A grin adorned your face as you looked out of the window, the feeling of excitement washing over you. The first time you have ever used the public bus, that directly brought you to school.
Gotham academy, one of the most prestigious and renowned places in the world. And you, out of all people, were visiting this place—somehow being able to qualify that hard exam.
It's not like you were smart or mature — you were neither. In a matter of fact, you were quite the opposite, entirely stupid and childish. Even had a knack for getting under people's skin unintentionally.
Everyone around you was tuned out, chatting and laughing with their own friends. Except you. Your eyes glimmered in another brightness the world has never seen. A shine Gotham has never experienced.
Passing all sorts of people and cars, you could only stare and watch. People you have never seen in your entire life, cars you only could gaze at on TV. It was hella exciting, definitely.
The bubble could've never been bigger. Until something caught your gaze.
It was a car, in a pretty shade of dark black and shone under the morning sunlight. But in it? A boy—with the same uniform, also looking out of the open window. Like you.
"Oh!" it drew in your attention, breath hitching as you smiled dumbly.
This time a bit brighter than before while you raised a hand to wave him.
Although, what you received as a response? The boy only stared at you blankly, eyes blinking slowly until the window was rolled up. The last inches, before it was closed properly, you were able to see it—the quiet snort of whatever that was.
You gasped internally, all the excitement was watered down within the next seconds and your grin wiped off the face with one clean moment. You furrowed your brows, sensing an irksome sensation and disappointment.
What a snob.
Real nice.
You stiffly sat in the seat, hands grasping the edge of your uniform as you stole some glances to the side. Your seat mate though, kept his composure. Gaze sharp and trained, position learnt by memory and didn't even turn to you. Not even once.
Yet he could definitely sense your burning stare.
Out of all people why was Damian Wayne forced to sit next to someone like you? Some scruffy kid, who probably got a little luck to set foot into this school and who couldn't even act properly in public.
And out of all people why [name] Forger forced to sit next to someone like him? Some kid, who's too polite for his age and too snobby for his classmates, acting as if he was surrounded by peasants.
"Hmph!" you huffed out loudly and crossed your arms, turning away from the boy.
You even slid farther away, taking your chair with you to grow some distance between the two of you. And he didn't mind at all, very much enjoying his own peace.
No words were exchanged in that class and the next classes, the one after. Till the end of the school day. Only occasional glances and glares, dropped here and there.
Until—
'How does one reach this level of... stupidity.'
A vein popped on your forehead, gaze immediately burning into his skill as you noticed that he was looking at your paper. In defense, you barely understood anything the teacher was talking about.
The paper that was distributed by the teacher was full of words you didn't understand, and you scribbled down all kinds of things you could think of as an answer.
Now hearing his thought when he read your answers? He was so mean.
You huffed loudly and covered your paper, shielding it from his eyes while he kept his chin a bit raised — as if he was looking down at you.
"I can only suggest thinking twice before writing down your answer." did he just scoff? "It requires knowledge. That is, if you do possess some of it."
"Yeah? If I were you, I'd watch what i'm saying! You're talking to me right now. [name] Forger, a master spy." you puffed your cheeks. "I can make you regret it very quickly."
"Never heard of you." he returned his gaze to his own paper, not even minding your words the slightest.
"Because I am a spy duh?"
"Spies nowadays reveal their secret identities? I see." he hummed under his breath. "That must've been your most intelligent move."
"Hey, stop that!"
"With what, if I dare to ask?"
Your lips were pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowing at the sight of him before you turned away. "You're so mean! I'm telling this my papa." you threatened.
"Do tell."
"Stop!"
He might have been the most infuriating seat mate ever and your first day here couldn’t get worse.
Fluff and humor. Reader is Bruce’s best friend and right hand woman. Bruce is a good dad. Talia is sweet and ethereal. No warnings, really.
Chapter Description
When your best friend begged you to handle alone with Talia the fact that her son stood her up, you hadn’t anticipated that you’ll spend a great time with her. Leaving you looking forward the next time. There’ll be a next time, right?
Or you’re ended up hanging out with Talia.
Author’s Note
Supposed to be a drabble but I really don’t know how to write short things guys that’s just crazy. Very sweet, like sugary. Hope you’ll like it. Don’t hesitate to comment.
AO3. Instagram.
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── Lynn ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
"Are you fucking with me, bro?" You pinched the bridge of your nose, your phone pressed against your ear.
Walking through a small Gotham park, practically groaning and yelling at the person on the other end of the line, you'd grown quite accustomed to not giving a fuck about how you looked to strangers.
After all, who in this city of New Jersey would care about a woman cursing a little too loudly? They'd rather have you disturbing their already nonexistent peace than deal with the Penguin.
"Bruce... I'm not doing this." You finally said after a long exhale.
"Please. I promise I'll give you a week off." The man replied, completely unbothered by your shouting.
"I deserve a whole fucking month off, man, and you wouldn't even survive two weeks without me!" And you were right.
If Alfred was the one in charge of managing the manor and giving advice for his little vigilante activities, you were the one in charge of Bruce Wayne's normal professional life.
You were his right-hand woman, and his best friend. And given the amount of work and sleep deprivation this man endured, without you he would've died from overwork years ago.
"You're right, I wouldn't. That's why I'm only offering a week, actually."
"I'm not playing with you, Bruce."
"Yeah, my apologies. I'll make it up to you. Damian will too." You could hear the smile in his voice, and it only made you even angrier.
"You cannot. You're asking me to have a meeting all alone with your son's mother even though she's been looking forward to seeing him for weeks! I'm not dealing with a frustrated mother, especially when she's an assassin!" You shouted, though the end of your sentence came out in a mutter.
Spotting a bench beneath the shade of a tree, you dropped onto it with a frown. A cool breeze brushed against your face while a couple jogged past without sparing you a glance.
"It's not even part of my professional responsibilities!"
"But it's part of your friendly ones.” He negotiated.
"Don't play that card with me, Queen Bee."
He sighed. "Come on. It's the first time he's ever expressed interest in doing something with me outside of fighting crime. And our private jet lands in five." He had officially started using the desperate father cards.
"We don't have time to see his mother, and he doesn't want to deal with the disappointment in her voice if he tells her himself. Though he's probably the only one who can even detect any trace of feelings."
His last sentence made you chuckle despite your annoyance.
You'd seen Talia Al Ghul a few times over the years. She was always stoic, never showing discomfort nor comfort. She would smirk occasionally or roll her eyes whenever someone said something stupid, but that was it. She was basically a less talkative version of her son, who was already not much of a yapper.
And now you'd have to deal with her alone because her son wanted to watch a soccer match in Europe with Cassandra and had somehow expressed that he'd tolerate his father's presence.
"I don't want to die, Bee." you groaned.
"She won't kill you. She might kill me, though. Please, you just have to go to this restaurant and handle the very professional meeting about her investment in Wayne Corp. When she sees you arrive alone, she'll know her afternoon with Damian is canceled. She won't even ask why." he explained once again.
"Yeah, you're just a fucking coward who stood up a mother and isn't even capable of telling her himself." you mumbled.
"I'd tell her, but Damian doesn't want me to. Honestly, right now I just want to do whatever makes my kids happy."
Damn. You hated how much you loved them.
"Have fun. You owe me, Queen Bee."
"I own you my life indeed. Thank you, Gem."
And he hung up as you leaned back against the bench, closing your eyes while the afternoon sunlight filtered through the leaves overhead and hit your face.
You cursed under your breath, opened your eyes and saw her.
Long brown hair. Brown skin. Pretty almond-shaped green eyes. Dark lipstick. Talia Al Ghul. Sitting right next to you.
You startled so violently that you nearly fell off the bench, jumping back with a scream. Your phone slipped from your fingers and hit the ground.
She merely looked at you with that steady, unreadable stare before bending down and picking it up. It took you several seconds before you finally accepted it back.
"I-I'm sorry. I didn't see you coming. You're really like your son, that's... actually crazy..." you chuckled awkwardly.
"Thank you," she replied at the comment about her son.
Your eyes widened slightly. "Since when have you been here?"
"I was already here when you sat down." she answered in her usual low voice.
This woman had the quietest voice you'd ever heard. You'd never heard emotions in it either. Just soft-spoken words, as if she was always cautious of unwanted ears listening in.
And that discretion, that ability to disappear and make people ignore her presence, was insane. You genuinely hadn't seen her when you sat down.
"Oh. I'm so sorry..." You winced. "Y-You heard everything?"
"Apparently."
You sighed, mortified. "I don't think they'll answer if I call to let them know you're aware of the situation. They have, you know... a flight."
She raised an eyebrow. "You're going to tell them that I know?"
That's a weird question, you thought.
Still, you nodded. "You're not going to call Bruce and threaten him with death?"
You matched her tone perfectly on purpose.
She shrugged. "I would love to. But I didn't want to get you in trouble. If I call, he'll know you let the information slip."
You burst out laughing. "I won't get in trouble with Queen Bee," you said, mocking the nickname as if it were the dumbest thing ever.
Bruce Wayne getting you in trouble. How laughable.
"But that's a sweet thought. Thank you."
She just nodded without breaking eye contact with you, leaving a silence hanging in the air. Awkward.
“Sorry, what was your name again? Gem?” She broke the silence.
You chuckled awkwardly and answered with your name. “I understand the confusion, they always call me Gem. I’m working with Bruce, we met a few times I think. I’m here to handle the meeting for him.”
She nodded. “Yeah, I knew that. I just never heard your name actually. Damian calls you ‘Aunt’.”
It made you smile. “I like those kids. If only their father wasn’t a piece of shit. Always been more Superman than Batman anyway.”
And finally, a little smile. But not the mocking smirk you’d seen when she was teasing her son or Bruce’s other kids —even Bruce himself sometimes.— It was a genuine soft smile that reached her eyes. Damn, she was really pretty.
“No, you don’t.”
Sarcastically, you acted as if you were thinking and finally shrugged. “No, I don’t.” Smiling. “What brings you to a Gotham park this early? The meeting is only tomorrow.”
She used to come and leave the same day, or a few days later if she was spending time with her son. She never came a day before, though.
“I wanted to make a surprise. Damian always plays with the stray cats that hang around this park.”
Ouch. You felt sorry for her.
“Don’t take pity on me. We’re used to disappointing each other.”
She said it so casually it made you laugh. It was insane how well she hid her emotions, you couldn’t read a hint of disappointment on her face. “Want to have the meeting right now? So you don’t lose more of your time here.”
She shook her head. “No, I’m not investing anymore.”
Your eyes widened and your smile faltered. “Why? Did I say something wrong?” You completely turned toward her, leaning over slightly.
“You didn’t do anything.”
You frowned. “So you’re canceling hundreds of millions worth of arrangements because you’re mad at a man dressed like a furry?”
She frowned, clearly wondering what the hell a furry was, but it seemed to describe Bruce Wayne properly enough, so she went along with it.
“I’m not mad at him, but I just want to piss him off.”
You laughed again. She was quite funny, to your surprise. “Yeah, I feel you.”
She understood that her son didn’t want to tell her and avoided it. They weren’t good at talking, she would’ve done the same. So no, she wasn’t mad nor pissed about this situation.
But for some reason, Bruce Wayne had climbed to the top of the list of people she wanted dead. And she wasn’t quite sure why.
“You’re not pushing further for the investment?” she finally asked.
“Hell no. This man already makes crazy money. He’s certainly not in need of more.”
“I’m sure he won’t last long without you. I’m not sure he deserves your skills,” she mumbled, her voice so quiet you weren’t entirely sure you heard her correctly.
You leaned over again and she tensed, leaning back.
You smirked, tilting your head. “He does unfortunately. They’re my family. I’d die for them.”
“My son too?” Her voice was softer this time.
You smiled again moved by her tone, sweet, so sweet, as if she was hoping you’d die for him too.
“Bruce loves them more than life itself. If I had to choose between him and your son, I’m saving Damian, because that’s what he’ll want. Your son is part of my family, and I love Bruce enough to sacrifice him over Dami.”
Then again, another smile appeared on her lips and she turned her gaze toward the horizon, watching people walk along the path.
“I trust you then. Please stay around for them and I’ll always make sure you’re safe, even though they already have your back.”
You noticed how she said “them”, not only talking about her son but also about the others.
Talia used to visit very often, twice a week or something like that. Recently she hadn’t had the time, and it’d been weeks since she last came. To your surprise, she was close to everyone, not only her son.
She’d spare with Dick and Tim, she’d takeCass and Steph out sometimes, she even deal sometimes with very illegal activities with Jason, making Bruce very, very unhappy.
In fact, the last time you’d seen her was during Cassandra’s and Stephanie’s prom night. You were helping them get ready when she’d simply appeared by the window and handed them perfume.
You’d asked Bruce why she was sweeter than any report had ever described.
He answered that Talia was simply very loyal and if someone took care of those she loved, she would take care of them too. And she loved her son, so if you loved him enough to die for him, she’d trust and like you too, at least a little.
It’s like she’s paying her dues.
“And I think my kids are very fun to be around, especially when you’re an assassin who spent their whole life hiding their feelings,” Bruce had added that day.
And it made you laugh. She just liked those kids.
Your phone started ringing, reminding you that you had to get back to work.
“You’re leaving?” she asked, turning back toward you.
You had to, but you didn’t want to.
The conversation was comfortable and she was surprisingly fun to be around.
“Do you still want to have lunch with me tomorrow? The reservation is still on. We won’t talk about work obviously if you’re not investing, but I actually wanted to try this restaurant, so…” You rambled, rubbing the back of your neck.
“You want to grab lunch with a poor assassin disappointed mother?”
You giggled at the reference to your phone call. “You don’t have other plans anyway, right?”
And she nodded. You saw her shoulders relax just a tiny little bit. “Alright, I’ll be there then…”
And that’s how it happened.
The two of you met at this restaurant the very next day. At first, the conversation was about Bruce and work, then fuck him. You didn’t mention him any other time.
You talked about childhood, food, fashion, cats, you just had the most random subjects of conversation and it was mad fun. She told you she had never watched any Disney movie, and it was the craziest thing you’d ever heard.
“You have to watch one of them! Mulan is my favorite.” You said, stealing a bit of her dessert.
She didn’t frown nor acknowledge your action, as if she didn’t care about the cacao cake.
“You’re inviting me?” she asked, pushing her plate toward you, offering you the rest of her dessert.
“Hell yeah. I am.” You answered without much thinking.
And you spent the rest of the day with her, in your apartment, watching Mulan, then The Princess and the Frog, then Tangled, then Moana and then Frozen. She was very focused on every single one of them.
Leaning on her elbow on your couch, a plaid over her lap and tea in her other hand, she’d comment sometimes or hum along with you.
“So what was your favorite?” you asked when it was already dark outside, scrolling through your phone to order sushi on an app.
Cliché, but you thought she’d say Mulan, the action in it was very cool.
“Tangled?” she said, getting up and reaching for her bag.
You placed your phone aside, thinking she had finally decided to leave.
“Really? Thought you disliked that one the most.”
She came back next to you, handing you her credit card. Your eyes widened slightly. She hadn’t decided to leave, and it made you very happy. More than normal, actually.
“She is cute.” She simply said, looking into your eyes as always. And you went silent, lips parted.
“Rapunzel.” She added.
And you chuckled. You had forgotten the subject and taken her words personally. How embarrassing.
“You’re taking my card someday?” she asked.
You stopped laughing, shaking your head. “If I were paying with my money, I’d accept it. But it’s on Bruce.”
She tilted her head, still holding out her card “But there is nothing professional about it…”
You shrugged. “I basically live on his money because without me Wayne Corp is over. My heartbeat is very professional.”
And she smirked. “Alright, but I’ll pay next time.”
Next time… There is a next time?
You were watching Aladdin and then Tarzan, eating your sushi and drinking wine, when she said she had never been to an amusement park after you told her about that day at Disney World where you fell off an attraction replicating the flying carpet.
You found it less surprising than the Disney movie thing, maybe because you’d already met people who never went there too, or maybe because you’d become used to the gap between your lives.
But still, you said, “Wanna go with me tomorrow? Or are you leaving?”
She shook her head. “I’m not leaving. Waiting for Damian. Don’t you have work though?”
Damn. You did. She made you forget about it.
You didn’t want to go back to work. It wasn’t a rare thought of yours, but you’d never thought about skipping work just to go hang out with someone.
“That’s fine, I’m taking the day off.”
And you’d never done that either.
“I feel like I don’t have to ask if you’re allowed to. You seem to be allowed to kill whoever you want.”
She frowned at Jasmine kissing Aladdin on the screen. “He is just a liar.” she mumbled.
“Bruce gave me a week off when he forced me to deal with his personal issues with you alone. I feel like it’s only fair to spend it with you.” You said, bringing a sashimi to your mouth.
Your eyes were focused on the screen. It took you a few seconds to realize she hadn’t answered. You turned your attention toward her. She was looking at you and you could see surprise on her face.
“Hm?” You tilted your head.
“You… You’re gonna spend that week off with me?” she asked in disbelief.
Oh. That’s what you said. Maybe you shouldn’t have. Maybe she misunderstood you. Maybe she didn’t want to. Did you want to? You just needed an excuse.
“I-It would just be fair. I got it thanks to you after all.” You blurted out.
“But Damian is back tomorrow, and I’m leaving the next morning. I won’t be around all week.”She spoke almost in a whisper.
It was as if she was listing every reason why you shouldn’t spend more time with her. Trying to convince you.
“Alright. Then I’ll just take tomorrow off for now. And I’m taking the other days when you’re around until we reach the five days.”
You paused the movie, realizing neither of you was paying attention anymore.
She tilted her head, a faint smirk pulling at the corner of her lips. “So I have to be available three more times?”
You shook your head. “Actually, five. Today didn’t count, the meeting was already planned and I already had the afternoon off. So you have to be available tomorrow and four other times.”
As you talked, you felt like you were begging for her attention. But seeing that it might work, you kept going.
“Why did you have your afternoon off?”
“Oh, I needed some time to do my administrative paperwork. I’m too lazy to do it on weekends and I haven’t done my tax papers since last year, I think. I’m very late.” You said cheerfully.
And she frowned. “So why did we watch movies all afternoon and evening?”
Your eyes widened. Right. She made you forget. You hadn’t done any of it.
“Shit! I got an appointment at 7:30 AM tomorrow for these!” You exclaimed, placing both hands on the sides of your head dramatically.
For the first time ever, she laughed. Brightly. Melodiously.
Her laugh was louder than her voice, as if she didn’t laugh often enough to know how to lower it the way she did when she spoke.
“How didn’t you realize that when you got to spend a whole Monday afternoon at home?”
“I don’t know, I’m just really having fun with you and I didn’t realize.” You mumbled, embarrassed.
And she laughed again, softer this time. “Alright. Well, let’s do it.”
You frowned. Her laugh was so intoxicating you hadn’t paid enough attention to the situation.
“Do what?”
“Your paperwork. It’s 8 PM and tomorrow we’re out all day. We should wrap it up quickly so you can go to bed.” She said it as if this situation wasn’t completely insane.
You did your administrative work with Talia Al Ghul, drinking wine, with a Grey’s Anatomy episode playing in the background, and you were laughing. Nothing was normal.
“You shouldn’t let me have access to all this personal information.” She said while printing a copy of your birth certificate for the supporting documents.
“You could obtain it in a second if you wanted to. Maybe you already have it.”
She smirked, shrugging. “Maybe.”
The very next day, after your meeting, Talia joined you and you went to an amusement park. She wasn’t impressed. Not even a bit.
Not even during the 128-meter-high ride. She was stoic and silent while you were screaming your lungs out. However, the day was fun. At some point, you won a butterfly plushie at a hot-dog-eating contest and gave it to her. She just looked at it, guffawed, and said, “She has a stupid smile.” Mocking the plushie.
And after a long day of attractions and the plushies the two of you had won for each other, you reached the Wayne Manor gates with a bright smile on your face.
Cass, Damian, and Bruce had just arrived, their luggage still in the entrance hall. Cass was showing Alfred videos of the game, Jason was messing with Damian, and Bruce was talking with Dick.
They all went silent at your sight as you placed your black cat and bubble tea plushies aside.
“Mother.” Damian said, nodding.
“Let’s have a chat.” She said to her son.
Alfred, quick as always, went to grab the butterfly from her hand. It made Talia frowned, squeezing your gift tightly.
But Alfred didn’t back down with a smile that said, “I’ll give it back when you’re ready to leave.”
Then she hummed at him. “Great to see you again, Alfred.” Accepting his attention.
“As it is for me, Miss Al Ghul.”
She turned toward you with a smile that surprised everyone and waved. “See you next time.”
And she climbed the stairs, probably heading toward her son’s room for some privacy. Damian rolled his eyes and followed her.
“Okay… What was that?” Jason whispered.
“I think I hung out with Talia?”
And you loved every second of it, looking forward to your next encounter.
summary; after moving out of gotham, you've forgotten your best friend. but he hasn't. and now that you've returned, you have a hard time recognising that, that hot guy in your class is the same little boy you once knew.
wtf. - damian wayne x m!reader
summary; after leaving a long day at high school, the last thing you expected was to see robin bleeding out and unconscious in an alley. obviously, you had to help him— that's what good people do. he'd be grateful, right?.. right?
eepy - damian wayne x gn!reader
summary; damian is emotionally constipated. you’re touched starved but refuse to acknowledge it. but that is no more a secret after damian realised; you're a whole another person when you're sleepy— so clingy. and so his.
mon chéri - damian wayne x gn!reader
summary; since you moved to Gotham from France, having a crush was the last thing on your mind. first and foremost, adapting to the culture was the most important thing—especially considering you're terrible at english. who would have thought that catching the eye of someone would come along before you mastered english?
rebel heart - damian wayne x m!reader
summary; damian desperately needs to behave like a normal teenager. and you'd be more than happy to help him with that. except— your concept of “normal teenager" means being an absolute menace to society.
─── ❨ 𝐧. ❩ the joy of meeting or finding someone again after a long separation :: suddenly you are aware of how dependent you are on his presence !
content ⸝⸝ aged up . damian wayne x fem . reader , oneshot , teeny tiny bit angst , fluff , established relationship , 2.28wc , this was a request 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒
You wake up to silence. Although not the usual one. The one wherein the sun is rising leisurely into the sky, gently falls upon the room through the window and wakes you up ever so softly — lying beside Damian.
Damian who would've been awake an hour before you, gazes at you with quiet and determined love disguised as a blank stare. Yet this time, he isn't there. Not beside you, not gazing at you, not waiting for you.
No, this silence feels worse. Heavy. Uncomfortable. Cold. Everything you wish it not to be.
But you still find the strength to stand up and leave the bed, brush your teeth like every other day, make your breakfast like every other day and enjoy the peace like every other day.
Except it isn't like every other day.
I'm lonely — realisation started to hit, it's one that leaves you speechless and confused.
Since when did you start being lonely without Damian — since when did you solely depend on his presence and company?
You want to slam your head against the table. Yet instead — you let your forehead slowly sink until it touches the wooden surface, gently and slowly enough to not accidentally hurt yourself.
Only because he wouldn't be so amused.
The next few hours you spend your time in the office, set your phone aside on not disturb while sorting the hundreds of papers and read several throughly before signing some of the contacts, eyes laser sharp and focused.
Although inwardly, you are waiting for something, someone to leave you a message. A message that reassures you and puts you at ease. You wait at the table and lean your cheek against your fist.
Your ears are open and they are waiting impatiently.
For a certain ring that never comes.
Leisurely, you start deflating at the endless silence, the torturous waiting. Every bits of hope leaving you with the seconds passing.
There's a quiet knock against your doors before you reluctantly let the person in — deep down knowing it wasn't your beloved, yet a tiny part of you still hoping it was. The double doors open to your room as you lift your gaze to see your butler.
"Mrs. Wayne, don't overwork yourself." she tutted at you.
"Riu." you place your pen aside with a frown, "I miss him."
"I know." the woman hummed under her breath, setting down a cup of tea and a few sweets.
"Not allowed to eat sweets before lunch."
"And I know that as well, but perceive these as a little motivation." a wink and a gloved finger pressed against her lips. "A secret between us."
"Thank you." you could feel yourself tearing up.
"Keep up the great work, Mrs. Wayne." she sent you a lingering smile before closing the doors behind her again.
"Don't call me that, use my name at least." you grumbled under your breath in and took a sip of the tea.
You return back to your job, keeping the business alive and thriving — pinpoint your attention to the paperwork again while barely having time for yourself and your missing husband.
Nonetheless, your mind drifts back to Damian from time to time, wondering in the silence of your office how his mission is and if he was doing alright. You wonder if he is still in this world.
It frustrates you to no end. The agonising pace of the day, the next week pass so slowly — you might die from sorrow and sadness. You don't know where he is, how long it will take, if he's alive.
No message ever since he left. No call ringing. No voicemail left behind.
Does he hate you? Does he want you to suffer from the endless pain?
And before you realise, you already texted him a few messages, already called him at least once a day. Dead end. Messages left on delivered. Calls and voicemails unheard.
You suppose, you could've survived a few days without him — without his touch, his voice, his warmth. It would've been fine if his absence lingered for a week at most.
It's been almost three weeks, it makes you desperate enough to reach out for his brother.
"Tim, I think he never wants to come back." you breathe out.
"Nonsense." a bead of sweat trails down his temple, "he'd rather die."
"One way to make me feel better, I guess." you muse, bringing the glass of wine towards your lips, "you are a... bad liar."
"People tell me the opposite."
"Well that makes you not so lonely." you shoot back.
"I thought we have to respect our elders."
"Don't test me."
"Alright, I'm lonely." his lips curves into a grin, leaning back into the chair.
The restaurant is busy — not in the way a famous one would be, not filled with chatters left and right accompanied by a few giggles or laughter. The volume of the chatter is kept low so no one hears whatever gossip among the rich and famous goes around.
It's your favourite actually. Damian knows too well, and when Damian knows — he makes sure the others do as well. That's the only reason why Tim brought you here, to cheer you up.
"Yes, and you're going to die alone and single."
"Ouch, that's harsh."
"...Sorry."
He lets out an amused chuckle as he sees the genuine guilt behind your half-lidded eyes, the corner of your lips turning downwards slowly as if there's a certain weight dragging you down.
"No more drinking." he decides.
"I am a-an adult — I can handle... I can handle—" you hissed before narrowing your eyes in a warning, "I can handle myself, Drake."
But he doesn't take you serious anyways, the way you almost trip over each other word and how half of them are slurred — it's adorable when you are half drunk and dazed while trying to warn him.
"C'mon, give me that glass." he extends his hand, voice a mere whisper as if he is taming a wild cat.
"Hands off." you hiccup and grip the glass tighter.
"One more sip and you're done." his eyes are soft yet there is a gleam of sternness luring in his eyes.
"Fine... But you are paying—" you hiccup, "r-right?"
Talking as if you aren't richer than him.
"Of course."
As soon as the last sip is made, he takes away your glass and sets it aside, further from you before asks for the bill and pays — then helping you steady to bring you home safely.
"What if Damian..." your head lolls to the side, facing his brother with a horrified expression while your arm is loosely hung over his shoulders, "died..?"
Tim chuckles at your assumption, hand planted carefully on your waist, not too low and not too high. "You really think he'd leave you here?" he steadies you and walks you up to his car.
"Damian hates me—!" you slur, eyes burning dangerously as tears well up in your eyes.
"Please, don't cry. How am I going to explain this to your husband?" he takes his finger to wipe the tears away, "he is so going to kill me."
"He is dead, Tim..!" you begin to sob, shoulders quivering at the thought.
"There, there..."
The male pats your head after settling you in the passenger seat and closing the door. The drive back to the manor is filled with your favourite playlist, your weeping thoughts and your pathetic sobs and hiccups.
"Y'know, you should worry less." Tim stares at the red light, hands wrapped around the steering wheel, "it's Damian we are talking about."
"I'm just... worried." you jut out your lower lip, eyes stealing glances from your phone.
Suddenly, the embarrassment is catching up with you, hyperaware of how needy and desperate you act. You leaned back into the seat, weight dipping in the leader cushion that makes your skin itch and stick.
"Get a new car."
A breathless chuckle escape his lips as he takes off the second the red turns into green, driving leisurely to keep it up with your mood, in no hurry to actually race back to the manor.
"Can't do that, sorry." he hums, "I will see what I can do with the passenger seat, yes?"
Frown is still etched deep into your face, yet it softens by a fraction. The light emitted by your phone screen is shutting down, your chat with Damian still wide open until it gives out.
"I hate him." you murmur.
"Let's take that back before he knows about it."
Eventually, Tim parks right at the door in front of the manor. You breathe out again and wipe your tears away before staring at him. "Thanks for today." you get out of the car and then halt for a short minute, "either you get a new seat or a new car."
"Yessir." he salutes at you.
A tiny part of you feels bad for not giving him the satisfaction to smile one last time as you open the doors that led you into the depths of the manor. The lights flicker dimly at your arrival.
Inwardly, you aren't ready to go in — not ready to walk around in the cold, not ready to get greeted by nothing but silence, not ready to sleep in an empty bed for another day.
You still decide to enter, body moving automatically into the darkness, steps careful and deliberate. Because he would've wanted you in the warmth, he would've wanted you safe within the walls of the manor.
Then your gaze falls upon him.
Calm and quiet, the music played on a vinyl so quiet that it barely reaches your ear, fresh tea leaving a trail of steam behind. He looks peaceful, tries to be, especially holding a book — your book.
His fingers are curled around the spine of it, his eyes attentively follow each sentence after the other. He really tries to seem peaceful, yet you see the slight tension etched into his muscles.
"Hayati, you are home." Damian speaks up, voice finally echoing in your ears — voice that was lowered and gentle just for you to hear.
You hate the way he seems so unbothered, so relaxed after leaving you wither in emptiness. You hate how you notice his muscles finally easing at the sight of you.
"I hate you." you don't and he knows.
But he still frowns at your words, titling his head slightly to the side while shutting the book with a soft thud. "Do not say things you don't mean." he sits still on the comfortable sofa.
Then, he watches how you approach him — lower lips jutted out and glossy eyes with tears that are dangerously threatening to spill. It makes his heart drop, settles down deep and uncomfortably in his chest.
"Excuse me for my absence." a mere whisper as if he's afraid of hurting you more, rising from his seat.
"You didn't answer, didn't text, didn't call, didn't even write a letter." you hiss, some words are slurred and your eyes hide a certain daze.
"Did you drink, Hayati?"
"You don't get to call me that after this."
Before you can continue with your complains, he carefully wraps his arms around you, right behind your waist and back, embrace so warm and tight that it makes you melt instantly.
"I'm sorry." he murmurs against your skin, tickling you while doing so.
It's comforting, you missed it and you love it.
After a beat of silence, he starts again. His hand wanders up to your head, caresses you so lovingly that it breaks your heart even more — for speaking out your false hatred.
"I'm sorry."
You gradually drop the weight, arms immediately snaking around his waist and pressing yourself closer as if you need his skin against yours to breathe, as if you couldn't survive without him.
And you can't survive without him.
"I'm sorry."
"Stop." your voice is muffled against his clothes, leaning closer and pushing slightly — enough to make him stumble, both of your bodies landing on the sofa, your weight dipping into the cushion.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it." you admit in all honesty, tears soaked up by his fabrics, soaked up by him.
"I know."
"Am I not infuriating? Am I not impossible?" you close your eyes, "am I not bothering you? How do you keep up with—with someone like me?"
"You do not infuriate me. You could never be a bother. If you ever own such thoughts again, I will be aware of how much I failed you." his arms tighten, to reassure you and himself, "I'm sorry for disappointing you. Yet I vow—to be better. Tell me how—"
"Shut up." you interrupt him, "shut up and hold me. I just missed you. I'm so needy and desperate, it's insane. You made me dependent on your existence."
"Three weeks and two days." he did count, "I was drowning to breathe you in, to hold you in my arms again and to whisper you my love."
Damian lets out a chuckle at his confession, closing his eyes to breathe you in the way he desperately needed in the last three weeks. He missed it so much. He missed you.
Your sweet scent, your never ending heartbeat, your bright smile, your laughter.
The way it made him feel at ease.
"I feel bad, for saying that I hated you." you whisper before laughing, "genuinely... How do you keep up with me? Especially for the rest of our lives."
"Forever is a decision not made wisely, and I made mine—you." he breathes out, "do not question my love for you."
"You're such a loser."
"For you, Hayati, I will always be at the losing end for your heart."
author’s note — wait so the start was bugging me but i locked in until the very end . everyone say you are proud of me right NEOW — and also it’s three am lol , that’s how i pulled in i got with this request ,, this is highkey my proudest work i think haha btw our special guest is @megumismyhusband / @riuvy aka the butler haha ⸝⸝
yan!romantic royal damian wayne × royal male reader × yan!platonic royal batfamily
>> list, chapter 1, chapter 2, chapter 4
Zachariah handed you your schedule just this morning. He gave you classes for Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, saying that a day off in between sounds appropriate and healthy. Assuming Eron and Era did have the same schedule, your problem at the moment, sitting in one of your assigned seats inside the room, is Damian Wayne across from you.
You are in the front row, Eron and Era did as they seat on each of your sides. Zachariah had told them that they are to be seated in their own respective kingdom, but seeing as Zachariah had not had any control of Eron’s command yesterday, he really can't say no when the twins insisted they sit beside you.
When your eyes caught sight of Damian's figure sitting silently on the seats in front, with his kingdom’s people behind him, you had expected Eron and Era to react. Maybe in confusion, or acting a bit more negatively seeing as they don't get along much from last night's conversation. It was surprising, you thought, that Eron had the audacity to change his behavior towards Damian when he clung his arms on him with an enthusiastic expression. He keeps pointing out the fact that sharing the same day of classes means knowing each other better.
“Unfortunately,” Damian whispered to himself.
“Hm? What is it, your highness?” Eron innocently asked.
“Nothing.”
Unfortunately for your people, too. They were a bit more subtle when it comes to expressing their opinions about the twins of Mohet clinging themselves onto you. Unlike the people from Gotham and Metropolis who you'll sometimes see glaring on your side. It makes you sweat a bit, but it doesn't matter to you as long as no one from your people is affected. Jonathan, who you've had been eyeing since becoming more comfortable around Conner, seems to not have any classes for Monday.
As Barbara Gordon, guardian of the Gothamites students, said, she is indeed your professor.
When Barbara entered the room and introduced herself, Era leaned herself closer to you. “Is it not a bit odd to have a sibling be your professor?” She pointed out the fact Barbara Gordon is Damian Wayne’s older sister.
“I don't think so, your highness,” you responded amidst Barbara’s introductions.
“In this circumstance, I have to admit Gotham’s heir is at an advantage. You know? Biases are likely possible.” Era crossed her arms against her chest, with her eyes closed as if not acknowledging Barbara's words in front.
“You are right,” you said, smiling, as you looked at her. “On a positive note, it just feels like you're home, isn't it? A family is a child's first teacher.” She looks at you as if you are speaking rubbish.
“Well, I do not think so.” She shifted her gaze away from you and onto Eron. “Family is where you will be numbed and used to pain.” Era said that as if it was nothing. You blinked. Twice. You don’t have any clue what Era meant with pain, but nonetheless, it's a horrible fact.
When Wednesday came, that was when you met Jonathan again. You both share the same schedule for Wednesday. You didn't waste your chances of making an acquaintance, waving your hand enthusiastically to him as if you had seen a cute puppy. Your kingdom is assigned to the fourth group of chairs from the left, starting with Gotham, then Mohet, Metropolis, and Caelum. You're not far from his kingdom. The twins weren't happy when the first thing they saw upon entering the room was you laughing along with Jonathan, because he had said something funny.
“Conner seems to like you very much!” Jonathan admitted, his eyes shining from admiration. You cannot help but feel flattered. “I didn't know he's good with kids!”
“Well, it's just like being friends with his own brother, isn't it? We're not that far from each other's ages.” You slightly tilted your head to the side, your mantle's fur brushing on your cheek. You have a smile plastered on your face and eyes that almost kissed itself closed.
Jonathan stops for a moment, watching your features, before letting out a laugh. “I guess so!” Your chuckle follows his, and for a moment, it felt as though everything was back to normal.
Not until arms started wrapping itself onto yours.
“[Name], I did not see you this morning during breakfast. Are you well?” Era flashes her eyelashes to you. The light of the room illuminates on her deep black irises that seem to suck the light in. Her lower lip slipped out slightly for a pout.
“Of course.” You shifted your smile onto her. “I usually take my breakfast in my chamber seeing as it takes me hours to prepare for the day.”
“Really?” Eron drapes his arms onto your nape. He looks straight at Jonathan, now sweating from the sudden interruption. “I suppose friendships include molding each other's routines into your own lifestyle. Should we start eating with you in your chamber starting tomorrow morning?” Eron's sight did not leave Jonathan, who isn't afraid to stare back.
“That's just invading his privacy, isn't it?” Jonathan asked, his eyebrows slightly furrowed.
“But [Name] is allowed to invade my privacy. It is only fair I do the same with him,” Eron answered, with his chin up in pride and arm tightening around your neck. You slightly closed your eyes, not knowing how to respond. For one, you've never invaded any of the twin's privacy. Two, that is not how consent works.
While Eron is having a back and forth bickering with Jonathan about your privacy, Era found a chance to pull you away from the two. She had insisted you sit with her in her kingdom. “But, your highness, my place is in my kingdom. Wouldn't it be right to have each royals in their own respective kingdoms? I don't want to leave my kingdom alone.” You pointed out the fact that each kingdom has at least one of their royals with them. Era silently stood still on her spot as if thinking of considering your words before pulling your arms and towards your kingdom.
“I suppose Eron can represent ours.” Era had shown you her smile, her toothy grin flashing great enthusiasm. You returned the same expression, and gladly sat beside her. You know for a fact that Eron would not let it slide and would cling onto your other side the moment he found out you're nowhere near him.
What caught your attention the most is Damian walking inside the room with Barbara following behind. Against his chest is a book and trapped between his fingers is a quill. You saw his eyes falling into yours, and his expression remained neutral. It didn't last long when his eyes shifted to Jonathan and Eron a few steps away from you and raised one of his eyebrows in confusion.
You flinched, looking exactly at Eron's back before calling him. “Eron, your highness! The class will start soon.” You almost can feel your tongue slipping away and almost letting out a stutter. You didn't know why you had done what you did, Era's face seems like she doesn't too, and Damian let out a scoff before walking past Jonathan and onto his assigned seat. You did not want the Gotham heir to witness their argument and contribute to the fact that Damian is nowhere near easy to approach.
Your people who had witnessed the interaction look at each other when Eron covers their sight in front. The twins are on Caelum's side again. Although at this point, it doesn't really matter anymore. No one can say the same thing with the people of Metropolis and Mohet. It seems as though the argument about your privacy only added fuel to the already existing tension between them.
Today is Friday, your last class for this week. Barbara had already started tackling writing since Monday. She gave everyone their own diagnostic exams about basic literacy before starting lectures. Each time before classes begin, Barbara will order everyone to sing the alphabet. Era did not let it pass through by questioning how the alphabet is relevant like they were toddlers.
On the other hand, you have enough experiences and exposure to other kids to the point you can conclude that being in a royal family is a privilege. Damian had already stopped singing along with the song. You believe he never did in the first place. Later on, you found out he also excels in writing and reading, doing it so as if he's done it multiple times. Jonathan is the opposite of Damian. He happily and excitedly sings along with the music every single time. You sometimes can see him interacting with his people behind his back, and it somehow made you like him even more. Eron and Era are much louder about it. They will brag about their excellence to you, and sometimes mock those who are left behind. As for you, you are the same. Barbara had complimented your writing to be beautiful and elegant several times. When it comes to reading, you also follow words like an expert.
And, again, it seems as though your purpose here is nowhere. Not in a bragging way, or in a way that shows you are privileged to have been taking advanced classes in your palace, and that it is enough to not send you away from Caelum. It has only been the third day of your academic year, there are more to come. But you cannot help miss your home miles away from where you are at the moment. The mornings spent in your palace's garden. The women taking care of you as if you came from their womb. Especially your father.
You've also noticed one thing. Mohet's students excel more than the other kids from the other kingdoms. They are usually quiet, but are very savage when it comes to criticizing other kingdoms. You noticed two types of people in Mohet. They are either nonchalant, quiet, and do not care about their surroundings, or brutally speaking and the one starting troubles. It didn't occur to you at that time, but when Mohet students kept coming to pass their finished paper one after the other when Barbara had just started handing handouts, that's when you said a comment around the twins.
“Your people are fast learners. That is interesting,” you commented as you sat on your seat again after passing your own paper to Barbara.
“They should be,” Eron follows you. He has his arms on the back of his head and is waiting, bored. “You do know our monarch only chooses children that are worthy to study here. If they are dumb, I should be questioning them.”
“Oh, I didn't know that.”
“Now you do.” Eron chuckles at you. He let his arms down and scooted closer to you. “Our people are given their own tests. You pass, you study here. Knowledge is a powerful concept in our kingdom,” he follows after.
“And despite that, they're the same in population as Metropolis, I've heard. Your kingdom must be full of intelligent people.” When you said that, Eron scoffs. He felt proud that the people in his kingdom are being noticed for their excellence, especially coming from you. It only matters if it's your words, he thought.
It's the first time in a while you've hung around the hall again. You decided to roam around the building after your class and interact more with people. Ser Knight follows you behind like a tail. He sometimes unintentionally scares people away from you, especially those from another kingdom.
“I've seen him around before! He is very kind!” One of the kids from your kingdom pointed. He pokes the hard and cold metal with the point of his index finger, and Ser Knight did not react. “I always see him around the shore near the capital.”
“Really?” You asked, interested. “Isn't it interesting? I met him on shore when I was being taken away from the kingdom.” Ser Knight sweats a bit when you say it as if you were forced to be taken away from your home. It didn't matter to him when he heard your laughter along with the others.
A cry rang out in the place. It is so loud it echoes through the walls. The people around you stop talking and are engulfed in silence. You swear you hear Ser Knight's armor clinking against each other as his head tries to find the source of the noise. The person you are talking to stands up on his feet in fear, alerted by the sudden cries of another child.
When you stand up on your feet and follow the sound, the more you step closer, the more you can audibly hear Eron's voice. On the other side of the big hall, you can see him with his arms crossed against his chest and a smug grin on his face. Era is nowhere to be seen, and you don't know if you should be relieved or not. In front of him is the person crying. It's a female, shorter than him. She has her eyes closed, mouth agape from crying, and fat tears flowing down her cheeks. She is sitting on Gotham's table, with a book placed in front of her and hands gripping the pages. You can see from your spot the ripped papers scattered on the floor. Behind Eron is his people, with smirks on their faces and sneaking laughters behind their hands.
“What is happening?” Eron turns around when he hears your voice. His grin flutters a bit when he sees you and arms slightly loosening on his chest.
“Oh, nothing, [Name]. I'm just helping her.” Eron walks to you and wraps his arm around your shoulders. It became a habit of his whenever you enter his line of sight, or the mere sense of your existence near his atmosphere. You don't know how to feel about it. Eron seems to be considerate of things, but oftentimes he's the same brutal savage personality that the other Mohet students are. “She’s all alone in Gotham’s table, and their guardian is nowhere to be seen. She keeps pronouncing the word bourgeoisie wrong. I decided to help.” Eron proudly laid his palm flat on his chest as if a hero receiving a medal for his bravery and kindness.
“Eron,” you mumbled and looked him in the eyes as if it was your last straw. “The word bourgeoisie is not commonly used or known for people our age.”
“And yet we do.” You sigh when you hear him immediately following yours. “It's in her book, you see?”
The scene in front seems to say otherwise. You look around and see people from Mohet whispering to themselves as they pass. The Gothamites, who you assume are the girl’s people, did not help when you met their judgemental gazes. Their eyes lingers too long with disgust, and no ounce of pity from their irises. It made your heart sink. You look forward to the still crying girl, her hands gripping the pages of the book you can recognize came from the main library nearby because of its thick leather cover.
“What is wrong?” You approach her, which led to Eron being forced to remove his arms around you. Before you could give comfort to the obviously distressed kid, you picked up the pieces of crumpled papers and ripped pages on the floor and placed them on Gotham's table. You found your hand flying on her back, drawing circles as her voice booms louder and louder the more you make yourself closer. Eron must have done something other than what he said he did for the girl to react like this.
The girl did not answer your question. It only made her cries louder. She trash around, pushing the book out of the surface of the table and almost hitting you in the process. You look around for help. Barbara is nowhere to be seen. Zachariah or any of the other guardians is not around. The Gothamites act like they do not know the girl and instead look away in embarrassment. The Mohet students seem to be taking Eron’s side. Your people, on the other hand, are more concerned about you. And as much as you hate the feeling of nervousness when Damian is around, you cannot help but look around for him. Unfortunately for you, he isn't. The only option you have at that moment is Ser Knight.
But even Ser Knight cannot help. When he steps closer to where you are, the girl shows emotions of fear. It made the knight feel sulky and helpless.
“You know it's useless, right? Seems to me that the best option is to leave her alone,” Eron spoke from behind you. You turn around to look at him with a worried expression on your face, and slight panic on your features.
“What did you do, Eron?” You asked, turning back around in a hurry as if looking away means the girl will become more emotionally distraught.
“I told her to pronounce bourgeoisie right,” Eron responded to your question. His voice was laced with calmness and slight hint of boredom. He has a neutral expression on his face telling everyone that whatever is happening in front of him does not entertain him anymore.
You gave Ser Knight an order to call any of the kingdom's guardians. Much better if it's Barbara or anyone in charge of Gothamites. At the moment, you try to compose yourself and think of a solution to the problem presented in front of you. You start thinking back to when you were with kids your age around Caelum. What did you do when one of the kids you were playing with fell and scraped their knees on the hard concrete? What did you do when one of the kids from the capital approached you because their mother needed serious and immediate medical attention? What did you do when one of the kids of the woman responsible for taking care of you cannot find their own toys from the massive space of your palace?
You find your left hand caressing her face, and the other gripping her hands. You can feel your chest heaving up and down and eyes trying to lock with the other. You showed calmness through your expression, taking the space beside her and started whispering words of reassurance. “You’re okay. You are fine.”
At first, it didn't seem to work. You tried your best to place your left hand on her cheek, brushing away the hair out of her forehead that sticks with sweat. You can feel the wetness of her salty tears contacting your palm, and the longer you stay around, the more she softens and lowers her volume. The corner of your lips slightly lifts itself up when you've finally caught sight of her eyes.
“Ah, heir of Caelum.” A new voice spoke near where you sit.
You caught sight of a blonde haired female. Unfamiliar face, but the air around her screams more. She approached your spot in a hurry, and a slight worry showed on her face. The new girl seems to disregard Eron's presence seeing as she does not glance on his way once. Mohet's heir watches all of the things happening in front of him as if he wasn't the trigger and center of it all, with his body leaning backwards on Gotham's table and arms still crossed.
“I apologize for the trouble. I truly do.” The girl wraps her hand around the smaller and younger kid who seems better now than she did minutes ago. “She was diagnosed with a specific disorder I could not remember. It makes her sensitive, so tantrums are expected. No words can truly measure my gratitude for you for taking care of her.” She slightly bows her head, and a grateful smile on her face.
“It's–it's nothing, really,” you said. “I understand. It seems as though I am the only one who could help.” You speak with slight sadness in your tone, hand finding its way to brush your arms sheepishly, looking away and onto the people around who tried avoiding your gaze.
“It takes a lot of effort to comfort her. I will make sure this will never happen again.” The girl pulled the younger female off her seat and asked for a knight nearby to accompany her to the clinic. While she's talking to the dutied man, you look behind you to see Eron. You meet his eyes, and something from your look says you are a bit disappointed. “Your highness.” The girl turns to you. “I am sincerely asking for your forgiveness. I am willing to accept any compensation you would like for causing you trouble.”
“Oh, no, please. I don't need anything in return.” You wave your hands in front, smiling awkwardly as you do.
“Excuse me,” Eron interrupted the conversation between the two of you. He stands beside you, and you can feel the fabric of his clothes brushing onto your arms. “I have something important to discuss with him. If you don't mind.”
“Oh,” the girl softly let out from her lips, with a tone as if in dismay. You can see her eyes looking between you and Eron, and the troubled expression she had on her face switched into a more calm look. “Sure. I don't mind.” She held her hand behind her back, and gave Eron a small smile. She turns to you afterwards. “But, your highness, if you need–”
The moment Eron got his confirmation that he needed, he no longer waited patiently for whatever she wanted to speak to you. He pulled your arms closer to him, forcing you to stand up on your feet and turning your backs onto the girl. You slightly flinch, noticing Eron's tight grip on your arm, and his fast paced walking as if in a hurry.
“Don't you think it's a bit rude? She must have something important to say,” you told him, with your eyebrows moving closer to themselves. Eron is acting to his own accord, and you don’t seem to find any of it to be near that of royalty. As a matter of fact, you are disappointed. One, for making a girl cry for not understanding what he wanted to point out. And two, for interrupting the blonde girl talking to you.
“You don’t know her, do you?” You found both of you stopping in the middle of an empty hallway. The windows let in an orange hue of sunlight, which indicates the sun is setting. The shadows of the walls engulf Eron’s figure, still having his hand gripping your upper arm but a bit more loosened. “It’s a Gothamite princess, your highness, Stephanie Brown to be exact. I thought you don't like Gothamites? I was just trying to save you from your own misery.” You become silent for a moment, letting his eyes linger on your face for a few seconds. Of course, you’re the least ever person to be knowledgeable about the royalty of the North, but at the same time you couldn’t help but feel a bit surprised. It immediately went away when your disappointment in Eron seems to be more dominating of your feelings.
“You’re exaggerating.” You pulled your arm away from him, taking a step back. “Eron, I am thankful for you for considering how I would feel… but… what does it matter if she’s from Gotham or not?”
“It matters because it’s you.” Eron pointed his palm at you. “You don’t think I’m dumb, do you? I’ve seen the way you constantly avoid Gothamites as if they are pests. In fact, I don’t know if you know that that stupid girl is from the North. I was just saving you.” His voice rises in volume, he sounds angry, and you don’t know why.
“She’s not stupid,” you defended. “And I do not need saving, Eron. You make it sound as if I am fragile and pathetic.”
“Because you are fragile!” Eron yelled. You backed away when you found yourself flinching from him. You don’t understand his view and why he’s acting that way. “I always noticed how tense you are every time Gotham’s heir is around. At first, I had concluded that maybe you are just threatened by other heirs, because it seems to me that when we first talk, you acted like a kicked puppy. Same goes with Damian. But you know how contradicting you are when I found out you’ve made a friend out of that junk from Metropolis?”
“What are you talking about?” You furrow your eyebrows, palm flying flat on your chest in fear when Eron had stepped closer with frustration in his eyes. Everything he said might be of truth, but something says he is acting irrational. You felt embarrassed when he pointed out the fact about how you tensed up whenever Damian came into the picture. Were you always that obvious? And you had expected him to see Jonathan that way, but hearing him call him a junk felt disrespectful.
“That I am trying my best to understand you? Because you are not making any sense,” Eron answered. “That, maybe, you are just having a hard time opening up to me.”
“We met last week,” you thought. You don’t have the courage to say it out loud to him and make him feel more hurt for not trying to figure you out sooner. Maybe you were wrong to think that he had already figured out the tension between you and Damian to have simply stemmed from history and political relationships. That the way things are right now is formed by the past, like how everyone’s mind is molded when it comes to seeing other people. Perhaps it’s also your mistake for thinking Eron is not a child. That he is not a ten years old prince from Mohet who only wants to be your friend. Perhaps this is his way of showing that he is just like the other kids from your palace who always wants to be by your side. Perhaps this is his only way of showing he is not just a royal, but also a kid growing up.
“I’m sorry,” you softly said. You look down and onto his hands, hold it up for him to feel that you are sincere. “I am still adjusting, Eron. There are things that might be harder for me than it is to you.”
“That’s why you should always have me by your side.” Eron sighed, as if an older brother was tired of lecturing his sibling. He holds your hand much better and looks up to meet your eyes. “If you would just let me.”
▪︎▪︎▪︎
“I was not scheduled to tutor her.” Barbara turns around to see Stephanie leaning back on her office wall. “And I am not teaching them social or economic classes. Why is he correcting her on how to pronounce the word bourgeoisie?”
“It is truly ridiculous.” Timothy laughs to himself. “I sometimes forget that they are kids. Am I stupid to think all royals are mature and advanced?”
“Yes,” Damian responded. “Obviously the West thinks differently. Swelling egos contributes to low intelligence.”
“You are one to talk.” Timothy pointed his index finger at him. He turns afterwards to Stephanie who had been the witness of the commotion earlier. Her demeanor is quite off today, with her eyebrows tensing and lips turned slightly downward to form an alienated expression on her face. “You are telling me, us, that the heir of Caelum does not have any idea who you are?”
“Yes!” Stephanie pouted. “Mohet’s heir was really, really rude. I was not there to witness him bully the poor girl, but I know he’s the reason why. You know what he did when I tried speaking to Caelum’s heir?”
“What is–”
“He walked away pulling [Name] with him! He interrupted me when I was talking to [Name]!” Stephanie slightly stomps her feet on the ground. She started walking around the room in frustration, crossing her arms against her chest and loosening when she needed her hands to form and explain what she’s trying to point out.
“Wow. You are angry right now,” Duke commented with slight sarcasm, following Stephanie’s steps all the way around the room. “What is there to even talk about with Caelum’s heir?”
“I was about to ask him if he wants anything for being the only one good enough to think and comfort a crying little girl with special needs.” Stephanie stops on her track, shoulder sogging in the process. “You know… I waited a bit too long to watch how he’ll handle a situation with a Gothamite being a victim. It was wrong of me to think he’ll cry with her, or–or like… walk away. Even worse is to side with Mohet's heir with the bullying!” Stephanie faces the rest of her siblings with a bit of admiration replacing her defeated face. “He was the first one to stop her crying! A child with special needs stopped crying immediately!”
“You make it sound like children with special needs are hard to comfort and will always throw tantrums,” Timothy commented with a bit of disappointment.
“Well, that’s why they are called children with special needs, aren’t they? Because they have behavioral difficulties and issues,” Damian follows.
“Stephanie,” Barbara called. She looked at the other girl with a calm expression and body turned fully to face the girl. “Since when did you start acting… normal and benevolent towards Caelum’s heir? As far as I know, the tension between Gotham and Caelum is thick.”
“You do the same with him. How come you’re questioning me?” Stephanie acted as if she was insulted.
“How would you know how I act towards Caelum’s heir? You are a second year student in the Second Ages. We barely see each other.” Barbara raises one of her eyebrows.
It seems as if no one knew the answer either when silence struck the room. Stephanie’s face slowly comes into realization before looking away. “It was Cass’ idea. Plus, I had expected you to act normal towards him because you are his professor.”
“I have no idea,” Cassandra defended herself, acting clueless just right beside Duke who slowly turned his head towards her way with a face eaten by confusion. “It’s only natural to be curious, right? Tim also does the same.” Cassandra pointed her finger at the boy, who then backed himself away feeling like he was caught in an accusation.
“Same what? What is everybody talking about?” Damian fumbles in irritation with the lack of context consuming his mind.
“Stalking Caelum’s heir?” Stephanie said, as a matter of fact.
“Don’t make it sound weird,” Timothy scoffs. “More like observing from afar.” He doesn’t want to admit it, but saying he is the one who started with the idea of “stalking” the lonely nine years old prince from a kingdom they’ve declared war against feels shameful. Stephanie being influenced by Cassandra’s idea of stalking you somewhat contributes to that feeling, he doesn’t know why. Maybe because Stephanie was right that it is indeed pathetic.
“Yeah, definitely stalking.” Stephanie rolled her eyes, sighing.
“It’s my job to report,” Timothy follows immediately. “In fact, you wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t done whatever you’re saying is stalking.” He puts emphasis on the word stalking.
“Can we go back to what we’re here for?” Duke started, causing everyone’s eyes to fall onto him. He nervously coughs on his fist to clear his throat. “Based on what Stephanie said, it seems like we got the confirmation we needed to know.”
“Confirmation to what?” Timothy asked.
“That he is not a history freak. He does not care about how we stand for his kingdom, and that we are the one being held back by the past.” Duke looks at everyone after his words. He can’t quite catch a single emotion other than realization mixed with something closer to… dismay? He doesn’t know. “Maybe Stephanie was right when she said we’re obsessing and being paranoid over nothing.”
“Ridiculous.” Damian stands up on his feet and walks towards the exit of Barbara’s office. “This is only the first few weeks. Do not let your guard down, especially with the West lingering close.” He slammed the door behind him afterwards, and everyone on the other side let the sound echo first inside the room.
“I expected him to say something like that.” Duke scratched the back of his neck, chuckling awkwardly from everything that has been happening ever since Stephanie had pulled everyone by saying she wanted to rant.
“He’s a history freak, maybe he got offended.” Timothy leaned back on his seat, and closed his eyes to relax. “It seems to me that Damian is more interested in the West.”
•••
Ever since that day, Eron had been more clingy to you. He started visiting you in your chambers with a meal, saying it’s only right for a friend to serve you breakfast. At first, you have been uncomfortable with the fact that maybe Jonathan was right all along about him saying it is invading your privacy. Ser Knight does not have any clue nor control over the other kid’s decision of accompanying you during breakfast, he only lets him do what he wants as long as it does not hurt you. Era found out about it not too long after, and now you have two people arguing who should serve you inside your chamber.
For the other royals, it isn’t unnoticeable that the lack of people at the table during mornings are becoming more evident. They did not question it further until Jonathan pointed out that it is possible the royals from the West are having breakfast inside your chamber as a way of accompanying you and proving their friendship to you.
Damian huffs, “ridiculous.” Timothy then teased him about his vocabulary being dominated by the word ridiculous.
About the girl you comforted days ago, Barbara had given her more focus ever since then. It was fortunate for her when she found out the girl does not share the same schedule with Eron’s. Not until her behavioral issues have been turning for the worst. It became more frequent every time she was given a book. Barbara had discussed with the other guardians that it might be because of the “bourgeoisie” issue with Eron that triggered her sensitivity to books.
“What if you try taking her more with Caelum’s heir’s classes?” Stephanie suggested, shrugging her shoulders about the possibility.
And Barbara did, with Zachariah observing your classes more often since then. Erix keeps apologizing for his brother’s behavior that affected the Gothamite girl’s learning. He sweats without saying anything when Damian said, “maybe your heir is also having behavioral difficulties.”
Their method works when you are willing to help her calm more. She was given a seat beside you in front, in your kingdom. Barbara made an excuse that it would help her focus on the girl if she had been seated on the front. Your people did not mind it. They feel more prideful when they find out your benevolence has been helping others who are in need. Although it was hard to control Eron and Era, Erix thought, when they found out they needed to follow their assigned seats from there on onwards, Erix’s embarrassment was more dominating. He does not want his siblings to cause any more trouble, going as far as to threaten them by saying he will start reporting their activities to their parents. Fortunately for Erix, and the rest of the people in your class, the twins listened. Only with a condition that they’ll be allowed to spend more time in your chamber. You nodded when Erix insisted you agree, if it means that’s the only way to help the girl you need to help. You don’t consider it as a hindrance to your learning unlike the others did. You had told Barbara that you had already mastered writing and reading. You are willing to help those who find it hard to do so.
For Damian, it feels as though you’re carrying his responsibility. The girl with special needs is from his kingdom. It wasn’t hard for other people to notice that, why should it be you to teach the girl instead of her kingdom’s heir? Damian had been receiving criticism since then, especially from the people in Mohet. He retorted back by saying, “if it weren’t for your heir causing trouble and bullying a girl with special needs, no one will need helping in the first place.” It seems to shut them up.
Ever since then, Damian had been constantly distracted by the fact it has to be you the girl needs comfort from. She does not want Barbara, or anyone other than you. At some point, your title of pillar of peace seems to make sense to him now, sinking deep into him the more days pass. He does not know how to feel. There is a mix of frustration and… admiration? That you actually have what it takes to be called your title. That you actually have what it takes to be a royal. That you actually have what it takes to prove your argument to be of truth way back to when you both first met. That maybe it is not power you need to be called worthy, to control your kingdom to stop contributing to the high rates of crime, that maybe he is wrong for saying you need your people to fear you for the sake of your kingdom’s harmony and unity. Maybe you were right for saying it is kindness and being virtuous.
content damian wayne & jon kent & wonder boy! reader, ftm! reader, m! reader, legacy, identity insecurity, brief dysphoria, emotional vulnerability, blood/injury, magical trial, references to damian’s league upbringing, pressure of being superman’s son, hurt/comfort, magical trial, blood/minor injury, cursed water, brief peril, references to damian being raised as a weapon, pressure of being batman’s son, pressure of being superman’s son, emotional distress
masterlist
word count 6.5k
author's note guys i actually love fics with like being trapped by mystical forces and being forced to confront your worst fears/insecurities. does this trope have a specific name??? also this fic made me incredibly sad as i was writing jon's part ;(
Damian Wayne did not believe in fate.
He believed in training. He believed in preparation, discipline, precision, surveillance, sharpened steel, escape routes, and the obvious fact that most people used the word fate when they meant poor planning.
The gods, in his opinion, were simply powerful beings with a branding problem.
You had told him this was a blasphemous thing to say on Themysciran soil.
He had looked you dead in the eye and said, “Good.”
Jon had choked on his water.
That had been three hours ago, before the temple door sealed behind you, before Jon’s powers flickered like a dying candle, before the marble floor split open beneath your feet and dropped all three of you into a cavern that should not have existed under the island.
Now Damian was standing in knee-deep black water, sword drawn, cloak soaked at the hem, glaring at a wall of ancient Greek script as if he could intimidate it into being less inconvenient.
Jon hovered half an inch above the water, then dropped into it with a splash.
He winced. “Okay. Flight’s still being weird.”
“Stop attempting it,” Damian snapped. “You are wasting energy.”
Jon wrung water out of his sleeve. “Good to know nearly dying didn’t improve your bedside manner.”
“We are not nearly dying.”
“You say that every time we are absolutely nearly dying.”
“I say it because panic is inefficient.”
“You also say it when you’re panicking.”
Damian’s head turned slowly.
Jon smiled with the brave idiocy of a boy who had known Damian Wayne long enough to understand danger and loved him enough to ignore it.
You stood between them, because that had become your job somewhere along the way.
Not officially. Officially, the three of you were equals: Robin, Superboy, Wonder Boy. The next generation of the old alliance. Bat, Super, Wonder. Shadow, sun, truth.
Unofficially, Damian and Jon could turn a tactical disagreement into a philosophical blood feud before most people finished blinking, and you had been raised among immortal warrior women with centuries-long grudges over poetry competitions. You knew how to stand in the middle of a storm and look unimpressed.
“Both of you,” you said, “save your breath.”
Damian’s gaze cut to you. “I have breath to spare.”
“Yes,” you said. “And you use it tragically.”
Jon grinned.
Damian looked betrayed. “You are taking his side?”
“I am taking the side of my sanity.”
“That is not a side. That is a doomed cause.”
“You would know.”
Jon made a tiny noise.
Damian’s eyes narrowed.
You raised one hand before he could start. “We are beneath a sealed Themysciran temple, standing in water that smells like old magic, surrounded by writing older than most mortal kingdoms. We can resume bickering once we are no longer inside what appears to be an underworld trial.”
Jon looked down at the black water.
It reflected nothing. Not your faces. Not the pale stone ceiling. Not the gold at your wrists or the red on your cloak.
Just darkness.
“Underworld trial,” Jon repeated. “That’s fun. That’s a fun thing to say.”
“It is not the literal Underworld,” Damian said. “The geography is impossible.”
You looked at him. He looked back.
“Fine,” he said. “The geography is more impossible than usual.”
The cavern stretched ahead in a long corridor of white stone veined with gold and red. Pomegranate trees grew from cracks in the walls, their roots sinking into the black water, their branches heavy with fruit the colour of fresh blood. The air smelled sweet and metallic.
At the far end of the corridor stood an archway.
Above it, carved into the stone, were three symbols.
A bat. A shield. An eagle.
Jon stared. “Okay, that feels targeted.”
“Most divine architecture is,” you said.
Damian glanced at you. “This is not divine.”
The pomegranate nearest him split open on the branch.
Its seeds glowed like rubies.
A voice moved through the cavern.
Not loud. Not soft.
Everywhere.
THREE HEIRS ENTER. THREE TRUTHS RETURN.
Jon went very still. Damian raised his sword.
You felt the words settle over your skin like cold rain.
Heirs.
You hated that word sometimes.
It was a beautiful word in stories. Heavy with lineage. Crowns. Blood. Oaths. The passing of torches from one hand to another.
In real life, it had teeth.
Damian heard heir and felt a chain. Jon heard heir and felt a mountain. You heard heir and wondered whether you had inherited something or interrupted it.
The voice came again.
BLOOD. SUN. TRUTH.
Damian’s jaw tightened.
Jon’s eyes flicked toward you, worried.
You forced yourself to breathe steadily.
“This is a test,” you said.
“Obviously,” Damian replied.
Jon swallowed. “Can we fail?”
The water rippled.
None of you moved.
Then, from somewhere in the dark ahead, a child laughed.
Damian’s whole body went rigid.
Not normal alertness. Not mission readiness.
Recognition.
You saw it in the way his sword dipped half an inch before snapping back up. In the sudden tension at the corner of his mouth. In the way his eyes sharpened into something too young and too old at once.
“Damian?” Jon asked.
Damian did not answer.
A shape stepped into view beneath the archway.
A boy.
Small. Barefoot. Blood on his white training tunic. A wooden practice sword clutched in one hand. His hair was dark, his green eyes bright and cold and far too familiar.
Damian at ten.
Jon breathed, “Oh.”
The child smiled. It was not a child’s smile.
“You are slow,” the vision said.
Damian’s face emptied. That frightened you more than anger would have.
“You are not real,” he said.
The child tilted his head. “Real enough to wound you.”
Damian stepped forward.
You caught his wrist.
His pulse hammered under your fingers.
He looked at your hand, then at your face, and for one instant, you saw the boy under the blade. Not the heir to Batman. Not the grandson of the Demon. Not Robin. Just Damian, furious that anyone had found the scar before he could hide it.
“Do not,” you said quietly.
His eyes flashed. “Release me.”
“No.”
Jon stepped to Damian’s other side. “D, it’s bait.”
“I know that.”
“Then don’t bite.”
“I said I know.”
The child in the archway laughed again.
“Still hiding behind them?” he asked in Damian’s voice. “How disappointing.”
Damian’s wrist flexed under your grip.
“You were trained better than this,” the child continued. “Mother expected more. Grandfather expected more. Even Father expected—”
Damian moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
He tore free from your hand and lunged.
The black water erupted. Roots surged up from beneath the surface, coiling around Damian’s legs, yanking him forward. Jon shouted and grabbed him around the waist. You threw your lasso without thinking, gold cutting through dark, wrapping around Damian’s wrist just as the roots tried to drag him under.
For a second, all three of you strained against the pull.
Damian snarled, slashing at the roots with his sword.
“Stop fighting the water!” you shouted.
“Absurd instruction!”
“It is feeding on resistance!”
Jon tightened his grip, boots skidding beneath the water. “Then what do we do?”
The child smiled.
THE BLOOD HEIR KNOWS ONLY THE BLADE.
Damian froze.
The roots tightened.
You saw pain flash across his face, quickly buried.
Something hot rose in you.
“No,” you said.
The cavern stilled.
Jon looked at you. Damian did too.
You stepped forward, lasso wrapped around one arm, water dragging at your legs.
“No,” you repeated, louder. “That is not truth. That is accusation.”
The air hummed.
The child’s eyes turned toward you.
“You speak for him?” it asked.
“I stand with him.”
Damian’s face shifted.
Just slightly.
The child smiled wider. “Because he cannot stand alone?”
Your grip tightened on the lasso. “Because he has had to for too long.”
The words landed.
Damian stopped struggling.
The roots loosened by a fraction.
You moved closer, never looking away from the apparition.
“You call him blood as if blood is destiny,” you said. “As if a boy must become whatever cruelty shaped him first. But blood is not command. Blood is memory.”
The cavern trembled.
Jon’s arms were still locked around Damian, holding him upright, holding him back.
You looked at Damian then.
His eyes were bright with fury. Or pain. Or both.
“You are not your grandfather’s blade,” you said.
Damian’s mouth parted.
“You are not your mother’s ambition. You are not your father’s fear.” Your voice softened. “You are not even your own worst lesson.”
The roots loosened more.
The child’s expression twisted.
Damian looked like he wanted to run you through and cling to you at the same time.
“You were trained to be a weapon,” you said. “But weapons do not choose mercy. You do.”
Jon’s breath caught.
Damian looked away sharply.
Too late.
You had seen it. The wound beneath the pride. The terrible, secret hope that maybe he was more than the thing that had been sharpened.
The child hissed, “Mercy is weakness.”
Damian’s head snapped back toward it.
“No,” he said.
His voice shook.
Only once.
Then it steadied.
“No,” he repeated. “Mercy is difficult.”
The water went still. The roots slipped from his legs and sank beneath the surface.
Jon did not let go immediately. Damian did not tell him to.
The child faded, leaving only the archway and the pomegranate trees and the echo of a laugh that no longer sounded powerful.
For a while, no one spoke.
Then Damian said, very quietly, “You may release me now.”
Jon’s arms loosened.
“Right,” he said. “Sorry.”
Damian stepped away, adjusting his wet cloak with exaggerated dignity. His face was composed again, but you could see the faint tremor in the hand holding his sword.
You moved toward him.
He stiffened.
So you stopped.
There were ways to approach a wounded animal. There were ways to approach a prince. Damian was both, though he would have removed your spleen for saying so.
“Are you hurt?” you asked.
“No.”
“Damian.”
His jaw tightened. “Not significantly.”
Jon looked down. “Your ankle.”
Damian glared. “Kent.”
“Your ankle is bleeding.”
“I am aware.”
“Then why did you say no?”
“Because it is not significant.”
You knelt in the water.
Damian stepped back. “Unnecessary.”
“Bleeding into potentially cursed underworld water is generally considered inadvisable.”
Jon nodded. “That sounds medically accurate.”
“You are not a doctor,” Damian said.
“No, but I grew up with Ma. ‘Don’t bleed in mystery water’ feels like something she’d support.”
Damian looked long-suffering, which was how he looked when he was losing and knew it.
You wrapped a hand around his boot carefully and lifted his ankle just enough to inspect the cut. It was shallow but messy, sliced open by one of the roots. You tore a strip from the inner lining of your cloak and tied it around the wound.
Damian watched you.
You felt his stare like the tip of a knife.
“What?” you asked without looking up.
“You are overly familiar.”
“You are bleeding.”
“That does not answer the charge.”
You tied the bandage snugly. “I am familiar because I care whether you bleed to death in theatrical locations.”
Jon made a strangled sound, somewhere between laugh and cough.
Damian’s ears went pink.
You decided, mercifully, not to comment.
Then Damian said, “I was not going to be dragged under.”
You finished the knot. “I know.”
His eyes narrowed. “You intervened as if I was.”
“I intervened because you should not have to prove you can survive alone while we are standing beside you.”
Damian went silent.
Jon’s expression softened.
You stood, water dripping from your cloak.
Damian looked away first.
The three of you continued through the archway.
Beyond it, the corridor widened into a chamber filled with hanging stars.
Not real stars. Small orbs of white fire suspended from the ceiling on golden threads. They swayed gently though there was no wind, casting fractured light across the water.
Jon stopped.
His face changed.
You and Damian noticed at the same time.
“Jon?” you asked.
He did not answer.
The stars brightened.
Then the chamber became a Kansas field.
Not fully. The black water remained underfoot, and the pomegranate roots still twisted along the walls, but suddenly there was tall grass around you, silver under moonlight. A farmhouse stood in the distance, windows glowing warm gold. The air smelled like soil and summer rain.
Jon’s breathing changed.
Damian stepped closer to him.
A voice called from the field.
“Jonathan?”
Jon flinched.
Clark Kent stood beneath the moon.
Not Superman. Not exactly. He wore the suit, yes, but the cape hung still behind him, and the shield on his chest seemed brighter than anything else in the world.
Beside him stood Lois Lane, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Jon’s face went pale.
“This is not real,” Damian said immediately.
Jon swallowed. “I know.”
But knowing was not the same as not hurting.
The false Clark looked at him with terrible gentleness.
“Son,” he said. “You have to be better than this.”
Jon’s hands curled.
The false Lois sighed. “You carry so much power, Jon. You cannot afford mistakes.”
“That’s not my mom,” Jon whispered.
“No,” you said.
But the words had already entered him. You saw them burrow under his skin.
Jon Kent, who smiled like sunrise and cracked jokes when rooms got tense. Jon Kent, who could lift tractors before he understood taxes. Jon Kent, who had grown up with love so strong that people assumed pressure could not wound him.
The false Clark stepped closer.
“You have my name,” he said. “My symbol. My powers.”
Jon backed up half a step.
Damian moved with him, shoulder nearly touching his.
“Enough,” Damian said.
The false Clark ignored him.
“You must be kind,” he told Jon. “You must be strong. You must never frighten them. You must never fail in public. You must never lose control. If you break something, they will remember you are not human. If you hesitate, they will remember you are not Superman.”
Jon’s eyes shone.
Your chest ached.
The false Lois looked almost sad.
“And if you are hurt,” she said, “smile anyway. People need hope more than they need your honesty.”
Jon’s face crumpled.
Just a little.
But enough.
Damian’s sword was in his hand before you could blink. “This illusion is defective.”
He advanced.
The field darkened.
The hanging stars snapped their threads. One by one, they dropped from the ceiling and struck the water like meteors, bursting into white flame around you. Steam rose. Jon staggered, his powers flickering wildly. His eyes flashed red, then dimmed.
“Damian, wait!” you shouted.
Too late.
A ring of fire closed around Jon.
Damian swore and lunged toward him, but the flames rose higher.
You grabbed his arm. “Stop.”
“Kent is trapped.”
“Yes. And the trial is using your fear to intensify his.”
Damian’s face was terrifying.
You had seen him angry before. You had seen him cold. You had seen him strike with perfect violence and ruthless intent.
This was different. This was panic dressed as command.
“Then tell me how to break it,” he snapped.
Jon stood inside the fire, breathing hard, staring at the false versions of his parents.
“I don’t want it,” he said.
His voice was small.
The false Clark tilted his head. “What?”
Jon’s fists clenched.
“I don’t want to be Superman.”
The fire roared.
Damian went still.
You did too.
Jon looked horrified by his own confession, like the words had escaped before he could drag them back behind his teeth.
“I don’t mean—” He shook his head. “I love my dad. I love what he does. I love helping people. But everyone looks at me like I’m supposed to become him, and I can’t. I can’t be that good all the time. I can’t be that calm. I can’t be that safe.”
The false Lois watched him without mercy.
Jon’s voice broke.
“Sometimes I get angry. Sometimes I want to hit harder than I should. Sometimes I’m scared I’ll break someone just because I forgot how strong I am.” He pressed both hands over the shield on his chest. “And sometimes I hate this because everyone loves it before they know me.”
The fire dimmed.
Only slightly.
You felt Damian trembling under your hand.
He was staring at Jon like the world had shifted beneath him.
Because Jon was the sun.
That was the lie, wasn’t it?
Jon was warmth. Jon was laughter. Jon was the farm boy who believed in people until they believed in themselves. Jon was supposed to be easy to love because he made loving look easy.
But even the sun was fire. Even hope could burn its bearer alive.
You released Damian’s arm and stepped toward the flames.
They licked at your boots but did not burn.
Truth magic recognised truth magic.
“Jon,” you said.
He turned toward you, eyes wet.
“I don’t know how to be him,” he whispered.
“You are not meant to be him.”
The false Clark’s gaze sharpened.
You ignored it.
“You are not Clark’s second draft,” you said. “You are not Metropolis’s spare sun. You are Jonathan Kent.”
Jon laughed once, broken. “That’s the problem.”
“No,” Damian said.
His voice cut through the fire.
Jon looked at him.
Damian stood stiffly at the edge of the flames, jaw clenched, sword lowered at his side.
“That is the point,” Damian said.
Jon blinked.
Damian looked deeply uncomfortable, which meant what he was about to say mattered.
“I did not befriend you because you were Superman’s son,” he said. “In fact, that was initially a mark against you.”
Jon let out a watery laugh.
Damian’s mouth twitched, then flattened again.
“You were loud,” he continued. “Naive. Reckless. Untrained in basic stealth. Excessively optimistic.”
“Is this comfort?” Jon asked.
“Yes,” Damian snapped. Then, quieter: “I did not care for the symbol. I cared that you stayed.”
The fire lowered.
Jon’s face went still.
Damian looked away, but he kept speaking.
“You stayed when I insulted you. You stayed when I attempted to drive you off. You stayed when I was cruel because I believed cruelty would prove I did not need anyone.” His throat moved. “You saw me as a person before I had decided whether I wanted to be one.”
The false Clark flickered.
Jon stared at Damian like he had forgotten how to breathe.
Damian’s voice dropped.
“You are not valuable because you may one day become Superman. You are valuable because you are irritatingly, relentlessly yourself.”
You felt something in your chest unfold.
Jon took one step forward.
The fire parted around him.
He crossed the circle and stopped in front of Damian.
“You think I’m valuable?” he asked softly.
Damian’s ears turned red again. “I literally just said so.”
“Yeah, but you said it in Damian.”
“There is no other way I can say it.”
Jon smiled. It trembled.
Then he hugged Damian.
Damian went completely rigid. His sword arm lifted out to the side like a cat avoiding bathwater.
You pressed your lips together.
“Do not laugh,” Damian said over Jon’s shoulder.
“I would never,” you lied.
Jon held him tighter.
After a moment, Damian’s free hand settled, awkward and careful, against Jon’s back.
The false Clark and Lois dissolved into pale light. The field vanished. The chamber returned: black water, pomegranate trees, hanging golden threads with no stars left attached.
Jon pulled back, wiping at his face with his sleeve.
“Okay,” he said. “That was awful.”
“Agreed,” Damian said.
“You hugged back.”
“I prevented you from falling.”
“I was standing.”
“You are emotionally unstable.”
“So are you.”
“I am emotionally disciplined.”
You looked at him. Jon looked at him.
Damian scowled. “Do not start.”
You smiled faintly.
But your smile did not last.
Because the water had begun to move again.
This time, it moved toward you.
Not ripples. Not waves.
Hands.
Dark, liquid hands rising from the surface, reaching, reaching, reaching.
The cavern voice returned.
TRUTH HEIR. NAME YOURSELF.
Your breath stopped.
Damian and Jon turned toward you.
The hands rose higher.
They did not grab you.
Not yet.
They waited.
That was worse.
You felt the weight of the eagle on your chest. The gold bracers. The red cloak. The Themysciran blade at your hip. The armour Diana had watched being fitted to your body with pride so fierce it had nearly broken you.
Wonder Boy. Son of Themyscira. Truth heir.
Some days, those words made you feel like you could split the sky. Some days, they felt like borrowed armour.
The water around your legs turned cold.
Jon stepped toward you. “Hey. We’re here.”
Damian’s eyes sharpened. “What does it want?”
You knew. Of course you knew.
The trial had taken Damian’s bloodline and turned it into a blade. It had taken Jon’s legacy and turned it into a sun too bright to survive.
Now it would take your truth.
The black water lifted, smooth as glass, and became Themyscira.
Not the island as it was. The island as fear remembered it.
The training yard beneath a violet dawn. Stone columns. Olive trees. Bronze shields. Amazons standing in rows, silent and watching.
You saw yourself as a child in the centre.
Small. Barefoot. Hair cropped badly because you had cut it yourself with a ceremonial knife and cried afterwards because it still had not made your reflection feel right.
Diana knelt before the child version of you.
The real memory had been warm.
This one was not.
In the vision, Diana’s face was shadowed.
“A son?” someone whispered.
Another voice: “Themyscira has no sons.”
Another: “Then what is he?”
Your throat closed.
Jon moved closer. “That’s not real.”
“No,” you said.
But it had roots in something real.
Not rejection. Not hatred. You had been loved.
That was what made guilt such a clever knife.
The vision shifted.
You stood older now, perhaps twelve, holding a spear too long for your arms. An Amazon instructor circled you.
“You must understand,” she said, not cruelly, never cruelly, “you are unprecedented.”
Unprecedented.
The word had followed you for years.
Like a laurel. Like a leash.
The vision shifted again.
A reporter outside a museum smiling too brightly. “Wonder Woman’s little Amazon princess.”
Your stomach twisted.
Jon made a soft, angry sound.
Damian’s voice went cold. “Who said that?”
You almost smiled.
Almost.
The water rose to your waist.
The voice spoke again.
WHAT IS A SON OF AN ISLAND OF DAUGHTERS?
The Amazons in the vision stared.
The child-you stared too.
Waiting. Begging the future to know the answer.
You tried to speak.
Nothing came out.
The water climbed higher.
Jon’s hand found yours beneath the surface.
Warm. Strong.
“I’ve got you,” he said.
Damian stepped to your other side.
He did not touch you immediately. He looked at your face first, asking in his sharp, silent way.
You nodded.
His hand closed around your wrist like a vow.
Not soft. Not gentle exactly.
Certain.
The water stopped rising.
You dragged in a breath.
The vision-Diana stood in front of you now. But her eyes were not Diana’s. They were blank marble.
“You wear my symbol,” she said. “But does it fit?”
That one hurt. More than you expected.
Your fingers tightened around Jon’s hand. Damian’s grip tightened around your wrist.
The false Diana stepped closer.
“You were raised among women. Trained by women. Loved by women. Every story that made you was shaped by daughters, sisters, queens, mothers.” Her voice softened with awful precision. “Did becoming a son mean leaving them behind?”
“No,” Jon said immediately.
But the trial was not asking him.
It was asking you.
Your chest burned.
You thought of Diana kneeling before you when you were young, her hands open, her eyes full of fierce tenderness.
Then we will learn what kind of son an Amazon may raise.
You thought of Hippolyta placing a bronze training sword in your hands and saying, A child of Themyscira does not become less ours by telling the truth. You thought of the old rites Diana had found for you. Heroes of old. Beloved boys. Exiles, princes, warriors, poets. Achilles raging at the shore. Patroclus wearing borrowed armour out of love. Orpheus singing open the dark. Hyacinthus blooming red beneath Apollo’s grief. Odysseus returning home in rags and still being known.
Stories where manhood was not domination. Stories where love made and unmade kingdoms.
“I don’t know,” you whispered.
Jon turned toward you. “You don’t have to—”
“Yes,” you said, voice breaking. “I do.”
The water trembled.
The false Diana watched.
Your lungs hurt.
“I don’t know if it fits every day,” you said.
The admission felt like cutting yourself open in front of them.
Damian went very still.
Jon’s eyes softened.
You stared at the symbol on your chest.
“Some days I look at it and feel proud enough to glow. Some days I feel like everyone is being kind while secretly making room for a contradiction.” Your laugh was small and wounded. “The first son of Themyscira. Diana’s boy. Wonder Boy. It sounds beautiful until I am alone and wonder if I am an exception people praise so they do not have to admit I am lonely.”
Jon’s hand squeezed yours.
You kept going.
Because truth demanded its due.
“I was not raised to be what I am. Not at first. I was raised in songs meant for daughters, trained in traditions made by women who built paradise after men hurt them. And I love that. I love them. I love everything that made me.” Your voice shook. “But sometimes I am afraid my becoming made their story harder.”
The false Diana lifted her chin.
The Amazons whispered.
Damian spoke. “No.”
You looked at him.
His face was pale with controlled fury.
“No,” he repeated. “That is an accusation wearing your voice.”
You stared.
He looked almost angry at you for believing it.
“You told me blood is not command,” Damian said. “Then tradition is not a cage.”
The water dropped by an inch.
Jon nodded, stepping closer. “You didn’t make Themyscira harder. You made it bigger.”
Your throat tightened.
Jon’s eyes shone, but his voice stayed steady.
“You think being a son means you took something from its daughters,” he said. “But maybe it means everything they built was strong enough to hold more than anyone expected.”
The water dropped again.
Damian’s thumb pressed against your wrist, grounding you.
“You did not betray womanhood,” he said, stumbling slightly over the softness of the words but forcing them out anyway. “You were not deserting a battlefield. You were identifying the correct one.”
Jon blinked at him.
You did too.
Damian’s face flushed. “What?”
“That was…” Jon started.
“Do not.”
“Really good.”
“I said do not.”
You laughed. It broke out of you, half-sob and half-sunrise.
The false Diana flickered.
The water dropped to your knees.
The trial waited.
You understood then.
Your friends could stand with you. They could name the lie. They could hand you the thread.
But you had to weave.
You released Jon’s hand. Damian’s grip lingered for half a second before letting go.
You stepped forward.
The black water stilled around your legs.
The false Diana watched you. The Amazons watched you. The child-you watched you.
You placed one hand over the eagle on your chest.
“I am a son of Themyscira,” you said.
The cavern trembled.
You lifted your chin. “I was raised by women who survived. By warriors who turned pain into law and exile into sanctuary. I do not stand apart from that. I stand because of it.”
The false Diana’s expression cracked.
You kept going.
“I am not proof that Themyscira failed to remain unchanged. I am proof that truth was always its highest law.”
Jon smiled, bright and trembling.
Damian watched you like he was witnessing a blade being forged.
“I am not daughter, maiden, princess, or mistake,” you said. “I am not a contradiction for loving the hands that raised me. I am their son. Their student. Their brother-in-arms. Their heir.”
Gold light began to rise through the water.
Your bracers warmed. The lasso at your hip hummed.
“And if the world has no place for that yet,” you said, voice ringing through the chamber, “then I will make one.”
The vision shattered.
Not violently.
Beautifully.
The false Amazons dissolved into petals. The training yard became light. The child version of you smiled once before vanishing, and you felt something inside you reach backwards across time to take his hand.
The black water turned clear.
The pomegranate trees bloomed white.
For a moment, the cavern was full of spring.
Then the voice spoke one final time.
THREE HEIRS ENTERED. THREE CHOICES RETURN.
The archway at the far end opened.
Beyond it, stairs led upward.
Real sunlight spilled down them.
Jon exhaled shakily. “I love stairs. I’ve never loved stairs before, but I love these stairs.”
Damian sheathed his sword. “Focus.”
“I am focused. On stairs.”
You tried to take a step and nearly fell.
Both of them caught you.
Jon at your shoulder. Damian at your elbow.
“Whoa,” Jon said. “Easy.”
“I am fine,” you said automatically.
Damian gave you a look of pure disgust. “Do not start adopting my flaws. You lack the training.”
Despite everything, you smiled. “Your concern is moving.”
“My concern is practical. Carrying you would slow us down.”
Jon looked at him. “You would absolutely carry him.”
Damian looked offended. “That is irrelevant.”
“You already thought about the best way to do it.”
“Obviously. That is called preparedness.”
You leaned slightly against Jon, suddenly too tired to pretend. “I can walk.”
Damian’s expression softened by one impossible fraction. “We know.”
Jon smiled. “We’re still helping.”
So they did.
The three of you climbed the stairs together: Robin, Superboy, Wonder Boy. Blood, sun, truth. Three heirs who had entered a trial and come out less like inheritors and more like boys who had chosen, again and again, not to become what fear demanded.
At the top of the stairs, the temple opened into dusk.
The real Themyscira spread before you. Olive trees silver in the evening light. White cliffs dropping into a wine-dark sea. Training yards ringing faintly with distant laughter and steel. The sky blushed pink and gold, soft as a blessing.
Jon breathed in. “Oh wow.”
Damian looked around, still alert. “We emerged approximately forty meters east of the original entrance.”
“You are allergic to wonder,” Jon said.
“I am allergic to imprecision.”
You stepped out from between them, letting the island air fill your lungs.
Home.
Still complicated. Still yours.
For a while, none of you spoke.
Then Damian said, “The trial was wrong.”
You looked at him.
He was facing the sea, not you.
Classic Damian. Emotional honesty delivered indirectly, like contraband.
“About which part?” you asked.
His jaw flexed.
“That you are a contradiction.”
Your chest tightened.
Jon smiled softly, looking down at his boots.
Damian continued, each word careful. “You are… irritatingly consistent.”
A laugh escaped you. “Thank you?”
“He means you’re you everywhere,” Jon translated. “On missions. In temples. When calling us out. When bleeding. When making myth references nobody asked for.”
“I ask for them,” you said.
“No, you inflict them.”
Damian nodded. “A rare moment of Kentian accuracy.”
Jon grinned. “Kentian?”
“Do not make me regret the phrasing.”
You looked between them, warmth spreading through the ache.
Damian glanced at you, then away.
“What I mean,” he said, quieter, “is that the symbol fits because you refuse to let it remain too small.”
Oh.
You swallowed.
Jon’s smile faded into something tender.
“Damian,” you said softly.
He stiffened. “Do not make this sentimental.”
“We are far past that.”
“We are not.”
“You hugged Jon in the underworld.”
“I stabilised him.”
Jon’s grin returned. “With your arms.”
Damian pointed at him. “You are on thin ice.”
“We were in water, actually.”
“You nearly cried in fire.”
“I did cry in fire.”
“Worse.”
You laughed, and the sound carried into the evening.
A group of Amazons training in the distance turned toward you. One raised a hand in greeting. You lifted yours back.
Jon watched the exchange.
“Does it feel different?” he asked.
You looked at him.
“After saying it like that?” he clarified.
You considered lying.
Not because you wanted to hide from them, but because vulnerability was exhausting. Even truth needed rest.
But Jon had stood in fire and admitted he did not want to be Superman.
Damian had faced the child trained to kill tenderness and chosen mercy.
You could be brave too.
“A little,” you said. “Not fixed. But… clearer.”
Jon nodded. “Clearer is good.”
“Yes.”
Damian looked at the sea. “Clarity is preferable to comfort.”
Jon sighed. “Buddy.”
“What?”
“Sometimes comfort is allowed.”
Damian scoffed.
You tilted your head. “Do you object to comfort philosophically or only when it is offered to you?”
Damian’s eyes narrowed. “You are both insufferable.”
Jon beamed. “We’re helping.”
“You are conspiring.”
“Also helping.”
You looked down at Damian’s bandaged ankle. “Speaking of help, that needs to be cleaned properly.”
“It is fine.”
“Damian.”
He glared.
You crossed your arms.
Jon crossed his arms too, purely for moral support.
Damian looked between you and realised, with visible irritation, that he was outnumbered.
“Fine,” he snapped. “But if anyone tells Pennyworth I sustained an injury due to magical shrubbery, I will deny it.”
Jon’s face lit up. “Magical shrubbery.”
“No.”
“Too late.”
“I will end you.”
“You’ll have to catch me.”
“You currently have unreliable flight.”
Jon paused. “That is hurtful and tactically accurate.”
You shook your head and started toward the infirmary path.
They followed. Of course they followed.
The path wound along the cliffside, past cypress trees and marble statues older than the languages most people spoke. The sea below moved dark and endless, gold from the sunset scattered across its surface like coins for the dead.
You thought of the trial.
Blood. Sun. Truth.
You thought of Damian saying mercy is difficult. Jon saying he did not want to be Superman. Your own voice saying, I am their son.
The words still frightened you.
But they also stood.
Like pillars. Like proof.
Halfway down the path, Jon fell into step beside you. Damian walked on your other side, slower than usual because of his ankle, though he would never admit it.
Jon looked thoughtful.
“You know,” he said, “earlier, when you said you’d make a place if the world didn’t have one?”
“Yes?”
“That felt very New Big Three.”
Damian made a sound of disdain. “That phrase remains ridiculous.”
“You like it.”
“I do not.”
“You like being included in it.”
“I tolerate the strategic implications.”
You smiled. “That means yes.”
“It means no.”
Jon leaned closer to you and stage-whispered, “It means yes in Damian.”
“I am standing right here.”
“We know,” Jon said cheerfully.
Damian muttered something in Arabic that you suspected was unflattering.
The infirmary came into view, white stone glowing in the evening light. Before you reached it, Damian stopped.
You and Jon turned.
He looked deeply uncomfortable.
Then he said, “Kent.”
Jon blinked. “Yeah?”
Damian stared at the ground for a moment, visibly wrestling his own pride into submission.
“You are not your father,” he said.
Jon’s smile faded.
Damian forced himself to look up. “And I am not saying that as an insult.”
Jon’s throat moved. “I know.”
“You are less controlled,” Damian said. “More impulsive. You ask too many questions. You show too much of what you feel on your face. You have abysmal instincts regarding secret identities in public spaces.”
Jon huffed a wet laugh. “Still comfort?”
“Yes,” Damian said, annoyed. “Obviously.”
You kept very still.
Damian’s voice softened, barely.
“But you are also more willing to believe people can become better before they have given you evidence. That is foolish.” A pause. “And occasionally necessary.”
Jon’s eyes shone.
Damian looked away. “You should not become Superman. The position is occupied.”
Jon laughed for real then.
Then he stepped forward and hugged Damian again.
This time, Damian sighed but did not freeze.
His hand lifted after only a second and gripped the back of Jon’s shirt.
Progress.
You smiled down at the path.
Then Jon reached out blindly and grabbed your wrist, tugging you into the hug too.
“Oh,” you said.
Damian made a protesting sound. “Kent.”
“Nope,” Jon said, voice thick. “Group hug. You’re both trapped.”
“This is undignified.”
“Yes.”
“We are in public.”
“Good thing you’re emotionally disciplined.”
You laughed into Jon’s shoulder.
Damian’s glare could have cut glass, but he did not let go.
For a moment, held between them, you felt the strange shape of the three of you.
Damian, who had been given bloodline like a sentence and was learning to make it a choice. Jon, who had been born under the brightest symbol on Earth, was learning that hope did not mean never hurting. You, who had been raised by an island of women and had become its son without leaving them behind.
Not perfect. Not finished.
But real.
When the hug finally broke, Damian immediately stepped back and adjusted his tunic.
“I expect this never to be discussed again.”
Jon wiped his face. “Absolutely. We’ll only bring it up constantly.”
“You will regret that.”
“Probably.”
You smiled. “We should get your ankle treated before you attempt murder.”
“Finally,” Damian said. “A sensible suggestion.”
The infirmary lights were warm.
One of the Amazon healers greeted you by name, then looked at Damian’s ankle, Jon’s singed sleeve, your exhausted posture, and sighed like every healer in every culture across every realm had sighed at reckless young heroes.
“Sit,” she ordered.
All three of you obeyed.
Damian looked furious about it. Jon looked relieved. You looked out the window toward the sea.
The first stars had appeared over Themyscira.
Old stars. Sharp stars. The kind that looked hammered into place by gods with steady hands.
You wondered, suddenly, whether they had always known you would stand beneath them as a boy. Whether the island had been waiting not with certainty, but with possibility. Whether belonging was not a doorway you passed through once, but a vow you kept building around yourself, stone by stone, name by name, hand by hand.
Damian sat rigidly while the healer cleaned his ankle. Jon pretended not to watch, then watched anyway. You leaned back against the wall, tired down to the bone.
After a while, Damian glanced at you.
“What?” you asked.
“You are smiling.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. It is concerning.”
Jon leaned around the healer. “I think he’s happy.”
Damian frowned. “After all that?”
You looked at them both.
The sun boy and the blood heir. Your impossible friends. Your fellow heirs. Your new myth, still being written in wet ink and stubborn choices.
“Yes,” you said.
Jon smiled.
Damian looked away, but the corner of his mouth softened.
Outside, the sea kept moving. Inside, the three of you sat close enough for your shoulders to touch.
And above you, the stars burned on: ancient, watchful, and for once, not distant at all.
summary; part two of rebel heart. after what happened at the police station, you and damian navigate the dynamics of your friendship. but you're still you, and while he's learning to be normal, you're learning to not be the same person you once were.
wc; 13.4K
ramblings; you all really liked the first part so I had to write a second 😭 tysm for the support. honestly I really enjoy this dynamic lmao, I still have so many ideas for these two, but idk if y'all would want more parts. maybe drabbles? (I literally erased so much of the first draft of this bc it was too much) idk, let me know what you think! btw I just realized that I didn't mention damian's scars in the first part lmao. let's pretend I did. again, I apologize for the horrible format this has I hate Tumblr lmao, I apologize for any errors
warning; ⚠️ mention of delicate themes (neglect?, crimes, prison, mentions of killing? reader has a troubled past), smoking, fight, violence, blood, kisses/making out, suggestive, a little ooc but whatever it's a fanfic
taglist; @anidiots @sweatystrawberries
The next morning, Damian Wayne walks into school like he's attending his own funeral. You notice it immediately; The way his shoulders are set, the way his jaw is clenched, the way he's moving through the hallway like he's hoping the floor will open up and swallow him whole. There's something different about him today, something that looks almost like embarrassment. You're leaning against your locker, watching him approach, and you let the grin spread across your face before he's even close enough to see. "Morning, jailbird."
His eyes snap to yours. "Don't."
"Don't what? Don't mention the fact that you spent two hours in a holding cell? Don't bring up the way you looked in that pool, all wet and—"
"I will end you." You push off the locker, falling into step beside him as he walks. He's holding your jacket, perfectly folded, draped over his arm like it's a sacred offering. He stops. Turns to face you. "I'm returning this."
You look at the jacket. Look at him. Look at the way he's holding it, like he's not entirely sure he wants to let go. "Keep it." His brow furrows. "Keep it," you repeat, already walking again. "Looks better on you anyway." He stares at you. Actually stops walking and just stares, like you've said something in a language he doesn't speak. The hallway flows around him, students parting like water around a rock, and he doesn't seem to notice any of them.
"That's—" He pauses, jaw working. "That's not how borrowing things works."
"You came to me to learn how to be normal. Normal people borrow each other's clothes and don't give them back for weeks. Sometimes never."
"That's theft."
"It's fashion." He makes a sound that somewhat reminds you to a laugh trapped in his throat before it can fully form. You file that sound away with the others, the ones you've been collecting since he sat across from you in the cafeteria. He catches up to you, jacket still folded over his arm, and you notice he hasn't put it in his bag. Hasn't tried to shove it at you again. He's just carrying it. Like he's already decided to keep it but doesn't want to admit it.
"Then that means you have no intentions of returning my jacket." He asks as if it weren't obvious.
"Clever boy. Think of it as an exchange, I keep yours, you keep mine." He makes that sound again. You take it as an agreement.
The cafeteria is loud, same as always, but Damian doesn't slide into the seat across from you this time. He stands at the end of the table, looking at the bench like it's personally offended him, and you realize he's waiting for permission. You tilt your head. "You can sit down, you know. I don't bite."
"Debatable."
"Only if you want to, of course." His expression does something complicated: like offense and amusement are wrestling for control, before he finally sits. Not across from you this time, beside you. Close enough that his shoulder almost touches yours. You don't comment on it, but you also don't move away. "So," you say, settling into a cross-legged position. "How bad was it?"
"My father was... reasonable."
"Reasonable how?"
"I'm grounded for a week."
You blink. And then you burst out laughing with the kind of laugh that turns heads, that makes people at nearby tables glance over, that makes Damian's ears go pink because of embarrassment. "A week," you manage, gasping. "You— grounded."
"It's not funny."
"Oh, it's hilarious." You wipe your eyes, still grinning. "Oh my God. What does that even mean for you? No TV? No video games? No—" You gesture vaguely. "—whatever rich kids do in their spare time?"
"No p—... No family obligations."
You stop laughing and watch him for a moment. The way his hands have curled into loose fists on the table, the way his breathing has gone carefully controlled. You made a deal. You don't ask about that tiny slip that no one else would've catch, but you do because you're observant as hell even if you don't seem like it. And because it's rare for Damian Wayne to correct himself. But you can't ask. So you don't. "Okay," you say, letting it go. "So no family obligations for a week. What else?"
He relaxes, almost imperceptibly. "No training. No leaving the manor except for school."
"No leaving at all?"
"Not until next Wednesday."
You whistle, low and impressed. "Your dad doesn't mess around."
"He's... thorough."
You lean back, processing this. Damian Wayne, trapped in that massive manor for a week. No rooftops, no secret park spots, no abandoned pools. Just him and his family and a whole lot of expensive square footage. "That's brutal," you say. "What are you supposed to do? Just... exist?"
"That was the general instruction, yes."
You snort. "How's that going?" He doesn't answer. But the look he gives you, half-exasperated and half-bored, is enough.
The morning passes. Classes happen. You don't pay attention to most of them, because your mind keeps drifting to Damian. To the way he looked in the police station, your jacket around his shoulders. And the way he said ‘I wasn't going to let that happen.' To the almost-kiss that neither of you has mentioned and probably never will. By lunch, you've decided something. You find him outside, behind the gym, leaning against the same brick wall where this whole thing started. He's just staring at the gray sky, expression unreadable, your jacket still folded over his arm like he's been carrying it all day. "Hey," you say, walking up.
He glances at you. "You're supposed to be in class."
"So are you."
"Touché." You lean against the wall next to him, close enough that your elbows brush. The air is cold, gray, but there's something warmer in the space between you now. Something that wasn't there a few weeks ago.
"So," you say. "A week. What are you going to do?"
He shrugs. "Exist, apparently."
You laugh. "Your dad really said that?"
"He said I should learn to be a normal teenager. Normal teenagers get grounded sometimes." Damian's voice is flat, but there's something underneath it. Something that sounds almost like wonder. Like he's still processing the fact that Bruce wasn't angry.
"Your dad sounds okay," you say.
Damian is quiet for a moment. Then: "I didn't grow up with him."
You turn to look at him. His profile is sharp against the gray sky, jaw set, eyes focused on something in the distance. He's not looking at you. He's not looking at anything. "You don't have to—" you start.
"I know. I'm telling you because I want to." He cuts you off, but not harshly. "When I was ten I came to live with him. Before, I lived in another country with my mother and grandfather. And now my father..." He pauses. "He's trying."
You process this. The pieces rearrange themselves in your head; the calluses, the formal way he talks sometimes, the way he looks at the world like he's waiting for an attack. "Is that why you're so weird?" you ask.
He turns to look at you. His expression is caught somewhere between offense and something else. "Excuse me?"
"I mean it as a compliment." You bump your shoulder against his. "Weird is good. Weird is interesting. Normal is boring."
"Then why are you teaching me to be normal?"
"Because you asked." You shrug. "And because I figured out pretty quick that you don't actually want to be normal. You just want to fit in enough that people stop staring." He stares at you.
"You're very perceptive," he says.
"I'm very good at watching people who don't watch back."
Something flickers in his expression. That almost-smile, the one you've been collecting like rare coins. "Is that what you were doing? Watching me?"
"From across the cafeteria? Yeah. Everyone was." You pause. "You're kind of hard to miss, Wayne." He doesn't respond. But he doesn't look away either. And for a moment, the cold doesn't matter. The gray sky doesn't matter. Nothing matters except the space between you and the way his shoulder is still pressed against yours. "You never said anything," you say eventually, breaking the silence. "When you told me about the grounding. You never said that your father forbade you from hanging out with me."
Damian's expression goes carefully neutral. "Because he didn't. He said I could continue spending time with you."
"Is that weird? That he specified me?"
"I may have mentioned that I was with someone when we were caught."
"You told your dad about me?"
"He asked." Damian's voice is clipped now, but not cold. Guarded, like he's not sure how much to reveal. "I told him you were a friend."
"And he was okay with that? The friend who got you arrested?"
Damian's mouth twitches. "He seemed to think that getting arrested was a normal teenage rite of passage. He also mentioned that my brother's have all been detained at some point."
"Your brothers have been arrested?"
"Detained," Damian corrects. "There's a difference."
You stare at him. "Your family is insane."
"Extremely."
"And you're grounded for a week because of me."
"You jumped into a pool. I merely followed."
"You could have stayed on the side. You didn't have to get in."
He's quiet for a moment. Then, so soft you almost miss it: "Yes, I did."
Your chest does something complicated. You ignore it. "So," you say, clearing your throat. "A week. No leaving the manor. What does that mean for us?"
The word slips out before you can stop it. Us. You watch Damian process it, watch something warm flicker behind his eyes before he hides it. "It means," he says carefully, "that I can't go exploring abandoned buildings or climbing fire escapes. But my father didn't say anything about visitors."
"You want me to come to your house?"
"I want—" He stops. Starts again. "I would like it if you came to the manor. After school. To keep me company, since I'm trapped there."
"Trapped in a mansion with seventeen security cameras and probably a bowling alley."
"We don't have a bowling alley."
"You don't?" You grin. "You probably have a home theater. A library. A hedge maze."
"The hedge maze is seasonal."
You laugh, loud and bright, and Damian's expression softens in a way that makes your stomach flip. "Okay," you say. "Okay. I'll come visit you. But we won't do anything crazy. I don't want to add more days to your sentence."
"That's very considerate of you."
"Don't sound so surprised. I can be considerate. Sometimes. On special occasions."
He shakes his head, but he's smiling. That tiny, barely-there smile that you've been chasing since the sewer. "What did I get myself into.." he murmurs.
"You came to me, remember?"
"I remember."
"And?"
He looks at you. Really looks at you, green eyes warm in the gray afternoon light. "And I don't regret it." You don't have a response to that. For once, the jokes don't come. The teasing doesn't come. You just settle around this moment. Then the bell rings. Neither of you moves. "Your jacket," Damian says eventually. "You're sure?"
You glance at it, folded over his arm. He hasn't let go of it, apparently. The denim is worn, faded, full of holes and paint stains and memories you don't talk about. On him, it looks wrong and right at the same time. Like it doesn't belong to him but should. "Yeah," you say. "Looks good on you."
He doesn't argue this time. He just nods, once, and slips it into his bag with careful hands. "After school," he says. "The front gate. I'll have Alfred let you in."
"Alfred?"
"My butler." He pauses. "You'll like him. Everyone likes Alfred."
"Even you?"
"Especially me."
You push off the wall, stretching your arms above your head. The cold air bites at your skin, but you don't mind. You're still warm from standing next to him. "Okay. After school. Low profile. Calm things. No trespassing, no breaking and entering, no swimming anymore." You walk toward the school building together. Not close enough to touch, but closer than you need to be. The afternoon light is pale through the clouds, and somewhere in the distance, a train rattles along the tracks. "I'm glad your dad isn't mad. About any of it." you say as you reach the doors.
He glances at you. He considers it. Then says "I think he's just glad I have someone to get arrested with."
You laugh, pushing open the door. "That's a weird thing for a dad to be glad about."
"Welcome to my family." You hold the door for him. He walks through, close enough that his arm brushes yours, and you pretend not to notice the way your heart stumbles. And for the rest of the day, you can't stop smiling.
The week passes faster than you expect. Maybe it's because you spend most of it at the Manor. Not all of it, of course, you still have school, still have your own apartment, still have a mother who raised an eyebrow when you came home the night of the arrest and said "You smell like chlorine" and then didn't ask any follow-up questions, which is either trust or exhaustion. Probably both. But after school, you walk through gates that definitely have more than seventeen cameras (you count twenty-three on Friday, just to prove Damian wrong). And you let yourself be swallowed by a house that feels less like a home and more like a museum that someone forgot to close. The first time you walk through the front doors, you stop dead. "Rich people," you say, staring at the chandelier. "What the hell."
Damian, standing beside you with his arms crossed, looks personally offended. "It's just a chandelier."
"It's the size of my entire apartment."
"Don't be dramatic."
"I'm not being dramatic." You turn in a slow circle, taking in the marble floors, the sweeping staircase, the portraits on the walls that probably cost more than your mom's car. "Your house has a staircase that could fit my whole building. Actually, no— my building is narrower than this staircase. I could fit my building inside your staircase."
"You're exaggerating."
"I'm really not." He sighs and grabs your wrist, pulling you down the hall before you can embarrass him further. His hand is warm around your arm, and you let him drag you because it's not like you want him to let go. You meet Alfred on that first day. He appears in the doorway of the kitchen like a butler-shaped ghost, carrying a tray of something that smells incredible.
"Ah," he says, looking at you over Damian's shoulder. "You must be the young man who keeps getting my boy arrested."
You freeze. Damian freezes beside you. "Alfred." Damian starts.
Alfred just smiles. He sets the tray down on the counter. Sandwiches, you realize, perfectly cut into triangles like something from a TV show. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Damian has mentioned you."
You glance at Damian, his ears are pink. "He has?"
"Repeatedly," Alfred says. "At length. Often without being prompted."
"Alfred."
"The pool story alone was quite detailed." Alfred's expression doesn't change, but there's something dancing in his eyes. "I feel as though I was there."
Damian makes a sound like a dying animal. You, meanwhile, are trying very hard not to laugh. "It's nice to meet you, sir," you say, because your mom raised you right, even if she'd probably have opinions about you spending time in a mansion with a boy you barely even know. "Thank you for having me."
Alfred's expression softens. "No need for 'sir,' dear boy. Alfred will do." He gestures to the sandwiches. "Eat. You look like you haven't had a proper meal in days." You have. But you also weren't going to say no to free food, especially not food that looked like it belonged in a magazine. You grab a sandwich. Damian does the same, though he looks like he's bracing for more commentary. "He's not here," Alfred says quietly, and you realize he's talking to Damian. His shoulders drop. Just a fraction, just enough to notice. And you file that away, and the fact that Damian is different around Alfred, softer. You like Alfred immediately.
Hours later, you're questioning yourself on why you're here. You knew Damian had animals. He mentioned them once, casually, like it was normal for a sixteen-year-old to own multiple livestock. But knowing and seeing are two different things. "You have a cow," you say, staring at the massive creature in the stable behind the manor.
"I have a cow," Damian confirms.
"Her name is Batcow."
“The name is not up for debate." You turn to look at him. He's standing with his arms crossed, chin up, like he's daring you to make fun of him. His expression is defensive in a way you haven't seen before. Like he's waiting for you to laugh and not sure what he'll do if you do. You have mercy and you don't laugh.
"Batcow," you say again, but this time you're smiling. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. I love her."
Damian's expression flickers. Relief, maybe. Or something like it. "She was rescued from a slaughterhouse," he says. "Father let me keep her."
"Your dad let you keep a cow?"
"My father is... indulgent. Sometimes."
You look at Batcow. Batcow looks at you. She's massive, gentle, has no idea how absurd her existence is, and you kind of want to steal her. "Can I pet her?" you ask.
Damian's mouth twitches. "That's usually what one does with cows." You kind of want to refute that usually, people eat cows instead of pet them. Instead, you step forward, reaching out slowly. Batcow snuffles at your hand, warm and curious, and when you scratch behind her ear, she makes a sound that's almost like the purr version of a cow. "She likes you," Damian says, and there's something in his voice that sounds almost like wonder.
"Everyone likes me. I'm very likable."
"You're tolerable at best."
"You don't get to call me 'just' tolerable." He doesn't respond. But when you glance back at him, he's watching you with that soft expression again, the one that makes your chest do something complicated. "Who's next?" you ask, stepping away from Batcow. "You said you have a dog?"
"Titus," Damian says, and his whole face lights up. Actually lights up, like someone turned on a switch behind his eyes. "He's a Great Dane. He's inside. Come on." He grabs your wrist again. You let him guide you again. Titus is enormous. He's also, apparently, convinced that he's a lap dog. The moment you walk into the sitting room, he bounds toward you with the grace of a freight train, and you barely have time to brace yourself before he's got his front paws on your shoulders and his tongue on your face. "Titus— down—" Damian's voice is exasperated, but he's smiling. Actually smiling, not just twitching. A real, full smile that makes him look younger and nothing like the boy who walked through Gotham Academy like he owned it.
You're too busy being licked to death to appreciate it properly. "He's— very— friendly—"
"He likes you."
"He's trying to eat my face!"
"That's how he shows affection."
You manage to push Titus off enough to catch your breath. He immediately flops onto his back, demanding belly rubs, and you oblige because you're not a monster. "He's ridiculous," you say, scratching behind his ears.
"He's a good boy." Damian crouches down beside you, and for a moment you're both just... there. Petting a giant dog in a ridiculously expensive room, the afternoon light filtering through windows that probably cost more than your entire education. "Alfred the cat is somewhere around here," Damian says. "He's less enthusiastic about strangers."
"You named your cat after your butler?"
"I—" Damian stops and shakes his head. "He thought it was funny."
"Is it?"
"Objectively? Yes." You laugh, and Titus wiggles with joy, and Damian's smile doesn't fade. It stays there, soft and real, and you think you could get used to this. The Manor. The animals. The way Damian looks when he's not wearing his walls up.
You meet Tim by accident. You're wandering the halls on Wednesday; Damian got called away for something he called a "family discussion" but you suspect is actually about whatever weird family obligations keep him busy at night, and you take a wrong turn. Or maybe a right turn. The Manor is a labyrinth, and you're pretty sure some of these hallways move when you're not looking. You turn a corner and almost walk directly into a boy with dark hair and tired eyes, holding a mug of something that definitely is not coffee. "Oh," he says. "You're Damian's friend."
You blink. "You're Tim."
"I'm Tim." He doesn't offer his last name. You don't ask. "You're the one who got him arrested."
"I'm the one who got him arrested," you confirm. "Nice to meet you too."
Tim's expression doesn't change. He's hard to read, you realize, in a way that's different from Damian. Damian's walls are sharp edges and cold stares. Tim's walls are just... blank. Like he's already figured you out and is waiting to see if you figure him out too. "He's happier," Tim says. "Damian. Since he met you." You don't know what to say to that. So you don't say anything. Tim nods and smiles slightly, like you've confirmed something, and walks past you down the hall. He doesn't look back. You stand there for a moment, processing, and then you retrace your steps and pretend you never got lost in the first place.
The last day, you meet Bruce Wayne. You're nervous. You don't want to be nervous, you've never been nervous around parents before, because parents usually look at you like you're a problem they don't want to deal with. But Bruce Wayne isn't a normal parent. He's Bruce Wayne. The Bruce Wayne. And you're standing in his house, eating his food, spending time with his son. You pretend you're not nervous. You think you're doing a pretty good job. "He will know," Damian says, walking beside you toward the study. "That you're nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"You've adjusted your sleeve seventeen times in the last minute."
You stop. Look at him. "Are you counting what I do again? That's creepy. "
He gives you a side eye, you take a breath. Roll your shoulders. Try to look like someone who definitely hasn't been arrested multiple times and definitely isn't worried about what Bruce Wayne thinks of them. "Ready?" Damian asks.
"No." He opens the door anyway. The study is warm. Fire in the hearth, books on the walls, the smell of old paper and leather and something that might be expensive cologne. Bruce Wayne is sitting behind the desk, and when you walk in, he looks up. He's taller than you expected. Or maybe it's just the way he carries himself, the same way Damian does, you realize. Like he's prepared for anything. Like he's already seen everything. "Sir," you say, because your mom raised you right, even if she'd probably have opinions about you standing in Bruce Wayne's study.
"Please." He stands, walks around the desk, and offers his hand. "Bruce." You shake it. His grip is firm, warm, and he holds on for a moment longer than necessary. "I've heard a lot about you," he says.
"Hopefully not all of it from the police report."
A pause. Then Bruce's mouth twitches, the same twitch Damian does. The same almost-smile. "Damian mentioned you are honest," Bruce says.
"I'm not sure honest is the right word. I just don't know when to shut up."
"Sit down." You sit. Damian sits beside you, close enough that your knees almost touch. Bruce returns to his chair, and for a moment, no one speaks. "Thank you," Bruce says finally, "for not leaving him at the police station."
You blink. "Uh— what?"
"When the guard caught you. Damian told me what happened. You could have run, yet you didn't."
You glance at Damian. He's staring straight ahead, jaw tight, like he's not sure where this is going. "I wasn't going to leave him," you say. "He was there because of me."
"Because of both of you," Bruce corrects. "Damian makes his own choices. He always has." You don't know what to say to that, so you just shut up. Bruce leans back in his chair, studying you with those sharp eyes. "Damian has... difficulty connecting with people. His mother—" He stops. Corrects. "His upbringing was unconventional."
"I gathered."
"He's different around you. I've noticed."
Your chest does something complicated. You ignore it. "He's different around everyone. He's weird." Beside you, Damian makes an indignant sound. Bruce's mouth twitches again.
"He is," Bruce agrees. "But he's also... happier."
Tim said the same thing. You're starting to think this family talks about Damian when he's not in the room. Probably a lot. "I didn't do anything," you say. "I just— he asked me to teach him how to be a normal teenager. So I did."
"And what does being a normal teenager involve?"
You think about it. The pool. The sunrise. The sewer full of color. "Stupid stuff, mostly. Breaking rules. Making bad decisions. Getting caught."
"You got him arrested."
"I got him arrested," you confirm. "And he got himself grounded for a week. Which is—" You glance at Damian. "—honestly, kind of on him. I told him we could run."
Damian's jaw drops. "You did not tell me—"
"You're the one who surrendered."
"You were about to get hit!"
"So? I've been hit before. It's not that bad."
"You're unbelievable."
"You're grounded."
Bruce clears his throat. You both stop. Look at him. He's watching you with an expression you can't quite read. "I think," Bruce says slowly, "that you're a good influence on him."
You stare. "I got him arrested."
"You got him to act like a teenager." Bruce's voice is quiet. Certain. "Do you know how long I've been trying to do that?"
Damian makes a strangled sound. "Father—"
"I'm not finished." Bruce holds up a hand, and Damian falls silent. "You're welcome here. Whenever you want. No invitation needed."
You don't know what to say. Your throat feels tight, and your chest feels full, and you're pretty sure Bruce Wayne just gave you a key to his house without actually giving you one. "I'll try not to get him arrested again," you manage.
Bruce smiles. Actually smiles, not the media smile you've seen in photos, but something smaller and more real. "I'm not worried about that."
"You should be."
"I'm not." You sit there for a moment, the three of you, the fire crackling in the hearth. Damian's knee is pressed against yours now, and you don't move away. Later, after Bruce has excused himself to deal with something that sounded like ‘Wayne Enterprises nonsense’ and you're walking back toward the front door, Damian falls into step beside you.
"My father approved of you," he says. Like he's still processing it.
You glance at him. "Is that a good thing? I feel like I'll never be able to escape this family now."
His expression does something complicated. "Is that what you want? To escape?" You stop walking. He stops beside you. The hallway is empty, the portraits on the walls watching you both with painted eyes.
"No," you say. "That's not what I want."
Damian holds your gaze for a long moment. Then he nods, just once, and keeps walking. You follow. Because that's what you do now. Follow Damian Wayne through mansions and hallways and moments you don't have names for. "Same time tomorrow?" he asks as you reach the door.
"You're not grounded anymore."
"I know."
"So you could theoretically leave the Manor. Go places. Do things."
"I could."
You push open the door. The cold air rushes in, sharp and familiar. "Then why would I come here?"
He's quiet for a moment. Then: "Because I'd like you to."
You look at him. The afternoon light is fading, painting the sky in shades of orange and gray, and Damian Wayne is standing in the doorway of his ridiculous mansion with his hands in the pockets of your jacket (the one you gave him, the one he's been wearing all week) and he looks almost nervous. "Same time tomorrow," you agree. He nods. Doesn't smile. But his eyes are warm, and that's enough. The train ride home feels shorter than usual. You spend it thinking about cows named Batcow and cats named Alfred and brothers named Tim who talk about happiness like it's something measurable. You spend it thinking about Bruce Wayne, who looked at you like you were something other than a problem. You spend it thinking about Damian, who kept your jacket and your company and apparently, now your place in a family you never asked to join. You're smiling when you walk through your apartment door. Your mom takes one look at you and says, "You're staying at that boy's house again tomorrow, aren't you?"
"Probably," you admit. She sighs. But she's smiling too.
The thing about being a "normal teenager," you've learned, is that it's mostly about making bad decisions and pretending you meant to make them. So when you text Damian on Saturday morning 'bus station. noon. don't be late' you don't have a plan. You don't have a destination. You don't even have a return ticket. You have a backpack, a hoodie that smells like shit, and the kind of restless energy that only comes from spending five days in a mansion with millions of security cameras and a boy who keeps looking at you like you're a puzzle he's trying to solve. Or like he wants to kiss you, you're still figuring that out. Damian is already there when you arrive. He's leaning against the wall outside the station, dressed in dark jeans and a gray sweater. Your jacket (probably his, now) is zipped up to his chin, and he's holding two cups of coffee and a paper bag that smells like pastries. You stop in front of him. Stare at the bag. "You remembered."
"I said I would."
"Yeah, but people say things. They don't usually.." You gesture at the bag. "Follow through."
He shoves the coffee into your hand. "Take it before I change my mind." You take it. The warmth seeps through the cup, into your fingers, and you're smiling before you can stop yourself. "You're getting soft." He makes a sound (the one between a scoff and a laugh) and falls into step beside you as you head toward the ticket counter. "Where are we going?" he asks.
"No idea."
"You don't have a destination?"
"That's the point." You glance at him. "Normal teenagers don't plan. They just... go. See where the bus takes them."
"That's irresponsible."
"So what? It's just a normal Tuesday."
"It's Saturday."
"Even better." You stop in front the schedule board, scanning the list of destinations you've never heard of. "Pick a bus. Any bus. We'll get on it and see what happens."
"That's not how transportation works."
"That's how adventure works." You nudge him with your elbow. "Come on, Wayne. Where's your sense of spontaneity?"
"I don't have one."
"Then it's time you developed one." He stares at the board for a long moment. His jaw works, you can see him calculating, weighing options, looking for the safest choice. Then his hand lifts, and he points at a destination halfway down the list.
"Alice Springs," he says.
You blink. "That sounds fake."
"It's a real town. About three hours east."
"How do you know that?"
"I know a lot of things."
You look at the board. Look at him. Look back at the board. "Alice Springs," you repeat. "Sounds like something out of a horror movie."
"Then we should fit right in."
You laugh loudly and drag him toward the ticket counter before he can change his mind. Once you're on the bus, you realize it's crowded. Not with people, exactly. With the kind of quiet that only exists on routes no one takes by choice. The other passengers are mostly older, mostly asleep, their faces slack and unfamiliar in the gray afternoon light. You take a seat near the back, Damian beside you, your shoulders pressed together in the narrow space. "You told your dad where you're going?" you ask as the bus pulls away from the station.
Damian glances at you. "I learned from last time."
"So he knows you're on a bus to a town called Alice Springs with a person who got you arrested."
"He knows I'm with you. The destination was... secondary."
You grin. "Secondary. Sure." The bus rumbles onto the highway. The tall buildings, the crowded streets, the particular gray of Gotham that you've known your whole life falls behind you. In its place, trees. Green fields. The kind of scenery that makes you want to blast songs with a huge speaker and open your arms wide in the air like teenagers in coming-of-age movies do. "Have you ever been outside Gotham?" you ask.
"Of course."
"I know, not like that. I mean—" You gesture at the window. "Just to see what's there. Without doin’ family obligations, weird shit or boring things."
Damian is quiet for a moment. "No," he says finally. "I haven't."
You look at him. His profile is sharp against the window, the gray light catching the edges of his face. He's watching the landscape pass, and there's something in his expression that looks almost like wonder. "Well," you say. "I'm being your first time in a lot of things." He gave you a stinky side eye.
The town, when you finally reach it, is exactly what you expected. Which means: abandoned. Alice Springs is less a town and more a collection of buildings that forgot they were supposed to be alive. Main Street is three blocks long, lined with storefronts that haven't seen customers in years. A gas station at the edge of town, the pumps rusted and the windows boarded. A diner with a neon sign that flickers OPEN in uneven letters, even though you're pretty sure no one's opened that door in a decade. "It's a ghost town," Damian says, stepping off the bus.
"It's atmospheric."
"It's depressing."
"It's an adventure." You spread your arms wide, spinning in a slow circle. "Look at this place. No people. No adults. No one telling us what to do."
"There's probably a reason for that."
"Fear? Cowardice? Lack of imagination?"
"Common sense."
You drop your arms, grinning at him. "Since when do we have common sense?" He doesn't answer. But he's not walking back toward the bus either. He's standing on the cracked sidewalk, looking up at the flickering sign, and there's something in his posture that looks almost like curiosity.
"One hour" he says.
"Three."
"Two."
"Deal."
You two spent the afternoon exploring. The diner is locked, but you find a window in the back that's been broken for so long the glass is worn smooth. You climb through, Damian following after sighing in resignation and find yourselves in a room frozen in time. Booths with cracked vinyl seats. A jukebox in the corner that hasn't played music since before you were born. Counter stools that spin in slow, creaking circles when you push them. "This is unsanitary," Damian says, running his finger over a table. The dust is thick enough to write in.
"This is history."
"This is a health code violation."
You grab a napkin from the dispenser, the paper yellowed with age, and wipe a clean spot on the counter. Then you hop up, sitting cross-legged where someone probably ate breakfast fifty years ago. "Tell me something," you say.
Damian eyes you. "What kind of something?"
"I don't know. Something I don't know about you."
"That's a broad category."
"Then start small." You gesture at the room around you. "What's the first memory you have? The earliest one."
He goes still. The kind of stillness of someone who's not sure they want to answer. "I was four," he says finally. "Maybe five. There was a garden. Someone tended it. I don't remember who. But I remember the smell. Jasmine, I think. And the way the light looked through the leaves." He pauses. "I wasn't allowed to touch anything."
You watch him. His face is carefully blank, but you notice a tiny emotion in his eyes. "That's sad," you say.
"It was what it was."
"You were a kid. You should have been allowed to touch things."
He looks at you. Just looks, for a long moment, and you can see him trying to figure out what you mean. Whether there's a trap in your words, an angle, a hidden question. "It was a long time ago," he says.
"That doesn't make it less sad."
He doesn't respond. But he walks toward the counter, slides onto the stool beside you, and sits in the dusty silence like he's trying to figure out what to do with your words. "Your turn." he says.
"My first memory?" He nods. You think about it. The question should be easy, but your memory is tangled up in things you don't talk about. Things you're not sure you want to share. "My mom," you say finally. "She was singing. I don't remember the song. But I remember thinking she sounded pretty."
Damian's expression softens. Just a fraction, just enough to notice. "That's not sad."
"No," you agree. "It's not." The general store is next. It's way bigger than the diner, dustier, full of shelves that still have products on them. Canned goods with labels you don't recognize. Boxes of cereal that expired before you were born. A rack of postcards near the front, the images faded to almost nothing. You grab one. Hold it up. "We should send this to your house."
Damian stares at you. "It's addressed to no one."
"We'll address it to Alfred. He'll think it's funny."
You find a pen behind the counter. Miraculously, it still works, and then you scribble a message on the back. 'Wish you were here. The dust is lovely this time of year.' Damian reads it over your shoulder. His breath is warm against your neck, and you try very hard not to lean into it. "That's not funny," he says.
"That's hilarious."
"It's barely a joke."
"It's the best joke I've ever written." He takes the pen from your hand. His fingers brush yours, deliberate or accidental? you can't tell. He writes something below your message, folds the postcard, and pockets it. "What did you write?" you ask.
"You'll find out when it arrives."
"That's not fair."
"Life isn't usually." You glare at him. He glares back. And somewhere in the middle of the dusty general store, surrounded by expired cereal and faded postcards, you start laughing. He doesn't join you. But he doesn't make a face either. You get out of the store. The sun is setting when you realize you have nowhere to stay. "Five hours," Damian says, and his voice is pointed. "We were supposed to stay for two."
"Time got away from me."
"Time didn't get away from you. You got distracted by a taxidermied squirrel."
"That squirrel had a lot of personality!"
"The bus left an hour ago."
You look at the empty street. At the fading light. At the sky turning orange and purple in a way that never happens in Gotham, where the clouds are always too thick and the city too bright. "Okay," you say. "So we stay the night."
"Here."
"It's called 'spontaneity,' Damian."
"It's called 'poor planning.'" You shrug, smirking. He pinches the bridge of his nose. It's such an exasperated gesture, so dramatic, so entirely him, that you can't help but grin. "There's a hostel," he says finally. "At the end of Main Street. I saw it when we arrived."
The hostel is... a building. That's the nicest thing you can say about it. The windows are intact, which is more than you can say for most of the other structures. The door opens when you push it, which is a pleasant surprise. And there's a desk in the lobby with a bell and a sign that says RING FOR SERVICE in handwriting so faded it might be a century old. You ring the bell. Nothing happens. You ring it again. A door behind the desk opens, and a woman appears. She's old, seventies maybe, with gray hair pulled back in a bun and eyes that have seen too many travelers come and go. "We need a room," you say.
She looks at you, looks at Damian, then back at you. "One room," she says. "Two beds?"
You glance at Damian. His expression is carefully neutral. "One bed is fine," you say. Damian's head turns toward you so fast you almost hear his neck crack. But he doesn't argue. And when the woman hands him a key, he takes it without comment. The room is at the end of the hall. It's small, smaller than you expected. The walls are paneled in something that might be wood or might be plastic, and the window looks out onto the alley behind the building. There's a dresser with a mirror, a lamp with a frayed cord, and a bed. One bed.
"One bed," Damian says. "We can't share a bed."
"Why not?"
He stares at you, blankly. His ears are pink, you notice that, file it away with the other things you're not supposed to notice. "It's inappropriate," he says.
"We're not dating."
"It's not necess—" He stops. "That's not the point."
"Then what's the point?" He doesn't answer. He just stands there, in the middle of the tiny room, holding the key like he's not sure what to do with it. You drop your bag on the floor. Sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress sags under your weight, the springs groaning in protest. "I'll sleep on the floor," you offer.
"You're not sleeping on the floor."
"Then what's your brilliant plan?"
He looks at the bed. Looks at you. Looks back at the bed. "We'll share."
"Oh, so now it's fine?"
"Don't make this weird."
"You're the one making it weird." You kick off your shoes, swinging your legs onto the mattress. "Get over here. I don't bite. If you don't want to."
He doesn't move. You can see him arguing with himself, doing that thing he does where every decision feels like a chess move. Then he sighs, pulls off his own shoes, and sits on the opposite edge of the bed, as far from you as the narrow mattress allows. "This is a terrible idea," he says.
"Maybe."
"We're going to regret this."
"Doubt it." He lies back and stares at the ceiling, pretending to be offended and not nervous. You lie back too, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through the blankets, far enough that you're not touching. The ceiling is cracked. Water damage, maybe, or just age. You watch the shadows move across it, cast by the streetlight outside, and try not to think about how close he is. "Damian," you say.
"What."
"About the pool."
The silence that follows is deafening. You can hear his breathing change; the way it hitches, just slightly, before evening out again. "What about it," he says. His voice is flat. Careful.
"You know what."
"I don't."
"You almost kissed me."
He doesn't respond, so you turn your head to look at him. His profile is sharp against the pillow, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it holds the answers to every question he doesn't dare to ask. "You almost kissed me too," he says quietly. You can't deny it. You don't want to.
"So," you say. "What does that mean?"
"I don't know."
"It has to mean something."
"Does it?" He turns his head then, meets your eyes. The distance between you is small. Inches, maybe less. You can see the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. "Can't it just... be?"
"That's not how things work."
"That's how I want them to work."
You stare at each other. The room is dark, the only light from the window, and it casts strange shapes across his face. Makes him look softer. You could get used to seeing him like this. "Okay," you say. "We don't have to figure it out tonight. But don't thank me yet. I'm still going to make fun of you for almost kissing me."
He groans, turning back to the ceiling. "I will strangulate you."
"Ohh, kinky." His head snaps toward you. His eyes are wide, his mouth open, and for a moment he looks genuinely shocked. Then his expression hardens, and you can see him fighting a smile. He doesn't respond. But when you close your eyes, you feel him shift on the mattress. Closer, this time. Not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him through the thin blankets. You fall asleep like that. Side by side, centimetres apart, the weight of everything unsaid settling around you.
Old habits die hard. That's what they say, anyway. You're not sure who "they" are though, probably the same people who say "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger" and other lies people tell themselves to feel better about bad decisions.
The truth is simpler: you used to smoke. Not much. Not the kind of habit that had you sneaking out at midnight to buy packs from the corner store. Just occasionally, when things got loud in your head. When the walls of your apartment felt too close and your thoughts overwhelmed you and you needed something to do with your hands. You quit when you met Damian. Not because he asked, he didn't even knew. You just stopped. Because you didn't needed it anymore. Suddenly, the loud things were quieter. Because the walls didn't feel as close when you were with him. Because you had something better to do with your hands, like spray-painting on sewer walls and holding coffee cups on cold mornings and cupping his cheek. Well, that hasn't happened. Yet. The thing is, you didn't even miss smoking. Until today. The box is at the bottom of your closet, buried under old notebooks and a sweater you haven't worn since middle school. You're cleaning, because your mom made that face last week, the one that says "I love you but your room is a biohazard" and your hand closes around the familiar cardboard. You pull it out. Three packs. One of them open, two of them still sealed. You'd forgotten you had them. Forgotten the way the packaging looks, the way it feels in your hands, the way your fingers know exactly what to do. You should throw them away. You know you should throw them away. But you put them on your desk instead.
The first one is an accident. That's what you tell yourself. You're tidying, your hands are restless, and the pack is right there. Just one. Just to see if it still feels the same. If you still know how to do it. You crack the window, lie down on your bed. Light it. Inhale. It tastes like before. Like the person you used to be before Damian Wayne sat across from you in the cafeteria and asked for help being normal. You smoke it down to the filter, stub it out and stare at the ceiling. Then you light another one.
Damian notices the next day. You think you're being careful; you showered, you brushed your teeth, you wore a hoodie that hasn't been anywhere near your room since you found the packs. But Damian Wayne notices everything, and apparently he also has the nose of a bloodhound. You're sitting on the bench behind the gym, waiting for him to finish whatever he was doing inside, when he walks up and stops. Stops, he literally freezes. You look up. His expression is unreadable, but his nostrils flare slightly (just a twitch, just enough to notice) and his eyes narrow. "You smoked," he says.
You blink. "What?"
"You smoked. Yesterday. Or this morning." He steps closer, and you watch him observe your clothes, your hair, the way you're suddenly very interested in the ground. "The smell is faint. But it's there."
"I don't—"
"Don't lie to me." His voice is quiet. Not angry, but almost disappointed, and somehow that's worse. You've never seen him angry, but it's probably better than how he's looking at you.
You exhale. Run a hand through your hair. "It was just one cigarette. Yesterday. While I was cleaning."
"Don't lie. How many?"
You hesitate. His eyes don't leave your face. "...Two," you admit. He narrows his eyes. "Two and a half. The third one was mostly ash, I don't think it counts."
He stares at you. You stare back. The afternoon light is pale through the clouds, casting shadows across his face, and you can see him doing that thing: the calculation, the assessment, the quiet figuring-out of whatever problem you've just presented him with. "Give me one," he says.
Your brain short-circuits. "What?"
"Give me a cigarette."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because—" You stop. Start again. "Because they're bad for you. Because you're not— Damian, no."
He crosses his arms. Your jacket pulls across his shoulders, he's still wearing it, you notice, even though you told him to keep it weeks ago. "You have them. You're smoking them. Give me one."
"That's not how this works."
"How does it work, then?"
You stand up. Face him. You're close enough to see the slight tension in his jaw, the way his breathing has gone carefully controlled. "I was the reason you got arrested," you say. "I won't be the reason you get lung cancer."
His expression flickers. Something softens, just for a moment, before the mask slides back into place. "One cigarette won't give me lung cancer."
"One cigarette leads to two. Two leads to a pack. A pack leads to—"
"To what?"
"To me," you say. "To the person I used to be. And I don't want that for you." The words hang in the air between you. Heavy. Honest. More honest than you meant to be. Damian doesn't speak for a long moment. He just looks at you like he's trying to read something written in a language he's still learning.
"You quit," he asked. "When?”
"When I met you."
His eyes widen. Just a fraction, just enough to notice. "That was months ago."
"I know."
"You haven't smoked since then?"
"Not until yesterday."
"Why yesterday?"
You think about the question. About the loud things in your head, the walls of your apartment, the restless hands that didn't know what to do with themselves. About the box at the bottom of your closet and the person you used to be and the strange, uncomfortable feeling of being happy and not knowing what to do with it. "I don't know," you lie. He knows you're lying. You can see it in his eyes. But he doesn't call you out.
"You should throw them away," he says finally.
"I know."
"You won't."
"I know that too." You almost smile. But there's something in his voice that makes the joke feel wrong. Something that deserves better than deflection. "Damian," you say. "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"For being like this. For having stupid habits."
He's quiet for a moment. Then: "You're not the only person with habits they're not proud of." You look at him. His expression is guarded again, but almost understanding. "Give me the pack," he says.
You stare at him. "You're going to smoke them?"
"I'm going to dispose of them."
"I can throw them away."
"You won't. You'll put them back in your closet and find them again in three months and smoke another half a pack and feel guilty and the cycle will repeat." He holds out his hand. "Give them to me."
"You're very bossy."
"You're very stubborn."
"You—"
"Give. Me. The. Pack." You look at his outstretched hand. At his face. At the way your jacket fits him, the way he's wearing something of yours like it belongs to him now.
"I don't have it with me," you admit.
"Then bring it tomorrow." His voice is firm. Final. "You'll bring the pack. You'll give it to me. And you won't buy another one."
"You can't control what I do."
"I'm not trying to control you" His eyes soften. "I'm trying to keep you alive."
The words hit you somewhere soft. Somewhere you didn't know you had. "I'm not going to die from a few cigarettes," you say.
"No. But you might die from a few hundred. And I'd rather not find out." You just stand there, in the cold afternoon light, and let him look at you like you're something worth keeping alive. You bring the pack the next day. All three of them, the open one and the two sealed ones. You put them in a paper bag and hand them to him in the cafeteria, sliding across the table like you're making a drug deal. He takes the bag. Looks inside. His expression doesn't change. He sets the bag beside him on the bench, close to his body, like he's protecting it. Like he's afraid you might try to take it back. You won't. You already decided that last night, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the way he said 'I'm trying to keep you alive' because apparently for him, you're worth the inconvenience. "Promise me," he says. "That you won't smoke again."
You look at him. His green eyes are steady, serious, no trace of the almost-smile you've been collecting. "And if I can't?" you ask.
"Then I'll make you."
"How?" He doesn't answer. But his expression shifts and you realize he's not bluffing. He would find a way. He would follow you around, confiscate every pack you bought, sit on your fire escape at five in the morning and lecture you about lung capacity until you gave up. "Okay," you say. "I promise. No more."
He studies you for a long moment. Looking for the lie, probably. The evasion, the thing you're not saying. You're not lying. That's the strange part. You mean it. It's not like you even like smoking anyway. "Good," he says. Then he picks up the bag, walks to the nearest trash can, and drops the whole thing inside. You watch him do it. Watch the bag disappear into the bin, the cigarettes gone, the habit probably not, but the person you used to be is slipping further and further into the past.
"That was dramatic," you say when he comes back. "You're threw away perfectly good cigarettes."
"They weren't perfectly good. They were old. And stale. And bad for you."
"You're very responsible all of a sudden."
"I've always been responsible. You just haven't been paying attention."
You lean back in your seat, grinning at him. "I do pay attention."
"To what?"
"To you." His ears go pink. He looks away, but not before you catch the flicker of softness in his eyes. He doesn't respond. But when you look at him, you see the corner of his mouth twitch. That almost-smile. You're collecting them, you realize. Keeping them somewhere safe in your mind, somewhere the old you couldn't reach. "Thank you," you say quietly. "For caring. Even when I'm stupid."
His expression softens. Just a fraction. Just enough. "Someone has to," he says. And that's that.
"You want to go to a party," Damian says. His voice is flat, unimpressed, like you've just suggested something so offensive, like jumping off a cliff.
"Normal teenagers go to parties," you say, for the third time. You're leaning against his locker, watching him pack his bag. "It's Saturday. There's a party. Marcus invited me."
"Marcus."
"Guy I used to know."
Damian closes his locker and turns to face you. His expression is the one he wears when he's already decided something and is waiting for you to catch up. "I'm not going."
"Did I ask you to go?"
"You're about to."
"I'm not," you lie. "I'm just telling you about my plans. Informing you. Keeping you updated on my social calendar."
"You want me to come."
"I want you to do whatever you want."
"That's not true."
"Fine." You throw your hands up. "I want you to come. But I'm not going to beg."
"Good. Because I wouldn't say yes."
You stare at him. He stares back. His arms are crossed, his whole body radiating the particular stubbornness that you've come to recognize as his default state. "Fine," you say. "I'll go alone."
"Fine."
"Fine." You turn and walk away. You can feel his eyes on your back the whole time.
The party is exactly what you expected. Loud music, dim lights. Too many people in too small a space, all of them holding red cups and pretending they're having fun. You don't know why you came. You don't know why you thought this would be a good idea. Marcus is nowhere to be found, and the few people you recognize are too drunk to hold a conversation, and everywhere you look, you see couples pressed against walls, making out and grinding against each other. Or doing something else that you really don't want to see in a supposedly public space. You grab a drink. Something cheap, something that burns your throat on the way down, yet it doesn't help to not think about him. About Damian. About thinking that maybe if he was here, you'd be one of those couples. 'That'd gross him out, though' you think, because now apparently you know what he likes and what he doesn't.
An hour passes. Maybe two. You're standing in a corner, watching the chaos, when someone bumps hard into you and doesn't apologize. "Watch it," you mutter.
The guy turns. Tall, broad. The kind of build that comes from too much time in a gym and not enough time learning manners. His eyes are unfocused, and he's smiling in a way that makes your skin crawl. "What the hell did you say to me?"
"Nothin’. Forget it."
"No, no." He steps closer. You can smell the alcohol on his breath, cheap and sour. "I want to know what you said."
You should walk away. You know you should walk away. But Damian's not here. No one's here. And you're tired of being pushed around by people who think they're tougher than you. "I said fucking watch it," you repeat. This time slower, clearer. "You bumped into me. You didn't apologize."
His smile twists into something uglier. "You want an apology?"
"I want you to back up."
He doesn't back up. He steps closer, chest bumping yours, and his hand comes up to shove your shoulder. "Wait." He stops, looking at your eyes intensely. "Oh, I know you. You're Marcus's friend, right? The one that got his little friend k—"
After he mentioned your past, you don't think anymore. You just drop your empty cup and swing. Your fist connects with his jaw. It's a good hit, satisfying, but it doesn't do much except make him angry. He recovers fast, faster than you expected, and then his fist is connecting with your cheek, and the world goes white. You stumble. Catch yourself and punch again. He blocks it, hits you again. Your lip splits, you can feel your nose already bleeding. He's talking, but you're not hearing anything, except that he mentions the name of somebody you'd rather forget, something that just causes you to go even more feral. You can taste blood, copper and salt, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you're counting the hits. One. Two. Five. Eight. You get a few in yourself. His nose, his stomach, his ribs, you see his face bleeding, and your knuckles are now covered in blood. There are people watching, laughing, cheering, and no one is stepping in to help. You're on the ground before you realize you've fallen. His boot connects with your ribs, and you curl up, hands over your head, trying to protect the important parts. The kicking stops and you hear glass breaking. Shit. Shit, shit shit. You open your eyes, and now that guy has a broken beer bottle on his hand. You move on the floor.
"Hey—" A new voice. Sharp. Cold. The kicking stops. You look up and see Damian standing in the doorway of the living room. His eyes sweep the scene; the guy standing over you, the crowd watching, the blood on the floor and something in his expression shifts. It goes dark. "Get away from him," Damian says.
The guy laughs. "Or what?" Damian doesn't answer. He just moves.
You've never seen him fight before. Now, you can only see flashes. The way Damian flows around the guy's punches like water. The way his fists find soft spots: throat, solar plexus, kidneys. The way the guy goes down, hard, and doesn't get up. The room is silent, the people cheering shut. Damian turns to you, he's not even faced, his breath is even, his chest is not heaving. His knuckles are bloody. His eyes are wild, searching your face, cataloging the damage. "Can you stand?" he asks. You do, your ribs scream. Your knee buckles. Damian catches you before you fall, his arm around your waist, pulling you against him. "We're leaving," he says. You don't argue.
The run back to your apartment is a blur. You don't remember the streets, the alleys, the fire escape. You don't remember climbing the stairs and opening your window. You just remember Damian's hand on your back, steady and warm, and the way he kept saying your name like he was afraid you'd stop answering. Your apartment is empty. Your mom is working a late shift, she mentioned it this morning, something about overtime and bills and the particular exhaustion of being a single parent in Gotham. You're grateful. You don't want her to see you like this.
"Sit," Damian says.
"I'm fine." But you sit. On the edge of your bed, because the couch is buried under laundry and the kitchen chairs are wobbly and Damian is already opening your bathroom cabinet like he owns the place. "You don't know where anything is," you call.
"I know where you keep the first aid kit." You don't remember telling him. Before Damian can come out of the bathroom, you speak.
"How did you find me? I never told you where the party was." There's a moment of silence when he's finally returning with the kit, a small white box your mother brought years ago and never restocked. "You—" You stare at him. "You stalked me?"
"I protected you."
"Did you put a tracker on my phone without telling me?"
"Yes."
"You—" You stop. Process. "Okay, honestly? That's kind of hot."
His ears go pink. "We're not talking about that." You laugh. It comes out wrong, too loud, edged with something that isn't humor. The sound echoes off your room and disappears into the night. Damian watches you. His eyes are sharp despite the exhaustion. "We need to talk," he says.
"Do we?"
"You just fought a man twice your size." His voice is steady, but there's something underneath it. Something that sounds like barely contained fury. "Yes. We need to talk."
You look away, at your window. You can see the street lights flickering, a million stories unfolding in the dark. You tense your jaw. "There's nothing to talk about," you say, your tone is colder than anything Damian has heard of you.
"Bullshit." You blink. You've never heard him swear before, at least not like that, sharp and immediate and completely without filter.
"I'm sorry," you say. "Did Damian Wayne just say bullshit?"
"Don't change the subject." He takes a step toward you. Then another. "You could have died tonight," he says.
"I've almost died before."
"That doesn't make it okay."
"I didn't say it was okay. It just isn't new."
"Stop." His voice cracks on the word. Just slightly. Just enough for you to notice. He sits beside you on the bed, close enough that your knees touch, and pulls out antiseptic wipes and gauze and medical tape. You watch him as he works. His hands are steady cleaning the blood from your lip. His face is close to yours, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the furrow of concentration between his brows.
"It's not your fault," you say.
"It is. I let you go alone."
"I'm not a child, Damian. I can make my own decisions."
"Your decisions are terrible. You're doing what's easy. What's familiar. What you've always done."
"And you know me so well?"
"I know you better than you think."
"You don't know shit about me, Damian." Your voice rises, and you get up your bed. You can't help it. The alcohol, the fear, the fight, it's all spilling out, and you can't stop it. "You don't know where I came from. You don't know what I've done. You don't know the kind of person I was before—"
"I don't care."
"You should."
"I don't." He's in your space now, chest almost touching yours, chin tilted up to meet your eyes. "I don't care who you were. I don't care what you did. I care about who you are now. And who you are now is someone who deserves better than this."
"I'm dangerous, Damian. You don't understand—"
"I understand more than you think." He leans closer. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, wiping away a streak of blood. "I'm not a saint either. I'm probably worse than you."
You laugh. It comes out broken, not quite a laugh at all. "Pff. You? I doubt it."
"You don't know me. You know what I let you see." His voice is quiet now. Intimate. Like he's telling you a secret. "You don't know what I've done. The people I've hurt. The things I'm capable of." You open your mouth to speak, but he's quicker. "I'm telling you this so you understand." He's closer now. Close enough that you can feel his breath on your lips, warm and steady. "You're not the only one with darkness. You're not the only one who's made mistakes. And you're not going to scare me away by pretending you're something you're not."
"I'm not pretending."
"Then stop pushing." His hand pushes you lightly, pressing against your chest. "Stop trying to protect me from yourself. I don't need protection. I need you."
The words hang in the air between you. Heavy. Fragile. Real. "I need you too," you whisper. The admission costs you something, some wall you've been building for years, some armor you've been wearing since before you can remember. "That's the problem."
"It's not a problem."
"It is when I'm going to ruin you."
"You won't."
"You don't know that, Damian." There's a moment of silence. "We shouldn't see each other anymore," you say.
His whole body goes still. "What?"
"You heard me." You look away. The wall is easier to look at than his face. "I'm not good for you. I've got you arrested, I’ve made you to vandalize, I almost made you smoke, and now you're hurt because of me after fighting with an idiot. You wanted to be normal, not a fucking criminal, and this will only continue to escalate. You don't know the things I've done. The people I've been involved with. The—"
"I don't care."
"You should care."
"I don't." He raises his voice, looking at you like something you're worth keeping. "You don't understand? I don't care who you were. I don't care what you did. I care about who you are now. And who you are now is someone I'm not going to let push me away." His words hit like punches. Each one landing, each one bruising, each one finding a target you didn't even know you had.
"You don't understand," you whisper.
"Then make me."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
You run a hand through your hair, making it even messier, because you need to do something with your hands and because you don't know how to control your desperation. "Because—" Your voice breaks, you hate that it breaks. You hate that he's seeing you like this, raw, broken and nothing like the person you pretend to be. "Because if I tell you, you'll look at me differently. You'll realize what I really am. And you'll leave."
Damian goes very still. "Is that what you think?" he asks. "That I'll leave?"
"I know you will. Everyone does, in some way."
He stares at you. His expression is unreadable, closed off, guarded, the mask he wears when he's trying not to feel something. "You're an idiot," he says finally. His voice rises a little, but there's no heat in it. Just exhaustion. Just something that sounds almost like defeat. "You're an idiot if you think I'm going anywhere." He comes closer, lifting his hand and cupping your cheek. You flinch, almost unnoticeable even for you, but not for Damian. His expression bitters.
"How? How can you possibly know that?"
"I know because I'm in love with you."
The world stops. Not metaphorically. Actually stops. The city, the apartment, the blood on your shirt, all of it fades to white noise, and there's only Damian. Damian with his bruised knuckles and his hand on your face like you're something precious. "Uh?" you breathe.
"I'm in love with you." He says it like it's simple. Like it's obvious. Like he hasn't just detonated a bomb in the middle of your chest. "I've been in love with you for weeks. Maybe longer. I don't know. I've never—" He stops. Swallows. "I've never felt this way about anyone before. And I'm terrified. Because you keep doing things like this. You keep putting yourself in danger. You keep acting like nothing matters, like you don't matter, and I can't— I can't—" He sighs, deeply, like he's trying to control something that's urging to flourish from his insides. "I can't lose you." His voice breaks, his eyes lower. For real this time, no hiding it. "I just found you. I can't lose you."
You stare at him. The boy who walked through the world like it personally offended him. The boy who climbed your fire escape at five in the morning to show you a sunrise. The boy who let himself get arrested so you wouldn't get hurt. He's in love with you. He is in love with you. He's in love with you. Oh holy shit he is in love with you. "Why?" The word comes out raw, cracked, nothing like you intended. "Why do you care so much? I'm nobody. I'm nothing. I'm a kid from the wrong part of town with a criminal record that makes stupid decisions and—"
"You're not nothing." His thumb brushes your cheek, wiping away tears you didn't know you were crying. "You're the most everything person I've ever met. You're reckless, infuriating and you never take anything seriously and you make me want to be better than I am. You make me want to be normal. You make me want—" He stops. Swallows. His eyes are bright, wet, green as spring. "You make me want." he finishes.
The silence stretches. The city holds its breath. And you realize, somewhere in the chaos of your chest, that you've been in love with him too. You don't know when, or an exact moment. Your feelings are more like a virus that keeps growing and growing until you're completely sick and die. You'd die for this emotion. For him, for Damian. "Damian," you murmur. "You owe me a kiss," you say. "Since the pool." It's a joke. A stupid joke, the kind you always make when things get too real, the kind that fills the silence with something lighter. You're grinning when you say it, expecting him to roll his eyes, to scoff, to call you impossible. He does roll his eyes. Then he leans in and presses his lips to yours. It's soft, gentle. Nothing like the way he behaved in the party. His mouth is warm, lips slightly chapped, and the kiss tastes like the cheap alcohol you were drinking. He pulls back. You stare at his lips. Your brain has stopped working. Your lips are tingling. Your cheek doesn't hurt anymore, or maybe it does and you just can't feel it because every nerve in your body is focused on the space where his mouth just was. "I didn't think you..." you manage.
He raises an eyebrow. "You never think."
"That's—" You swallow, still staring at his lips. "Okay, I'll let you have that one. For now." You kiss him. This time it's not gentle, nor careful. It's the kind of kiss that happens when two people have been circling each other for weeks, months or forever, when the tension has built so high that the only release is collision. His lips are warm against yours, split lip be damned, and he makes a sound, a small, surprised sound that you swallow like oxygen. His hands slide from your face to your hair, fingers tangling, pulling you closer. You grab his shirt, the front of it, fisting the fabric like he might disappear if you let go. He kisses you back like he's been waiting his whole life for this. Like every moment before this was just practice. Like the world could end and he wouldn't notice as long as your mouth was on his. You break apart, gasping. "Again," you say. He doesn't argue, he kisses you again, even harder this time, deeper, his tongue sliding against your lower lip, and you moan. Actually moan, like a guy in a bad porn movie, and you'd be embarrassed if you could think about anything other than the way he tastes. Copper from your split lip. Something else underneath. Something that's just him. "Dami," you breathe against his mouth.
"Don't talk."
"Rude." He kisses you again to shut you up. It works. You let it work. He walks you to your bed, still kissing you. Your back hits the mattress, you don't remember lying down, don't remember pulling him with you, but now he's pressed against you, warm, solid and real. His hands are everywhere. Your face, your shoulders, your waist. Touching you like he's memorizing you, like he's afraid you'll disappear.
You gasp for air, and you slide your hands to his hips, and without asking, he kisses you again. And again. And again. Each kiss is different. Some are soft, almost tentative, like he's still not sure this is real. Some are fierce, demanding, his teeth catching your lower lip and damaging it even more in a way that makes your head spin. Some are somewhere in between, lingering, like he's trying to tell you something he doesn't have words for. You lose track of time. The city could burn down around you and you wouldn't notice. There's only Damian; his hands, his mouth, the way he says your name like it's the only word that matters. Finally (hours later, minutes later, you have no idea), you pull back just enough to look at him. His face is flushed. His lips are swollen. His eyes are bright and soft and nothing like the cold, calculating gaze he wears like armor. "Hi" you say.
"Hi."
"You're a really good kisser."
His ears go pink. "You're concussed."
"I'm a little concussed. I was also a little concussed thirty minutes ago when we started kissing, and I stand by everything I said."
He rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. That tiny, barely-there smile that you've been collecting like treasure. It's different now, though. Brighter. Freer. Like something's been unlocked. "We should probably talk about this," he says.
"Later." You kiss him again. Softer this time. Slow. A promise. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. His breath is warm on your lips. His hand is still on your face, thumb tracing the edge of the bandage he put there. You smile. And in the dark of your room, with the city sleeping outside and the bandage on your cheek and Damian's weight warm against you, you close your eyes and let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, you deserve this. "I'm glad you came to the party."
He snorts. "I didn't come to the party. I came to rescue you from your own stupid decisions."
"Same thing." You kiss him again, just because you can. Just because his lips are there and his hand is in your hair and the world feels smaller and larger and more bearable than it has in years. "Stay," you say.
"I was planning to."
"All night?"
"If you'll have me." You pull him closer, ignoring the protest of your ribs, and tuck his head under your chin. His breathing slows. His body relaxes against yours, tangling your legs with his.
The first thing you need to understand about Damian Wayne is that he walks through the world like it personally offended him. The second thing? He is incredibly soft when he cuddles.
The breeze is warm against your cheek as you face the open door leading towards the pool, the water peaceful and untouched.
Your towel hangs over the crook of your arm, soft to the touch.
The weather is perfect, warm enough to allow for the hope for a beautiful day and yet still cool enough to remind you that the sun has yet to reach its peak in the sky.
The sound of your footsteps against the tiles are barely noticeable in the soft breeze, as you waddle over to the edge of the pool.
Pulling your towel open and draping it across the floor, you free yourself from the confines of your linen shorts and shirt.
You adjust the bra of your swimsuit over your chest, slippers falling off your feet and landing next to your towel on the floor.
The water is chilly against your skin, goosebumps poking their heads out before your body adjusts to the temperature.
It takes a few steps before you’re fully submerged in the water, hair fanning out across the surface.
It’s quiet beneath the surface, more so than above it.
Your arms move into a familiar position, legs kicking softly in the water, swimming towards the edge of the pool.
When your fingers graze the glass separating the body of water from the edge of the cliff, your head resurfaces, droplets running down your lashes onto your lips and chin.
Your palms slide across your face, wiping the what water remains from your eyes and sliding into your hairline.
Before you, the beautiful mountains of Damian’s home stretch across the horizon, the tips still covered in snow, even in early June.
Your arms lay over the glass, chin resting on your damp skin as you try to imagine growing up here.
You know, from late night admissions and the soft murmurs of his past in early mornings that Damian’s life was full of scar-worthy training and heavy expectations.
The irony of the comparison between the heavenly views and the suffering he went through in this very home is not lost on you.
You imagine the sound of a much younger Damian’s feet, fat and slippery, slapping against these very same tiles, his mother’s soft laughter following him as his body meets the water. He told you once that this was his best memory, when he was too young to face his grandfather’s brutal expectations, when his full cheeks were a sign of health rather than lack of training.
Your heart breaks as you imagine the boy who once looked at these views and saw more than just beauty and tranquility, the boy whose childhood memories are haunted by the desperate need for approval his grandfather rarely gave.
You’re lost in thought so you don’t notice Damian’s quiet footsteps over the tiles, nor do you notice as he sheds his outer layers, stripping himself down to his shorts before sliding quietly into the water, as if being welcomed by his domain.
His hands are soft as they wrap around your waist but you cannot help flinching at the unexpected disturbance.
“Did I scare you?” His voice is deep and quiet, barely above a whisper, against your ear.
“Only a little.” You chuckle, turning your head back towards him to place a soft kiss against his cheek.
“I’m sorry, Beloved.” His lips shape around the words against your skin and you cannot help but think back to the boy who could barely bring himself to admit he was wrong, let alone apologise, all those years ago.
“You were gone when I woke up.”
“League business.” His head turns towards your neck, lips ghosting over the muscles of your throat.
“Anything serious?” You hum out, lost to the softness of his mouth.
“Nothing you need to worry about.” His nose nudges your jaw. “What were you thinking about just now?”
You smile softly, a quiet chuckle escaping your lips.
“You, fat and young, running around this house.”
His scoff holds no real heat, as his brows furrow, a look of mock offence taking over his lovely features.
“I was not fat.” His protest is weak, even to his own ears.
“I’ve seen those baby pictures, Dami, you looked like a big roll of dough.”
Now his offence seems genuine, an annoyed scowl taking over his face as you laugh at him.
“I still cannot believe you convinced my mother to show you those albums.”
“I didn’t have to do much convincing, my love, she was happy to offer all the blackmail material!”
Your laugh is delightful, blending with the quiet chirping of the birds.
“Your alliance against me is horror inspiring.” He laughs softly against your damp skin. “But I am glad she has taken a liking to you.” You hum and he carries on after a moment of silence. “Even if that means she keeps stealing your attention from me.”
Your smile is bright as you turn in his arms, your own wrapping around his neck.
“Don’t be jealous, even if it is a good colour on you.” You lean in, lips meeting his softly and he all but melts into your embrace, arms tightening around your back. “My attention is always on you.” You say between kisses, smiling again when his teeth roll your lower lip between them in appreciation.
“I am glad to know that.” He says, guiding your back against the glass as his hands wrap around your thighs, hoisting them against his waist. “I plan to make full use of it.”
Your laugh rings loudly as his head dips back where your neck meets your shoulder.
—
The french toast is soft and sweet, drizzled in honey, the fresh strawberry crunching beneath the pressure of your teeth as you chew happily.
Damian sits next to you, his plate decorated in blueberries and kiwi, the toast growing soggy the longer it remains untouched.
Damian’s nose is buried in a newspaper, the large pages crinkling slightly beneath his soft grip.
“Your breakfast is getting cold, my love.” You say, placing your hand over his, lowering one side of the newspaper.
His questioning gaze meets yours as you raise an eyebrow, eyes flickering down to his untouched plate, the very one he spent fifteen minutes perfecting.
Damian’s sigh is soft as he folds the magazine and places it on the table, his now free hand reaching for the tea set next to his bowl of yogurt.
“It’s cold.” He says, wincing at the now stale taste, placing the teacup back on the plate as you chuckle under your breath.
“I want to go into town today.” You say after a moment of silence.
Damian raises an eyebrow in your direction, mouth chewing softly on the bread.
“There’s a new book shop and I want to buy some new vinyls too.” He hums, nodding. “You can come with, if you’re free.”
Damian sighs softly, waiting until he’s swallowed, washing the toast down with a sip of your orange juice, before nodding again.
“Sure, Habibti. I can come.” Your smile is radiant, reaching for the jug to fill your cup again. “Do you also want to go into the market?”
You hum in approval.
“The apricots were delicious last time. I was thinking of making the jam again. I can bake the cake too if we pick up some flour on the way back.”
“Sounds like a plan.” His grin is soft as he leans towards you, placing his sticky lips against your cheek.
“Your lips are covered in honey.” You tease, pinching his cheek.
“You are imagining things.” He claims, grabbing your orange juice again.
“You know you can pour your own, yes?”
“Yours always tastes sweeter.” You chuckle, taking your cup out of his hold and placing it by your plate again.
The silence that follows is comfortable.
The sun shines into the room through the open doors, the curtains swaying softly in the breeze.
Moments like these are rare, with how hectic both of your lives are.
The bustling cities and unending expectations seem so far away now, tucked away from the world in your husband’s childhood home.
You smile to yourself, watching as Damian’s fork stabs lightly through the kiwi, cringing when the sour taste erupts in his mouth.
“I got a new yoga instructor.” You say, reaching for your juice.
“What was wrong with the last one?”
“I don’t know, but your mother suggested I get a new one.”
He sighs, fighting a smile.
“You know, you don’t have to take every advice she gives you, Beloved.”
“I know.” You protest weakly, watching his arm flex as he reaches for his chai. “Besides, apparently she’s going to open me all the way up, so I can finally get pregnant.”
Damian all but chokes on his drink, doubling over himself as he coughs up the liquid that is no doubt sliding down his wind pipe.
“What?” He rasps out, in between coughs.
“Yeah, your mother’s really hell-bent on me getting pregnant soon.” You say sweetly, running soothing circles over his back.
You try your best not to burst out laughing when he turns his bewildered expression back to you.
“We are not even twenty-six, yet. What does she want?” His tone is so alarmed you can’t help the giggle that escapes you.
“Grandchildren.” You laugh at his horrified expression again. “She’s not the only one.” He looks at you, confused. “Bruce brought it up the last time we were over for dinner.”
“For God’s sake.” He mutters, rolling his eyes.
“I’m not getting any younger, I’d like to bounce a grandchild or two on my knee.” You deepen your voice, trying to sound like your father-in-law.
Damian flushes a scarlet so deep it’s visible even under his heavy tan.
“He’s not even that old.” He grumbles and you can see him try to physically slap his blush away, hand falling softly on the back of his neck.
“He seems to disagree.” You chuckle, popping another strawberry in your mouth, trying to ignore Damian’s stare.
He opens his mouth, looking for something to say, but you beat him to it.
“Not yet, Dami.” Your eyes slide over to his face, meeting his gaze. “But soon.”
You try not to laugh as he fights the smile stretching across his full lips, lips that are on you before you can even register that he’s moved from his seat.
“Soon, then.” His voice is so so soft, you try not to melt under his loving gaze, emerald eyes tracing the soft curve of your cheek.
—
The summer sun is hot, even in your thin clothing, but the heaviness of Damian’s hand in yours is comforting, as he carries the books and records you kept handing to him until they almost dropped from his grip, in his other hand.
The umbrellas over the vendor stands do little to ease the scorching sun, but you don’t complain.
When you spot the familiar stall, you pull Damian with you as you make a beeline for it.
The man stood over the fruit with an iced bottle of water you’d kill for, smiles as he recognises your faces.
Your hand slips from Damian’s as you grab the plastic bag hanging from the nail hammered on one of the fruit boxes.
The apricots are ripe under your touch, their gooey softness mashing against one another as they fall into the pink plastic bag.
You hear Damian converse with the vendor as you move from apricots to strawberries to kiwis to big pink tomatoes that always remind you of home.
Moving from one end of the stall to the other, you spot a box of watermelons sitting a little lower than the rest of the fruit.
The skin of it is smooth under your palm as you gently hit the watermelon, checking for the sound.
Damian appears behind your back, repeating your motion until the two of you find one you both like.
Damian grabs another plastic bag, this one bigger than all the rest, waiting for the vendor to weigh your watermelon.
You hand the older man a canary melon to weigh when he slips the watermelon into the awaiting bag.
Before you know it, the two of you are making your way back to the car, while you munch on an unpeeled cucumber to help cool you down.
Your head is hot under your cap when you finally take it off.
Your hand reaches for the AC when Damian starts the engine and the cool air is a welcome relief from the stifling heat outside.
“Did we get everything we needed, Beloved?” Damian looks over at your nodding head before turning the gear and starting to drive.
“It gets so hot here.” You say, slipping your sunglasses off your face.
“Still not used to it after all these years?” He teases, hand resting on your thigh.
“I’m not sure I could ever get used to this heat.” Your hand rests atop his, fingers drawing soft circles on his scarred knuckles.
“We should go to the beach tomorrow.” Damian says, turning at the roundabout.
You smile, imagining the sound of the waves splashing against the sand and the smell of the salt in the air.
“Sounds like a plan.” Your voice is almost a whisper, as your free hand reaches for the radio, the familiar tunes filling the car.
-
The drive up to the house is quiet, safe for the music at a low volume.
Damian looks over at your figure and smiles when he sees you dozing off, head resting against the window.
His hand is still on your thigh and your hand is still on his, where you were playing with his fingers before falling asleep.
When he drives past the gates and shifts the car into Park, Damian’s thumb traces over the soft skin of your thigh before slipping carefully from under your grip.
Damian carries the produce, along with your books and vinyls, into the house, which is quiet besides the soft breeze created by the open windows and the front door.
He slips back into his seat, moving your sleeping head away from the window, resting it against the headrest, unclicking your seatbelt.
When he reaches for you from the now open door of your side, your head falls against his chest, eyes blinking open lazily as he picks you up and closes the car door behind him with the kick of his foot.
“Thanks.” You mumble into his chest and you can feel the low chuckle against your cheek from deep within him.
You settle into him, expecting a long walk up to your room when he places you down softly against the sofa.
Your eyes flutter open and you see Damian reaching for the new vinyls, picking the cover he most fondly remembers from his childhood and placing it under the needle of the turntable.
A soft voice fills the sunroom, the flowers above you saving you from the hot light of the sun.
When you turn your attention back to him, Damian is walking out of the room, only to walk back in soon after with two plates a bowl of washed fruit.
The china is placed on the low wood table and Damian slips under your legs, placing them on his lap before he starts peeling the peaches and the apples that glisten red under the sunlight.
You watch him with half-lidded eyes, waiting for him as he cuts the fruit into the thin slices that remind you of your mother’s sweet kiss against your cheek in the summer.
When he’s done, he taps your leg, motioning you to sit up.
You sink into his side when you do and he hands you a plate of fruit.
“Eat the apple first.” He commands softly, placing a kiss against your hairline.
The apple crunches under your teeth and decide that you’d rather eat the peaches.
The sticky juice of it runs down your chin and Damian wipes it away with his thumb, bringing it to his lips to lick away the moisture.
“It’s sweet.” He comments and you nod, sinking into him further.
He chuckles quietly and takes the plate from your hand, wrapping his arm around your shoulders as he feeds you a slice.
And all you can do is look up at him with stars in your eyes and imagine this house, filled with so many happy memories that have overridden the bad ones, full of childish laughter and wonder.
And you think his parents may be right, maybe it is time to bring a new addition to the family.
AHHHH I WANNA SPEND THE REST OF MY LIFE WITH HIM FEEDING ME PEELED PEACHES 💔💔💔
Hiiiii! I was wondering if you could do a Batboys x female Reader where they notice everything about their girlfriend, like them changing their shampoo or getting a haircut
Something’s… Off
Includes: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Conner Kent, Tim Drake, and Damian Wayne
Summary: With your past partners, small changes have never been a problem. You would get a haircut, or change your preferred scent, or change your food schedule and even when you begged them to notice they would ignore it. That was before you decided to date one of the most observant people on the planet.
A/N: Nothing quiet like a 1:30am post. ANYWAY, Anon! Sorry about the wait, I like to ruminate on some requests (so they sit and I stare at them for like.. eons) and wait for the vibe to strike. But, this is one of my favorite genres of headcanons so I knew it was coming. Thank you so much.
TRIGGER WARNING FOR CLARK: Discussion of dieting. No details are mentioned regarding the reader's weight or the type of diet and Clark is… grumpy about it. Read carefully and skip if you need to (You look amazing today btw).
Bruce Wayne:
This man noticed you changed your preferred fragrance the moment you walked out of the bathroom.
And to be totally honest with you, he hates it.
The new bottle could smell like the nectar of the gods themselves, and he wouldn’t like it at the beginning.
Any changes in your relationship, Bruce isn’t overly fond of in the beginning.
Not that he would tell you that.
He would prefer to sit in his own brooding nature than confess something so frivolous.
But, he’s gonna try and make you stop using it in his own way.
His go-to is just buying you the old one.
“Bruce? Did you get me a new perfume?”
His head pops into the bathroom before going on some random tangent about a sale and he saw you were getting low.
You pick up on this pretty quick, and address it (usually before he can piece together a coherent excuse.)
“Dearest?”
He stops his excuse and moves to make direct eye contact as you hold the bottle ajar with a tilt in your head.
“You don’t like the new one do you?”
He shakes his head fervently, “No of course not, its very… expensive-”
“Bruce”
He sighs before glaring at the new bottle like it caused the issue, “It… doesn’t smell like you. I like how you smell. This one is… rich. It smells like everyone at a gala. I just want you.”
You nod your head, “Okay. I can switch back if you want? I just wanted to try and fit in a bit more with your ritzy friends.”
You walk over and sling your hands around his neck, “To be honest, I didn’t like it that much either.”
This sets things in motion.
Bruce (despite his public persona) loves to publicly buy you things.
So a compromise is struck and you are wowed by Bruce’s dedication to thoroughness and research in regards to every part of his life.
Including… this damn perfume hunt.
You figured you would hit one store.
OH NO.
You go to every perfume place in Gotham and then he goes online.
Money isn’t an issue and Bruce wants to find the best.
So he goes… and goes… and goes
Alfred is involved, rooms are filled, and Christmas gifts are handled till the 2050s.
So you start fancy, then average, then niche.
It takes over a year for Bruce to find one that smells like.. You
BUT you found it.
And to be honest? Bruce killed it.
Clark Kent:
Clark knows something different…
But Lord help him… he can’t place it.
You look the same, smell the same, but something.. Off
You don’t notice his confusion or frustration for a while.
Until you realize he keeps squinting at you.
From casual conversations to catching his stare from across the room.
Eventually it pisses you off enough that at dinner you throw a bread roll at him.
“Clark quit it!”
Clark shakes his head like he is trying to knock it out of his brain, “Sorry, honey.”
“What is up with you? It’s like you're trying to figure out an abstract painting.” you ponder stealing the roll back.
“Did you do something different?” Clark asks, leaning forward, obviously fighting the urge to stare.
You laugh, “I need you to be more specific,”
“I don’t know. Something is different.” He gestures over to your whole body.
You look down at yourself, “Um… Nothing overly much. I think I’m more tan, I got a new lunch box at work, and OH I started a new diet?”
Clark's expression changes immediately.
“Diet?”
You nod, “Ya! It’s been going pretty well so far. I’ve been-”
Clark slumps a bit.
You pause, “Hey? What happened?”
Clark straightens back up at your question, “It’s not that… ugh. I don’t want this to come out wrong.”
You both wait as Clark collects his thoughts.
“I love you.” He blurts.
Your eyes widen, “I.. love you too?”
“No..” He shakes his head, “I love you. I don’t want anyone else. Is there a reason you are doing this? A health concern, self-improvement, or a test in human resilience? Because, I love you and I don’t want you to change for a reason that would make you feel worse in the long run.”
You grab his hand from across the table, “Clark, that’s very sweet. But, I’m fully grown. I promise I’m being careful.”
He nods, “Thank you, sorry I can’t turn it off sometimes. Tell me all about it!”
Dick Grayson:
Dick would be the one to feed into this skill.
Everything new he notices… gets a compliment.
Loves the new nail polish
That perfume? Gorgeous.
Your moms new dress? Drop dead.
You love how much he notices everything.
Until you get that haircut.
The haircut to end all haircuts.
You HATE it.
It's too long and too short somehow and it kinda has bangs?
It’s like the hair stylist couldn’t make a decision.
Your coworkers claim it barely noticeable (which does not help)
Your best friend says your being dramatic
You have convinced yourself this is the end of your year.
You've relegated your next 3 months to beanies or just shaving it all off… until
You walk into your boyfriends apartment ready to FUCKING RANT.
And this man, god help him, can’t stop staring at you.
You take his silence as confirmation that its that fucking bad.
But you have to give him a five minute reboot.
He loves it.
Loves it
Which would be more reassuring if he could form a complete sentence other than “your hot”
You're sitting on the couch contemplating the shears in Dick’s bathroom before Dick tilts your head up and kisses you.
It's hard and surprisingly forceful.
He is about to tell you just how much he loves it… for quite a while.
Apparently your tragic haircut has become the greatest thing that's happened to him all week.
Jason Todd:
Despite his avoidant tendencies, Jason is well aware of your schedule and your favorite things.
This includes your favorite necklace.
The one he made for you on your first date.
It was supposed to be a joke.
An old bolt had fallen off his bike.
Poor thing was entirely stripped through and was likely shot through by one of deadshots microscopic bullets.
He placed it in your hand saying, “He’s gotta bolt, but he's expecting that back next time.”
Jason spent the entire time cussing himself out for the pun. Blaming spending too much time with Dick and his “bullshit jokes”
So imagine his surprise when almost a month after you met him for a random coffee break with that damn red bolt on a chain around your neck.
After his retelling of the event you wear it frequently, mostly to piss him off, but also because it's become one of your favorite memories.
So when you stop wearing it, Jason notices.
You come up with various excuses, “Forgot it today”, “had to take it off at the gym” etc.
Until he walks in on your anniversary and finds you under your bed searching like a mad man.
“Doll?”
Your head shoots up.
BUMP
“FUCK” You slide out from under the bed rubbing the back of your head.
You lock eyes with him as he holds your gift and a bundle of flowers, “Jay! You’re early.”
He nods, “Lookin for something under there?”
You blink a few times before your head hangs in shame, “I lost the bolt. I took it of a few weeks ago to shower and poof.”
You run a hand through your hair, “I-I kept hoping it would just show back up if I looked hard enough but…”
You huff, “God. I’m sorry Jay.”
He slides down next to you and delicately hands you the box, “Can you open that for me?”
“Jay-”
He shakes his head, “Just open it… please?”
You sigh before popping off the small ribbon.
Inside stands your old necklace and something new.
“I know this guy who can turn old bullets into studs, but I wanted to make sure they matched. So, I borrowed it”
Inside the small box stands two earrings used bullets morphed into a flower.
You look up at him.
Something in your eyes softens Jay almost immediately.
Ever the adverse to overly happy moments, Jay changes topics, “Do you know how long I had to wait to snipe that thing? You guard it more than the MET-”
You don’t let him finish quickly putting on the bolt and the matching studs and pulling him in for a hug.
“Thank you Jason.”
He pauses before embracing you, “Anytime, doll.”
A/N: For those curious, these are the studs I had in mind (I have no clue about this company btw, as always do research before you buy. Give money to who you support): https://bulletbloom.com/products/380-cal-small-bullet-plume-earrings?variant=30975828361294
Tim Drake:
Tim loves a good routine.
The only thing he loves more than his own is yours.
The perfectly tempered coffee he places on your desk each morning.
The dramatic thump of your keys when you get home at 6:15-6:30pm
And his favorite is your designated Tim cuddling time after dinner but before patrol.
And today?
He is leaning on that schedule of yours hard.
Banking on the dinner conversation and those minutes on the couch.
Today was utter shit.
So he sits on the couch and waits.
Happily thinking about holding you in his arms and ignoring the drama at WE and whatever the Riddler is up to tonight.
Until you sit in the armchair…
On the other side of the living room.
You sit with your hands in your lap smiling that joyful smile of yours and ask, “What do you want to watch tonight?”
“No”
You reel back a bit, “No?”
He taps the couch cushion, “That isn’t your spot.”
A laugh bubbles up your throat, “You were just complaining about someone at work touching you. I figured you wanted space?”
He shakes his head before standing up and lightly dragging you over to the couch, “That, angel, was a 60 year old man I had never met before rubbing my shoulders. You are my favorite person on the plant. Not the same thing.”
You continue your laugh before cuddling into his chest, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize how sacred cuddle time was to you.”
He shrugs, “schedules are there for a reason.”
Conner Kent (A/N: Reader as a nose piercing)
You change your shampoo.
It’s not even worth a passing thought.
Just a different shampoo because the store was out of your usual brand.
You don't even mention it.
There isn't really anything to mention.
Then Conner walks into the kitchen the next morning.
And immediately points at you.
"You're different."
You freeze.
"What?"
"Different."
"...How?"
Conner squints.
You watch him mentally sort through possibilities.
Then his eyes widen.
"Oh! Your shampoo."
Silence.
You stare.
He stares.
"What about my shampoo?"
"It smells different."
You laugh.
"Conner, no."
"Conner, yes."
He wanders over and immediately buries his face in your hair.
"Definitely different."
You shove him away.
"Stop sniffing me!"
"I'm investigating!"
"You're being weird!"
"I'm being thorough."
His hands settle on your waist as he leans in again.
"It's coconut." He says
"Coconut and shea butter." He says confirming
You, with little hope in his assessment, check the bottle sitting on the counter.
Coconut and shea butter.
"How did you know that?"
Conner shrugs, "I can hear your heartbeat from three blocks away. Shampoo isn't exactly challenging."
You stare at him.
Then he tilts his head.
"Wait."
"Oh no."
"You changed your conditioner too."
"CONNER."
Then he pauses.
“There’s something else too."
"Oh come on."
His eyes narrow again hiding the growing smirk.
"That's not your usual nose ring either."
You huff and raise your hands in exasperation.
"There it is."
Damian Al-Ghul-Wayne(aged up):
Damian is not vocal about noticing changes.
When directly asked, he'll simply nod or shake his head.
"Did you notice I got my hair cut?"
A glance.
"Yes."
That's it.
After a while, you stop asking.
Not because he doesn't notice, he clearly does, but because getting information out of him feels like interrogating a government agent.
So when you decide to try a new perfume, you don't bother mentioning it.
You spray it on before meeting Damian for lunch and think nothing of it.
Halfway through the afternoon, while the two of you are walking across campus, a guy passing by smiles.
"Hey, your perfume smells really nice."
You blink.
"Oh. Thank you."
The compliment catches you off guard enough that you can't help smiling.
Unfortunately, Damian is standing right there.
The boy leaves.
Damian stares after him.
"...What?"
"Nothing."
You make it about fifteen feet before he starts.
"For the record. The jasmine suits you better than the vanilla one."
You nearly trip.
"What?"
"The vanilla scent lingered longer."
He says it casually.
"As did the citrus one before that."
You stare.
"The one from February was far too sweet."
"February?"
Damian looks confused.
"As in four months ago."
"You remember my perfume from four months ago?"
"Of course."
You stop walking entirely.
Damian sighs.
"The new haircut also frames your face better."
"..."
"The silver earrings are superior to the gold pair."
"..."
"And the nail polish you removed yesterday matched most of your wardrobe."
You can only blink at him.
Because suddenly every tiny change you've made over the past several months is being cataloged and evaluated.
"You noticed all of that?"
Damian's expression softens just slightly.
"And for future reference, beloved, I noticed all of those things the day they happened. "
─────── 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 ⧽ a quick list of a few thoughts i've had recently.
⧽ 𝑨𝑳𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹 who loves to play with your hair.
it would be at the most random of times, as well. and perhaps this would be one of the very few public displays of affection he allowed himself. you could simply be lounging in the main lobby of the hotel, eventually finding his fingers carding through your hair. long or short, he didn't discriminate. it would often be absentminded, too. if you happened to be in the middle of a conversation with him, he'd tuck a few stray strands behind your ear or simply move your bangs out of your face.
⧽ 𝑨𝑳𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹 who's love language is acts of service.
this goes for giving as well as receiving. while he tends to prefer to be on the giving end, he will make exceptions sometimes. he truly adores the little things you do. whether it be giving him a small dandelion you found out on a walk that day, or trying your hand at making one of his, or his mother's, recipes. in a sense, it warmed his heart — as cold and dead as it was.
⧽ 𝑨𝑳𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹 who occasionally indulged in playing the piano for you.
he wasn't much of a writer, but there have been a few pieces he composed specifically for you. in fact, one was made just after he began courting you. and actually, he allowed you to sit on the bench and try your hand at playing it with him. one of his preferred bonding methods, if you ask me. i think he finds it tastefully poetic; guiding his lover's hands across the different keys.
⧽ 𝑨𝑳𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹 who found joy in gossiping with you — especially about susan.
it never failed, every time he returned from a brief trip to cannibal town to visit ms. rosie, he had a new story about susan. a grumpy old woman, whom he once described as an "ornery old bitch". he'd ramble on about it while you prepared him his favored tea, using his ever so dramatic hand gestures. it always put a smile on your face, finding each new tale rather humorous.
⧽ 𝑨𝑳𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹 who notices the little things.
if there is one thing about alastor, he over-analyzes everything and everyone. and while he may not exactly understand everything he observes, he adapts shockingly quickly. for example, you have 'obsessive compulsive disorder'. not the obsessive need to organize and clean kind of ocd — but the extremely paranoid kind. you truly are a skittish creature, much like the animal you are based off of; a doe. while he doesn't fully understand that aspect of you, he's adapted to it surprisingly well. he knows what little things trigger you and make you tic, and he knows how to navigate the situation and soothe you. if you have ptsd, he'll learn what sets you off and keep it in the back of his mind and strive to keep whatever it may be, away from you.
— side note, you can change the ocd thing to whatever you may have. i used ocd and anxiety because that is what i personally have.
⧽ 𝑨𝑳𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹 who, deep down, is quite the romantic.
alastor is one of those people who finds old-fashioned courting far superior to modern-day dating. he stands firm in his belief that flowers, gentlemanly behavior, and hand-written letters are the proper way to go about it. aside from that, he is most definitely the type to associate a song with you. whether it be one he's recently heard on the radio, or one he's heard a while back, you may find him humming it to himself while performing mundane tasks, or playing it on the piano. at some point, he'll casually mention that the song reminds him of you or makes him think of you.
⧽ 𝑨𝑳𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹 who is astonished that you find comfort and safety in him.
now, we all understand that alastor is probably the last person anyone would find comfort or safety in, given his reputation and nature. which is why it surprised even him when you admitted to finding not just one, but both of those things in him. the simple fact that he was the one you sought out when frightened or wounded or upset, astonished him. but the selfish part of him yearned to be depended on — even just the slightest bit. and while, coming from anyone else, it would have given him some sort of twisted, sadistic power-trip, he found that he didn't feel it when it was coming from you. rather, he felt needed in the sense that someone truly cared for him. and he felt that he cared for you.
⧽ 𝑨𝑳𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹 who has helped you decorate your very own room of the hotel.
he knew your specific tastes and the things you'd like to have in your room. he requested charlie add a balcony to your suite, much like he had for his own. he painted your walls a light, muted shade of pink — one wall being an accent wall, having the same shade of pink, along with some white stripes, creating a pinstriped pattern. the floors were a beautiful oak wood, polished to perfection. the curtains for your large, floor-to-ceiling windows were an ivory lace, much like your bed canopy. the bed was queen-sized, covered in soft blankets and plush pillows. there in the center sat your beloved little deer plushie. on your nightstand was a vase holding the most beautiful bouquet of pink and white flowers. this was a little personal project he took on, wanting to surprise you — he adored seeing your teary-eyed yet awestruck expression.
⧽ 𝑨𝑳𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹 who absolutely knew about your obsession with his hands. | nsfw
you thought you had been incredibly discreet about your fascination with alastor's hands — though apparently you hadn't hid it as well as you initially thought. somehow, he caught on, and fully intended to use it to his full advantage. the way in which he'd ever so delicately trace along the slope of your neck with his sharp claws, trailing them down your arm, made you shudder. perhaps if he was feeling a tad extra frisky, he'd glide his fingers along the outer part of your thigh, stopping just short of your hip. not only that, but on the very rare occasion that he found himself "in the mood", he'd discreetly place a hand on your knee, his fingers slowly skittering up along your inner thigh. when your breath caught in your throat, he'd allow his hand farther up — to the apex of your thighs. sometimes he'd simply cup your through your undergarments, and do nothing more. other times, he'd trace along your dampening slit through the flimsy fabric. either way, you'd find yourself stuffed to the brim with his long, slim, yet incredibly dexterous fingers by the end of the night.
⧽ 𝑨𝑳𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹 who is most definitely the best sleep aid.
his static frequencies automatically tone down to accommodate you at night. especially if you're struggling with sleep that night. sometimes he'll even hum along to, or sing lullabies to soothe you. all the while, he'll stroke your cheek and lay your head in his lap. the songs were often old french lullabies his maman used to sing to him when he was a boy — back in the mortal world.
i do believe that when Alastor becomes comfortable and open with you, especially when he knows that his own boundaries towards romance and touch will be respected, he likes to give you kisses. yes, even if others are present! (usually others in the hotel but hey, what’s a random gonna do or say at the risk of the Radio Demon putting their sorry soul on his broadcast?)
think of big, over the top cheek kisses. with the exaggerated “mwah!” and all while his microphone plays lovey-dovey sound effects. these are his favorite, as he gets to feel the slight give of your warm cheek under his lips and the way you squirm. his grin will widen if your hand comes up to your own face to cup the spot, doubly so if you’re visibly flustered from his attention. meanie.
of course Alastor doesn’t go much further in public than that. he does deeply respect your own boundaries and values the private moments you two share to a reverent degree, though he may present himself nonchalant to it all. softer kisses to your cheeks, forehead, and hands are the norm behind closed doors. his lips and hands move much slower like this, and you’re handled so gently, like you’re precious.
and that’s because you are! you must understand that for Alastor—who on a decent day will still feel touch aversion for most other demons—him taking the time to kiss you, just to kiss you, is a huge show of how much you mean to him. even on days when his body will refuse touch outright, his shadow will be the one to give you a kiss in his place, and you can’t bet you’re life’s savings that he will have that same grin of delight on his face all the same as you fluster under his attention.
Bucky Learns That He Likes Being a Pillow Princess
TW sexual content (no anatomical detail as per usual), dom/sub undertones, riding, power play, soft dom!reader (she/her).
WC: 1.4k (my drabble size lmao. I know they should be like 500 words but unfortunately I am a yapper.)
Look.
Bucky Barnes doesn’t start out as a pillow princess.
He starts out as the exact opposite, actually. He starts out insisting, very politely, very stubbornly, very Bucky, that he likes being on top.
Not in a controlling way. Not in a “you don’t get a say” way. Never that. Bucky is so careful with you it almost hurts sometimes. But still.
He likes being on top.
Or at least, he thinks he does.
Because in his head, behind all the therapy and progress and the twenty-first century trying to teach him how to be human again, there’s still this stubborn little 1940s voice telling him a man takes care of his girl.
A man does the work.
A man holds himself over you, keeps his weight off your body, kisses your forehead, tells you, “I got you, sweetheart,” and makes damn sure you feel good before he even thinks about himself.
And honestly, you're not really complaining.
Because Bucky on top of you is a religious experience. Bucky with his hair falling around his face, metal hand braced beside your head, flesh hand curled around your waist, jaw clenched like he’s barely surviving the pleasure is a wonderful thing, 10/10 would recommend finding your own super soldier to do this with.
He loves seeing you under him. He loves when your head tips back, loves when your hands clutch at his shoulders. Loves when your eyes go glassy and unfocused because he’s taking care of you exactly the way he promised he would.
It’s sweet and hot and very gentlemanly in that old-fashioned, “I’ll take care of you, sweetheart, that’s my job” sort of way.
And you love him for it.
But, unfortunately for Bucky and his entire masculine self-concept, you also like being an active participant in bed.
You like touching, teasing, taking. You like making him react. You like not just being adored, but getting to adore him back.
So one night, after he has once again kissed you breathless and settled himself between your thighs, you put a hand on his chest.
He stops immediately.
His eyes snap up to yours, alert and worried. “You okay?”
You almost laugh because he is so serious about your sex life. Still, you push gently at his chest and say, “Lie down.”
Bucky blinks. “What?”
“Lie down,” you repeat, smiling. “Let me take care of you.”
And ohm the look on his face.
It’s not reluctance, exactly. It’s confusion in some very outdated idea of what he is supposed to be. “Sweetheart,” he says, “you don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to.” You kiss him once, “I want to.”
That does something to him.
And because Bucky trusts you, he lies back.
And then you climb over him.
And James Buchanan Barnes, six-foot-something super soldier, man with a vibranium arm and a kill count he refuses to talk about, looks up at you like he has just discovered God is real and she’s sitting on his lap.
The first time you ride him, he loses his mind.
There is no dignified way to say it.
His hands go to your hips first. Then his gaze drops, and his eyes nearly roll back because the view is good.
You know the view is good.
You can feel the way he reacts to it, see his throat work when you start moving. Your hands on his chest. Your body over his. The roll of your hips. The way you smile when you realize he’s already fighting for his life.
“Jesus,” he breathes.
And that is when the power starts going to your head.
Because Bucky Barnes under you? Bucky Barnes breathless beneath you? Bucky Barnes, who can flip cars and tear through reinforced doors and take down guys twice your size without breaking a sweat, looking up at you with parted lips and blown-wide pupils because you have him pinned to the bed with nothing but your thighs and your audacity?
It makes you drunk with lust. Drunk with power. Drunk on the knowledge that you can tame him. That this beautiful nightmare of a man is lying beneath you, moaning your name.
Of course, at first, he tries to help.
Because he’s Bucky and therefore doesn’t know how to simply receive.
You start riding him properly, slow at first, finding the rhythm, enjoying the way his hands flex against your skin, and then his hips snap up hard.
You laugh, breathless and a little wrecked, and press your hands harder to his chest.
“No.”
Bucky freezes. “No?”
“No,” you say, leaning down until your lips brushes his. “Stop trying to do my job.”
His looks confused, flustered, and turned on beyond belief. “I was just—”
“I know what you were doing.” You kiss the corner of his mouth. “You were trying to take over.”
He swallows.
You sit back up, roll your hips deliberately, and watch his head press back into the pillow. “Let me ride you, Barnes.”
That shuts him up for about three seconds.
Then he makes a growl so deep and broken you feel it everywhere.
And that is how it begins: The glorious corruption of all his old-fashioned little ideas about what a man is supposed to do in bed.
Because once he realizes he is allowed to just lie there and let you want him, let you use him, let you take pleasure from his body while he gets to watch you come undone above him, he becomes addicted to it.
At first, he is almost shy about it.
He still offers to get on top. Still murmurs, “C’mere, sweetheart, let me take care of you,” because that is his default setting. That’s muscle memory. But then you push him back again.
And again.
And again.
And every time, he gives in a little faster.
Until eventually, it takes almost nothing.
All it takes is a hand on his chest and a “Lie back for me, baby.”
And Bucky’s gone.
He’s on his back, pillows messy behind his head, hair spread out, lips parted, eyes dark and dazed and fixed on you.
He is still strong, obviously. You never forget that. You know he could flip you over in a second.
But he doesn’t, because he doesn’t want to.
You love it so much it makes you a little insane.
You love watching the terrifying Winter Soldier become your sweet, desperate, ruined man in bed. You love the way his hands hover when you tell him not to touch yet. You love the way he groans when you finally guide them to your waist. You love that he blushes sometimes.
Actually blushes.
This man has survived wars and assassins and brainwashing and aliens, but you tell him he looks pretty like this and he turns pink to the tips of his ears.
“Don’t say that,” he mutters, even though his hands tighten on you.
“Why not?”
His jaw works. “Because.”
“Because you like it?”
He glares at you.
It is not intimidating at all, considering he’s underneath you, panting and letting you set the pace.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” he says.
You grin. “Yes.”
You enjoy it too much. You enjoy him too much.
It’s not really just about sex, either.
It’s about trust.
It’s Bucky letting himself be wanted without earning it through service. It’s him learning that taking care of you doesn’t always mean doing all the work.
And fuck, does he learn.
He learns a little too well, maybe.
Because now he has preferences.
Now he has the audacity to look at you from the bed with those big, tragic blue eyes and his hair already messy against the pillow. He reaches for you lazily and says, “You coming here or not?”
He knows what it does to you when he lets the metal arm rest above his head, when his shirt rides up, when he looks at you like he’s already waiting to be ruined.
He’s still a gentleman about it.
He says please.
He says thank you against your mouth afterward, which should not be as hot as it is.
He still checks on you, pulls you close and rubs your back and kisses your shoulder and asks if you need water.
Sometimes, sure, he gets on top when you ask. Sometimes you want him over you, want that old Bucky sweetness, the low murmur of his voice in your ear telling you he’s got you. And he gives it to you instantly.
But even then, there is a difference now.
Because that’s not his default setting anymore.
His default is now being told to lie down, because he likes being ridden until he forgets how to speak.
Bucky Barnes may have started out convinced he needed to be on top because that was what a man was supposed to do.
But now, more often than not, he is your pillow princess.
And honestly, he has never looked better.
—
Notes : Reminder! Short stories don’t have taglists <3
Summary: Din rents a cottage to give you both and the kid a much needed break, but whilst there, he realises that maybe the no strings attached arrangement you have isn't working for him anymore.
Warnings: 18+. Fwb to lovers. Unprotected piv. Oral sex (fem recieving). Din with a raging domesticity kink.
Word Count: 3.4K
It hits him in a way he doesn't expect.
They're taking a break from hunting– laying low in a quaint little cottage at the edge of a secluded lake that Din told you he'd rented from an old contact.
He'd wanted to do something nice for you, wanted to make up for the exhaustion that hooked into your bones like a dead weight because he'd insisted on ‘one more job' just a few times too many.
You had lit up at the surprise.
Your usual fierce expression melting into something akin to pure joy whilst he’d nervously waited for you to drink it all in.
And then his cheeks had ached with the force of his grin behind the helmet, relief bursting bright in his stomach whilst he leaned against the Crest and watched you gush to the kid over the acres of stunning meadow.
The flowers that bloomed in an explosion of colours and the towering trees with branches that reached all the way down to sway just above the ground as the breeze swept through.
His gaze followed you, riveted, as you ran. As Grogu shrieked with delight in your arms when you reached the shoreline of the lake and kicked your boots and socks off before setting him down beside you.
Din heard the sound of the kid splashing, your resulting laughter that drifted through the air to curl around his heart.
There was something almost unbearably warm unfurling beneath his ribs, swelling whilst he watched you tip your face up to the midday sun. Drenched in golden light as the blue of the lake shimmered around you.
It’s a little ridiculous. He feels ridiculous. Your his friend, his partner, and okay maybe they were fucking but that’s all it had ever been.
They didn’t do sweet or gentle.
They didn’t do emotions.
It was a release when the adrenaline still tore through their blood after a fight, an offering of themselves to the other so they could take out their rage when a job didn’t go their way.
Din doesn't know how to deal with those types of feelings. He doesn't even know how you would deal with those feelings. It was the whole fucking reason they'd started their arrangement in the first place. No strings attached, keep things simple.
And yet this thing with you has never been simple to begin with.
They're tangled hopelessly together, bound in blood and violence– sex and that startling burst of life when you're dragged back from the brink of death. All the ways that another person can be branded upon your very soul.
Maker, how had he only just realised now.
As you called out to him from somewhere with in the aged stone walls of the cottage, voice streaked through with awe, snapping him out of the screaming mess of his thoughts.
‘Mando are you coming in? You have to come see this!’
As he breathed out a ragged sigh before following the sound of your voice.
He wonders how he'd never realised just how fucked he was.
**
You're torturing him. Din's sure of it.
He's only seen you in your armour. The threadbare clothes that you wear beneath it. And he doesn't know what he expected, you obviously had no need for them here when you were on a break, but whatever it was, it wasn't this.
It wasn't the way he was wholly unprepared for what the sight of you in a pretty little sundress would do to him. The way it fits you so perfectly, slipping along your curves and swishing around the smooth, bare skin of your thighs whenever you move.
Din's a stuttering mess at the sight of it, face burning behind the shield of his helmet whilst his gaze greedily rakes over you. It's a struggle to focus on almost anything else and the effort it takes to rein in just how badly he wants to devour you, to bury himself inside you right there, is practically herculean.
And what makes it all worse, all a thousand times more difficult, is that those feelings he's suspicious of having will not go away. They refuse to be shoved back down now he's shone the barest hint of light on them.
They swirl around him. In the depths of his chest and his gut, blooming into something completely unmanageble the longer they're here.
It's the domesticity of it.
The fact that it all just fits, that it seems right, that they feel so much like a family. Something Din had never even realised he had craved something fierce until you had came along and gave him a taste of what he'd been missing.
It's the trips to the market where you get to actually take your time for once flitting from stall to stall, dragging him along with you as you point out vibrant, lavish fabrics. Different foods and spices from all over the galaxy.
The many toys you see for Grogu that Din has to steer you away from after the kid realises if he gives you a certain look and coos, you'll buy him anything.
It's the picnics they have right by the side of the lake and the times they chase the kid through the meadow for hours until he decides he's exhausted and reaches for one of you so he can burrow his little face into your neck and sleep.
You pull him back outside with you after the kid is put to bed for the night. Lie straight on the cool grass, surrounded by the silky petals of pretty flowers, before you thread your fingers through his and lead him down beside you.
They watch the stars and just talk, your head tilted so close to his helmet that as the temperature dips he can see each warm puff of your breath in the air. And the whole time Din's heart pulses, the leather of his gloves creaking as he fists his hands to try and hide the slight tremble.
It feels a lot like intimacy.
Like the rules of their agreement are crumbling around them when a tense silence suddenly falls between you– your eyes flicking from his hands to the pitch dark of his visor. A flash of soft pink as your tongue darts across your lip.
Fuck.
You whisper his name, gentle with want, and his breath hitches. It makes him hard. The simple touch of your hand stroking the cheek of his helmet. Drifting down to stroke over his chest, the softly tensing muscles of his stomach.
A ragged noise spills from his throat and then he's snatching your hand. Yanking you forward until you're draped over him, your thighs straddling his narrow hips. There's this feeling of desperation that bleeds through him. Like if he goes any longer without you surrounding him completely, he'll lose his mind. He'll burn up like a dying star.
He rips his gloves off so he can feel you properly. His fingers digging into the meat of your thighs whilst you slip your hand past his waistband and grasp the thick length of him. When you stroke him his head falls back, knocks off the ground as he hisses and strains to keep himself from thrusting into the soft heat of your palm.
"Fuck," He mutters. "How do you always feel so good."
You shiver at that and then you're shoving his pants down, hovering over him whilst he hastily rucks your dress up to your stomach.
You take him in your hand and push your panties to the side before sliding the head of his cock through your slick folds. It nudges against your clit, snags at your entrance where his hips then jerk– a moan shuddering through your throat as the tip slides into you.
"Mando." You breathe, the sound of it splintered, before sinking fully down.
And suddenly everything goes slow. Warm. Like wading through syrup.
You fall against him and one hand immediately clamps around the curve of your hip, his other gripping a fistful of your hair to keep you utterly pinned to his body whilst he rocks up into you.
Every sense he has zeroes on you. The soaked, fever-hot grip of your cunt, stretching and fluttering around him. The smell of your sweet breath as you press your mouth to the place on his helmet where his own lies underneath in the echo of a kiss and your pretty gasp when it makes him lose his head and thrust deep.
He silently thanked the maker they'd left the light on inside because it poured over you now. Your pleasure-drunk face and the way your tits heave against the tight bodice of your dress. His eyes drop lower and Din nearly bites through his lip as he sees the shine of your arousal painting your thighs, his cock slick with it as he slides in and out of you.
He wants to get his mouth on you, wants to press his face to your flush, dripping cunt and drink you down until he can hardly breathe.
It's a lot. Every part of this is overwhelming. But Din has realised he is nothing but greedy when it comes to you.
He winds an arm around your waist and surges up, your startled cry at the sudden change of angle making heat spear through his belly.
He curls his hand around your neck to drag your forehead back to his whilst he thrust deeper, buries himself inside you like he's trying to carve you open before he rips down the top of your dress to palm at your tits.
"Stars– please." You pant, lashes fluttering as your mouth parts in bliss.
He can feel you getting closer to your end. The way you're starting to clench desperately around his length, body trembling beneath his hands as his touch drifts lower to wedge between you two and press against the swollen flesh of your clit until you sob.
You wind around him when it rushes through you. Locking him tight in the cage of your arms, between your thighs, as his name cracks on your tongue and you flood him. It short circuits his brain, a feral noise clawing up his throat as his cock pulses and spills inside you.
And all he can think as their breathing calms, as the sweat dries on your body and you burrow against his chest when a breeze stirs the still night air, is closer.
He needs you closer.
**
The sex is different after that.
They've forgotten the rules, threw them away completely. It's no longer about just stress relief, not now when he can touch you whenever he wants and vice versa.
Din is insatiable with it. As soon as the kid is napping or preoccupied with food and some shitty cartoon, he's on you. His voice pitched low and husky as he yanks you against his chest.
"Need to feel you mesh'la, I've been thinking about it all day."
"It's only 10am, Mando."
"Exactly. It's been hours."
He likes to corner you when you're in the kitchen. When you've been cooking and baking for hours because you don’t get the time to do it when you're hunting and you've told him it relaxes you.
He can't quite put his finger on why he's so entranced. If maybe it's just because you look too much like a damn dream.
Sweet and soft in your pretty little dresses whilst you ice delicate shapes on cupcakes for the kid– like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth when he's seen the kind of violence you're capable of. The way those same hands have torn apart men twice your size.
Whatever it is–the sight of you humming away to yourself, flushed from the heat of the oven, the various things simmering away on the stove, flour dusting your hands and streaked across your cheek– it makes him slightly feral. Heat snaking through his blood and his belly every time without fail.
He leans against the doorframe and simply watches for a few moments.
Drink in the way the sunlight glides over your hair, your smooth skin, the way your dress flutters around your legs as you move from counter to stove and back again. Smiling softly when he hears you mumbling to yourself.
You jump when you turn and see him standing there, a sheepish grin tugging at your mouth before you beckon him over.
And he goes without a word.
Seals his back to your chest and his hands to the swell of your hips whilst you scoop some of the sauce for dinner on a spoon. He tips his chin down as you turn around to face him, chuckling as you blow a lock of hair away from your face before clamping a hand over your eyes and raising the spoon.
The simple act makes his heart thump, the levels of trust it implied between them. Din swallows hard before slowly lifting his helmet just above his mouth so he could lean in for a taste and– oh, stars.
A deep noise of satisfaction hums through his chest and he catches the way your lips quirk as he drops the helmet back down.
"Fuck, that's good."
The flash of your smile is blinding, pleased and brushed with just a hint of smugness. It was stupidly endearing. It makes him ache with something tender in his chest, his stomach clenching with a soft bloom of arousal.
He cradles your face in one hand and your eyes flutter closed, contentment oozing from you as his thumb sweeps over the swell of your cheek. The hand curved around your hip squeezes, kneading the flesh that's enticingly warm beneath the thin material of your dress before drifting lower. Fingers dipping teasingly beneath the hem.
Your eyes blink open. Fixing him with a look that's equally amused curiosity and soft heat. "Is there something you want Mandalorian?"
Oh– you know that does something to him.
So he presses forward, crowds you up against the counter whilst his hand snakes fully under your dress to stroke along your underwear. His mouth splitting into a shit-eating grin when he presses his fingers to the damp cloth covering your clit and you lurch against his chest.
"I want to taste you." He rasps, taunts until you shudder. Your palms twitching against his chest plate. Pupils blown wide. "I want to lick that pretty pussy until you come screaming my name."
And then Din's dropping to his knees. He pushes your dress up to your stomach and nudges your thighs apart, visor fixed on your stunned face when he slowly peels your underwear down your legs before flinging them to the side.
Fuck.
He can smell you. How wet you are from just his words and a few simple touches. It punches pride through his chest, a low groan rumbling in the back of his throat when he slides a finger along your dripping slit.
You gasp his name and it drizzles like warm honey down into his gut. It loosens his tongue further until it feels like he can't stop pouring out every dirty little fantasy of you he's ever had.
"Do you know how many times I've dreamed of this?" He murmurs. "How sweet you would taste– sweeter than anything in the galaxy when you finally flood my mouth. Will you let me do it? Let me make you come on my tongue and you can have whatever you want."
You nod desperately, lips parted, seemingly lost for all other words and he melts with it. Burns all the way down to his fingertips and toes as he removes his hand from your flushed cunt and places it on your thigh.
"Close your eyes then."
He watches as they flutter closed and then his helmet hits the floor. He hears your sharp inhale and feels that similar breathlessness in his own chest.
He was bare.
He was giving you as much of himself as he could, more than he'd ever given anyone, and you both knew it. It was undeniable proof that their relationship has become something more.
It swells heavy in the air and paints Din's movements, his touches tender and worshipful as he leads your hand to replace his own in holding the material of your dress. Leaving both of his free to stroke and tease at all of your soft, warm skin.
He places a kiss on your stomach– presses his face there just a moment and breathes you in whilst your trembling fingers thread through his hair.
His heart is racing. It feels like he's ripping it out of his chest and presenting it to you, like he's laying himself raw and vulnerable at your feet without realising he's done it until it's too late. He can't stop. You just bring it out of him.
He shifts again. Peppering kisses along your hips, your thighs, the patch of skin above your cunt until you twitch beneath his hands. Your fingers twisting tighter in hair. Not enough to hurt but enough that he gets a sense of your growing impatience.
"Mando, don't tease." You whine quietly and he can't help himself.
Can't help the playful grin that you can surely feel against your skin. "Is there something you want, pretty thing?"
You huff. "Maker, I swear if you're trying to torture me I'm going to–"
But whatever you were about to threaten him is lost to a startled moan as he hooks your thigh over his shoulder and shoves his face against the soaked heat of your pussy, dragging his tongue from your entrance to your clit.
He sucks the swollen flesh into his mouth and you nearly buckle, your palm slamming down on the counter beside you before your fingers curl around the edge.
You taste better than he could have ever imagined, the salt-sweet of you intoxicating. Making him dizzy as he flicks his tongue and sinks two fingers inside the fluttering walls of your cunt.
"Shit." You whimper. "Mando."
He curls his fingers and your hips jerk into his mouth, thighs twitching around his head as you clench around him. He inches back and he can feel it, his skin wet with you. "What is it, baby?" He teases softly, pressing a sweet kiss to your thigh before nipping at the same spot with his teeth. "Do you need to come?"
You let out a choked little sob. Your brow pinched and lip caught between your teeth whilst you tremble as his thumb draws lazy circles over your clit. You nod but it's not enough, he wants to hear you.
"Use your words, pretty thing."
You soak his fingers at the gentle demand and he files that little bit of information away for later. Wholly transfixed now on the way your chest heaves, the rake of your nails over his scalp. The swell of your lip when you release it that he wants nothing more than to suck into his own mouth.
You do as he says. Go soft and pliant the second he puts his mouth back on you. Begging. "Mando– please–please make me come. I need it."
He groans into you and loses himself in bringing your pleasure, pace becoming something frantic, messy. He thrusts his fingers inside you, hitting that patch of tissue that makes you cry out and yank his hair whilst he swirls his tongue harshly over your clit again and again and again.
He feels it rise. Feels the rapid build of your orgasm, your walls pulsing around his knuckles and your thighs quaking before it slashes through you and you crash into ecstasy with a strangled scream.
"That's it." He praises raggedly. "Give it to me, cyar’ika."
You're a trembling mess when it recedes, your legs threatening to give out but Din is already there.
He withdraws his fingers and presses another tender kiss to your stomach before standing and gathering you to his chest. Your hands find his face and then you're drawing him down– your mouth slotting sweetly over his as he clutches you closer.
It breaks that last part of him that held any denial, that tried to convince him that these feelings were nothing more than his mind confusing the lust element to their friendship as something else.
Because when the kiss grows heated and he lifts you onto the counter whilst you drag his pants down to grasp his thick length, stroking him so maddeningly perfect before leading him to your entrance.
As he slowly pushes forward, sinking to the hilt and pulling a ruined moan from you both.
Summary: When a hunt goes wrong and you're drugged with an aphrodisiac, Din goes to extreme lengths to keep you safe before giving you what you need. [5K]
Warnings: 18+. Dub con due to the nature of sex pollen but both people do consent. Drink spiking. Mild gore. Murder. Semi-public sex. Fingering. Piv. Multiple orgasms. Porn with feelings.
This isn’t how he had pictured it.
All the times he lay alone in his cot and envisioned how soft you would be beneath him, the warmth of your skin flushed with pleasure as he stretched you open on his fingers–as his mouth determinedly worked you towards delirium, ready for the slow slide of his cock sinking to the hilt.
He thought it would be sweet. That despite everything he was, all of his sharp edges and brute strength, he could make the memory of the first time he took you one that was untouched by pain and violence and all the other harsh things that came with being hunters.
But then this job had landed in their laps and they had been too damn quick following the first lead to the mark they got instead of doing some real digging on the guy like you usually insisted.
I don’t like surprises, you would usually tell him but this time exhaustion held your caution behind your teeth. The result of running on the fumes from too many hunts and barely any time to take breaks until all of that ragged bone-deep weariness had begun to creep in, leaving you itching to get this job out of the way so you could finally rest.
And of course, in the end, it bit you in the ass.
You had entered the club with only the knowledge that your mark frequented the place and it had all gone to shit almost ridiculously fast.
The drink that had been brought to your table, the server announcing cheerfully that first ones of the night are always on the house, had been laced. The effects taking hold of you the moment the last drop passed your lips.
And Din had watched, confused, as your eyes had become glazed. Lids heavy and gaze transfixed on the writhing bodies that crowded the glittering dancefloor.
He had asked you a question, 'any sign of the bounty?', and it was like you couldn’t hear him, like he was calling to you through water when he raised his voice to say your name.
Instead, you’d remained rooted in place at the edge of your seat– white-knuckling the smooth leather until he hesitantly placed his hand on your knee and then you had jerked. Snapping out of a trance like he’d burned you, a gasp caught in your throat and your chest heaving whilst you blinked at him.
“What–what is it?” You had demanded breathlessly and if he hadn’t been suspicious that something wasn’t right before, he certainly was then. There was a tremor to your voice he had never heard before and where his gloved hand still remained curved around your knee, heat seared through the worn leather and scorched his palm.
"Are you okay?" He'd asked, his gaze raking over you in a way he'd previously refused to allow himself.
You were wrapped in a silky little dress the colour of the midnight sky. The neckline dipping to reveal the swell of your breasts and the hemline short enough that the bare skin of your legs had seemed endless when you'd first sauntered towards him as he'd waited for you outside the crest.
Din hadn't been able to look at you for more than a few seconds at a time because he knew if he took any longer he wouldn't be able to think clearly.
He wouldn't have been able to concentrate on the job with the image of those legs wrapped around his waist blaring through his skull–that lipstick-stained mouth parted around a moan of his name as he imagined rutting into you.
But he let himself stare then– shoving down those thoughts so he could assess the situation properly. His heart dropping to his stomach as he took in the sweat that beaded at your hairline, the weak tremble of you hand as you lifted it to your forehead in an attempt to swipe the moisture away.
You glanced at him nervously as you did so, chewing your lip. “I don’t feel right, Mando.” You murmured. “Everything feels too tight, like I’m about to burst.”
He had scooted closer then, slid right along the plush seat of the booth to fit himself to your side as his thumb rubbed small circles over the flesh of your knee.
It was supposed to be a comfort, an unspoken gesture that he was there–that you were safe.
But instead you had groaned like he’d shoved his hand through your chest and gripped something vital, the sound of it nearly making him choke on his damn tongue as he thanked the maker that his helmet hid the way he’d had to sink his teeth into his lip to bite back a moan.
“Don’t stop please.” You begged, pressing your own hands over his when he went to remove it. “It hurts when you’re not touching me.”
His eyes had narrowed at that.
It sounded familiar– wisps of old tales floating around in his head before he remembered one about a poison that made you crave others, that made your blood boil beneath your skin until you found someone to offer the pleasure necessary to sate the all-encompassing need.
But how?
You hadn’t been out of his sight all day. You hadn’t ingested anything the two of you hadn’t personally made, except…
His gaze snapped to the glass you had recently drained, remnants of the shimmering liquid still clinging to the edges and he can smell it as he takes it in his hand to inspect it closer. That sickly-sweet smell, the strong blend of fruit and something synthetically syrupy.
He could suddenly feel eyes on him and when he looked up the server that gave you the drink is staring at him with wide, terrified eyes– face paling as Din’s suspicion brewed to a blinding fury that gathered around his head like a storm.
It had been intentional then. No doubt the bounty had caught wind that they were on his take and had taken measures to slow them down.
He would kill them for it–both of them. Would rip them apart and leave the mark of his violence behind in the mess of their insides as a warning should anyone else even think of coming for them in the future.
No one touched her and lived.
His vision had seeped red. His blood spitting in his veins before it surged with panic as your hand flew to your stomach and your expression crumpled into something agonised.
“Fuck.” He hissed when you hunched over beside him with a sharp cry of pain. “I need to get you out of here, now.”
“What about the bounty?” You panted, looking up at him through the fringe of your lashes that were wet with unshed tears.
You had looked so small in that moment– a far cry from the ruthless hunter people would whisper about after you had swept through their town. It made his chest ache, briefly drowning out that insatiable temper of his as he gathered you to his chest and raised a hand to cup your cheek.
“What’s happening to me, Mando?”
“Your drink was laced with an aphrodisiac, he probably knew we were following him.” He said as gently as he could, thumb stroking the swell of your flushed cheek as alarm rippled across your features. “I don’t think it’s lethal but I need to get you back to the ship before the effects get any worse. Can you stand?”
Instead of an answer you fucking whimpered. The needy sound of it shooting heat straight through his gut as your eyes grew dark beneath the flutter of your lashes and your fingers curled tight into his cowl.
Was it his touch or his voice that had prompted such a reaction?
Whichever it was you suddenly looked like you wanted to devour him and Din had to swallow down the fierce sweep of desire that urged him to let you.
To drag you onto his lap and lay himself at your mercy, the words 'use me, take what you need, whatever you want it’s yours' clawing savagely up his throat whilst he grit his teeth and wrenched his face away from yours to scan their surroundings.
They would have to exit through the back. The club was too crowded, with too many bodies between them and the main entrance, all packed tight, and when Din had stood to get a better look, another sight had stopped him dead.
Guards at the door.
One’s that definitely hadn’t been there when you both entered and he’s almost certain are slyly watching every move he makes as he quickly tugged you to your feet and bundled you into his side.
He wanted desperately to believe it was paranoia.
That it was in no way related to the poison working its way through your systemn, that the two of you were going to get outside and be able to make your way to the ship without an issue.
He’d never wanted to believe something so much in his life.
**
It was a trap.
Deep down, Din had known it as they’d stumbled into the quiet of dark corridors– the lingering thump of the music pulsing beneath his boots.
He’d known it when your legs had buckled and he’d scooped you up in his arms, cradling you to his chest like a newborn babe before he’d broke out into a run and nearly kicked the door of its hinges as they’d reached it.
But he hadn’t truly allowed himself to acknowledge it until he’d come face to face with the steel fence chained shut and the sound of a dozen footsteps descending upon them.
When he'd heard the door shut, the decisive click of the lock, and his rage had soared. You were sick and though he was sure it wasn’t lethal he couldn’t shake the feeling like he was running out of time to get you help.
And they were stood in his way.
So he lowered you carefully to the ground, his lungs tightening when a weak groan rattled from your throat as you sank back against the fence and hugged your knees to your chest.
“Did you really think you could take me down in my own club, Mandalorian?”
He needed to swallow down all that burning anger and think, needed to focus on the best way he could take them all out without letting a single one near you.
But then the bounty had made the mistake of looking past the vengeful mass of him to where you were curled up on the ground and any thoughts of a quick and calculated fight were snatched right out of his head.
“Pretty partner you’ve got there.” He’d leered, dragging his tongue over his lip. “She must be dying for someone to fuck her right about now. Maybe after I've killed you, I'll keep her as my whore and fuck that pretty pussy right next to your corpse.”
A terrifying sound had followed–something dark and ragged, drenched in a murderous brand of fury, and then Din’s vision swam black.
Just as the saber ignited in his hand.
**
When he came to, he was panting.
And in the aftermath, there was a mass of bodies, slack mouths and bulging, glassy eyes caught in the horror of their final moments. The air stained with the stench of singed flesh and the metallic tang of blood.
He stared at the carnage he created in a daze until you croaked his name and his gaze shot to where you're sat, wide eyed and trembling, staring at him in disbelief.
Or maybe it was fear.
He had totally lost his head after all, had been absolutely unhinged in the way he took them apart, piece by piece– limb by limb.
Maybe you wouldn’t be able to look at him the same now that he’d discovered what he was truly capable of when it came to you, the darkness that lay in wait ready to gorge itself on violence and spilled blood.
He approached you slowly with hands splayed wide in front of him, hesitation etched in every rigid line of him, as if one wrong move would send you scurrying away. But then, to his utter surprise, your lips quirked–voice cracking with a rasping chuckle.
“I’m not scared of you, Din.”
When he knelt before you, you reached for him easily. Lacing your fingers through his and pressing his gloved hand to the dewy skin of your cheek. “I was scared for you. I've never felt so fucking useless but then you– you did that and I–fuck–”
His voice went low before he could stop it, thick honey over gravel, a wicked flare of heat licking through his belly as your eyes suddenly burned dark. The black of your pupils drowning out their colour. “You what? Tell me.”
There was a second where you simply stared at him, lip drawn between your teeth and the admission weighing on your tongue as the space between you began to crackle and spark.
But then you took a long, shuddering breath and–
“I couldn’t take my eyes off you.” You whispered. “Seeing the way you ripped them apart for me, I liked it.”
Fuck.
He clenched his jaw, his free hand, his entire goddamn body. Everything he could to remain from lunging at you and burying himself inside you right there. It had to be the drug talking– it had to be.
At least that's what he was painstakingly trying to convince himself.
Because there were still remnants of that hungered energy within him, desperate for somewhere to go, and there you were telling him you had liked it, that you enjoyed him killing for you, when he was trying his best to be fucking honourable.
He tried to say your name, tried to curl his tongue around the letters in a way that wasn’t dripping want, but then you’d gasped and your heated expression dissolved into something frighteningly pained, tears springing into your eyes as you folded in on yourself.
His arms were around you in a second, his tone bleeding panic as he frantically scooped you up “We need to get you to the ship now.”
“It’s too late.” You sobbed as your body convulsed, arching and bending until he had no choice but to set you on your feet. His body pinning yours to the fence and his hands clamped around the curves of your hips to hold you up. “It hurts so much– please, Din–"
"We can make it. Let me carry you–I'll run and we'll get you the help you need. Some medicine or something."
"No, I can't wait that long." You whimpered. "I can't–I need you–I need you to touch me."
There was something close to defeat in the way he held himself as your hands came to cup the cheeks of his helmet, the gentle touch pleading. He didn't want it to have to be this way but stars, he didn't think he could handle you being in pain much longer either.
He should have protected you better, moved faster, fought harder.
He should have got you back to the ship the moment he realised something wasn't right, and then maybe you wouldn't have had to beg a man you had no interest in to violate you.
“This isn’t what you want, sweet girl.” He sighed, guilt bitter in his chest. “Trust me, as soon as the effects fade you'll regret what you are asking of me.”
You frowned then, sweat-damp brow wrinkling in a way that made Din ache to smooth out with his thumb as you peered up at his visor. “You think this is just the drug?” You murmured. “That I don’t know my own mind? Stars, Din, I’ve wanted you to fuck me from the moment I saw you.”
His hands spasmed at that, clamping tight as a startled groan slipped from throat before he could choke it back. Were you trying to kill him? Did tou not have any idea how close his restraint felt to snapping from that confession alone.
“Fuck–you can’t just say something like that.”
But you were too far gone, pushing up against his armour and curling a hand around the nape of his neck to wrench him down so you can whisper in his ear.
“I think about it all the time, think about how good you’d feel.” Your fingers brushed over the fabric covering his swelling cock and he jolted. “Wondering how you’d fuck me, if you’d make me come on your cock over and over until I was ruined mess.”
Shit.
His brain had turned to liquid, he was sure of it.
He caught your wandering hand, grunting as you palmed at him before he could drag it away and pin it to the fence at the side of your head. Your breath hitched softly as his other hand drifted down, ghosting past the edge of your dress, the scrape of worn leather on your bare thighs making your hips jump against his hand.
He could fucking smell your arousal and it was driving him insane–his mouth watering as he parted your thighs with one of his own.
“Pretty little thing, is that what you want?” Din asked, voice hoarse. “You want me to ruin you?”
His fingers dared to slip further, dipping past the soaked material of your underwear and when he slid a knuckle through your folds, you gasped.
“Yes.”
**
It was all too overwhelming the moment he broke.
The second your simple yes cracked him open and his breath hitched before he was burying you further into the fence. His fingers grazing the peak of your clit whilst obscene noises burst from your throat, wild and desperate.
If felt so fucking good that you were almost blind with it. All that heat and need swirling to a central point in your belly that could explode at any moment, burning brighter with every rough stroke of Din's fingers and the low rasp of his voice in your ear.
"That's it, mesh’la– let me help you."
You didn't know any words after that– none other than his name at least and the gasping chant of don't stop don't stop don't stop.
When he snatched his hands away you thought you would actually cry, a devastated wail brewed from the depths of your lungs before he hushed you gently. The cold kiss of his beskar soothing against your sweat-slick face as he nuzzled you before a different sensation against your thighs startled you.
Skin. Calloused and warm and completely bare.
In the midst of your babbled pleading you had missed him tearing the gloves from his hands and if you had thought the contact had been electric before then this was something else entirely.
His skin against yours felt cataclysmic. The moan you made when he hitched your leg over his hip and sunk those thick fingers deep inside you, unhinged.
"I want to be able to feel you when you come for me." He told you lowly, purred it in your ear, and you choked as he pressed his thumb to your clit in the most maddeningly perfect circles until you spasmed. Soaking his hand as the tension in your lower stomach snapped violently.
You were lost then.
Boneless against him whilst he curved himself over you and continued stroking your pulsing walls so all of that swirling pleasure became flame again, burning hot and wild enough that it made you let loose a desperate sob. Burying your nails in his neck, the other hand fisted around his cloak as another climax slammed through the dying breaths of the first.
“Oh maker, Din.” You cried out, hips jerking into his hand, thighs trembling whilst he eased you through it. His touch gentler this time, sweet, like he could sense anything harsher would fray you apart at the seams.
There was the cool press of his helmet touching your temple, a calming gesture that clashed with the rapid rise and fall of both of your chests. “That's it,” he murmured, pride equal parts soft and heated on his tongue, “good girl.”
You could hear when he removed his fingers from inside you. The liquid slip that would have made your cheeks flame under normal circumstances but only made you burn for completely different reasons then.
Your own fingers darting out to circle his wrist before leading the slick digits to the tempting plush of your mouth.
He made a low, feral noise–the sound of your name rumbling from deep within his chest as you let the tips of his fingers rest against your lips. Waiting for him to take the next step which he did without hesitation, pressing down until your mouth parted for him and he slid his fingers into soft, wet heat.
You were still aching, still throbbing like a raw, open wound, but it was slightly more bearable now. The orgasms that Din drew from you taking the edge off just enough for you to have this indulgence. A hint of worship.
The slow lave of your tongue against his skin as he shivered. Hips rocking into the cradle of your pelvis, making you whine around his fingers when his clothed cock caught you just right.
He dragged his fingers from your mouth with a hissed curse, rubbing the spit-shine of your lip in a daze whilst the hand on your thigh flexed and tightened its grip.
“We shouldn’t, not here.” Din muttered, swearing under his breath when you deliberately rolled your hips. “You deserve better than this and it isn't safe.”
But you heard what he left unspoken.
We shouldn’t but I will if you want it. If you don't tell me to stop, I’ll fuck you right here– surrounded by the bodies I killed for you and regardless of who might come looking.
You would die before you asked him to stop.
Even if you weren’t beginning to tremble again, your heartbeat picking up to a gallop and cunt fluttering around nothing as each nudge of his cock against your sex swept a blistering need through your veins.
Even if the reminder of the lengths he was willing to go to keep you safe didn’t make you maddeningly desperate for him.
“I don’t care.” You breathed as your stomach clenched. “Please don’t make me wait that long, I need you inside me.”
He inhaled sharply then, his broad chest heaving whilst he cupped your chin and peered down at you. A split-second hesitation before he gave in yet again.
“You’re going to be the death of me begging like that,” He groaned and then his large hands were skimming over your belly. Stroking down until he reached your underwear and tore it from your body with a brutal yank before wrenching you against him as the remains fluttered to the ground.
You made a soft noise of surprise and he chuckled, rough and deep and utterly addictive. The sound of it making heat swell beneath your skin and between your thighs, your head going dizzy.
The desire you had for him was an unhinged thing. Even without the drug you knew that you would still feel like this, like he could unravel you completely with the simplest touch or glance. Your hands shaking as you fumbled with his belt whilst he watched intently.
He let you stroke him, once then twice. His length hot in your palm, throbbing beneath your fingers when the pad of your thumb dragged over the weeping head.
It stole a rough moan from somewhere deep in his chest and then he was on you. Hands wrapping around your thighs to lift you against the fence, thin metal biting into your back but any hint of pain drifts from your mind like smoke as his tip caught at your entrance.
He took it slow at first. Let you feel every inch of him stretching you open as he bit back a wrecked noise, your cunt gripping him like a hot, slick fist, until he sunk to the hilt and your eyes rolled back.
Oh. Oh fuck.
It was a lot.
It was so much that it felt like he’d reached something devastating. That when he drew his hips back to drive into you again, you screamed– back arching violently as your vision turned white.
You nearly bit through your tongue whilst he continued to move. Each bruising snap of his hips punching you further up the fence, fucking you into it, the shrill sound of metal ringing through the night air as it shook beneath Din's strength.
You had practically begged him to ruin you and he was without even trying.
You would feel him for days after this.
Maybe weeks.
You would feel him in the marks his nails would no doubt leave on your thighs from his unrelenting grip, the hard edges of his armour that were embedded in your softness as you wound yourself around him. The way he was carving you open with each frantic thrust, creating a space inside you that only he could ever fill.
The tendrils of pain that had began creeping through your system from the drug snapped to pleasure immediately. You could feel it coiling unbearably tight, growing molten, white hot sparks making your blood catch and your stomach twist in knots.
“Fuck.” You sobbed. Nails scraping down his back, desperately trying to find some kind of purchase as your head falls to his shoulder. “Din, I think–”
“I know, baby.” He grit, shifting slightly until the harsh spear of his cock suddenly hit something catastrophic over and over and over. Your breasts bouncing with every thrust and his body shuddering as your cunt tightened around him. “Come for me, that’s it. Shit–let me feel it.”
You fell apart with a ragged cry. Bursting hot and wet around him as his pace slowed to a hint of something less punishing so he could stare, dazed, at the place where you’re joined. His skin and his armour that was dripping with your release.
For a moment there was only the strained sound of his breathing through the vocoder and then he groaned. Low and filthy.
"You're so fucking perfect." He praised hoarsely, the rough scrape of his voice making you even more boneless as you trembled in his arms. "Maker. I want to taste you. After I'm done fucking you I'm going to carry you back to the ship and taste every inch of you, clean you up with my mouth, and then I'm going to fuck you again."
That scorched you. It made something in your belly stir again despite how sated you had felt only seconds ago, made you clench helplessly around him and Din choked at the feel of it. “Would you like that?” He asked, breathless. “Think you can give me another?”
His cock pulsed inside you and you found yourself wholly incapable of response, beyond words and thoughts and anything that wasn't trembling moans as his pace turned brutal. The wet squelch of your cunt taking him deep, almost embarrassingly loud in your ears.
He bore down on that place inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes with a savage focus and all too soon there was lightning snapping in your blood. The sensation of it flaring hot and sharp, gathering into something furious and terrifying as his name bubbled up past your lips in a weak chant.
“I can’t–fuck–Din, I need–”
He slid his helmet along your cheek, tipped his head down until his forehead rested on yours. The skin of his neck felt just as flushed as your own when you gripped it to hold him there against you. The dark curls that escaped his helmet tickling your fingers.
“Touch yourself, mesh’la. Come for me again and I’ll give you anything you want.”
You shakily dropped your hand between you, spreading your fingers around the place where his cock was punching up into you before your fingers slid up to brush over the crest of your sex.
Stars, you were soaked.
All swollen and slippery and the moment you circle your clit you snapped. Bursts of energy crashing through your body so violently that your head spun with it, your lungs squeezing achingly tight, and your nails sinking in his neck as you cried out.
It made Din go rigid–a wild noise tearing through his throat as you yanked him brutally into his own release. His vision faltering and hips stuttering before they fused against your own whilst he spilled deep inside you.
**
You were exhausted– beyond spent and over-stimulated as the burn of the drug died down enough that you could feel the ache of every muscle creeping in and the kind of sleepiness that would see you comatose for days.
Your eyes were in fact already beginning drooping when Din carefully set you back on your feet. His hands warm and clasped gently around your arms, holding you up so he could peer at you whilst you were trying your hardest to sway back into the comfort of his broad chest.
“Are you okay?” He murmured, concerned. “I didn’t go too hard did I?”
You blinked up at him stunned, silent for a beat as you recognised the flicker of nervousness in the way he spoke, the way he held himself.
You cradled his face then, or where the helmet sat above his cheeks, and pulled his forehead down to yours. “No, it was perfect.” You reassured him and he let out a soft breath before melting against you ever so slightly.
“There is a slight problem though.” You laughed quietly, thumbs absentmindedly stroking over smooth beskar as Din tilted his head.” We’re locked out here and there’s no way I can climb that fence. I can barely feel my legs.”
He chuckled then–the sound of it brushed smug as his fingers stroked down your arms. “Leave it to me, sweet girl.”
He rest you gently back against the fence and your eyes slipped closed almost immediately before popping back open when you heard a loud thrum followed by the short screech of tearing metal. Chains hitting the ground with a clinking thud.
Your breath stuttered as you watched him stalk back towards you, saber in his hand, gleaming beneath the haunting light of it.
It made him look even more powerful than he already was. And the memory of what he did for you with that weapon, the evidence of it still strewn across the dirt, slammed to the forefront of your mind and made your mouth run dry. A weak flutter stirring in your belly despite your exhaustion, that he in no way helped by pulling you into him and swinging you up in his arms.
You made a soft noise of surprise and it only encouraged him to hold you tighter. Sealing every inch of you against him that he could as he carried you back to the ship– his voice brimming with promise as he murmured,
“You’re safe, cyar’ika. I’m going to take care of you.”
