribs, and the splitting headache he had. Now he was terrorizing your sleeping schedule.
Unable to stand another war cry, you carried yourself to the nearby window, where Najm was lounging on the windowsill, overlooking a shirtless Damian.
He was engrossed in training. His sword slicing through the cold air, each swipe was fast, clean and efficient. You wondered how long he had been training for to reach this level of mastery. How long to possess muscles this defined. How long to be able to train and fight this well, even while injured. After all, he looked no older than you, perhaps a year or two older at best.
He continued on for a long while, twisting and turning his body in ways you didn’t realize were possible, reminding you why you quit sword fighting lessons when you were younger—it is not like they served much purpose in comparison to your spell book.
The realization of how much time had passed was lost on you, until you caught sight of the first rays of sunlight, peeking over the mountain top.
“Meow?” Najm sounded loudly, giving you the ‘what’s up with you’ look, completely unimpressed with your lack of focus, among other things. He in particular had a keen eye, and never seemed to miss a detail when it came to you.
“Shut up, you know me better than that.” You snapped, The implication of the look the cat— blacker than your shadow—gave making your skin crawl with disgust.
Damian had felt your gaze on him for quite a while now, but the boy wonder chose to ignore it. Now that he was done, it was his turn to observe you.
You were glaring at Najm, looking absolutely offended. You had a habit of talking to your cats like they actually understood everything you said and did, and perhaps the pair actually do— he had witnessed Sultana sass you for food, and Najm handing you bandages to dress his wounds on command.
He waited till you set your gaze upon him once again, before addressing you loudly. “Enjoyed the show?” He smirked, making sure to maintain the eye contact just to make it more annoying and humiliating.
Blood rushed to your cheeks, the expression you wore was mortification mixed with pure embarrassment, quite the delight to Damian’s eyes.
He watched as you frantically scooped up Najm into your arms with no grace whatsoever, before slamming the window shut.
“Meow-“
“Not a word!” You yelled.
Najm, ever the unbothered king, jumped out of your arms and onto where Sultana lays, and started to lick away at his midnight blue fur.
You stood there for a minute, contemplating.
You were a witch, in your own home. You had defended yourself and your companions against wayward spirits, aggressive entities, and ancient curses. A wounded, arrogant human with a katana was nothing to you!
With a renewed sense of self-confidence, you reopened the window.
With a bit of a lean, you whispered a few words and flicked your right wrist, willing a rather harsh tuft of wind to blow around him. Violently whipping his hair around, and obscuring his vision. Forcing him to break his otherwise smug stance and stagger back, trying to escape from the onslaught of wind.
Satisfied with your petty revenge over nothing in particular, you retreated back into the room. Where Najm had began grooming Sultana’s multicolored fur, and laid down to catch a few more hours of sleep, this time uninterrupted.
°。 ⋆༺ 𓋹༻⋆。 °
If you had hoped that little display would make him retreat, and perhaps rethink his life choices out of sheer awkwardness, then you had greatly underestimated Damian Wayne. Again.
Later that same day, you had walked in on him browsing through your books and codices.
“This language is unfamiliar,” he stated without looking up, still tracing the spines of books, some he lingered on to attempt and decipher the languages. “and your indexing system is a mess—actually no, a disaster. I have found 2 separate books on potion making between stacks that are clearly mythical creatures classifications.”
You leaned against the doorframe, a couple of dried lavender leaves in hand. He looked much more put together than before, having found a black tunic in your closet to replace his broken gear, yet he still wore the black trousers from his uniform.
“It is not a mess, nor a disaster.” You answered calmly.
You pushed yourself off of your resting place, catching his hand before it could lift up a particular cursed tome.
“Also, you ought to be more careful,” You warned ”Some of these have spells on them that will burn your fingers off if you touch them uninvited.”
He gave you a side glance, as if not believing you. However, he did let his arm go slack, backing away from the massive book.
“Some will even curse you for eternity.” You continued, dropping his arm.
“Tt, superstitions…” he muttered, leaving you standing there as he existed the room.
Not even 2 hours later you found him in your previously locked antique room, where once again he complained about your tendency to hoard stuff and your organization skills.
In retaliation, you zapped him with lightning.
Thankfully, he was decent enough to keep quiet during nighttime after that.
But only during nighttime, because the next morning you walked into your room, a tray of the finest, magically infused medical supplies in hand to check on his condition, only to find it deserted.
Of course, a gremlin such as himself would not sit still at 3 in the afternoon, that would be too convenient.
You ventured outside, and lo and behold there he was, about 8 meters above the ground, casually seated on your roof.
If you were just a bit crueler, you would just leave him to his own devices. Unfortunately, you did know better than to let a mildly concussed person sit on an unstable, flimsy roof.
“WHAT! In the name of the heavens are you doing up there?!”
Damian, ever so charming, just sneered at you.
“What does it look like I am doing? I am assessing the damages.”
“You are assessing the damages?” You questioned, voice dropping into a dangerously calm tone.
You looked up, a hand coming to shield your eyes from the sun’s glare. “With almost cracked ribs? And a concussion caused by your brain being rattled like a tin can from falling through this very roof?” You listed, hoping that perhaps he would see how stupid he was, and descend carefully. “I re-stitched you this morning, Damian!”
“My ribs were merely bruised.” He corrected, shifting his weight onto a wooden beam.
“Besides, if one bad storm hits this area, your entire eastern wall may collapse inward.” He noted. “We need to do something about this, and fast.”
Truth is Damian felt immensely guilty for the destruction of your home. He literally fell through it, terrifying your cats—whom he had grown awfully close with in light of recent events— destroyed most of your entrainment like the tv by flattening the satellite into a pancake, and the one you raved about the most ; stripping you of your peaceful life.
While him getting teleported here was not his fault—seriously, how was he supposed to know a glowing rock could do that— he should have been more careful, knowing that he was dealing with magical artifacts during the mission.
Besides, Damian does not like owing anyone anything, and you had not only saved his life but also housed, took care of and fed him.
So yeah, he was well enough to leave by his own standards—won’t be his first time surviving an unknown place. He just couldn’t bring himself to do it.
“The only thing collapsing inward will be you, if you don’t get down from there this instant,” you shot back. “I certainly did not patch you up, and waste my valuable potions and threads on you, just so you could paint my beloved garden with your insides. Get. Back. Down!”
You did not want to admit it, but something about him risking his own wellbeing just like that was sweet, yes. But uncomfortable and unnerving.
He climbed down the side of the cabin, dropping from what should have been a safe height, yet the echos of pain vibrated through his body the moment his feet graced the ground.
You bolted to his side, magic already enveloping your hand as they hovered over his torso.
“Merely bruised, you say?”
He scowled at you, still hunched over.
“D-do not coddle me..” He gritted out. Though he did not pull away from the pleasant hum of magic coming from your palms.
“This is not coddling, you egotistical brick-“
He cut you off, straightening himself the moment the pressure started to let up.
You staggered back, wiping invisible dust off of your skirt with a sharp exhale. Your hands felt heavy, shaking with the effort of restoring vitality to Damian’s body.
“I estimated the amount of wood we need.” He watched you lean against the side of the house, eyes unfocused, your face slightly less colored than before. “Are you alright?”
You shook your head, trying to focus on him, not the throbbing yet dull pain. “Yes, yes. Go on.”
He narrowed his eyes, regarding you with a much more clinical gaze, but did not push further, settling for telling you about the amount of wood you needed to fix your place up, and explaining the over complicated ways he he used to reach that conclusion. All of which you were half listening to.
“—and we will require precisely three heavy structural rafters to replace the beams.” Damian finished, crossing his arms and looking thoroughly pleased with his engineering report. “I suggest we venture over there, I am certain we will find some good trees that should suffice.”
You nodded along, wiping off a drop of sweat with the back of your hand. Letting out a faint, breathless sound.
“That’s impressive and all, however it won’t work.” You stated. Adjusting sleeves over your cold hands, hoping you still had some tea leaves from that one traveling merchant. They would work wonderfully to rid of the chill.
Damian’s self satisfied expression vanished, his eyebrows knitting together, a sign of his defensive frustration and confusion.
“And why would it not work? My calculations are flawless. And the woods found near this area should be more than sufficient for the job.”
“Yes, dearest. Your calculations are correct, truly impeccable.” You could feel your patience dwindling, thanks to the headache suddenly shooting through your skull, a high pressure fountain of pain. “But that’s assuming that we are using regular wood.”
Damian stared at your pale form, torn between inquiring about what regular wood meant, and if he should be ready to catch you in case you collapse.
Before he could get a word out, you spun on your heels rather clumsily and headed towards the entrance of the cabin.
“Come on, I will explain over lunch.”
“Tt.”
Damian was rarely patient for answers, but the thought of some warm food and maybe a drink was enough coaxing for him to drop his questions, for now.
°。 ⋆༺ 𓋹༻⋆。 °
The aroma of stew filling the kitchen was oddly comforting, especially since each step started feeling heavier than the last.
Magic often had a price, and healing magic was as taxing as they get. Which is why you rarely preformed it and stuck to medical herbs, enchanted instruments and tonics.
Damian was busy plating a few pieces of meat for the pair of spoiled felines, Sultana wasted no time rubbing herself against his calf with a soft purrs, acting cute in hopes of getting the food. Najm, on the other hand, waited patiently at his feet.
You ladled the vegetable stew into bowls, before transporting them to the fully set table, setting them gently on each side.
You had found out about Damian being vegetarian when you made the mistake of serving him meat on his first day here. He didn’t really say anything, but did look painfully uncomfortable that you ended up replacing the food you initially gave him with a plate of sautéed vegetables.
He took his seat across from you on the wooden table. Posture stiff but upright, clearly trying to fight his injuries even in the most mundane of ways. One hand came to pick up the spoon, stirring the broth for a moment before nodding— high praise from a guy who looked at your kitchen like it was a biohazard lab. It was clean, he was just being insufferable.
“Do you plan on explaining your words?”
You leaned back in your seat, brain working through the haze to organize your words into an easy to understand explanation.
“Long story short, this house was built out of enchanted wood.” You simplified.
If Damian’s expression was anything to go by, he was this close to walking out and risk dying in an unknown remote location.
“Of course, why did I think it would be something normal?” He shook his head, brushing his hair back using his fingers. “It’s obvious we need magic wood, how did I not see that coming.”
You continued taking small sips out of your drink, avoiding his eyes.
“I assume the timbers we need are not located in the nearby forest, are they?” Oh, how he hoped he was wrong.
“They are located somewhere around the mountain on the very edge of these lands…” you bit your lip, gaze shifting to stare at the table like it’s the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen.
“Tt.”
An awkward silence stretched over the room, after all the situation was kind of ridiculous. Every time he attempts to solve a problem, a new one just emerges and complicates the whole situation even more. He was at his wits’ end.
You busied yourself with your skirt, picking at loose threads, and the holes in your overlaid lace. Damian on the other hand, picked up Sultana and placed her on his lap, scratching behind her ear while looking deeply in thought. The soft purring of the tabby helped calm his nerves a little.
“I can go alone, it is not that far of a–“
“Absolutely not.” He countered.
“But you are still injured and–“
He furrowed his eyebrows, pining you with a sharp look, effectively shutting you up. “I am perfectly capable of walking up the mountain. I cannot leave this task in the hands of someone who looks like they would faint over a bowl of stew.” His words were more venomous than he meant them to be.
His expression softened, already regretting the tone of his words. He found you immensely annoying, but he surely didn’t want you dead.
The rest of the meal was spent in silence, the only sound was the occasional scraping of the spoon, and the quiet purring of Sultana. Who deemed Damian as her seat for the rest of the afternoon.
Before you knew it, the sun had gone down and the house was shrouded in darkness.
“Make sure to wake up early tomorrow,” you spun around to address him, a lit candle in hand. Catching him before he could walk all the way up the stairs to his—your— room. “We will need to prepare our bags for the journey, along side some other things.” You trialed off, thinking of all the possible items you would need.
It seemed like a trip to the marketplace was in order, much sooner than you would have liked.
“You seem to forget which one of us sleeps till noon, and which wakes up before the crack of dawn, Witch.” He mocked, already halfway up the stairs.
He took another step and then halted, tilting his head to look down at your candlelit form.
“Is that why you refused to do the repairs using magic?” Leaning casually over the railing, he concluded. “You just couldn’t do it.”
“Yes, Damian.” You scoffed. ”I can’t just fix everything with magic, it’s practically impossible to.”
People always assume being a witch means having no problems, as you could just spell them away. The truth is, each spell takes something from you. It could be something small or something vital. Meaning that every time you cast one, you must weigh out its pros and cons.
╭ ꗃ𝑺𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔: After crashing through a witch's home, Damian Wayne is forced into an alliance with the reluctant witch. She will help him recover, and he will fix the damage he caused. Simple, right?
a/n : moonbeams<3 how are you? I am going to be honest, I was shocked by the amount of love you guys showed to the first chapter and would like to thank you so much for that, i even doubted if I could do this idea justice after. However, I pushed through and here I offer you chapter two. It ain’t much but it’s honest work. Here is the masterlist (is that what you call it?) for this work. Thank u for reading<3
Chapter 2. Of course it requires magic
°。 ⋆༺ 𓋹༻⋆。 °
To say Damian didn’t sit still for long would be the understatement of the year.
Long gone was the brooding, injured boy who was on lockdown under your blankets glaring at nothing, while you tended to his injuries. In his place was a creature of absolute hyperactivity.
It started at dawn. You were fast asleep on the couch, you weren’t about to let someone in a state such as his sleep anywhere but on a bed, when the lack of stillness and peace began.
First, it was the rhythmic thuds echoing through the old wood, ones that you were more than willing to block out and submit to the sweet lull of sleep. But because you can’t have nice things in this world, the soft thuds soon transitioned into grunts, groans and occasional war cries that pulled you out of your unconscious state every time you slipped into it.
Peeking out of your quilt, the time on the mounted clock read 4:12 am. Too early for any human—let alone one in a questionable state —to be doing any kind of actual activity, but apparently the boy you are housing does not operate on human logic, or anything adjacent to it.
Just yesterday he was complaining about his ribs, and the splitting headache he had. Now he was terrorizing your sleeping schedule.
Unable to stand another war cry, you carried yourself to the nearby window, where Najm was lounging on the windowsill, overlooking a shirtless Damian.
He was engrossed in training. His sword slicing through the cold air, each swipe was fast, clean and efficient. You wondered how long he had been training for to reach this level of mastery. How long to possess muscles this defined. How long to be able to train and fight this well, even while injured. After all, he looked no older than you, perhaps a year or two older at best.
He continued on for a long while, twisting and turning his body in ways you didn’t realize were possible, reminding you why you quit sword fighting lessons when you were younger—it is not like they served much purpose in comparison to your spell book.
The realization of how much time had passed was lost on you, until you caught sight of the first rays of sunlight, peeking over the mountain top.
“Meow?” Najm sounded loudly, giving you the ‘what’s up with you’ look, completely unimpressed with your lack of focus, among other things. He in particular had a keen eye, and never seemed to miss a detail when it came to you.
“Shut up, you know me better than that.” You snapped, The implication of the look the cat— blacker than your shadow—gave making your skin crawl with disgust.
Damian had felt your gaze on him for quite a while now, but the boy wonder chose to ignore it. Now that he was done, it was his turn to observe you.
You were glaring at Najm, looking absolutely offended. You had a habit of talking to your cats like they actually understood everything you said and did, and perhaps the pair actually do— he had witnessed Sultana sass you for food, and Najm handing you bandages to dress his wounds on command.
He waited till you set your gaze upon him once again, before addressing you loudly. “Enjoyed the show?” He smirked, making sure to maintain the eye contact just to make it more annoying and humiliating.
Blood rushed to your cheeks, the expression you wore was mortification mixed with pure embarrassment, quite the delight to Damian’s eyes.
He watched as you frantically scooped up Najm into your arms with no grace whatsoever, before slamming the window shut.
“Meow-“
“Not a word!” You yelled.
Najm, ever the unbothered king, jumped out of your arms and onto where Sultana lays, and started to lick away at his midnight blue fur.
You stood there for a minute, contemplating.
You were a witch, in your own home. You had defended yourself and your companions against wayward spirits, aggressive entities, and ancient curses. A wounded, arrogant human with a katana was nothing to you!
With a renewed sense of self-confidence, you reopened the window.
With a bit of a lean, you whispered a few words and flicked your right wrist, willing a rather harsh tuft of wind to blow around him. Violently whipping his hair around, and obscuring his vision. Forcing him to break his otherwise smug stance and stagger back, trying to escape from the onslaught of wind.
Satisfied with your petty revenge over nothing in particular, you retreated back into the room. Where Najm had began grooming Sultana’s multicolored fur, and laid down to catch a few more hours of sleep, this time uninterrupted.
°。 ⋆༺ 𓋹༻⋆。 °
If you had hoped that little display would make him retreat, and perhaps rethink his life choices out of sheer awkwardness, then you had greatly underestimated Damian Wayne. Again.
Later that same day, you had walked in on him browsing through your books and codices.
“This language is unfamiliar,” he stated without looking up, still tracing the spines of books, some he lingered on to attempt and decipher the languages. “and your indexing system is a mess—actually no, a disaster. I have found 2 separate books on potion making between stacks that are clearly mythical creatures classifications.”
You leaned against the doorframe, a couple of dried lavender leaves in hand. He looked much more put together than before, having found a black tunic in your closet to replace his broken gear, yet he still wore the black trousers from his uniform.
“It is not a mess, nor a disaster.” You answered calmly.
You pushed yourself off of your resting place, catching his hand before it could lift up a particular cursed tome.
“Also, you ought to be more careful,” You warned ”Some of these have spells on them that will burn your fingers off if you touch them uninvited.”
He gave you a side glance, as if not believing you. However, he did let his arm go slack, backing away from the massive book.
“Some will even curse you for eternity.” You continued, dropping his arm.
“Tt, superstitions…” he muttered, leaving you standing there as he existed the room.
Not even 2 hours later you found him in your previously locked antique room, where once again he complained about your tendency to hoard stuff and your organization skills.
In retaliation, you zapped him with lightning.
Thankfully, he was decent enough to keep quiet during nighttime after that.
But only during nighttime, because the next morning you walked into your room, a tray of the finest, magically infused medical supplies in hand to check on his condition, only to find it deserted.
Of course, a gremlin such as himself would not sit still at 3 in the afternoon, that would be too convenient.
You ventured outside, and lo and behold there he was, about 8 meters above the ground, casually seated on your roof.
If you were just a bit crueler, you would just leave him to his own devices. Unfortunately, you did know better than to let a mildly concussed person sit on an unstable, flimsy roof.
“WHAT! In the name of the heavens are you doing up there?!”
Damian, ever so charming, just sneered at you.
“What does it look like I am doing? I am assessing the damages.”
“You are assessing the damages?” You questioned, voice dropping into a dangerously calm tone.
You looked up, a hand coming to shield your eyes from the sun’s glare. “With almost cracked ribs? And a concussion caused by your brain being rattled like a tin can from falling through this very roof?” You listed, hoping that perhaps he would see how stupid he was, and descend carefully. “I re-stitched you this morning, Damian!”
“My ribs were merely bruised.” He corrected, shifting his weight onto a wooden beam.
“Besides, if one bad storm hits this area, your entire eastern wall may collapse inward.” He noted. “We need to do something about this, and fast.”
Truth is Damian felt immensely guilty for the destruction of your home. He literally fell through it, terrifying your cats—whom he had grown awfully close with in light of recent events— destroyed most of your entrainment like the tv by flattening the satellite into a pancake, and the one you raved about the most ; stripping you of your peaceful life.
While him getting teleported here was not his fault—seriously, how was he supposed to know a glowing rock could do that— he should have been more careful, knowing that he was dealing with magical artifacts during the mission.
Besides, Damian does not like owing anyone anything, and you had not only saved his life but also housed, took care of and fed him.
So yeah, he was well enough to leave by his own standards—won’t be his first time surviving an unknown place. He just couldn’t bring himself to do it.
“The only thing collapsing inward will be you, if you don’t get down from there this instant,” you shot back. “I certainly did not patch you up, and waste my valuable potions and threads on you, just so you could paint my beloved garden with your insides. Get. Back. Down!”
You did not want to admit it, but something about him risking his own wellbeing just like that was sweet, yes. But uncomfortable and unnerving.
He climbed down the side of the cabin, dropping from what should have been a safe height, yet the echos of pain vibrated through his body the moment his feet graced the ground.
You bolted to his side, magic already enveloping your hand as they hovered over his torso.
“Merely bruised, you say?”
He scowled at you, still hunched over.
“D-do not coddle me..” He gritted out. Though he did not pull away from the pleasant hum of magic coming from your palms.
“This is not coddling, you egotistical brick-“
He cut you off, straightening himself the moment the pressure started to let up.
You staggered back, wiping invisible dust off of your skirt with a sharp exhale. Your hands felt heavy, shaking with the effort of restoring vitality to Damian’s body.
“I estimated the amount of wood we need.” He watched you lean against the side of the house, eyes unfocused, your face slightly less colored than before. “Are you alright?”
You shook your head, trying to focus on him, not the throbbing yet dull pain. “Yes, yes. Go on.”
He narrowed his eyes, regarding you with a much more clinical gaze, but did not push further, settling for telling you about the amount of wood you needed to fix your place up, and explaining the over complicated ways he he used to reach that conclusion. All of which you were half listening to.
“—and we will require precisely three heavy structural rafters to replace the beams.” Damian finished, crossing his arms and looking thoroughly pleased with his engineering report. “I suggest we venture over there, I am certain we will find some good trees that should suffice.”
You nodded along, wiping off a drop of sweat with the back of your hand. Letting out a faint, breathless sound.
“That’s impressive and all, however it won’t work.” You stated. Adjusting sleeves over your cold hands, hoping you still had some tea leaves from that one traveling merchant. They would work wonderfully to rid of the chill.
Damian’s self satisfied expression vanished, his eyebrows knitting together, a sign of his defensive frustration and confusion.
“And why would it not work? My calculations are flawless. And the woods found near this area should be more than sufficient for the job.”
“Yes, dearest. Your calculations are correct, truly impeccable.” You could feel your patience dwindling, thanks to the headache suddenly shooting through your skull, a high pressure fountain of pain. “But that’s assuming that we are using regular wood.”
Damian stared at your pale form, torn between inquiring about what regular wood meant, and if he should be ready to catch you in case you collapse.
Before he could get a word out, you spun on your heels rather clumsily and headed towards the entrance of the cabin.
“Come on, I will explain over lunch.”
“Tt.”
Damian was rarely patient for answers, but the thought of some warm food and maybe a drink was enough coaxing for him to drop his questions, for now.
°。 ⋆༺ 𓋹༻⋆。 °
The aroma of stew filling the kitchen was oddly comforting, especially since each step started feeling heavier than the last.
Magic often had a price, and healing magic was as taxing as they get. Which is why you rarely preformed it and stuck to medical herbs, enchanted instruments and tonics.
Damian was busy plating a few pieces of meat for the pair of spoiled felines, Sultana wasted no time rubbing herself against his calf with a soft purrs, acting cute in hopes of getting the food. Najm, on the other hand, waited patiently at his feet.
You ladled the vegetable stew into bowls, before transporting them to the fully set table, setting them gently on each side.
You had found out about Damian being vegetarian when you made the mistake of serving him meat on his first day here. He didn’t really say anything, but did look painfully uncomfortable that you ended up replacing the food you initially gave him with a plate of sautéed vegetables.
He took his seat across from you on the wooden table. Posture stiff but upright, clearly trying to fight his injuries even in the most mundane of ways. One hand came to pick up the spoon, stirring the broth for a moment before nodding— high praise from a guy who looked at your kitchen like it was a biohazard lab. It was clean, he was just being insufferable.
“Do you plan on explaining your words?”
You leaned back in your seat, brain working through the haze to organize your words into an easy to understand explanation.
“Long story short, this house was built out of enchanted wood.” You simplified.
If Damian’s expression was anything to go by, he was this close to walking out and risk dying in an unknown remote location.
“Of course, why did I think it would be something normal?” He shook his head, brushing his hair back using his fingers. “It’s obvious we need magic wood, how did I not see that coming.”
You continued taking small sips out of your drink, avoiding his eyes.
“I assume the timbers we need are not located in the nearby forest, are they?” Oh, how he hoped he was wrong.
“They are located somewhere around the mountain on the very edge of these lands…” you bit your lip, gaze shifting to stare at the table like it’s the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen.
“Tt.”
An awkward silence stretched over the room, after all the situation was kind of ridiculous. Every time he attempts to solve a problem, a new one just emerges and complicates the whole situation even more. He was at his wits’ end.
You busied yourself with your skirt, picking at loose threads, and the holes in your overlaid lace. Damian on the other hand, picked up Sultana and placed her on his lap, scratching behind her ear while looking deeply in thought. The soft purring of the tabby helped calm his nerves a little.
“I can go alone, it is not that far of a–“
“Absolutely not.” He countered.
“But you are still injured and–“
He furrowed his eyebrows, pining you with a sharp look, effectively shutting you up. “I am perfectly capable of walking up the mountain. I cannot leave this task in the hands of someone who looks like they would faint over a bowl of stew.” His words were more venomous than he meant them to be.
His expression softened, already regretting the tone of his words. He found you immensely annoying, but he surely didn’t want you dead.
The rest of the meal was spent in silence, the only sound was the occasional scraping of the spoon, and the quiet purring of Sultana. Who deemed Damian as her seat for the rest of the afternoon.
Before you knew it, the sun had gone down and the house was shrouded in darkness.
“Make sure to wake up early tomorrow,” you spun around to address him, a lit candle in hand. Catching him before he could walk all the way up the stairs to his—your— room. “We will need to prepare our bags for the journey, along side some other things.” You trialed off, thinking of all the possible items you would need.
It seemed like a trip to the marketplace was in order, much sooner than you would have liked.
“You seem to forget which one of us sleeps till noon, and which wakes up before the crack of dawn, Witch.” He mocked, already halfway up the stairs.
He took another step and then halted, tilting his head to look down at your candlelit form.
“Is that why you refused to do the repairs using magic?” Leaning casually over the railing, he concluded. “You just couldn’t do it.”
“Yes, Damian.” You scoffed. ”I can’t just fix everything with magic, it’s practically impossible to.”
People always assume being a witch means having no problems, as you could just spell them away. The truth is, each spell takes something from you. It could be something small or something vital. Meaning that every time you cast one, you must weigh out its pros and cons.
Hey, I think I found someone on AO3 that stole your work, ‘The peace in your presence’. Their username is supreme_clowns if you want to verify. They’ve renamed it ‘midnight in the studio’.
So, I just checked ao3 and you are right! Someone did re-upload my work over there …
I did send a report to the ao3 team and hopefully they will do something about it.
Thank you for informing anon<3 I am most grateful.
Once their work is removed, I will upload it myself on ao3.
It was late, the clock had struck past midnight thrice, but Damian paid the soft ring accompanying each hour that passed no mind.
The studio was in a state of chaos, a stark contrast to the discipline and control he practiced in every other aspect of his life.
Uncapped tubes of oil paints rolling on the floor, rags stained with colorful spots of paint, and crumpled up sketches deemed not ‘good enough’ to stay housed in his sketchbook.
In the middle of it all was Damian, engrossed in his latest piece.
Leaning over the canvas, his brush—a small, precise bundle of hairs—traced an intricate line, depicting the light getting caught in your hair.
Damian—unsatisfied with the current state of the painting—stood up. Guided by the faint glow of the moonbeams, he avoided the many art supplies lining the studio’s floor.
To Damian, art was both the most calming and most frustrating thing he could do—depending on the day.
Today it was the latter.
He stared at the messy graphite thumbnail he had drafted before laying eyes on his painting once more. Your clothes were meant to be far richer than what he had painted, the flowers on the side were meant to be a rare blue—not white!
What in the name of Ra was he doing?
“Tt.”
Already over his amateur mistake, Damian took a seat on the floor searching for the correct hues to use in fixing his coloring mishaps. It didn’t help that the studio was pitch black save for the moonbeams seeping through the open windows and a singular desk lamp that he had to move quite often.
However, he just couldn’t bring himself to turn on the lights; it would risk waking you up.
In the very corner of the room, the only place untouched by the scattered art supplies and splatters of paint, was you— his slumbering girlfriend.
Looking at you now, he wondered how you could sleep through his silent frustration that seemed to suffocate the room, yet there you were; completely undisturbed.
Suddenly, the search for the perfect blue felt entirely trivial.
Snatching a stray pencil, he headed to sit by the mattress you lay on.
Damian had insisted on buying this mattress—an absurdly expensive high end one— for the sole purpose of letting you—his beloved—rest whenever you were keeping him company in the studio.
You had the habit of being uneasy if he was not in your line of sight, to the point where you would stay up waiting for him to return from patrol, college, or a long mission.
You could get behind Damian not being beside you in bed, as long as you could look over and see him.
He simply could not bear the thought of you resting on the floor, or a random uncomfortable plastic chair.
As he quietly sunk onto the floor, he flipped the book onto a blank page and started sketching. Capturing his sleeping muse in quick strokes of his pencil.
Titus shifted in his place by your feet. The big dog had developed the habit of guarding you, even more so than Damian himself. He was proud, and slightly taken aback at the same time.
He adjusted the lamp, stopping the graphite on the page from reflecting a harsh glare.
With the drawing now finished, Damian wished to return to his half done painting resting in the middle of the studio.
However, he made no move to actually do so.
His eyes didn’t stray far from your back, rising and falling with soft breaths.
Perhaps, this could wait till my return from college tomorrow. He thought, already climbing onto the makeshift bed.
Sliding between the blankets, he was so careful not to jostle the warm weight of you, or Titus. The Great Dane merely let out a sleepy puff of air, acknowledging Damian’s presence before going back to sleep.
“Hayati…?” Came your soft, heavy with sleep voice. You turned slightly to look up at him.
Damian pulled your form closer, using a hand to guide your head to rest against his chest, right over his heart.
“Shhh, go back to sleep, Habibti.”
It didn’t take much convincing to have you close your eyes, already surrendering to the feeling of his fingers running through your hair, lulling you to sleep.
“You should really sleep more, Damian.” You scolded, referring to his habit of staying up late even on days with no patrol.
“Yes beloved, I should.” He agreed, feeling your body go slack on top of his.
Minutes later, after being reassured that you were completely out, Damian lowered his head, brushing his lips against your forehead in a soft barely there kiss.
“Good night, Titus.” He whispers to his beloved dog, before closing his own eyes.
“Good night, Habibti.”
That painting of you could definitely wait, especially since he had the real you in his arms.
a/n: hi moonbeams, first thank you for reading this one shot. I decided to practice writing something shorter, after all not everything can be a 20 something chapter story. Second, thank all of you who read and showed love to the first chapter of Ancient spells and fallen birds, chapter 2 is in its final phase and should be posted soon. If you wish to be tagged pls tell me in the comments. Once again thank you<3
It was late, the clock had struck past midnight thrice, but Damian paid the soft ring accompanying each hour that passed no mind.
The studio was in a state of chaos, a stark contrast to the discipline and control he practiced in every other aspect of his life.
Uncapped tubes of oil paints rolling on the floor, rags stained with colorful spots of paint, and crumpled up sketches deemed not ‘good enough’ to stay housed in his sketchbook.
In the middle of it all was Damian, engrossed in his latest piece.
Leaning over the canvas, his brush—a small, precise bundle of hairs—traced an intricate line, depicting the light getting caught in your hair.
Damian—unsatisfied with the current state of the painting—stood up. Guided by the faint glow of the moonbeams, he avoided the many art supplies lining the studio’s floor.
To Damian, art was both the most calming and most frustrating thing he could do—depending on the day.
Today it was the latter.
He stared at the messy graphite thumbnail he had drafted before laying eyes on his painting once more. Your clothes were meant to be far richer than what he had painted, the flowers on the side were meant to be a rare blue—not white!
What in the name of Ra was he doing?
“Tt.”
Already over his amateur mistake, Damian took a seat on the floor searching for the correct hues to use in fixing his coloring mishaps. It didn’t help that the studio was pitch black save for the moonbeams seeping through the open windows and a singular desk lamp that he had to move quite often.
However, he just couldn’t bring himself to turn on the lights; it would risk waking you up.
In the very corner of the room, the only place untouched by the scattered art supplies and splatters of paint, was you— his slumbering girlfriend.
Looking at you now, he wondered how you could sleep through his silent frustration that seemed to suffocate the room, yet there you were; completely undisturbed.
Suddenly, the search for the perfect blue felt entirely trivial.
Snatching a stray pencil, he headed to sit by the mattress you lay on.
Damian had insisted on buying this mattress—an absurdly expensive high end one— for the sole purpose of letting you—his beloved—rest whenever you were keeping him company in the studio.
You had the habit of being uneasy if he was not in your line of sight, to the point where you would stay up waiting for him to return from patrol, college, or a long mission.
You could get behind Damian not being beside you in bed, as long as you could look over and see him.
He simply could not bear the thought of you resting on the floor, or a random uncomfortable plastic chair.
As he quietly sunk onto the floor, he flipped the book onto a blank page and started sketching. Capturing his sleeping muse in quick strokes of his pencil.
Titus shifted in his place by your feet. The big dog had developed the habit of guarding you, even more so than Damian himself. He was proud, and slightly taken aback at the same time.
He adjusted the lamp, stopping the graphite on the page from reflecting a harsh glare.
With the drawing now finished, Damian wished to return to his half done painting resting in the middle of the studio.
However, he made no move to actually do so.
His eyes didn’t stray far from your back, rising and falling with soft breaths.
Perhaps, this could wait till my return from college tomorrow. He thought, already climbing onto the makeshift bed.
Sliding between the blankets, he was so careful not to jostle the warm weight of you, or Titus. The Great Dane merely let out a sleepy puff of air, acknowledging Damian’s presence before going back to sleep.
“Hayati…?” Came your soft, heavy with sleep voice. You turned slightly to look up at him.
Damian pulled your form closer, using a hand to guide your head to rest against his chest, right over his heart.
“Shhh, go back to sleep, Habibti.”
It didn’t take much convincing to have you close your eyes, already surrendering to the feeling of his fingers running through your hair, lulling you to sleep.
“You should really sleep more, Damian.” You scolded, referring to his habit of staying up late even on days with no patrol.
“Yes beloved, I should.” He agreed, feeling your body go slack on top of his.
Minutes later, after being reassured that you were completely out, Damian lowered his head, brushing his lips against your forehead in a soft barely there kiss.
“Good night, Titus.” He whispers to his beloved dog, before closing his own eyes.
“Good night, Habibti.”
That painting of you could definitely wait, especially since he had the real you in his arms.
a/n: hi moonbeams, first thank you for reading this one shot. I decided to practice writing something shorter, after all not everything can be a 20 something chapter story. Second, thank all of you who read and showed love to the first chapter of Ancient spells and fallen birds, chapter 2 is in its final phase and should be posted soon. If you wish to be tagged pls tell me in the comments. Once again thank you<3
a/n : hi moonbeams (yes that’s what I am calling you), I spoke of my idea for a Damian x witch reader fic a few weeks ago, and ended up actually writing it instead of daydreaming, an accomplishment in my eyes. This is the first fic to actually make it out of my drafts. pls be nice or else I will cry, or fight u depends on my mood. Anyhow, I apologize if this is not what you had in mind and thank u for reading<3.
Chapter 1. A fallen robin
°。 ⋆༺ 𓋹༻⋆。 °
As it would turn out, the structural integrity of a magically reinforced wooden house had nothing on an airborne vigilante.
The day had been normal enough, or at least as normal as it can be for a young witch returning to the middle of nowhere after running her errands.
You have been busy in the markets of faraway place by the edge of the sea, stocking up on certain items you could only find there, nodding along to small talk, bargaining with vendors over the price of their goods, and of course ignoring the hushed rumors that plagued the town regarding yourself—the witch.
While nobody knew what you look like—thanks to your tendency to avoid mingling and living faraway from civilization, they sure seem to love using you for gossip.
Much to the dismay of the people, you were no immortal being who dedicated all time to the world’s magical sources, or a crazy powerful individual with connection to the gods.
You merely learnt magic from your mentor and the ancient books just like all the women in your lineage had done before you and will continue to do after you.
It was that simple really.
What wasn’t simple was what happened a mere few hours after you had returned from the marketplace.
The journey to the town had your muscles screaming, you had to walk thanks to the limitations of the teleportation spell, so you decided to cook a fairly simple late lunch, then retire to bed. The atmosphere was calm and quiet, the only sounds to be heard were the rustling of wind outside, and the soft purring of your beloved cat companions cuddling in a spot of pooling sun.
Then it all came crashing down—or more precisely, he came crashing down.
Through your roof.
You sensed it, something passing through the protective ward you had cast over the area, traveling at a terrifyingly high speed.
In an instant, you lunged across the room, landing by the very confused cats and shouted a string of words in a language long dead. A glowing, spherical shield manifested form thin air just as the ceiling exploded.
The sound was deafening— splinters of old wood flying everywhere, clay pots shattering, and a massive downpour of what used to be your rooftop around your bubble of protection. Your cats dug their claws into your sling through the fabric of your top, seeking your protection, and you could do nothing but hold them tighter, and focus on maintaining the shield.
When the rain of debris finally settled you let the shield dissipate.
With a flick of your wrist, the thick curtain of dust began to part, funneling out of your home and into the cold air outside. Your cats were still clinging onto you—trembling, but you couldn’t help but focus on the pile of wood formerly known as your rooftop and floorboards.
“By the heavens, why do things like this always happen to me…” you placed both cats on the floor, rubbing at your temples.
Usually, when you felt a disturbance in the barrier surrounding the area, it’s often a wayward spirit or a stray forest creature, never something that crash lands through your roof.
As the last remnants of dust finally let up, you realized that between the piles of wood and debris was a a lump of black fabric, seemingly attached to a human.
A boy. A masked boy.
You would have assumed his death certain, if it wasn’t for him shifting slightly to get a hold of the hilt of a sharp katana and pointing it at you.
“s-stay back…” he threatened, his voice feeble and not at all matching his hard expression.
Your felines jumped out of your embrace, leaving you free to take a step forward to get a better view of the masked stranger.
Before you could reassure him that he will be okay, or persuade him to drop his weapon—his breathing grew shallow, and his vision started to blur at the edges, then he went limp against the pile of wood.
You stared in utter disbelief, a masked boy just shot through a powerful protective ward, demolished both your first and second floor, ruined a perfectly seasoned lunch, and was somehow still alive to threaten you using a sword.
You sighed once, then you sighed again because just one didn’t seem to cover it.
°。 ⋆༺ 𓋹༻⋆。 °
Falling through the roof of an estranged witch was NOT on Damian’s bingo card for the day.
Certainly, he had been in stranger situations. He just hadn’t anticipated this outcome when Bruce said he would be sending him on ‘simple mission’.
Waking up, his brain immediately registered the cool press of silk against skin, and the unmistakable snug wrap of bandages around his aching muscles.
Last he remembered was wrestling an ancient artifact out of thief’s grasp, resulting in him being sucked into a haze of bright golden light, a dizzying portal that felt like it was breaking his body down on a molecular level before piecing it back together, only to spit him back out in an unknown location.
If he was correct, he maybe looking at a couple bruised ribs, a few gashes, cuts, bruises and—of course, a concussion.
It wasn’t looking too good for him.
The air smelled of crushed wood, a mix of herbs, and something sickeningly sweet, yet it still felt fresh in some way. Above him, was an off centered, open view of the darkening sky framed by the jagged, splintered edges of a hole in a roof.
He managed to pull himself into a seating position, widening his view of the room; an ebony vanity of a style he recognized, a small desk drowning in books, trinkets and what he assumed were various writings utensils, by him on the nightstand was half melted candle.
He spotted his katana resting on a nearby stool. Instinctively, he reached for it only for his muscles to protest in sharp echoes of pain.
“I wouldn’t try moving if I were you.” A dry, unimpressed voice sounded from the door to his right.
He made the mistake of snapping his neck to where the sound came from, immediate sharp echoes of throbbing pain sounding through his skull.
A few feet away, you stood.
Resting in your hands was a tray of what would appear to be tea and something edible on the side. You were dressed in dark fabrics—mainly blues and blacks. your eyes, kholed, were currently narrowed in annoyance at his stupid attempt at moving. By your feet were two cats one black with judgmental eyes and the other a tabby too busy grooming its fur.
“Unless, of course, you wish to tear your own flesh apart, in that case, struggle away.” You continued, walking a few steps to place the tray on the bedside table, your waist chain chiming with every move.
Ignoring you, he tried his comm-link, fingers pressing against his ear, only to find it missing.
“Looking for this?” A hand dove into your pocket, fishing out a sleek, black earbud. “I doubt it works, your fall was rather harsh.”
He tried it regardless, but all it gave was static, so did the secondary channel, and the emergency line.
No surprise, the hardware didn’t survive the fall.
“Where am I?” He questioned, voice raspy but managing to hold onto its bite.
He wrapped his fingers around his the hilt, ignoring how the room tilted, and how he felt like throwing up. “Who are you? Are you affiliated with the league?”
You blinked at him, once then twice before letting out a long breath.
“Listen Mr…whoever you are, I don’t know what the ‘league’ is,” you sat down on the edge of your bed, far away enough from where he was resting “ you are currently in my bedroom, the least damaged place in my house—no thanks to you.”
You poured him a cup of warm herbal tea, which he took with narrowed eyes.
“You fell through my roof and second floor, ruined my day, and terrified my cats. So, the real question is who are you? And how are you going to fix my roof?”
He opened his mouth to bite back at your demand, but his body betrayed him, the room taking a sudden tilt, forcing him to lean on the pillow behind him.
“I don’t do carpentry.” He managed, trying to stay intimidating through the waves of nausea and pain.
For all his bravado, he was still a heavily injured man trapped underneath your handmade quilt, wrapped in a dozen bandages, and looking like a stray kitten.
Safe to say, you weren’t intimidated.
“Well, Mr. ‘I don’t do carpentry,’ you look like you can’t even stand without throwing up all over my precious rugs.” You shrugged. “So all things considered, your options are limited.”
You stood up swirling your finger over the soft brownish liquid in his cup, small stars falling in, melting in its warmth.
“Drink this, it should alleviate the pain, somewhat.”
He looked up at you, the gears in his head turning to decipher what you just did.
“Also, do not move your torso around carelessly, you have a nasty gash and I would hate to be forced into stitching it again.”
Without waiting for a reply, you picked up one of your fluffy friends and left the room. The chime of your waist chain fading slowly with each step.
°。 ⋆༺ 𓋹༻⋆。 °
The last few days were horribly exhausting.
The first day consisted mostly of Damian attempting to escape, only to find out the hard way that his bruised ribs couldn’t handle a simple drop, and that his stitched torso was less fragile than a porcelain doll.
You found him minutes later sprawled across the garden’s ground with Sultana— the tabby cat— staring at him in amusement as if he was a court jester.
The following days weren’t much better, while he was finally convinced to curl up in bed and stop trying to assassinate himself via escape attempts, he was still trying to fix the comm link—which apparently it was your fault he couldn’t do it, because you didn’t have a micro soldering iron with a fine tip laying around your cabin.
At least, you finally exchanged names. An improvement over him calling you witch every time he wanted to address you.
By the morning of the first Sunday of the new month, your healing spells and homemade tonics began taking effect. The bruises have faded, the swelling in his shoulder had gone down, the concussion had cleared to a manageable, dull throb, and he was well enough to walk and move without you having to assist him.
Which brought you to now.
You walked into the destroyed living room, a basket of fresh laundry resting against your hip, only to find him standing beneath the gaping hole in your ceiling, still in one of your oversized sleeping shirt and his own pants. The afternoon sun shining down on the spot where the rubble once sat.
His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might snap.
“No use, still static.” He muttered to himself, taking off the earpiece with more force than necessary. “Don’t you posses any means of communication? There are no digital signals.”
“That’s because you physically crushed my router when you fell, you also managed to cut my cables,” you stepped over a crack in the floor, placing the laundry basket down on a table by the door. “My satellite is currently flattened to the point where it serves me more as a mat.”
He snapped his gaze towards you, his expression souring further. You had spent hours explaining to him how your cabin is hidden deep into the mountain valleys, that you had a spell on it that stops anyone from stumbling on its location—intentionally or not.
His tech was useless, making him officially stranded.
He let out a sharp breath, pocketing the useless earpiece as he mulled over his surroundings. You had managed to clear away the rubble and debris on your own, no doubt using magic, but that barely made a difference with your ruined ceiling.
You followed his gaze, from the impact point on your floor to the hole above you, a small dry smile painted itself on your face.
“Well, Damian,” you took a few steps, coming to stop right beside him, crossing your arms over your chest. ”it seems like you have plenty of time to learn how to do carpentry after all.”
Dividers by @chrisssiren and @somebitchprobably-graphicdump
you are always being watched. that creeping feeling etches along your spine every night. damian makes it his business to always be nearby if you're walking home at night.
insists that he studies better for medical exams when he's cuddling with you
does enjoy monopolizing your time and being rather avoidant of social events to simply be alone with you for hours on end
sleeps best with his ear over your heart. he wakes at any slight change in it's beat. any thing that could signify a nightmare, a bit of panic, any change wakes him.
effortlessly and wordlessly replaces things for you thanks to the combination of mommy AND daddy's money. new shoes, new workout gear, new phone chargers, new nails, everything.
pampering you is a constant thing occurring. he declares that it's to keep a good image for you both as a couple. but he schedules you massages, spa treatments, appointments with personal shoppers, everything to keep you happy and healthy and 'well-maintained
having to miss dinner with you for med school or work is perhaps one of the worst things to him
he usually does not like bringing you around his family, who love to tease him in front of you
summary: when you struck the arrangement with damian wayne to act as your fake boyfriend for a party hosted by your ex and ex-best friend—you thought your choice made perfect sense. choosing damian wayne, the most logical, unattainable person you knew, removes the complication of feelings being involved. till of course, damian stops pretending.
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
content: flufff, damian wayne is a yearner and takes his role of being your pretend boyfriend very seriously.
"You are suggesting I partake in a fake relationship—" Damian Wayne stares down at you, still dressed in his lab coat, with what may be the closest to genuine concern you've ever seen on him, all cramped into the crease of his brows. "To help with your dilemma?"
"Exactly." Your grin is the only positive staple throughout this entire exchange, after your successful cornering of only the most unattainable medical student of Gotham University. "It's like a fancy title for an assignment partner but removing the word 'assignment', right?"
"Assuming that your ambitious plan would even work." Crossing his arms, Damian looks more unimpressed over your carefully planned spreadsheet titled 'Fake-Dating Operation' than the earlier assigned pairings by Dr. Lake. "Do humour me on your astounding confidence that I would even offer my assistance."
"We're already assigned together for the semester." You shrug. "What's one reunion party, and an hour spent pretending you don't hate my guts like you do with everyone else?"
He stares at you for a long beat, before his lips twitch into the smallest smirk. "I appreciate your attempts at lowering my expectations further on how idlers are able to accomplish wasting hours in a day. I expect your section of the report to be done by Sunday."
"Wait!" Your hand reaches out to grab at the ends of his sleeve as he moves past you. "I am an amazing fake partner. I provide free dog walks, cookies, amazing work ethic—it's practically a free service just for a little acting on your part!"
"I appreciate the desperation, and the answer is still a no."
"Wayne!" You call out as his sleeve slips out of your fingers, stopping in your tracks right in front of him—blocking the exit. "Damian, please."
His head tilts to cast you a disapproving expression. "My word of advice, is to gain enough respect for yourself to not be bothered by what others think."
Your lips pull together into a frown, but you refuse to be dissuaded, not when you've already laid all your cards on the table. You didn't expect it to be easy, and you had already prepared yourself for his vicious tongue.
"My self-respect has already been trampled on when they decided to send me the invitation." You state honestly. "It's scheduled for its revival in five weeks, after the party. I'll be a changed person by then, scout's honour."
His brow pulls higher, as if silently questioning if you had even part of the Gotham Scouts, but you're not done.
"But before then, I plan on being the pettiest, deranged person in all of Gotham University." You declare. "And that includes you in my plans, because you, Damian Wayne, are the only person who checks all my requirements of a fake boyfriend."
"I'm honoured." He mocks, gaze flickering past towards the hallway.
"You are Walter's role-model, he would kiss the test tubes you lay your fingers on. Paige has a Pinterest folder labelled with your name, and it has all your news sightings saved by colour coordination."
"Sounds like your issues derive more from the company you keep." He mutters, expression pulled together in disgust.
"Point besides, I want it to be you, Damian Wayne." You confess.
It sounds ridiculous, but this was fully concerning your pride and something you've forgotten in your years of working yourself away for your dreams, which was the taste for controlled chaos. He blinks once, staring at you incredulously as if deciding where to place you in his ranking of newly discovered lunatics.
"You're the only person who will drive them as insane as they've made me." Your voice chokes, filled with determination or buried rage, the difference didn’t seem to matter. "You could walk in there for just an hour to save my life, and I know that you won't have the slightest chance of complicating things, or falling in love with me—and that's what makes this perfect. This may sound crazy to you, but you're the only person that's made sense to me ever since my life was turned upside-down."
Your chest heaves, and your arms are still outstretched to stop him from leaving the lab. You're nothing like this—impulsive, frantic, verging on insanity—but you're also done being complacent. Of letting things go just because it's the right thing to do.
After what feels like eternity, Damian's expression flickers. Implicit and almost undetectable, but his gaze is on you as if he's finally registering your existence and trying to catalogue you into a different box than the one he's placed you in.
"Send the spreadsheet to my email." He answers apprehensively, as if he can't believe the words coming out of his mouth. "I will review through the calendar on its... feasibility. Expect a response by eight p.m.."
You let out a held breath, a smile finally breaking through. "Thank you, really—"
"On the condition that I expect you to finish your section by tonight."
Your expression freezes. "Tonight?"
"To prove your desperation's worth considering." He tosses you a mocking smile, all sharp edge and nothing considerable of warmth. "You have ten more hours before my interest wanes."
Your smile weakens, blinking rapidly as you calculate your remaining time to draft something of substance. "Okay, sure— that's not going to be a problem."
It's worth it. Dealing with Damian Wayne is going to be worth it.
I have reviewed through your spreadsheet in detail. Do answer my enquiries on my comments below.
- I believe watching romance comedy as 'theory practice' is highly inefficient and prone to fantastical expectations. Do amend this.
- As for my 'meeting' availabilities, I am free on Thursdays and Fridays at noon to two, on the condition that at least an hour be reserved for actual assignment discussions. You are required to provide evidence of actual progress for the assignment, or this arrangement will be considered void.
- Provide me a list summary on details for answers regarding possible interrogation questions during the party. It will be more efficient as compared to you providing me the details in person.
As for the assignment, your section draft is acceptable, and I expect our lab findings to be updated into your table by the following lab session next week.
Regards,
Damian.
You can barely contain your grin, kicking into the sheets despite the exhaustion that plagues your bones from grueling non-stop over the section and multiple tabs later. He had looked through your multi-coloured spreadsheet calendar, and actually considered it with his own enquiries. Typing out your own response, you give serious thought into his enquiries.
To: [email protected]
Subject: Reply: 'Fake-Dating Operation' Spreadsheet Review
Thank you for your detailed consideration of my spreadsheet. Your efforts are acknowledged and appreciated.
- I believe we are required to watch at least one rom-com that involves fake-dating. Neither of us have had previous experience in this department (unless you'd like to share valuable information), and it will boost our success rate.
- Perfect! I'm available on Fridays, and scout's honour, I promise to have my progress brought for each meeting session.
- As for the list, I will provide you possible answers, but some may require in-person explanations. I'll explain more this Friday!
Can't even express my thanks on how grateful I am, you're the best Wayne in history!
Signing off your name, you close your laptop with the giddiest smile you've had since—at the reminder, your grin falters. Your chest thuds faintly, as if reminding you that the fun you've just experienced can still be dampened by reality. No, you refuse to let it ruin your enjoyment.
This is the most alive you've felt in weeks, and you're going to make the most of it. If your life feels like it's finally picking up through colourful spreadsheet rows and columns, and waiting on an email reply from the most terrifying student in Gotham University—so be it.
Damian slides your extremely lengthy list across the lunch table, and you can barely hide your shock that he actually printed it out—before you catch sight of many red circles marked neatly around your points.
"Your least favourite vigilante is Robin?" He interrogates.
You blink in surprise, not expecting him to start there. "Well, he's not exactly original—I mean, c’mon, they’re multiple versions of him."
His lips part, aghast in a half-caught scoff. "He's one of the most prominent vigilante figures in Gotham."
You shrug. "Spoiler's cooler."
He clicks at his tongue. "You have horrible taste."
"You are not telling me that you, Damian Wayne, have a favourite and that is Robin?"
He doesn't blink. "There are several other questionable details in your list."
"Yes, I can see that." Peering back at your list, your brows furrow. "What's wrong with liking Gotham's Pizza?"
"Only that you're clearly fond of days-old grease and artificial cheese."
"Hey, that's where it gets its flavour."
He shakes his head, disgusted. "I refuse to be associated with someone who has non-functioning taste buds."
"Fine—we'll say we often have dates at Romeo's instead." You shrug. "Not like I'll be caught there after our agreement's expired."
He raises a brow. "Expired?"
Pointing at your open tab, you reference a newly added row. "Our break-up, scheduled for Monday after the party."
He stares at the date, before his gaze roams over you with a questioning look. "Despite my lack of experience, should you not consider the likely suspicions if you were to end a relationship three days after the party?"
Your lips part into an 'oh'. "I thought you would want to get it over and done with as quickly as possible."
His expression closes in, gaze narrowing. "I will not put my reputation at stake by agreeing to this facade, if it means having our efforts go down the drain because of an obvious flaw.”
Your grin slips out uncontrollably. “You just said ‘our’ efforts. Look at us, the perfect team.”
His expression remains impassive, before he raises a slow brow. “Switch to the assignment tab.”
“Yes, sir.”
Resting below a willow tree, your third Friday with Damian is spent resting below the shade on your picnic cloth—one you used to share with Paige. The sight of its red plaid, stuffed behind your piles of clothes in your wardrobe, was getting sad—even for you.
Damian’s back is resting against the tree bark, shoulders nearly taking up the width—brows impossibly furrowed as his gaze narrows on your laptop displaying ‘To All The Boys I Loved Before’.”
“This movie is non-sensical.”
“I think it’s romantic.” You shrug.
He tosses you a judgmental glance. “Having your own blood betray you by revealing your own personal letters, is your idea of romance?”
“I mean Lara Jean and Peter, Damian.” You snort. “That’s our main source of inspiration.”
“He’s hardly appealing.” He scoffs, arms crossing over the other. “Is this the standards you expect from our arrangement?”
“If this is mediocre—” You respond, aghast. “You have no idea how dire love can be nowadays.”
His frown deepens. “You are not expecting me to perform in this manner?”
“What—falling in love with me?” You grin. “No, I do not expect you to be Peter Lavinsky.”
He stares at you with barely concealed frustration. Before you can tease him further, something purple is tossed into your face.
A yelp escapes your mouth, the light weight of an object falling into your lap.
“That’s—the discontinued, limited edition Spoiler cap!” You gasp, eyes widening in realisation. “How did you get this?”
He shrugs begrudgingly. “My sister used to be a collector. She doesn’t mind giving it away.”
“Giving it away?” You mutter incredulously. “This is actual gold. Your sister is my favourite person on Earth.”
His brow twitches. “I bargained for that cap.”
You snort. “What did you exchange it for, your dignity?”
“You have no clue on my sacrifice." He grimaces.
“Your sacrifice is acknowledged." You tease, before letting out another huff of amazement. “This is the best day of my life.”
When your gaze falls back to the cap, tracing your fingers over the logo—you miss the twitch of his lips into a semblance of a smile.
You missed today’s meeting without prior notice. Not that your absence has affected my ability to resume our assignment, but after your frequent reminders to not miss on our mandatory meetings—it leaves me with doubt that you intentionally missed our sessions on your end. Do update me as soon as possible on your status.
Regards,
Damian. (Sent yesterday, 1.20 p.m.)
Subject: Reply: Reminder on Friday Meetings
I feel I must reinstate that my previous email regarding your absence, as well as this reply, should not be twisted in its meaning as more than a mere enquiry. Given previous evidence of the average speed of your responses, a full 24 hours with a lack of response prompts me to send another email. Do respond when you are able.
Regards,
Damian. (Sent today, 1.32 p.m.)
Three respectable knocks resound against your dormitory’s door. A groan escapes your lips, your head pounding from the cold you’ve caught from a late night running through pouring rain. You had missed the bus and had to make it back before curfew, and now your body is reminding you of its frail mortality, chills shaking throughout your limbs and rendering you heavily immobile.
The knocks echo again when you shift your head deeper into the pillows. You muffle curses into the cotton, gripping at your sheets to steady yourself as you force your body upright. The world sways on its axis as you make your way—shifting pathetically with every step, towards the door.
Missing your lock a few times, you finally grab a hold of the chain and slide it off, clicking the door open. You’re immediately faced with a broad chest, donning a familiar black sweater. Shifting your gaze up, you’re met with Damian Wayne’s narrowed gaze, sweat trailing down his temple.
“Damian?” Your voice croaks, and even the attempt of speaking hurts. “What are you doing here?”
He takes one glance, and immediately, his expression contorts in… concern? You barely have time to explain about the cold, or an apology for missing the meeting, when you feel the warmth of his palm press against your forehead.
You blink, stunned as he measures your temperature. He shakes his head slightly in a disapproving manner. “Your temperature is too high.” His tongue clicks with his observation.
You suppose he was right. You did feel one wrong step from keening over and lying on your welcome mat.
“I got caught in the rain.” You explain, trying your best to pull together a more reassuring expression, one less filled with nausea-induced tension. “I’ll be fine—just need rest.”
His frown creases deeper. “Have you taken medicine?”
You try shaking your head, but that loses whatever balance you had left. The world actually tilts, or maybe you are the one who's obeying gravity—but strong arms catch you before you collapse.
“Look at your state.” Damian grits, pulling you back upright but closer. There's barely any space left between the two of you. “This fever, has it worsened considerably?”
“Yeah—but I didn’t have anyone to call.” You mutter in truth, cheek still smushed against his chest as support. “I ran out of medicine a while ago, and by the time I woke up—I couldn’t get out of bed.”
You feel his arms tense around you. Above the crown of your head, you feel a soft sigh. “You have me.” He mutters, almost reprimanding.
Your brows furrow in confusion. “You would get me medicine?”
“That would be a start.” He states, his grip shifting with his words.
The world shifts again when his hands wrap around the under of your thighs, lifting you into his arms gently to not worsen your state. If your mind wasn’t completely swarmed by the symptoms of your cold, you’d stop to think of how strangely sweet it was that Damian had come all the way to your dormitory, and that he was carrying you bridal-style towards your bed.
”It’s not usually this messy.” You feel the need to point out, words muffled against his sweater. “You just have impeccable timing.”
His lip twitches involuntarily as he sets you down against the thrashed sheets. “Organised according to your system?”
You smile weakly at the thought of your colour-coded spreadsheet. “Exactly.”
He places his palm against your forehead again, and you subconsciously find yourself leaning into his touch. “You’re like—really warm.” You murmur. “Do you always run hot?”
He swallows, touch lingering on your skin. “Your temperature is dysregulated. I’ll return soon with medicine. Rest. I won’t be gone long.”
“Okay.” Your lids fall shut, the pounding lessening with your head burrowed into the pillows, and his touch a gentle anchor. “You know—you’d be a great boyfriend for someone one day.”
You don’t hear a response, and your honest thoughts continue to tumble out from your skull like a cracked jar. “You’re really nice, Dami.” The shortening of his name feels like cotton candy stuffed in your mouth, and you barely register the stiffening of his fingers. “Fierce, but I like that about you. I like you a lot, actually. Not in a swooning way, but in a—I’m really glad I met you kind of way.”
He doesn’t pull away when your lips finally clamp shut, but the silence is almost deafening. You peek open with one eye, catching his expression. He’s staring at you… as if no one’s ever said that to his face—ever.
“Don’t make it weird.” You tease softly, voice tethered with exhaustion. “I’m just giving you your deserved five stars.”
You hear the soft echo of his scoff, withheld from its usual bite, but you don’t hear much else after. Only that the lingering touch of his fingers over your skin stays put till sleep catches up on you, and the world falls silent under the weight of Damian’s gaze. Okay, maybe you were lying a little about the swooning.
Fevers fade, but the warmth that lingers seems to seep past the well-defined borders of a spreadsheet, or the predictable order of a list—like the one currently in your hand.
"Favourite vigilante?" You quiz, red pen bitten between your lips as you laid stretched on the wooden bench.
"Spoiler." He answers, tossing you an expression as if to convey that he couldn't believe you even bothered with such a question.
"Good job." You tease, fiddling with the cap of your pen, attached at the end. "Favourite date spot?"
"Gotham's Pizza." He huffs.
You blink. "Hey, it's supposed to be Romeo's."
"You prefer Gotham's." He mutters.
"But you don't." You remind him.
Averting his gaze to your lips, his fingers loop around the red pen, dragging it gently out from your teeth's grip, and adjusting the answer with a cross. "That's irrelevant. I'm merely pointing out an inconsistency."
Your lips quirk up into a smile. "You don't even need this list anymore. Why bother keeping it?"
Tension pulls briefly at his jaw, but it relaxes before you can trace it to an emotion. "You haven't tested me on all the questions."
You lean in, the crinkled paper resting below your fingers as you gaze into his eyes. "Alright? Something off the books." You hum. "What do I think of Damian Wayne?"
He blinks, surprised. You wait patiently, the warmth of summer carrying the scent of grass blades past the picnic table, the world narrowing into the space between the two of you.
His lips part after a moment. "Fierce." He answers. "Though you're one of the few who doesn't run from it."
"What's there to run from?" You hum. "I think he's nice, you should give him some credit for that."
His brow raises, amusement flickering in his gaze. "That's not a common perception."
"Yeah, but no one else gets to experience him being their partner." You tease. "He even offers to rearrange your dormitory to a better system if you're lucky."
He scoffs lightly. "That's only considering if the existing system barely works."
"Just say you hate colour-coding, Dami." You snort. "I know you're itching to fix our spreadsheet."
His expression flickers for a moment. "Not exactly."
You tilt your head, questioning. His gaze averts to the open spreadsheet, something familiar after the weeks spent together. "It's grown on me."
Grown on him—despite it being everything he initially found horrendous, from the many details pasted in long paragraphs into the comments, and the bright colours for the special shared Fridays between you two. Something warm pools in your chest, and you find your gaze trailing to the red pen held between his fingers instead.
"You're more prepared for this party than I am." You admit softly.
You feel his attention switch onto you, trained on the nervous tick you have where you hyper-focus on something brightly coloured. He twirls the pen once, considering.
"You don't have to go through with this." He says. "Just say the word. I'll honour whatever decision you make."
His reassurance makes you consider it, you really do. With the dreaded anticipation finally reaching its peak, with the party being tonight—you have stopped to think if it was worth it. To show up in a room where the story's long gone sour, and your presence is more likely to be a blight than a welcomed gift.
Then again, you hadn't prepared this all for nothing. You hadn't gotten to know Damian—for nothing.
"No, it'll be fun." You smile, meeting his gaze. "We'll be just like Lara Jean and Peter, but with better standards."
Damian's mouth twitches, almost imperceptible. "Agreed."
Your fingers catch onto the silk-like fabric of your dress. Once bought as a birthday present, you never had the chance to wear something like this. Walter had called it overkill, and you convinced yourself that you’d eventually find a day to wear the gorgeous shade without feeling inadequate for it. Nothing required overkill more than tonight.
Damian's promised to pick you up, even when you had reassured him that meeting at the venue was fine. You stare at yourself in the mirror, and something quivers in your gut.
You don't feel as brave as you'd like, not even in your favourite dress. The thought of the two people you once trusted most being together, exchanging normal niceties with you as if nothing had ever happened—you're seriously beginning to overthink just how horribly awkward this situation was going to be.
What if it wasn't like the movies? What if Damian saw too—just how horribly small you felt—and decided you weren't worth the spreadsheets and lists and medicine kit he over-splurged on when you caught that cold?
The party was going to be over in an hour, you had promised Damian the both of you would be present for no more than that duration—and now, you feel ridiculous in your own skin. You're tempted to text him if he wanted to ditch and just head to Romeo's instead—when you hear the signature three knocks of his against your door.
You swallow your fear-induced nausea back into your gut, and force yourself to open the door with something akin to a smile. Your expression freezes in place at the sight... of Damian tidied up.
You knew he was handsome, you obviously had eyes, but to see him in that white collared shirt that made his green eyes pop, loosened at the buttons, with his hair pulled back and just—wow. Damian Wayne, you were seriously going to the party with this guy? As your fake boyfriend?
You don't notice the way his own expression completely falters at the sight of you. Nor the way his fingers tightened into a fist, digging into his palms.
You only notice how the silence stretched out between the two of you lingers long enough to matter.
"Hey, handsome." You start, trying to regain your composure. "You cleaned up nice."
He blinks, as if stunned. His response comes out delayed, brows pinching together into something honest. "You are beautiful."
Not you look—as if he's only noticed. No, he emphasised the 'are', as if he's always seen it. Your heart doesn't quite know what to do with that information, or how to catalogue the way he's looking at you as if he's—not pretending.
"Thank you." Your voice comes out weaker than you intended, because for all his intensity, Damian being soft is what renders you stunned. "I still don't know if I should do this."
His gaze clears, something steady offered to you when you return it. "You don't need to be sure." He answers, offering his hand. "That's what I'm here for—so you will not be alone."
He's right. Despite your doubts, seeing him in front of you reminds you of the steady presence he's offered from the very beginning. Through your nonsensical email threads, the Friday lunches, the rom-com binging, rushing to the store to buy you cold medicine—your fears always quieted when Damian was near. Your smile brightens, taking his hand in yours. "Let's get this operation over with."
Walter catches sight of you first. His vision is perfectly facing the entrance, your ex's gaze meeting yours as soon as you step through the doorway—and he immediately taps on Paige’s shoulder. An insincere smile arrives on his expression, but it freezes in place the moment Damian enters with you.
He isn't the only one to notice. You knew the effect Damian had on others, standing out without even meaning to, much less in an environment like this. Damian doesn't seem bothered at all, because you feel his attention acutely trained on you instead. His hand rubs a soothing notion over your lower back, as if you're the only person he's aware that exists in the room.
Walter's gaze drifts, from the dress he hated to Damian’s hand wrapping around your waist. He puts the facts together, faster than you had when he and Paige had approached you with the news. The warmth leaves his welcoming expression, and he whispers something into Paige's ear.
Damian registers this entire exchange in under a second, and his hand tightens briefly on your waist, as if reassuring you that he was right beside you.
The distance closes in between you and the two people your life once revolved around, and you train your gaze on Walter, because you can tell immediately that Paige is struck by Damian's appearance, more so by his hand on your waist.
"It's been a while." Walter starts off, though his gaze barely lingers on you before switching to Damian. "Wayne, I don't believe we've been properly introduced."
"There hasn't been a need." Damian shuts him down.
The atmosphere turns icy the moment Walter registers the tone of Damian's voice. He laughs, astonished—and embarrassed. Paige finally recovers in an attempt to salvage the situation, pulling together her best smile.
"Well, it's lovely to have you both here." Paige starts, and her voice is distant—nothing like the girl you used to know, hidden under the blankets of your beaten IKEA sofa when watching Scream for the tenth time. "You look amazing, and—sorry, I'm just curious on how the two of you know each other?"
Her question is directed towards you, but Damian takes the lead. "She's my partner."
"Partner?" Walter chokes on his breath. "As in—"
You finally find your voice to speak. "We are seeing each other." It comes out levelled, matching Damian's.
Their shock registers in different levels. Walter's nears disbelief, while Paige—looks at you, betrayed.
"I didn't know about this." Paige stammers.
"Yes, you didn't." You answer shortly.
She stares at you as if she's seeing a stranger. "Right. I guess it's been a long time since we've caught up."
You're tempted to laugh. A long time is an understatement. You can feel Damian's low scoff against your shoulder, and the absurdity of the situation feels less gut-wrenching with him by your side.
"You know she's a real mess." Walter speaks involuntarily. "Like her apartment's an actual hazard. Isn't that right, Paige?"
Paige freezes, lips parting into a gap, but Damian's faster.
"I am aware—that she has her own unique system." Damian states, gaze narrowing in discontent. "It didn't take long for me to understand it, or to appreciate it."
"Appreciate it?" Walter sneers. "Are you sure you're talking about the right person?"
"Yes." Damian doesn't hesitate, eyes steady, fixing yours. As if he was conveying it you instead of the audience, he answers. "I'm sure."
You swallow dryly, unable to hide the softened smile you usually reserved for him only when it was the two of you. Both of them catch sight of it, and you can sense the question becoming less of whether it was real, and more of the how.
It's easy to act in love when Damian's this close, muttering words like that, with his familiar warmth grounding you through the stagnant conversation. So instinctive, that you think it's easier than breathing.
You sense Paige shifting closer and you force yourself to focus, and casting her another glance, only to finally catch a glimpse of the girl who used to be your closest person.
“Hey, can we talk?” Her expression is vulnerable, tentative in her offer. "Y'know, catch up in private."
Damian immediately shifts you back slightly with his weight, but you place a hand tentatively on his arm. His gaze locks onto you, reading into your expression. His brow raises as if to ask, 'You're sure?'. You give him a nod.
"Fine by me." You murmur, because despite everything—maybe a part of you still wanted to hear the honest truth. For her decision, for when she decided that you should be cut out of the picture then forcefully glued back into what they envisioned to be the perfect way to continue their lives. Maybe you just wanted to see if the Paige you knew still existed.
The moment you enter an unoccupied bathroom, Paige presses the door shut and immediately turns to you. "You have to spill."
Your brows furrow. "On?"
"Damian Wayne." She points out as if it's obvious. "You don't even know him."
You blink once then twice, and something colder settles in the cavity of your chest. "Things change, Paige."
“I’m just worried. It's all just so sudden.” Her hand reaches out to grasp yours, and you resist the instinctive flinch. “You’ve always been sensitive, and a guy like him is just bad news. I mean—Damian Wayne? I get that it feels exciting, but he barely knew of your existence before and now, he's suddenly dating you? I just want us to be on the same page here, that it doesn't really make sense."
A scoff rises up your throat, barely constrained as she continues on, her softened voice a perfect replica of how she had been when you first made your decision to break up with Walter.
“You know I’ll always support you if you need me.” She reassures. “You can tell me anything.”
The anger bubbles so violently, and it hits you. That despite everything, you had came into this party hoping that maybe a fraction of the girl you knew—who cried with you on bathroom floors when you experienced homesickness, who celebrated when you managed to pass your first year of medical school, who was there for your entire life in Gotham—would still exist. That something would give way, and her leaving would make sense, to have a reason. You realise now, that you've only been giving her excuses on the basis of what she used to mean to you.
Your wrath gives way to something cold, absent of grief—only the need to rip your hand out of hers. You do just that, and her shock barely registers before you open your mouth. “No.” Your voice carries a finality, strength you’ve been trying to garner since the day you lost her. “You don’t get to define my relationship with Damian, when you never addressed ours.”
She blinks, affronted. “Is this about Walter? We've already explained—we only felt what we did after the two of you broke up—”
“No, this isn’t about Walter. This is about us.” The coldness in your tone finally strikes something honest in her expression. “You broke my trust, Paige, and then you invite me to this party cause you thought it would help make amends? I thought you brought me in here, to at least explain to me on what happened to us."
"You should've told me." She says, a frown stretched at her lips. "If you weren't comfortable being around me and Walter, we wouldn't have forced you to come."
We—the word runs through your mind like a tire screech.
“Yes, I wasn't comfortable—I nearly died inside when it happened." You raise your head. "I lost my best friend, who drove me to karaoke night whenever I needed to forget about home. I lost the girl who swore to re-watch all rom-coms that ever existed in the 90s before we both turned fifty. I lost the only person I trusted since I moved into this city, over what—a man? Was it worth it, was our friendship worth it?”
She swallows thickly, and you see a fracture of the girl you recognise under the glitter, and the tears collecting at her lower lashes. “I thought you understood—that I love him differently than you did.”
Your gaze doesn’t flinch at the admission. “You were by my side when he broke up with me, when I told you that he called my dresses ugly, when he said my attitude was too much, when he made me smaller because it was more convenient for him when I was quieter, and you still got together with him. Maybe I thought you loved me enough too, to understand why I wasn't comfortable with it.”
Her expression shatters, and tears drip down her cheeks before she harshly wipes at them, smearing her eyeshadow. “You don’t get to say that.” She spits out. “Making it seem like I chose Walter over you, when you brought in Damian Wayne.”
Your brows contort. “What are you talking about?”
“You decided to come to the party to—prove you suddenly became better than us just by being with a Wayne?” She snaps. “You're acting like this because you think he's going to stay—but you don’t seriously believe it’ll actually last when Walter could barely stand you?”
That anger, buried deep, comes alive with a roar. You take a step forward, causing her to inch backward as you close in. “That's all your taking from this?" Your scoff resounds coldly. "Damian was the one who was there for me when you left—so yeah, I have more trust in him to treat me like an actual person."
She flinches, her lips parting in the same way she had done earlier when Walter tried to make you small. Silent, and unable to do anything but lay there in her guilt of absorbing an idea of who you are in Walter's head, and erasing what made you human in her eyes.
"Rest assured. You will never gain my trust again to even know what’s going on in my life and the people in it, and you never will.”
Taking a step back, you look at her one last time. Of the mess of her makeup, the same puffy eyes whenever she cries that you used to immediately follow up with the instinct to comfort her. You feel none of that now. “Goodbye, Paige.”
She doesn’t call out your name when you turn your back on her, and she doesn’t come after you. You needed that, more than you needed her to be the person you thought she was. To be blunt, and truthful to yourself—even if no one but you believed in it.
The euphoric lightness of your body from finally severing the bond doesn’t last long, when a rough hand grabs at your wrist. Being twisted around, you’re faced with Walter’s accusing expression.
“What did you say to her?”
“What I discussed with Paige stays between us.” You answer coldly, tugging at your wrist.
His hand tightens more, almost bruising. “You’re bringing in that attitude of yours, when we were kind enough to think of you? To let you stick around our lives?"
You’re sick of this narrative, of acting like you should’ve been grateful they thought to include you into this sick little group from your past life as if they hadn’t completely burnt it into flames.
“Walter, get your hands off before I shove—“
A fist slams into the side of Walter’s face before you even have a chance to finish your sentence. Screams erupt from the crowd, or cheers—you can barely tell because your eyes are locked onto Damian, who’s grabbing Walter by the collar with chafed knuckles.
Multiple eyes are on them, but your own gaze is fixed on Damian’s expression, who has gone completely cold. Nearly murderous, and filled with uncontained wrath. His glare, almost deadly, is trained on his target in a way you’ve never seen him before. The composed, distant Damian—is nowhere to be found.
"You stay away from her." Damian growls.
"What the hell, man!" Walter spits, blood sprayed over his nose. "Do you seriously think she's worth—"
Damian drags him closer by the collar, and something inhuman flashes past his concentrated gaze. "She's worth more than you ever will dream of trying to be. You are nothing, and even daring to lay a hand on her is something you will pay for."
“Damian!” You shout.
That finally reaches him, past the simultaneous gawking and murmurs. It’s as if he’s reentered his own body, and Damian immediately drops Walter to the ground with a loud thud. Walter lands embarrassingly on his bottom, and his entire face has gone red with shame.
His gaze switches to you, and his wrath fades immediately into concern. His eyes fall onto your bruising skin, and his emotions fall apart into something colder. You have a feeling if you don’t get him out of this room, this fight may escalate into something much worse.
Pushing through the forming crowd, you reach out. “Let’s get out of here.” You plead, holding out your hand.
His gaze drops to your fingers, then back to the forming outline of a hand gripped around your wrist, and you see his calculating assessment. Damian leans lower, muttering something low into Walter’s ear. It is quick, but you see the way Walter completely freezes in place—his struggle evading from his body like a statue. When Damian’s eyes meet your frightened ones once more, he doesn’t hesitate a second longer before grabbing your hand.
Damian doesn't waste time in leading you through the crowd, towards the exit and away from the escalating noise—and into the night breeze. When the cold wind finally hits your skin, his hand remains firmly intertwined with yours as he guides you somewhere far away—the fact still lingers that Damian, perfect track record and Wayne prodigy, just punched someone for you.
“You punched him.” You mutter faintly, seated at a bench you’ve both found, crisp leaves surrounding you with the faint singing of crickets.
“He was hurting you.”
“Damian, the whole school’s going to talk about this.” You stress. “You’re going to get in trouble, possibly a suspension.”
His jaw clenches. “I am your partner.”
Damian’s agitated. Over the situation, despite there no longer being any witnesses to his supposed protection. His shoulders are tense, jaw clenched and his gaze—you recall how he had looked at Walter when he landed that first hit, the pure anger that seized him.
“Not a real one.”
He flinches, as if struck, and you knew immediately that your words landed wrongly. His emotions topple over the other, and you’re unable to name any that arises before it all falls apart like his body’s regained consciousness. Concealed, and distant.
“My mistake.” He mutters. “I’ve forgotten my standing.”
“Damian—”
“I do not wish to inconvenience you.” He states, words leaving in a bitter rush. “I have overstepped, I realise that.”
“Damian.” You call out for the second time, fingers reaching for his—and he finally breathes when your warmth seeps through his skin. You’re relieved he doesn’t pull away. “That came out wrong. I’m not mad you punched the jerk, I would’ve done it myself. I am glad you stood up for me, but I’m just confused on why you did it, because there's nothing at stake for you, only something to lose.”
His expression stiffens at the verbal admission of his visible frustration. This conversation sounds much too real, and the lines that have been carefully drawn are erasing themselves, leaving behind uncharted territory. One you weren’t sure how to navigate.
“You do matter to me, as more than a role.” You plead. “I don’t want you to think you’re someone I chose out of convenience. Please don’t believe that.”
His breath exhales low, controlled. His gaze flickers with the briefest uncertainty, and you realise how selfish you’ve been. This arrangement had been perfect for you, that you simply assumed it was the same for him.
“No, you are not at fault.” He mutters after a moment. “It is not your responsibility to handle the consequence of my actions. We had agreed on no complications, and I have done exactly that.”
His jaw tightens, before he finally spits it out. “I punched him because the boundaries of what was was real or imagined between us has never made a difference to me. He had hurt you, not only physically—“ His gaze shifts to your reddened wrist, and it darkens completely. “—but he is a culprit to your existing pain. I was angry, because I couldn’t comprehend that I was finally faced with the two morons who thought losing you was even a consideration, and to see them hold no remorse for it made me forget my place.”
“I’ve always excelled in being what others expected of me.” He mutters. “When you approached me, it was the first time I had not wanted to be confined to a role. I did not want to partake in a façade, because—I had wanted your request to be for something real. Then, you mentioned that you picked me because I had not the slightest chance of falling for you. It was ironic, and I knew then that I should've rejected your request."
"But I started to earnestly believe—that I could separate emotion and duty. I could be in your presence, and not feel the consequences if the arrangement ended—because nothing would be real.”
“Till I realised—how much it affected me to not have you truly at all.” He confesses. “I should’ve been honest, that this arrangement had become the opposite of what we’ve agreed upon. But I was afraid, of admitting that I wasn’t capable of control, of driving you away."
“Damian." Your frown deepens. "You’re not going to lose me.”
“I don’t know.” He blurts honestly. “I do not know how to handle want. I am built of structure, of worth to prove why I deserve to keep my position, that has always been what I’ve provided. I do not know how to want without providing substance to covet a person.”
“But I want you.” He exhales. “Not once has it been pretend for me, not when it had already existed before our arrangement. Every moment I reached for your hand, every time I checked that horrendous shaded calendar of yours. I rushed over the moment you went missing when you were sick, because I had wanted to look for you. I have never once hesitated in calling myself your partner, even knowing the role was temporary. I want you, in the real, complicated way—that I've failed in being what you needed me to be."
"That's not true." You break. "That's not what I need you to be at all, Damian."
He finally looks at you, a little less restrained—and almost startled at your words.
"If you had been real about this the entire time, Damian, then so have I." You admit. "I chose you because I thought you wouldn't have fallen for me, that is true—but that is because I also thought it was safe because I knew I was going to fall for you."
"I wasn't kidding when I said I like you." You confess. "In all of the complicated, real sense of the word, and you were always going be the one I was going to choose. Even if you had said no, I wouldn't have asked anyone else. I wanted you from the start, Damian, and that hasn't changed. I was going to ask you to freaking Romeo's after this, if you wanted this to be real too."
The moment those words leave your lips, Damian closes in. His fingers tug you by your waist, his hand wrapping around the nape of your neck, and his lips are on yours. Damian Wayne, who still has forming bruises at his knuckles from a fight he landed in to defend you, is kissing you on a park bench in the middle of the night—and you're not dreaming.
It's clearly his first, but there's something so tenderly sweet about it that your heart trembles uncontrollably—enough to render something wet at your lashes by the time he's pulled back.
He pulls apart just to meet your gaze, and you've never seen him this relieved. "This is real." He restates, as if he can't quite truly believe it.
“We did just have our first official fight.” You murmur, cheek pressed to his chest.
"Official." He hums in acknowledgement. "I like that."
Your smile teethers into something soft when you feel the soft press of his mouth against the shell of your ear. "Yeah, guess our operation tonight ended in a success."
